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 ARTHUR MERVYN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793 
 
 RY 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN. 
 
 " Fielding, Richardson, and Scott occupied pedestals. In a niche was 
 deposited the bust of our countryman, the author of Arthur Mervyn. " 
 
 NATHANIKI. HAWTHORNE. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 23 SOUTH NINTH STREET. 
 
 1889.
 
 Annex 
 
 THE evils of pestilence by which this city has lately been 
 afflicted will probably form an era in its history. The 
 schemes of reformation and improvement to which they will 
 give birth, or, if no efforts of human wisdom can avail to 
 avert the periodical visitations of this calamity, the change 
 in manners and population which they will produce, will be, 
 in the highest degree, memorable. They have already sup 
 plied new and copious materials for reflection to the physician 
 and the political economist. They have not been less fertile 
 of instruction to the moral observer, to whom they have fur 
 nished new displays of the influence of human passions and 
 motives. 
 
 Amidst the medical and political discussions which are 
 now afloat in the community relative to this topic, the author 
 of these remarks has ventured to methodize his own reflec 
 tions, and to weave into an humble narrative such incidents 
 as appeared to him most instructive and remarkable among 
 those which came within the sphere of his own observation. 
 It is every one s duty to profit by all opportunities of incul 
 cating on mankind the lessons of justice and humanity. The 
 influences of hope and fear, the trials of fortitude and con-
 
 4 PREFACE. 
 
 stancy, which took place in this city in the autumn of 1793, 
 have, perhaps, never been exceeded in any age. It is but 
 just to snatch some of these from oblivion, and to deliver to 
 posterity a brief but faithful sketch of the condition of this 
 metropolis during that calamitous period. Men only require 
 to be made acquainted with distress for their compassion and 
 their charity to be awakened. He that depicts, in lively 
 colours, the evils of disease and poverty, performs an eminent 
 service to the sufferers, by calling forth benevolence in those 
 who are able to afford relief; and he who portrays examples 
 of disinterestedness and intrepidity confers on virtue the 
 notoriety and homage that are due to it, and rouses in the 
 spectators the spirit of salutary emulation. 
 
 In the following tale a particular series of adventures is 
 brought to a close; but these are necessarily connected with 
 the events which happened subsequent to the period here 
 described. These events are not less memorable than those 
 which form the subject of the present volume, and may here 
 after be published, either separately or in addition to this. 
 
 C. B. B.
 
 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I WAS resident in this city during the year 1793. 
 Many motives contributed to detain me, though depart 
 ure was easy and commodious, and my friends were 
 generally solicitous for me to go. It is not my purpose 
 to enumerate these motives, or to dwell on my present 
 concerns and transactions, but merely to compose a nar 
 rative of some incidents with which my situation made 
 me acquainted. 
 
 Returning one evening, somewhat later than usual, to 
 my own house, my attention was attracted, just as I en 
 tered the porch, by the figure of a man reclining against 
 the wall at a few paces distant. My sight was imper 
 fectly assisted by a far-off lamp ; but the posture in 
 which he sat, the hour, and the place, immediately sug 
 gested the idea of one disabled by sickness. It was 
 obvious to conclude that his disease was pestilential. 
 This did not deter me from approaching and examining 
 him more closely. 
 
 He leaned his head against the wall ; his eyes were 
 shut, his hands clasped in each other, and his body 
 seemed to be sustained in an upright position merely by 
 the cellar-door against which he rested his left shoulder. 
 The lethargy into which he was sunk seemed scarcely 
 interrupted by my feeling his hand and his forehead. 
 His throbbing temples and burning skin indicated a 
 fever, and his form, already emaciated, seemed to prove 
 that it had not been of short duration. 
 
 There was only one circumstance that hindered me 
 from forming an immediate determination in what man- 
 
 5
 
 6 ARTHUR AfERVYN; OK, 
 
 ner this person should be treated. My family consisted 
 of my wife arid a young child. Our servant-maid had 
 been seized, three days before, by the reigning malady, 
 and, at her own request, had been conveyed to the hos 
 pital. We ourselves enjoyed good health, and were hope 
 ful of escaping with our lives. Our measures for this 
 end had been cautiously taken and carefully adhered to. 
 They did not consist in avoiding the receptacles of infec 
 tion, for my office required me to go daily into the midst 
 of them ; nor in filling the house with the exhalations of 
 gunpowder, vinegar, or tar. They consisted in cleanli 
 ness, reasonable exercise, and wholesome diet. Custom 
 had likewise blunted the edge of our apprehensions. To 
 take this person into my house, and bestow upon him 
 the requisite attendance, was the scheme that first oc 
 curred to me. In this, however, the advice of my wife 
 was to govern me. 
 
 I mentioned the incident to her. I pointed out the 
 danger which was to be dreaded from such an inmate. 
 I desired her to decide with caution, and mentioned my 
 resolution to conform myself implicitly to her decision. 
 Should we refuse to harbour him, we must not forget 
 that there was a hospital to which he would, perhaps, 
 consent to be carried, and where he would be accommo 
 dated in the best manner the times would admit. 
 
 "Nay," said she, "talk not of hospitals. At least, 
 let him have his choice. I have no fear about me, for 
 my part, in a case where the injunctions of duty are so 
 obvious. Let us take the poor, unfortunate wretch into 
 our protection and care, and leave the consequences to 
 Heaven." 
 
 I expected and was pleased with this proposal. I re 
 turned to the sick man, and, on rousing him from his 
 stupor, found him still in possession of his reason. With 
 a candle near, I had an opportunity of viewing him more 
 accurately. 
 
 His garb was plain, careless, and denoted rusticity. 
 His aspect was simple and ingenuous, and his decayed 
 visage still retained traces of uncommon but manlike 
 beauty. He had all the appearances of mere youth, un 
 spoiled by luxury and uninured to misfortune. I scarcely
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 7 
 
 ever beheld an object which laid so powerful and sudden 
 a claim to my affection and succour. 
 
 " You are sick," said I, in as cheerful a tone as I could 
 assume. " Cold bricks and night-airs are comfortless 
 attendants for one in your condition. Rise, I pray you, 
 and come into the house. We will try to supply you 
 with accommodations a little more suitable." 
 
 At this address he fixed his languid eyes upon me. 
 " What would you have ?" said he. * I am very well as 
 I am. While I breathe, which will not be long, I shall 
 breathe with more freedom here than elsewhere. Let 
 me alone I am very well as I am." 
 
 "Nay," said I, "this situation is unsuitable to a sick 
 man. I only ask you to come into my house, and re 
 ceive all the kindness that it is in our power to bestow. 
 Pluck up courage, and I will answer for your recovery, 
 provided you submit to directions, and do as we would 
 have you. Rise, and come along with me. We will 
 find you a physician and a nurse, and all we ask in 
 return is good spirits and compliance." 
 
 " Do you not know," he replied, "what my disease is? 
 Why should you risk your safety for the sake of one 
 whom your kindness cannot benefit, and who has nothing 
 to give in return?" 
 
 There was something in the style of this remark, that 
 heightened my prepossession in his favour, and made me 
 pursue my purpose with more zeal. " Let us try what 
 we can do for you," I answered. " If we save your life, 
 we shall have done you some service, and, as for recom 
 pense, we will look to that." 
 
 It was with considerable difficulty that he was per 
 suaded to accept our invitation. lie was conducted to a 
 chamber, and, the criticalness of his case requiring un 
 usual attention, I spent the night at his bedside. 
 
 My wife was encumbered with the care both of her 
 infant and her family. The charming babe was in per 
 fect health, but her mother s constitution was frail and 
 delicate. We simplified the household duties as much 
 as possible, but still these duties were considerably bur 
 densome to one not used to the performance, and luxu 
 riously educated. The addition of a sick man was likely
 
 8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to be productive of much fatigue. My engagements 
 would not allow me to be always at home, and the state 
 of my patient, and the remedies necessary to be pre 
 scribed, were attended with many noxious and disgustful 
 circumstances. My fortune would not allow me to hire 
 assistance. My wife, with a feeble frame and a mind 
 shrinking, on ordinary occasions, from such offices, with 
 fastidious scrupulousness, was to be his only or principal 
 nurse. 
 
 My neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, 
 and loud in their remonstrances on the imprudence and 
 rashness of my conduct. They called me presumptuous 
 and cruel in exposing my wife and child, as well as my 
 self, to such imminent hazard, for the sake of one, too, 
 who most probably was worthless, and whose disease had 
 doubtless been, by negligence or mistreatment, rendered 
 incurable. 
 
 I did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. I was 
 aware of all the inconveniences and perils to which I 
 thus spontaneously exposed myself. No one knew better 
 the value of that woman whom I called mine, or set a 
 higher price upon her life, her health, and her ease. 
 The virulence and activity of this contagion, the dan 
 gerous condition of my patient, and the dubiousness of 
 his character, were not forgotten by me ; but still my 
 conduct in this affair received my own entire approba 
 tion. All objections on the score of my friends were 
 removed by her own willingness and even solicitude to 
 undertake the province. 1 had more confidence than 
 others in the vincibility of this disease, and in the suc 
 cess of those measures which we had used for our defence 
 against it. But, whatever were the evils to accrue to us, 
 we were sure of one thing : namely, that the conscious 
 ness of having neglected this unfortunate person would 
 be a source of more unhappincss than could possibly re 
 dound from the attendance and care that he would claim. 
 
 The more we saw of him, indeed, the more did we 
 congratulate ourselves on our proceeding. His torments 
 were acute and tedious ; but, in the midst even of deli 
 rium, his heart seemed to overflow with gratitude, and to 
 be actuated by no wish but to alleviate our toil and our
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 9 
 
 danger. He made prodigious exertions to perform ne 
 cessary offices for himself. He suppressed his feelings 
 and struggled to maintain a cheerful tone and counte 
 nance, that he might prevent that anxiety which the 
 sight of his sufferings produced in us. He was per 
 petually furnishing reasons why his nurse should leave 
 him alone, and betrayed dissatisfaction whenever she 
 entered his apartment. 
 
 In a few days, there were reasons to conclude him out 
 of danger; and, in a fortnight, nothing but exercise and 
 nourishment were wanting to complete his restoration. 
 Meanwhile nothing was obtained from him but general 
 information, that his place of abode was Chester county, 
 and that some momentous engagement induced him to 
 hazard his safety by coming to the city in the height of 
 the epidemic. 
 
 He was far from being talkative. His silence seemed 
 to be the joint result of modesty and unpleasing re 
 membrances. His features were characterized by pathetic 
 seriousness, and his deportment by a gravity very un 
 usual at his age. According to his own representation, 
 he was no more than eighteen years old, but the depth 
 of his remarks indicated a much greater advance. His 
 name was Arthur Mervyn. lie described himself as 
 having passed his life at the plough-tail and the threshing- 
 floor ; as being destitute of all scholastic instruction ; and 
 as being long since bereft of the affectionate regards of 
 parents and kinsmen. 
 
 When questioned as to the course of life which he 
 meant to pursue upon his recovery, he professed himself 
 without any precise object. He was willing to be 
 guided by the advice of others, and by the lights which 
 experience should furnish. The country was open to 
 him, and he supposed that there was no part of it in 
 which food could not be purchased by his labour. He 
 was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal pro 
 fession. His poverty was likewise an insuperable im 
 pediment. He could afford to spend no time in the 
 acquisition of a trade. He must labour, not for future 
 emolument, but for immediate subsistence. The only 
 pursuit which his present circumstances would allow hiui
 
 IO ARTHUR MERVYX; OR, 
 
 to adopt was that which, he was inclined to believe, was 
 likewise the most eligible. Without doubt his experience 
 was slrinlrr. ami it M>emed absurd to pronounce concern 
 ing that of which he had no direct knowledge; but so it 
 was, he could not outroot from his mind the persuasion 
 that to plough, to sow, and to reap, were employments 
 most befitting a reasonable creature, and from which 
 the truest pleasure and the least pollution would flow. 
 He contemplated no other scheme than to return, as soon 
 as his health should permit, into the country, seek 
 employment where it was to be had, and acquit himself 
 in his engagements with fidelity and diligence. 
 
 I pointed out to him various ways in which the city 
 might furnish employment to one with his qualifications. 
 He had said that he was somewhat accustomed to the 
 pen. There were stations in which the possession of a 
 legible hand was all that was requisite. He might add 
 to this a knowledge of accounts, and thereby procure 
 himself a post in some mercantile or public office. 
 
 To this he objected, that experience had shown him 
 unfit for the life of a penman. This had been his chief 
 occupation for a little while, and he found it wholly in 
 compatible with his health. He must not sacrifice the 
 end for the means. Starving was a disease preferable to 
 consumption. Besides, he laboured merely for the sake 
 of living, and he lived merely for the sake of pleasure. 
 If his tasks should enable him to live, but, at the same 
 time, bereave him of all satisfaction, they inflicted 
 injury, and were to be shunned as worse evils than death. 
 
 I asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with 
 which the business of a clerk was inconsistent. 
 
 He answered that he scarcely knew how to describe it. 
 He read books when they came in his way. He had 
 lighted upon few, and, perhaps, the pleasure they afforded 
 him was owing to their fewness; yet he confessed that a 
 mode of life which entirely forbade him to read was by 
 no means to his taste. But this was trivial. He knew 
 how to value the thoughts of other people, but he could 
 not part with the privilege of observing and thinking for 
 himself. He wanted business which would suffer at least 
 nine-tenths of his attention to go free. If it afforded
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. II 
 
 agreeable employment to that part of his attention winch 
 it applied to its own use, so much the better; but, if it 
 did not, he should not repine. He should be content 
 with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nine are 
 to one. He had tried the trade of a copyist, and in cir 
 cumstances more favourable than it was likely he should 
 ever again have an opportunity of trying it, and he had 
 found that it did not fulfil the requisite conditions. 
 Whereas the trade of ploughman was friendly to health, 
 liberty, and pleasure. 
 
 The pestilence, if it may so be called, was now de 
 clining. The health of my young friend allowed him to 
 breathe the fresh air and to walk. A friend of mine, by 
 name Wortley, who had spent two months from the city, 
 and to whom, in the course of a familiar correspondence, 
 I had mentioned the foregoing particulars, returned from 
 his rural excursion. He was posting, on the evening of 
 the day of his arrival, with a friendly expedition, to my 
 house, when he overtook Mervyn going in the same direc 
 tion. He was surprised to find him go before him into 
 my dwelling, and to discover, which he speedily did, 
 that this was the youth whom I had so frequently men 
 tioned to him. I was present at their meeting. 
 
 There was a strange mixture in the countenance of 
 Wortley when they were presented to each other. His 
 satisfaction was mingled with surprise, and his surprise 
 with anger. Mervyn, in his turn, betrayed considerable 
 embarrassment. Wortley s thoughts were too earnest on 
 some topic to allow him to converse. He shortly made 
 some excuse for taking leave, and, rising, addressed him 
 self to the youth with a request that he would walk 
 home with him. This invitation, delivered in a tone 
 which left it doubtful whether a compliment or menace 
 were meant, augmented Mervyn s confusion. He com 
 plied without speaking, and they went out together; my 
 wife and I were left to comment upon the scene. 
 
 It could not fail to excite uneasiness. They were evi 
 dently no strangers to each other. The indignation that 
 flashed from the eyes of Wortley, and the trembling con 
 sciousness of Mervyn, were unwelcome tokens. The 
 former was my dearest friend, and venerable for his dis-
 
 12 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 cernment and integrity. The latter appeared to have 
 drawn upon himself the anger and disdain of this man. 
 We already anticipated the shock which the discovery of 
 his unworthincss would produce. 
 
 In a half-hour Mcrvyn returned. His embarrassment 
 had given place to dejection. He was always serious, 
 but his features were now overcast by the deepest gloom. 
 The anxiety which I felt would not allow me to hesitate 
 long. 
 
 "Arthur," said I, "something is the matter with you. 
 Will you not disclose it to us? Perhaps you have 
 brought yourself into some dilemma out of which we may 
 help you to escape. Has any thing of an unpleasant 
 nature passed between you and Wortlcy?" 
 
 The youth did not readily answer. He seemed at a 
 loss for a suitable reply. At length he said that some 
 thing disagreeable had indeed passed between him and 
 Wortley. He had had the misfortune to be connected 
 with a man by whom Wortley conceived himself to be 
 injured. He had borne no part in inflicting this injury, 
 but had nevertheless been threatened with ill treatment 
 if he did not make disclosures Avhich, indeed, it was in 
 his power to make, but which he was bound, by every 
 sanction, to withhold. This disclosure would be of no 
 benefit to Wortley. It would rather operate injuriously 
 than otherwise ; yet it was endeavoured to be wrested 
 from him by the heaviest menaces. There he paused. 
 
 We were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these 
 menaces; but Mervyn entreated us to forbear any further 
 discussion of this topic. He foresaw the difficulties to 
 which his silence would subject him. One of its most 
 fearful consequences would be the loss of our good 
 opinion. He knew not what he had to dread from the 
 enmity of Wortley. Mr. Wortley s violence was not 
 without excuse. It was his mishap to be exposed to 
 suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his 
 faith. But, indeed, he knew not whether any degree of 
 explicitness would confute the charges that were made 
 against him ; whether, by trampling on his sacred pro 
 mise, he should not multiply his perils instead of lessen 
 ing their number. A difficult part had been assigned to
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 13 
 
 him ; by much too difficult for one young, improvident, 
 and inexperienced as he was. 
 
 Sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. Perhaps, 
 after having had an opportunity for deliberation, he 
 should conclude to adopt it ; meanwhile he entreated per 
 mission to retire to his chamber. He was unable to ex 
 clude from his mind ideas which yet could, with no pro 
 priety, at least at present, be made the theme of con 
 versation. 
 
 These words were accompanied with simplicity and 
 pathos, and with tokens of unaffected distress. 
 
 "Arthur," said I, "you are master of your actions 
 and time in this house. Retire when you please ; but 
 you will naturally suppose us anxious to dispel this mys 
 tery. Whatever shall tend to obscure or malign your 
 character will of course excite our solicitude. Wortley 
 is not short-sighted or hasty to condemn. So great ia 
 my confidence in his integrity that I will not promise my 
 esteem to one who has irrecoverably lost that of Wort- 
 ley. I am not acquainted with your motives to conceal 
 ment, or what it is you conceal ; but take the word of 
 one who possesses that experience which you complain of 
 wanting, that sincerity is always safest." 
 
 As soon as he had retired, my curiosity prompted me 
 to pay an immediate visit to Wortley. I found him at 
 home. He was no less desirous of an interview, and 
 answered my inquiries with as much eagerness as they 
 were made. 
 
 "You know," said he, "my disastrous connection with 
 Thomas Welbcck. You recollect his sudden disappear 
 ance last July, by which I was reduced to the brink of 
 ruin. Nay, I am, even now, far from certain that I 
 shall survive that event. I spoke to you about the youth 
 who lived with him, and by what means that youth was 
 discovered to have crossed the river in his company on 
 the night of his departure. This is that very youth. 
 
 "This will account for my emotion at meeting him at 
 your house ; I brought him out with me. His confusion 
 sufficiently indicated his knowledge of transactions be 
 tween Welbeck and me. I questioned him as to the 
 fate of that man. To own the truth, I expected some
 
 14 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 well-digested lie ; but he merely said that he had pro 
 mised secrecy on that subject, and must therefore be 
 excused from giving me any information. I asked him 
 if lie knew that his master, or accomplice, or whatever 
 was his relation to him, absconded in my debt ? He 
 answered that he knew it well ; but still pleaded a pro 
 mise of inviolable secrecy as to his hiding-place. This 
 conduct justly exasperated me, and I treated him with 
 the severity which he deserved. I am half ashamed to 
 confess the excesses of my passion ; I even went so far 
 as to strike him. He bore my insults with the utmost 
 patience. No doubt the young villain is well instructed 
 in his lesson. He knows that he may safely defy my 
 power. From threats I descended to entreaties. I even 
 endeavoured to wind the truth from him by artifice. I 
 promised him a part of the debt if he would enable me 
 to recover the whole. I offered him a considerable re 
 ward if he would merely afford me a clue by which I 
 might trace him to his retreat ; but all was insufficient. 
 He merely put on an air of perplexity and shook his 
 head in token of non-compliance." 
 
 Such was my friend s account of this interview. His 
 suspicions were unquestionably plausible ; but I was dis 
 posed to put a more favourable construction on Mervyn s 
 behaviour. I recollected the desolate and penniless con 
 dition in which I found him, and the uniform compla 
 cency and rectitude of his deportment for the period 
 during which we had witnessed it. These ideas had con 
 siderable influence on my judgment, and indisposed me 
 to follow the advice of my friend, which was to turn him 
 forth from my doors that very night. 
 
 My wife s prepossessions were still more powerful ad 
 vocates of this youth. She would vouch, she said, before 
 any tribunal, for his innocence ; but she willingly con 
 curred with me in allowing him the continuance of our 
 friendship on no other condition than that of a disclosure 
 of the truth. To entitle ourselves to this confidence we 
 w-re willing to engage, in our turn, for the observance 
 of secrecy, so far that no detriment should accrue from 
 this disclosure to himself or his friend. 
 
 Next morning, at breakfast, our guest appeared with
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1$ 
 
 a countenance less expressive of embarrassment than on 
 the last evening. His attention was chiefly engaged by 
 his own thoughts, and little was said till the breakfast 
 was removed. I then reminded him of the incidents of 
 the former day, and mentioned that the uneasiness which 
 thence arose to us had rather been increased than dimi 
 nished by time. 
 
 "It is in your power, my young friend," continued I, 
 " to add still more to this uneasiness, or to take it entirely 
 away. I had no personal acquaintance with Thomas Wei- 
 beck. I have been informed by others that his charac 
 ter, for a certain period, was respectable, but that, at 
 length, he contracted large debts, and, instead of paying 
 them, absconded. You, it seems, lived with him. On 
 the night of his departure you are known to have accom 
 panied him across the river, and this, it seems, is the 
 first of your reappearance on the stage. Welbeck s con 
 duct was dishonest. He ought doubtless to be pursued 
 to his asylum and be compelled to refund his winnings. 
 You confess yourself to know his place of refuge, but 
 urge a promise of secrecy. Know you not that to assist 
 or connive at the escape of this man was wrong ? To 
 have promised to favour his concealment and impunity 
 by silence was only an aggravation of this wrong. 
 That, however, is past. Your youth, and circumstances, 
 hitherto unexplained, may apologize for that miscon 
 duct ; but it is certainly your duty to repair it to the 
 utmost of your power. Think whether, by disclosing 
 what you know, you will not repair it." 
 
 "I have spent most of last night," said the youth, 
 " in reflecting on this subject. I had come to a resolu 
 tion, before you spoke, of confiding to you my simple 
 tale. I perceive in what circumstances I am placed, and 
 that I can keep my hold of your good opinion only by a 
 candid deportment. I have indeed given a promise which 
 it was wrong, or rather absurd, in another to exact, and 
 in me to give ; yet none but considerations of the highest 
 importance would persuade me to break my promise. 
 No injury will accrue from my disclosure to Welbeck. 
 If there should, dishonest as he was, that would be a 
 sufficient reason for my silence. Wortley will not, in
 
 1 6 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 any degree, be benefited by any communication that I 
 can make. Whether I grant or withhold information, 
 my conduct will have influence only on my own happi 
 ness, and that influence will justify me in granting it. 
 
 " I received your protection when I was friendless and 
 forlorn. You have a right to know whom it is that you 
 protected. My own fate is connected with the fate of 
 AVelbeck, and that connection, together with the interest 
 you are pleased to take in my concerns, because they 
 are mine, will render a tale worthy of attention which 
 will not be recommended by variety of facts or skill in 
 the display of them. 
 
 " Wortley, though passionate, and, with regard to me, 
 unjust, may yet be a good man ; but I have no desire to 
 make him one of my auditors. You, sir, may, if you 
 think proper, relate to him afterwards what particulars 
 concerning Welbeck it may be of importance for him to 
 know ; but at present it will be well if your indulgence 
 shall support me to the end of a tedious but humble 
 tale." 
 
 The eyes of my Eliza sparkled with delight at this 
 proposal. She regarded this youth with a sisterly affec 
 tion, and considered his candour, in this respect, as an 
 unerring test of his rectitude. She was prepared to 
 hear and to forgive the errors of inexperience and pre 
 cipitation. I did not fully participate in her satisfac 
 tion, but was nevertheless most zealously disposed to 
 listen to his narrative. 
 
 My engagements obliged me to postpone this rehearsal 
 till late in the evening. Collected then round a cheer 
 ful hearth, exempt from all likelihood of interruption 
 from without, and our babe s unpractised senses shut up 
 in the sweetest and profoundest sleep, Mervyu, after a 
 pause of recollection, began.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MY natal soil is Chester county. My father had a 
 small farm, on which he has been able, by industry, to 
 maintain himself and a numerous family. He has had 
 many children, but some defect in the constitution of 
 our mother has been fatal to all of them but me. They 
 died successively as they attained the age of nineteen or 
 twenty, and, since I have not yet reached that age, I may 
 reasonably look for the same premature fate. In the 
 spring of last year my mother followed her fifth child to 
 the grave, and three months afterwards died herself. 
 
 My constitution has always been frail, and, till the 
 death of my mother, I enjoyed unlimited indulgence. I 
 cheerfully sustained my portion of labour, for that neces 
 sity prescribed ; but the intervals were always at my own 
 disposal, and, in whatever manner I thought proper to 
 employ them, my plans were encouraged and assisted. 
 Fond appellations, tones of mildness, solicitous attend 
 ance when I was sick, deference to my opinions, and 
 veneration for my talents, compose the image which I 
 still retain of my mother. I had the thoughtlessness 
 and presumption of youth, and, now that she is gone, 
 my compunction is awakened by a thousand recollections 
 of my treatment of her. I was indeed guilty of no fla 
 grant acts of contempt or rebellion. Perhaps her de 
 portment was inevitably calculated to instil into me a 
 froward and refractory spirit. My faults, however, were 
 speedily followed by repentance, and, in the midst of 
 impatience and passion, a look of tender upbraiding 
 from her was always sufficient to melt me into tears and 
 make me ductile to her will. If sorrow for her loss be 
 an atonement for the offences which I committed during 
 her life, ample atonement has been made. 
 
 2 17
 
 1 8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 My father is a man of slender capacity, but of a 
 temper easy and flexible. He was sober and industrious 
 by habit. He was content to be guided by the superior 
 intelligence of his wife. Under this guidance he pros 
 pered ; but, when that was withdrawn, his affairs soon 
 began to betray marks of unskilfulness and negligence. 
 My understanding, perhaps, qualified me to counsel and 
 assist my father, but I was wholly unaccustomed to the 
 task of superintendence. Besides, gentleness and forti 
 tude did not descend to me from my mother, and these 
 were indispensable attributes in a boy who desires to 
 dictate to his gray-headed parent. Time, perhaps, might 
 have conferred dexterity on me, or prudence on him, had 
 not a most unexpected event given a different direction 
 to my views. 
 
 Betty Lawrence was a wild girl from the pine-forests 
 of New Jersey. At the age of ten years she became a 
 bound servant in this city, and, after the expiration of 
 her time, came into my father s neighbourhood in search 
 of employment. She was hired in our family as milk 
 maid and market-woman. Her features were coarse, 
 her frame robust, her mind totally unlettered, and her 
 morals defective in that point in which female excellence 
 is supposed chiefly to consist. She possessed super 
 abundant health and good-humour, and was quite a sup 
 portable companion in the hay-field or the barnyard. 
 
 On the death of my mother, she was exalted to a 
 somewhat higher station. The same tasks fell to her 
 lot ; but the time and manner of performing them were, 
 in some degree, submitted to her own choice. The cows 
 and the dairy were still her province ; but in this no one 
 interfered with her or pretended to prescribe her mea 
 sures. For this province she seemed not unqualified, 
 and, as long as my father was pleased with her manage 
 ment, I had nothing to object. 
 
 This state of things continued, without material varia 
 tion, for several months. There were appearances in my 
 father s deportment to Betty, which excited my reflec 
 tions, but not my fears. The deference which was occa 
 sionally paid to the advice or the claims of this girl was 
 accounted for by that feebleness of mind which degraded
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 9 
 
 my father, in whatever scene he should be placed, to be 
 the tool of others. I had no conception that her claims 
 extended beyond a temporary or superficial gratification. 
 
 At length, however, a visible change took place in her 
 manners. A scornful affectation and awkward dignity 
 began to be assumed. A greater attention was paid to 
 dress, which was of gayer hues and more fashionable 
 texture. I rallied her on these tokens of a sweetheart, 
 and amused myself with expatiating to her on the 
 qualifications of her lover. A clownish fellow was fre 
 quently her visitant. His attentions did not appear to 
 be discouraged. He therefore was readily supposed to 
 be the man. When pointed out as the favourite, great 
 resentment was expressed, and obscure insinuations were 
 made that her aim was not quite so low as that. These 
 denials I supposed to be customary on such occasions, 
 and considered the continuance of his visits as a suffi 
 cient confutation of them. 
 
 I frequently spoke of Betty, her newly-acquired dig 
 nity, and of the probable cause of her change of man 
 ners, to my father. When this theme was started, a cer 
 tain coldness and reserve overspread his features. He 
 dealt in monosyllables, and either laboured to change the 
 subject or made some excuse for leaving me. This be 
 haviour, though it occasioned surprise, was never very 
 deeply reflected on. My father was old, and the mourn 
 ful impressions which were made upon him by the death 
 of his wife, the lapse of almost half a year seemed 
 scarcely to have weakened. Betty had chosen her 
 partner, and I was in daily expectation of receiving a 
 summons to the wedding. 
 
 One afternoon this girl dressed herself in the gayest 
 manner and seemed making preparations for some mo 
 mentous ceremony. My father had directed me to put 
 the horse to the chaise. On my inquiring whither he 
 was going, he answered me, in general terms, that he had 
 some business at a few miles distance. I offered to go 
 in his stead, but he said that was impossible. I was 
 proceeding to ascertain the possibility of this when he 
 left me to go to a field where his workmen were busy, 
 directing me to inform him when the chaise was ready,
 
 20 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to supply his place, while absent, in overlooking the 
 workmen. 
 
 This office was performed; but before I called him 
 from the field I exchanged a few words with the milk 
 maid, who sat on a bench, in all the primness of expecta 
 tion, and decked with the most gaudy plumage. I rated 
 her imaginary lover for his tardiness, and vowed eternal 
 hatred to them both for not making me a bride s attend 
 ant. She listened to me with an air in which embarrass 
 ment was mingled sometimes with exultation and some 
 times with malice. I left her at length, and returned to 
 the house not till a late hour. As soon as I entered, my 
 father presented Betty to me as his wife, and desired 
 she might receive that treatment from me which was due 
 to a mother. 
 
 It was not till after repeated and solemn declarations 
 from both of them that I was prevailed upon to credit 
 this event. Its effect upon my feelings may be easily 
 conceived. I knew the woman to be rude, ignorant, and 
 licentious. Had I suspected this event, I might have 
 fortified my father s weakness and enabled him to shun 
 the gulf to which he was tending ; but my presumption 
 had been careless of the danger. To think that such a 
 one should take the place of my revered mother was 
 intolerable. 
 
 To treat her in any way not squaring with her real 
 merits; to hinder anger and scorn from rising at the 
 sight of her in her new condition, was not in my power. 
 To be degraded to the rank of her servant, to become 
 the sport of her malice and her artifices, was not to be 
 endured. I had no independent provision ; but I was the 
 only child of my father, and had reasonably hoped to 
 succeed to his patrimony. On (his hope 1 had built a 
 thousand agreeable visions. I had meditated innume 
 rable projects which the possession of this estate would 
 enable me to execute. I had no Avish beyond the trade 
 of agriculture, and beyond the opulence which a hundred 
 acres would give. 
 
 These visions were now at an end. No doubt her 
 own interest would be, to this woman, the supreme law, 
 and this would be considered as irreconcilably hostile to
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 21 
 
 mine. My father would easily be moulded to her pur 
 pose, and that act easily extorted from him which should 
 reduce me to beggary. She had a gross and perverse 
 taste. She had a numerous kindred, indigent and hun- 
 
 fry. On these his substance would speedily be lavished, 
 le she hated, because she was conscious of having in 
 jured me, because she knew that I held her in contempt, 
 and because I had detected her in an illicit intercourse 
 with the son of a neighbour. 
 
 The house in which I lived was no longer my own, nor 
 even my father s. Hitherto I had thought and acted in 
 it with the freedom of a master ; but now I was become, 
 in my own conceptions, an alien and an enemy to the 
 roof under which I was born. Every tie which had 
 bound me to it was dissolved or converted into something 
 which repelled me to a distance from it. I was a guest 
 whose presence was borne with anger and impatience. 
 
 I was fully impressed with the necessity of removal, 
 but I knew not whither to go, or what kind of subsistence 
 to seek. My father had been a Scottish emigrant, and 
 had no kindred on this side of the ocean. My mother s 
 family lived in New Hampshire, and long separation had 
 extinguished all the rights of relationship in her off 
 spring. Tilling the earth was my only profession, and, 
 to profit by my skill in it, it would be necessary to be 
 come a day-labourer in the service of strangers ; but this 
 was a destiny to which I, who had so long enjoyed the 
 pleasures of independence and command, could not sud 
 denly reconcile myself. It occurred to me that the city 
 might afford me an asylum. A short day s journey 
 Avould transport me into it. I had been there twice or 
 thrice in my life, but only for a few hours each time. I 
 knew not a human face, and was a stranger to its modes 
 and dangers. I was qualified for no employment, com 
 patible with a town life, but that of the pen. This, 
 indeed, had ever been a favourite tool with me ; and, 
 though it may appear somewhat strange, it is no less 
 true that I had had nearly as much practice at the quill 
 as at the mattock. But the sum of my skill lay in 
 tracing distinct characters. I had used it merely to tran 
 scribe what others had written, or to give form to my
 
 22 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 own conceptions. Whether the city would afford me 
 employment, as a mere copyist, sufficiently lucrative, was 
 a point on which I possessed no means of information. 
 
 My determination was hastened by the conduct of my 
 new mother. My conjectures as to the course she would 
 pursue with regard to me had not been erroneous. My 
 father s deportment, in a short time, grew sullen and 
 austere. Directions were given in a magisterial tone, 
 and any remissness in the execution of his orders was re 
 buked with an air of authority. At length these rebukes 
 were followed by certain intimations that I was now old 
 enough to provide for myself; that it was time to think 
 of some employment by which I might secure a liveli 
 hood ; that it was a shame for me to spend my youth in 
 idleness ; that what he had gained was by his own labour ; 
 and I must be indebted for my living to the same source. 
 
 These hints were easily understood. At first, they ex 
 cited indignation and grief. I knew the source whence 
 they sprung, and was merely able to suppress the utter 
 ance of my feelings in her presence. My looks, however, 
 were abundantly significant, and my company became 
 hourly more insupportable. Abstracted from these con 
 siderations, my father s remonstrances were not destitute 
 of weight, lie gave me being, but sustenance ought 
 surely to be my own gift. In the use of that for which 
 he had been indebted to his own exertions, he might rea 
 sonably consult his own choice. lie assumed no control 
 over me ; he merely did what he would with his own, and, 
 so far from fettering my liberty, he exhorted me to use 
 it for my own benefit, and to make provision for myself. 
 
 I now reflected that there were other manual occupa 
 tions besides that of the plough. Among these none had 
 fewer disadvantages than that of carpenter or cabinet 
 maker. I had no knowledge of this art ; but neither 
 custom, nor law, nor the impenetrablcness of the mys 
 tery, required me to serve a seven years apprenticeship 
 to it. A master in this trade might possibly be persuaded 
 to take me under his tuition ; two or three years would 
 suffice to give me the requisite skill. Meanwhile my 
 father would, perhaps, consent to bear the cost of my
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2$ 
 
 maintenance. Nobody could live upon less than I was 
 willing to do. 
 
 I mentioned these ideas to my father ; but he merely 
 commended my intentions without ottering to assist me 
 in the execution of them, lie had full employment, he 
 said, for all the profits of his ground. No doubt, if I 
 would bind myself to serve four or five years, my master 
 would be at the expense of my subsistence. Be that as 
 it would, I must look for nothing from him. I had shown 
 very little regard for his happiness ; I had refused all 
 marks of respect to a woman who was entitled to it from 
 her relation to him. He did not see why he should treat 
 as a son one who refused what was due to him as a father. 
 He thought it right that I should henceforth maintain 
 myself. He did not want my services on the farm, and 
 the sooner I quitted his house the better. 
 
 I retired from this conference with a resolution to fol 
 low the advice that was given. I saw that henceforth I 
 must be my own protector, and wondered at the folly 
 that detained me so long under his roof. To leave it 
 was now become indispensable, and there could be no 
 reason for delaying my departure for a single hour. I 
 determined to bend my course to the city. The scheme 
 foremost in my mind was to apprentice myself to some 
 mechanical trade. I did not overlook the evils of con 
 straint and the dubiousness as to the character of the 
 master I should choose. I was not without hopes that 
 accident would suggest a different expedient, and enable 
 me to procure an immediate subsistence without forfeit 
 ing my liberty. 
 
 I determined to commence my journey the next morn 
 ing. No wonder the prospect of so considerable a change 
 in my condition should deprive me of sleep. I spent the 
 night ruminating on the future, and in painting to my 
 fancy the adventures which I should be likely to meet. 
 The foresight of man is in proportion to his knowledge. 
 No wonder that, in my state of profound ignorance, not 
 the faintest preconception should be formed of the events 
 that really befell me. My temper was inquisitive, but 
 there was nothing in the scene to which I was going 
 from which my curiosity expected to derive gratification.
 
 24 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 Discords and evil smells, unsavoury food, unwholesome 
 labour, and irksome companions, were, in my opinion, 
 the unavoidable attendants of a city. 
 
 My best clothes were of the homeliest texture and 
 shape. My whole stock of linen consisted of three 
 check shirts. Part of my winter evenings employment, 
 since the death of my mother, consisted in knitting my 
 own stockings. Of these I had three pair, one of which 
 I put on, and the rest I formed, together with two shirts, 
 into a bundle. Three quarter-dollar pieces composed 
 my whole fortune in money.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I ROSE at the dawn, and, without asking or bestowing 
 a blessing, sallied forth into the highroad to the city, 
 which passed near the house. I left nothing behind, the 
 loss of which I regretted. I had purchased most of my 
 own books with the product of my own separate industry, 
 and, their number being, of course, small, I had, by in 
 cessant application, gotten the whole of them by rote. 
 They had ceased, therefore, to be of any further use. I 
 left them, without reluctance, to the fate for which I 
 knew them to be reserved, that of affording food and 
 habitation to mice. 
 
 I trod this unwonted path with all the fearlessness of 
 youth. In spite of the motives to despondency and ap 
 prehension incident to my state, my heels were light and 
 my heart joyous. "Now," said I, "I am mounted into 
 man. I must build a name and a fortune for myself. 
 Strange if this intellect and these hands will not supply 
 me with an honest livelihood. I will try the city in the 
 first place ; but, if that should fail, resources are still 
 left to me. I will resume my post in the cornfield and 
 threshing-floor, to which I shall always have access, and 
 where I shall always be happy." 
 
 I had proceeded some miles on my journey, when I 
 began to feel the inroads of hunger. I might have 
 stopped at any farm-house, and have breakfasted for 
 nothing. It was prudent to husband, with the utmost 
 care, my slender stock ; but I felt reluctance to beg as 
 long as I had the means of buying, and I imagined that 
 coarse bread and a little milk would cost little even at a 
 
 25
 
 26 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 tavern, when any farmer was willing to bestow them for 
 nothing. My resolution Avas further influenced by the 
 appearance of a signpost. What excuse could I make 
 for begging a breakfast with an inn at hand and silver 
 in my pocket? 
 
 I stopped, accordingly, and breakfasted. The landlord 
 was remarkably attentive and obliging, but his bread was 
 stale, his milk sour, and his cheese the greenest imaginable. 
 I disdained to animadvert on these defects, naturally sup 
 posing that his house could furnish no better. 
 
 Having finished my meal, I put, without speaking, 
 one of my pieces into his hand. This deportment I 
 conceived to be highly becoming, and to indicate a 
 liberal and manly spirit. I always regarded with con 
 tempt a scrupulous maker of bargains. He received the 
 money with a complaisant obeisance. "Right," said he. 
 "Just the money, sir. You are on foot, sir. A pleasant 
 way of travelling, sir. I wish you a good day, sir." So 
 saying, he walked away. 
 
 This proceeding was wholly unexpected. I conceived 
 myself entitled to at least three-fourths of it in change. 
 The first impulse was to call him back, and contest the 
 equity of his demand ; but a moment s reflection showed 
 me the absurdity of such conduct. I resumed my journey 
 with spirits somewhat depressed. I have heard of voyagers 
 and wanderers in deserts, who were willing to give a casket 
 of gems for a cup of cold water. I had not supposed my 
 own condition to be, in any respect, similar ; yet I had 
 just given one-third of my estate for a breakfast. 
 
 I stopped at noon at another inn. I counted on pur 
 chasing a dinner for the same price, since I meant to 
 content myself with the same fare. A large company 
 was just sitting down to a smoking banquet. The land 
 lord invited me to join them. I took my place at the 
 table, but was furnished with bread and milk. Being 
 prepared to depart, I took him aside. "What is to 
 pay?" said I. "Did you drink any thing, sir?" 
 "Certainly. I drank the milk which was furnished." 
 "But any liquors, sir?" "No." 
 
 He deliberated a moment, and then, assuming an air 
 of disinterestedness, " Tis our custom to charge dinner
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2/ 
 
 and club ; but, as you drank nothing, we ll let the club 
 go. A mere dinner is half a dollar, sir." 
 
 He had no leisure to attend to my fluctuations. After 
 debating with myself on what was to be done, I concluded 
 that compliance was best, and, leaving the money at the 
 bar, resumed my Avay. 
 
 I had not performed more than half my journey, yet 
 my purse was entirely exhausted. This was a specimen 
 of the cost incurred by living at an inn. If I entered the 
 city, a tavern must, at least for some time, be my abode ; 
 but I had not a farthing remaining to defray my charges. 
 My father had formerly entertained a boarder for a dollar 
 per week, and, in case of need, I was willing to subsist 
 upon coarser fare and lie on a harder bed than those 
 with which our guest had been supplied. These facts had 
 been the foundation of my negligence on this occasion. 
 
 What was now to be done ? To return to my paternal 
 mansion was impossible. To relinquish my design of 
 entering the city and to seek a temporary asylum, if not 
 permanent employment, at some one of the plantations 
 within view, was the most obvious expedient. These 
 deliberations did not slacken my pace. I was almost 
 unmindful of my Avay, when I found I had passed 
 Schuylkill at the upper bridge. I was now within the 
 precincts of the city, and night was hastening. It be 
 hooved me to come to a speedy decision. 
 
 Suddenly I recollected that I had not paid the cus 
 tomary toll at the bridge ; neither had I money wherewith 
 to pay it. A demand of payment Avould have suddenly 
 arrested my progress ; and so slight an incident would 
 have precluded that wonderful destiny to which I was 
 reserved. The obstacle that would have hindered my 
 advance now prevented my return. Scrupulous honesty 
 did not require me to turn back and awaken the vigilance 
 of the toll-gatherer. I had nothing to pay, and by re 
 turning I should only double my debt. "Let it stand," 
 said I, "where it does. All that honour enjoins is to 
 pay when I am able." 
 
 I adhered to the crossways, till I reached Market 
 Street. Night had fallen, and a triple TOAV of lamps pre 
 sented a spectacle enchanting and new. My personal
 
 28 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 cares -were, for a time, lost in the tumultuous sensations 
 with which I was now engrossed. I had never visited 
 the city at this hour. When my last visit was paid, I 
 was a mere child. The novelty which environed every 
 object was, therefore, nearly absolute. I proceeded with 
 more cautious steps, but was still absorbed in attention to 
 passing objects. I reached the market-house, and, enter 
 ing it, indulged myself in new delight and new wonder. 
 
 I need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and 
 splendour are merely comparative ; yet you may be 
 prompted to smile when I tell you that, in walking 
 through this avenue, I, for a moment, conceived myself 
 transported to the hall "pendent with many a row of 
 starry lamps and blazing crescents fed by naphtha and 
 asphaltos." That this transition from my homely and 
 quiet retreat had been effected in so few hours wore the 
 aspect of miracle or magic. 
 
 I proceeded from one of these buildings to another, 
 till I reached their termination in Front Street. Here 
 my progress was checked, and I sought repose to my 
 weary limbs by seating myself on a stall. No wonder 
 some fatigue was felt by me, accustomed as I was to 
 strenuous exertions, since, exclusive of the minutes spent 
 at breakfast and dinner, I had travelled fifteen hours 
 and forty-five miles. 
 
 I began now to reflect, with some earnestness, on my 
 condition. I was a stranger, friendless and moneyless. 
 I was unable to purchase food and shelter, and was 
 wholly unused to the business of begging. Hunger was 
 the only serious inconvenience to which I was imme 
 diately exposed. I had no objection to spend the night 
 in the spot where I then sat. I had no fear that my 
 visions would be troubled by the officers of police. It was 
 no crime to be without a home ; but how should I supply 
 my present cravings and the cravings of to-morrow { 
 
 At length it occurred to me that one of our country 
 neighbours was probably at this time in the city. He 
 kept a store as well as cultivated a farm. He was a 
 plain and well-meaning man, and, should I be so for 
 tunate as to meet him, his superior knowledge of the 
 city might be of essential benefit to me in my present
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 29 
 
 forlorn circumstances. His generosity might likewise 
 induce him to lend me so much as would purchase one 
 meal. I had formed the resolution to leave the city next 
 day, and was astonished at the folly that had led me into 
 it ; but, meanwhile, my physical wants must be supplied. 
 
 Where should I look for this man ? In the course of 
 conversation I recollected him to have referred to the 
 place of his temporary abode. It was an inn ; but the 
 sign or the name of the keeper for some time withstood 
 all my efforts to recall them. 
 
 At length I lighted on the last. It was Lesher s tavern. 
 I immediately set out in search of it. After many inquiries, 
 I at last arrived at the door. I was preparing to enter 
 the house when I perceived that my bundle was gone. I 
 had left it on the stall where I had been sitting. People 
 were perpetually passing to and fro. It was scarcely 
 possible not to have been noticed. No one that observed 
 it would fail to make it his prey. Yet it was of too much 
 value to me to allow me to be governed by a bare proba 
 bility. I resolved to lose not a moment in returning. 
 
 With some difficulty I retraced my steps, but the bundle 
 had disappeared. The clothes were, in themselves, of 
 small value, but they constituted the whole of my ward 
 robe ; and I now reflected that they were capable of being 
 transmuted, by the pawn or sale of them, into food. 
 There were other wretches as indigent as I was, and I 
 consoled myself by thinking that my shirts and stockings 
 might furnish a seasonable covering to their nakedness ; 
 but there was a relic concealed within this bundle, the 
 loss of which could scarcely be endured by me. It was 
 the portrait of a young man who died three years ago 
 at my father s house, drawn by his own hand. 
 
 He was discovered one morning in the orchard with 
 many marks of insanity upon him. His air and dress be 
 spoke some elevation of rank and fortune. My mother s 
 compassion was excited, and, as his singularities were 
 harmless, an asylum was afforded him, though he was 
 unable to pay for it. lie was constantly declaiming, in 
 an incoherent manner, about some mistress who had 
 proved faithless. His speeches seemed, however, like 
 the rantings of an actor, to be rehearsed by rote or for
 
 30 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 the sake of exercise. He was totally careless of his per 
 son and health, and, by repeated negligences of this kind, 
 at last contracted a fever of which he speedily died. The 
 name which he assumed was Clavering. 
 
 He gave no distinct account of his family, but stated, 
 in loose terms, that they were residents in England, high 
 born and wealthy. That they had denied him the woman 
 whom he loved and banished him to America, under 
 penalty of death if he should dare to return, and that 
 they had refused him all means of subsistence in a foreign 
 land. He predicted, in his wild and declamatory way, 
 his own death. He was very skilful at the pencil, and 
 drew this portrait a short time before his dissolution, 
 presented it to me, and charged me to preserve it in re 
 membrance of him. My mother loved the youth because 
 he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly because she 
 fancied a very powerful resemblance between his counte 
 nance and mine. I was too young to build affection on 
 any rational foundation. I loved him, for whatever rea 
 son, with an ardour unusual at my age, and which this 
 portrait had contributed to prolong and to cherish. 
 
 In thus finally leaving my home, I was careful not to 
 leave this picture behind. I wrapped it in paper in which 
 a few elegiac stanzas were inscribed in my own hand, and 
 with my utmost elegance of penmanship. I then placed 
 it in a leathern case, which, for greater security, was de 
 posited in the centre of my bundle. It will occur to you, 
 perhaps, that it would be safer in some fold or pocket of 
 the clothes which I wore. I was of a different opinion, 
 and was now to endure the penalty of my error. 
 
 It was in vain to heap execrations on my negligence, 
 or to consume the little strength left to me in regrets. 
 I returned once more to the tavern and made inquiries 
 for Mr. Capper, the person whom I have just mentioned 
 as my father s neighbour. I was informed that Capper 
 was now in town ; that he had lodged, on the last night, 
 at this house ; that he had expected to do the same to 
 night, but a gentleman had called ten minutes ago, whose 
 invitation to lodge with him to-night had been accepted. 
 They had just gone out together. Who, I asked, waa 
 the gentleman ? The landlord had no knowledge of him ;
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 3! 
 
 he knew neither his place of abode nor his name. Wag 
 Mr. Capper expected to return hither in the morning ? 
 No ; he had heard the stranger propose to Mr. Capper 
 to go with him into the country to-morrow, and Mr. 
 Capper, he believed, had assented. 
 
 This disappointment was peculiarly severe. I had 
 lost, by my own negligence, the only opportunity that 
 would offer of meeting my friend. Had even the recol 
 lection of my loss been postponed for three minutes, I 
 should have entered the house, and a meeting would 
 have been secured. I could discover no other expedient 
 to obviate the present evil. My heart began now, for 
 the first time, to droop. I looked back, with nameless 
 emotions, on the days of my infancy. I called up the 
 image of my mother. I reflected on the infatuation of 
 my surviving parent, and the usurpation of the detest 
 able Betty, with horror. I viewed myself as the most 
 calamitous and desolate of human beings. 
 
 At this time I was sitting in the common room. There 
 were others in the same apartment, lounging, or whis 
 tling, or singing. I noticed them not, but, leaning my 
 head upon my hand, I delivered myself up to painful 
 and intense meditation. From this I was roused by 
 some one placing himself on the bench near me and 
 addressing me thus : "Pray, sir, if you will excuse me, 
 who was the person whom you were looking for just now ? 
 Perhaps I can give you the information you want. If I 
 can, you will be very welcome to it." I fixed my eyes 
 with some eagerness on the person that spoke. He was 
 a young man, expensively and fashionably dressed, whose 
 mien was considerably prepossessing, and whose counte 
 nance bespoke some portion of discernment. I described 
 to him the man whom I sought. "I am in search of 
 the same man myself," said he, "but I expect to meet 
 him here. He may lodge elsewhere, but he promised to 
 meet me here at half after nine. I have no doubt he 
 will fulfil his promise, so that you will meet the gen 
 tleman." 
 
 I was highly gratified by this information, and thanked 
 my informant with some degree of warmth. My grati 
 tude he did not notice, but continued: "In order to be>
 
 32 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 guile expectation, I have ordered supper ; will you do 
 me the favour to partake with me, unless indeed you 
 have supped already?" I was obliged, somewhat awk 
 wardly, to decline his invitation, conscious as I was that 
 the means of payment were not in my power. lie con 
 tinued, however, to urge my compliance till at length it 
 was, though reluctantly, yielded. My chief motive was 
 the certainty of seeing Capper. 
 
 My new acquaintance was exceedingly conversible, 
 but his conversation was chiefly characterized by frank 
 ness and good-humour. My reserve gradually dimi 
 nished, and I ventured to inform him, in general terms, 
 of my former condition and present views. He listened 
 to my details with seeming attention, and commented on 
 them with some judiciousness. His statements, however, 
 tended to discourage me from remaining in the city. 
 
 Meanwhile the hour passed and Capper did not appear. 
 I noticed this circumstance to him with no little solici 
 tude. He said that possibly he might have forgotten or 
 neglected his engagement. His affair was not of the 
 highest importance, and might be readily postponed to a 
 future opportunity. He perceived that my vivacity was 
 greatly damped by this intelligence. He importuned me 
 to disclose the cause. He made himself very merry with 
 my distress, when it was at length discovered. As to 
 the expense of supper, I had partaken of it at his invi 
 tation ; he therefore should of course be charged with it. 
 As to lodging, he had a chamber and a bed, which he 
 would insist upon my sharing with him. 
 
 My faculties were thus kept upon the stretch of won 
 der. Every new act of kindness in this man surpassed 
 the fondest expectation that I had formed. I saw no 
 reason why I should be treated with benevolence. I 
 should have acted in the same manner if placed in the 
 same circumstances; yet it appeared incongruous and 
 inexplicable. I know whence my ideas of human na 
 ture were derived. They certainly were not the offspring 
 of my own feelings. These would have taught me that 
 interest and duty were blended in every act of gene 
 rosity. 
 
 I did not come into the world without my scruples and
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?. 33 
 
 suspicions. I was more apt to impute kindnesses to 
 sinister and hidden than to obvious and laudable mo 
 tives. 
 
 I paused to reflect upon the possible designs of this 
 person. What end could be served by this behaviour ? 
 I was no subject of violence or fraud. I had neither 
 trinket nor coin to stimulate the treachery of others. 
 What was offered was merely lodging for the night. 
 Was this an act of such transcendent disinterestedness 
 as to be incredible? My garb was meaner than that 
 of my companion, but my intellectual accomplishments 
 were at least upon a level with his. Why should he be 
 supposed to be insensible to my claims upon his kind 
 ness ? I was a youth destitute of experience, money, 
 and friends; but I was not devoid of all mental and 
 personal endowments. That my merit should be dis 
 covered, even on such slender intercourse, had surely 
 nothing in it that shocked belief. 
 
 While I was thus deliberating, my new friend was 
 earnest in his solicitations for my company. He re 
 marked my hesitation, but ascribed it to a wrong cause. 
 "Come," said he, "I can guess your objections and can 
 obviate them. You are afraid of being ushered into 
 company; and people who have passed their lives like 
 you have a wonderful antipathy to strange faces; but 
 this is bedtime with our family, so that we can defer 
 your introduction to them till to-morrow. We may 
 go to our chamber without being seeii by any but ser 
 vants." 
 
 I had not been aware of this circumstance. My re 
 luctance flowed from a different cause, but, now that the 
 inconveniences of ceremony were mentioned, they ap 
 peared to me of considerable weight. I was well pleased 
 that they should thus be avoided, and consented to go 
 along with him. 
 
 We passed several streets and turned several corners. 
 At last we turned into a kind of court which seemed to 
 be chiefly occupied by stables. "We will go," said he, 
 "by the back way into the house. We shall thus save 
 ourselves the necessity of entering the parlour, where 
 some of the family may still be." 
 3
 
 34 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 My companion was as talkative as ever, but said no 
 thing from which I could gather any knowledge of the 
 nuuiher, character, and condition of his family.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WE arrived at a brick wall, through which we passed 
 by a gate into an extensive court or yard. The dark 
 ness would allow me to see nothing but outlines. Com 
 pared with the pigmy dimensions of my father s wooden 
 hovel, the buildings before me were of gigantic loftiness. 
 The horses were here far more magnificently accommo 
 dated than I had been. By a large door we entered an 
 elevated hall. " Stay here," said he, "just while I fetch 
 a light." 
 
 He returned, bearing a candle, before I had time to 
 ponder on my present situation. 
 
 We now ascended a staircase, covered with painted 
 canvas. No one whose inexperience is less than mine 
 can imagine to himself the impressions made upon me 
 by surrounding objects. The height to which this stair 
 ascended, its dimensions, and its ornaments, appeared to 
 me a combination of all that was pompous and superb. 
 
 We stopped not till we had reached the third story. 
 Here my companion unlocked and led the way into a 
 chamber. "This," said he, "is my room; permit me 
 to welcome you into it." 
 
 I had no time to examine this room before, by some 
 accident, the candle was extinguished. " Curse upon my 
 carelessness!" said he. "I must go down again and 
 light the candle. I will return in a twinkling. Mean 
 while you may undress yourself and go to bed." He 
 went out, and, as I afterwards recollected, locked the 
 door behind him. 
 
 I was not indisposed to follow his advice, but my cu 
 riosity would first be gratified by a survey of the room. 
 Its height and spaciousness were imperfectly discernible 
 by starlight, and by gleams from a street-lamp. The 
 
 35
 
 36 ARTHUR MERVYX; OR, 
 
 floor was covered with a carpet, the walls with brilliant 
 hangings; the bed and windows were shrouded by cur 
 tains of a rich texture and glossy hues. Hitherto I had 
 iiit-rc ly read of these things. I knew them to be the 
 decorations of opulence; and yet, as I viewed them, and 
 remembered where and what I was on the same hour the 
 preceding day, I could scarcely believe myself awake, or 
 that my senses were not beguiled by some spell. 
 
 "Where," said I, "will this adventure terminate? I 
 rise on the morrow with the dawn and speed into the 
 country. When this night is remembered, how like a 
 vision will it appear! If I tell the tale by a kitchen- 
 fire, my veracity will be disputed. I shall be ranked 
 with the story-tellers of Shiraz and Bagdad." 
 
 Though busied in these reflections, I was not inatten 
 tive to the progress of time. Methought my companion 
 was remarkably dilatory. He went merely to relight 
 his candle, but certainly he might, during this time, 
 have performed the operation ten times over. Some 
 unforeseen accident might occasion his delay. 
 
 Another interval passed, and no tokens of his coming. 
 I began now to grow uneasy. I was unable to account 
 for his detention. Was not some treachery designed? 
 I went to the door, and found that it was locked. This 
 heightened my suspicions. 1 was alone, a stranger, in 
 an upper room of the house. Should my conductor 
 have disappeared, by design or by accident, and some 
 one of the family should find me here, what would be 
 the consequence? Should I not be arrested as a thief, 
 and conveyed to prison? My transition from the street 
 to this chamber would not be more rapid than my pas 
 sage hence to a jail. 
 
 These ideas struck me with panic. I revolved them 
 anew, but they only acquired greater plausibility. No 
 doubt I had been the victim of malicious artifice. In 
 clination, however, conjured up opposite sentiments, and 
 my fears began to subside. What motive, I asked, 
 could induce a human being to inflict wanton injury ? I 
 could not account for his delay ; but how numberless 
 wrre the contingencies that might occasion it! 
 
 I was somewhat comforted by these reflections, but
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 37 
 
 the consolation they afforded was short-lived. I was 
 listening with the utmost eagerness to catch the sound 
 of a foot, when a noise was indeed heard, but totally 
 unlike a step. It was human breath struggling, as it 
 were, for passage. On the first effort of attention, it 
 appeared like a groan. Whence it arose I could not 
 tell. He that uttered it was near ; perhaps in the room. 
 
 Presently the same noise was again heard, and now I 
 perceived that it came from the bed. It was accompa 
 nied with a motion like some one changing his posture. 
 What I at first conceived to be a groan appeared now 
 to be nothing more than the expiration of a sleeping 
 man. What should I infer from this incident? My 
 companion did not apprize me that the apartment was 
 inhabited. Was his imposture a jestful or a wicked one? 
 
 There was no need to deliberate. There were no 
 means of concealment or escape. The person would 
 some time awaken and detect me. The interval would only 
 be fraught with agony, and it was wise to shorten it. 
 Should I not withdraw the curtain, awake the person, 
 and encounter at once all the consequences of my situa 
 tion? I glided softly to the bed, when the thought 
 occurred, May not the sleeper be a female? 
 
 I cannot describe the mixture of dread and of shame 
 which glowed in my veins. The light in which such a 
 visitant would be probably regarded by a woman s fears, 
 the precipitate alarms that might be given, the injury 
 which I might unknowingly inflict or undeservedly suffer, 
 threw my thoughts into painful confusion. My presence 
 might pollute a spotless reputation, or furnish fuel to 
 jealousy. 
 
 Still, though it were a female, would not less injury 
 be done by gently interrupting her slumber? But the 
 question of sex still remained to be decided. For this 
 end I once more approached the bed, and drew aside 
 the silk. The sleeper was a babe. This I discovered 
 by the glimmer of a street-lamp. 
 
 Part of my solicitudes were now removed. It was 
 plain that this chamber belonged to a nurse or a mother. 
 She had not yet come to bed. Perhaps it was a married 
 pair, and their approach might be momently expected.
 
 38 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I pictured to myself their entrance and my cwn detec 
 tion. I could imagine no consequence that was not dis 
 astrous and horrible, and from which I would not at any 
 price escape. I again examined the door, and found 
 that exit by this avenue was impossible. There were 
 other doors in this room. Any practicable expedient in 
 this extremity was to be pursued. One of these was 
 bolted. I unfastened it and found a considerable space 
 within. Should I immure myself in this closet? I saw 
 no benefit that would finally result from it. I discovered 
 that there was a bolt on the inside, which would somewhat 
 contribute to security. This being drawn, no one could 
 enter without breaking the door. 
 
 I had scarcely paused, when the long-expected sound 
 of footsteps was heard in the entry. Was it my com 
 panion, or a stranger? If it were the latter, I had not 
 yet mustered courage sufficient to meet him. I cannot 
 applaud the magnanimity of my proceeding ; but no one 
 can expect intrepid or judicious measures from one in 
 my circumstances. I stepped into the closet, and closed 
 the door. Some one immediately after unlocked the 
 chamber door. He was unattended with a light. The 
 footsteps, as they moved along the carpet, could scarcely 
 be heard. 
 
 I waited impatiently for some token by which I might 
 be governed. I put my ear to the keyhole, and at length 
 heard a voice, but not that of my companion, exclaim, 
 somewhat above a whisper, " Smiling cherub ! safe and 
 sound, I see. Would to God my experiment may succeed, 
 and that thou maycst find a mother where I have found 
 a wife!" There he stopped. He appeared to kiss the 
 babe, and, presently retiring, locked the door after him. 
 
 These words were capable of no consistent meaning. 
 They served, at least, to assure me that I had been 
 treacherously dealt with. This chamber, it was mani 
 fest, did not belong to my companion. I put up prayers 
 to my Deity that he would deliver me from these toils. 
 What a condition was mine! Immersed in palpable 
 darkness! shut up in this unknown recess! lurking like 
 a robber ! 
 
 My meditations were disturbed by new sounds. The
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 39 
 
 door was unlocked, more than one person entered the 
 apartment, and light streamed through the keyhole. I 
 looked; but the aperture was too small and the figures 
 passed too quickly to permit me the sight of them. I 
 bent my ear, and this imparted some more authentic 
 information. 
 
 The man, as I judged by the voice, was the same who 
 had just departed. Rustling of silk denoted his com 
 panion to be female. Some words being uttered by the 
 man, in too low a key to be overheard, the lady burst 
 into a passion of tears. He strove to comfort her by 
 soothing tones and tender appellations. "How can it 
 be helped?" said he. "It is time to resume your cou 
 rage. Your duty to yourself and to me requires you to 
 subdue this unreasonable grief." 
 
 He spoke frequently in this strain, but all he said 
 seemed to have little influence in pacifying the lady. At 
 length, however, her sobs began to lessen in vehemence 
 and frequency. He exhorted her to seek for some re 
 pose. Apparently she prepared to comply, and con 
 versation was, for a few minutes, intermitted. 
 
 I could not but advert to the possibility that some 
 occasion to examine the closet, in which I was immured, 
 might occur. I knew not in what manner to demean 
 myself if this should take place. I had no option at 
 present. By withdrawing myself from view I had lost 
 the privilege of an upright deportment. Yet the thought 
 of spending the night in this spot was not to be endured. 
 
 Gradually I began to view the project of bursting 
 from the closet, and trusting to the energy of truth and 
 of an artless tale, with more complacency. More than 
 once my hand was placed upon the bolt, but withdrawn 
 by a sudden faltering of resolution. When one attempt 
 failed, I recurred once more to such reflections as were 
 adapted to renew my purpose. 
 
 I preconcerted the address which I should use. I 
 resolved to be perfectly explicit ; to withhold no particu 
 lar of my adventures from the moment of my arrival. 
 My description must necessarily suit some person within 
 their knowledge. All I should want was liberty to de 
 part; but, if this were not allowed, I might at least hope
 
 40 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to escape any ill treatment, and to be confronted with 
 my betrayer. In that case I did not fear to make him 
 the attestor of my innocence. 
 
 Influenced by these considerations, I once more touched 
 the lock. At that moment the lady shrieked, and ex 
 claimed, "Good God! What is here?" . An interesting 
 conversation ensued. The object that excited her astonish 
 ment was the child. I collected from what passed that 
 the discovery was wholly unexpected by her. Her hus 
 band acted as if equally unaware of this event. He 
 joined in all her exclamations of wonder and all her 
 wild conjectures. When these were somewhat exhausted, 
 he artfully insinuated the propriety of bestowing care 
 upon the little foundling. I now found that her grief 
 had been occasioned by the recent loss of her own off 
 spring. She was, for some time, averse to her husband s 
 proposal, but at length was persuaded to take the babe 
 to her bosom and give it nourishment. 
 
 This incident had diverted my mind from its favourite 
 project, and filled me with speculations on the nature of 
 the scene. One explication was obvious, that the husband 
 was the.parent of this child, and had used this singular 
 expedient to procure for it the maternal protection of his 
 wife. It would soon claim from her all the fondness 
 which she entertained for her own progeny. No suspicion 
 probably had yet, or would hereafter, occur with regard 
 to its true parent. If her character be distinguished by 
 the usual attributes of women, the knowledge of this 
 truth may convert her love into hatred. I reflected with 
 amazement on the slightncss of that thread by which 
 human passions are led from their true direction. With 
 no less amazement did I remark the complexity of inci 
 dents by which I had been empowered to communicate 
 to her this truth. How baseless are the structures of 
 falsehood, which we build in opposition to the system of 
 eternal nature ! If I should escape undetected from this 
 recess, it will be true that I never saw the face of either 
 of these persons, and yet I am acquainted with the most 
 secret transaction of their lives. 
 
 My own situation was now more critical than before. 
 The lights were extinguished, and the parties had sought
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 41 
 
 repose. To issue from the closet now would be immi 
 nently dangerous. My councils were again at a stand 
 and my designs frustrated. Meanwhile the persons did 
 not drop their discourse, and I thought myself justified 
 in listening. Many facts of the most secret and mo 
 mentous nature were alluded to. Some allusions were 
 unintelligible. To others I was able to affix a plausible 
 meaning, and some were palpable enough. Every word 
 that was uttered on that occasion is indelibly imprinted 
 on my memory. Perhaps the singularity of my circum 
 stances, and my previous ignorance of what was passing 
 in the world, contributed to render me a greedy listener. 
 Most that was said I shall overlook ; but one part of the 
 conversation it will be necessary to repeat. 
 
 A large company had assembled that evening at their 
 house. They criticized the character and manners of 
 several. At last the husband said, "What think you of 
 the nabob ? Especially when he talked about riches ? 
 How artfully he encourages the notion of his poverty ! 
 Yet not a soul believes him. I cannot for my part account 
 for that scheme of his. I half suspect that his wealth 
 flows from a bad source, since he is so studious of con 
 cealing it." 
 
 "Perhaps, after all," said the lady, "you are mistaken 
 as to his wealth." 
 
 "Impossible," exclaimed the other. "Mark how he 
 lives. Have I not seen his bank-account ? His de 
 posits, since he has been here, amount to no less than 
 half a million." 
 
 " Heaven grant that it be so !" said the lady, with a 
 sigh. "I shall think with less aversion of your scheme. 
 If poor Tom s fortune be made, and he not the worse, or 
 but little the worse on that account, I shall think it on 
 the whole best." 
 
 "That," replied he, "is what reconciles me to the 
 scheme. To him thirty thousand are nothing." 
 
 "But will he not suspect you of some hand in it?" 
 
 "How can he? Will I not appear to lose as well as 
 himself? Tom is my brother, but who can be supposed 
 to answer for a brother s integrity? but he cannot sus 
 pect either of us. Nothing less than a miracle can bring
 
 42 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 our plot to light. Besides, this man is not what he ought 
 to be. He will, some time or other, come out to be a 
 grand impostor. He makes money by other arts than 
 bargain and sale. He has found his way, by some 
 means, to the Portuguese treasury." 
 
 Here the conversation took a new direction, and, after 
 some time, the silence of sleep ensued. 
 
 Who, thought I, is this nabob who counts his dollars 
 by half-millions, and on whom it seems as if some fraud 
 was intended to be practised ? Amidst their wariness 
 and subtlety, how little are they aware that their conver 
 sation has been overheard ! By means as inscrutable a8 
 those which conducted me hither, I may hereafter be 
 enabled to profit by this detection of a plot. But, 
 meanwhile, what was I to do? How was I to effect my 
 escape from this perilous asylum ? 
 
 After much reflection, it occurred to me that to gain 
 the street without exciting their notice was not utterly 
 impossible. Sleep does not commonly end of itself, 
 unless at a certain period. What impediments were 
 there between me and liberty which I could not remove, 
 and remove with so much caution as to escape notice ? 
 Motion and sound inevitably go together; but every 
 sound is not attended to. The doors of the closet and 
 the chamber did not creak upon their hinges. The latter 
 might be locked. This I was able to ascertain only by 
 experiment. If it were so, yet the key was probably in 
 the lock, and might be used without much noise. 
 
 I waited till their slow and hoarser inspirations showed 
 them to be both asleep. Just then, on changing my 
 position, my head struck against some things which de 
 pended from the ceiling of the closet. They were imple 
 ments of some kind which rattled against each other in 
 consequence of this unlucky blow. I was fearful lest 
 this noise should alarm, as the closet was little distant 
 from the bed. The breathing of one instantly ceased, 
 and a motion was made as if the head were lifted from 
 the pillow. This motion, which was made by the hus 
 band, awaked his companion, who exclaimed, " What is 
 the matter ?" 
 
 "Something, I believe," replied ho, " in the closet.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /??. 43 
 
 If I was not dreaming, I heard the pistols strike against 
 each other as if some one was taking them down." 
 
 This intimation was well suited to alarm the lady. 
 She besought him to ascertain the matter. This, to my 
 utter dismay, he at first consented to do, but presently 
 observed that probably his ears had misinformed him. 
 It was hardly possible that the sound proceeded from 
 them. It might be a rat, or his own fancy might have 
 fashioned it. It is not easy to describe my trepidations 
 while this conference was holding. I saw how easily 
 their slumber was disturbed. The obstacles to my escape 
 were less surmountable than I had imagined. 
 
 In a little time all was again still. I waited till the 
 usual tokens of sleep were distinguishable. I once more 
 resumed my attempt. The bolt was withdrawn with all 
 possible slowness; but I could by no means prevent all 
 sound. My state was full of inquietude and suspense ; 
 my attention being painfully divided between the bolt 
 and the condition of the sleepers. The difficulty lay in 
 giving that degree of force which was barely sufficient. 
 Perhaps not less than fifteen minutes were consumed in 
 this operation. At last it was happily effected, and the 
 door was cautiously opened. 
 
 Emerging as I did from utter darkness, the light 
 admitted into three windows produced, to my eyes, a 
 considerable illumination. Objects which, on my first 
 entrance into this apartment, were invisible, were now 
 clearly discerned. The bed was shrouded by curtains, 
 yet I shrunk back into my covert, fearful of being seen. 
 To facilitate my escape, I put off my shoes. My mind 
 was so full of objects of more urgent moment, that the 
 propriety of taking them along with me never occurred. 
 I left them in the closet. 
 
 I now glided across the apartment to the door. I 
 was not a little discouraged by observing that the key 
 was wanting. My whole hope depended on the omission 
 to lock it. In my haste to ascertain this point, I made 
 some noise which again roused one of the sleepers. He 
 started, and cried, " Who is there ?" 
 
 I now regarded my case as desperate, and detection 
 as inevitable. My apprehensions, rather than my cau-
 
 44 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 tion, kept me mute. I shrunk to the wall, and waited 
 in a kind of agony for the moment that should decide 
 my fate. 
 
 The lady was again roused. In answer to her in 
 quiries, her husband said that some one, he believed, was 
 at the door, but there was no danger of their entering, 
 for he had locked it, and the key was in his pocket. 
 
 My courage was completely annihilated by this piece 
 of intelligence. My resources were now at an end. I 
 could only remain in this spot till the morning light, 
 which could be at no great distance, should discover me. 
 My inexperience disabled me from estimating all the 
 perils of my situation. Perhaps I had no more than 
 temporary inconveniences to dread. My intention was 
 innocent, and I had been betrayed into my present situa 
 tion, not by my own wickedness, but the wickedness of 
 others. 
 
 I was deeply impressed with the ambiguousness which 
 would necessarily rest upon my motives, and the scrutiny 
 to which they would be subjected. I shuddered at the 
 bare possibility of being ranked with thieves. These 
 reflections again gave edge to my ingenuity in search of 
 the means of escape. 1 had carefully attended to the 
 circumstances of their entrance. Possibly the act of 
 locking had been unnoticed ; but was it not likewise pos 
 sible that this person had been mistaken ? The key was 
 gone. Would this have been the case if the door were 
 unlocked ? 
 
 My fears, rather than my hopes, impelled me to make 
 the experiment. I drew back the latch, and, to my 
 unspeakable joy, the door opened. 
 
 1 passed through and explored my way to the stair 
 case. I descended till I reached the bottom. I could 
 not recollect with accuracy the position of the door lead 
 ing into the court, but, by carefully feeling along the 
 wall with my hands, I at length discovered it. It was 
 fastened by several bolts and a lock. The bolts were 
 easily withdrawn, but the key was removed. I knew 
 not where it was deposited. 1 thought 1 had reached 
 the threshold of liberty, but here was an impediment 
 that threatened to be insurmountable.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 45 
 
 But, if doors could not be passed, windows might be un 
 barred. I remembered that my companion had gone into 
 a door on the left hand, in search of a light. I searched 
 for this door. Fortunately it was fastened only by a bolt. 
 It admitted me into a room which I carefully explored 
 till I reached a window. I will not dwell on my efforts 
 to unbar this entrance. Suffice it to say that, after much 
 exertion and frequent mistakes, I at length found my 
 way into the yard, and thence passed into the court.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Now I was once more on public ground. By so many 
 anxious efforts had I disengaged myself from the perilous 
 precincts of private property. As many stratagems as 
 are usually made to enter a house had been employed by 
 me to get out of it. I was urged to the use of them by 
 my fears ; yet, so far from carrying off spoil, I had es 
 caped with the loss of an essential part of my dress. 
 
 I had now leisure to reflect. I seated myself on the 
 ground and reviewed the scenes through which I had just 
 passed. I began to think that my industry had been 
 misemployed. Suppose I had met the person on his first 
 entrance into his chamber? Was the truth so utterly 
 wild as not to have found credit ? Since the door was 
 locked, and there was no other avenue, what other state 
 ment but the true one would account for my being found 
 there ? This deportment had been worthy of an honest 
 purpose. My betrayer probably expected that this would 
 be the issue of his jest. My rustic simplicity, he might 
 think, would suggest no more ambiguous or elaborate ex 
 pedient. He might likewise have predetermined to inter 
 fere if my safety had been really endangered. 
 
 On the morrow the two doors of the chamber and the 
 window below would be found unclosed. They will sus 
 pect a design to pillage, but their searches will terminate 
 in nothing but in the discovery of a pair of clumsy and 
 dusty shoes in the closet. Now that I was safe I could 
 not help smiling at the picture which my fancy drew of 
 their anxiety and wonder. These thoughts, however, 
 gave place to more momentous considerations. 
 
 I could not imagine to myself a more perfect example 
 of indigence than I now exhibited. There was no being 
 46
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 47 
 
 in the city on whose kindness I had any claim. Money 
 I had none, and what I then wore comprised my whole 
 stock of movables. I had just lost my shoes, and this 
 loss rendered my stockings of no use. My dignity re 
 monstrated against a barefoot pilgrimage, but to this, 
 necessity now reconciled me. I threw my stockings be 
 tween the bars of a stable-window, belonging, as I thought, 
 to the mansion I had just left. These, together with my 
 shoes, I left to pay the cost of my entertainment. 
 
 I saw that the city was no place for me. The end that 
 I had had in view, of procuring some mechanical employ 
 ment, could only be obtained by the use of means, but 
 what means to pursue I knew not. This night s perils 
 and deceptions gave me a distaste to a city life, and my 
 ancient occupations rose to my view enhanced by a thou 
 sand imaginary charms. I resolved forthwith to strike 
 into the country. 
 
 The day began now to dawn. It was Sunday, and I 
 was desirous of eluding observation. I was somewhat 
 recruited by rest, though the languors of sleeplessness 
 oppressed me. I meant to throw myself on the first lap 
 of verdure I should meet, and indulge in sleep that I so 
 much wanted. I knew not the direction of the streets ; 
 but followed that which I first entered from the court, 
 trusting that, by adhering steadily to one course, I should 
 some time reach the fields. This street, as I afterwards 
 found, tended to Schuylkill, and soon extricated me from 
 houses. I could not cross this river without payment of 
 toll. It was requisite to cross it in order to reach that 
 part of the country whither I was desirous of going ; but 
 how should I effect my passage ? I knew of no ford, and 
 the smallest expense exceeded my capacity. Ten thou 
 sand guineas and a farthing were equally remote from 
 nothing, and nothing was the portion allotted to me. 
 
 While my mind was thus occupied, I turned up one of 
 the streets which tend northward. It was, for some length, 
 uninhabited and unpaved. Presently I reached a pave 
 ment, and a painted fence, along which a row of poplars 
 was planted. It bounded a garden into which a knot 
 hole permitted me to pry. The enclosure was a charm 
 ing green, which I saw appended to a house of the loftiest
 
 48 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 and most stately order. It seemed like a recent erection, 
 h;id all the gloss of novelty, and exhibited, to my unprac 
 tised eyes, the magnificence of palaces. My father s 
 dwelling did not equal the height of one story, and might 
 be easily comprised in one-fourth of those buildings which 
 here were designed to accommodate the menials. My 
 heart dictated the comparison between my own condition 
 and that of the proprietors of this domain. How wide 
 and how impassable was the gulf by which we were se 
 parated ! This fair inheritance had fallen to one who, 
 perhaps, would only abuse it to the purposes of luxury, 
 while I, with intentions worthy of the friend of mankind, 
 was doomed to wield the flail and the mattock. 
 
 I had been entirely unaccustomed to this strain of re 
 flection. My books had taught me the dignity and safety 
 of the middle path, and my darling writer abounded with 
 encomiums on rural life. At a distance from luxury and 
 pomp, I viewed them, perhaps, in a just light. A nearer 
 scrutiny confirmed my early prepossessions ; but, at the 
 distance at which I now stood, the lofty edifices, the 
 splendid furniture, and the copious accommodations of 
 the rich excited my admiration and my envy. 
 
 I relinquished my station, and proceeded, in a heart 
 less mood, along the fence. I now came to the mansion 
 itself. The principal door was entered by a staircase of 
 marble. I had never seen the stone of Carrara, and 
 wildly supposed this to have been dug from Italian quar 
 ries. The beauty of the poplars, the coolness exhaled 
 from the dew-besprent bricks, the commodiousness of the 
 seat which these steps afforded, and the uncertainty into 
 which I was plunged respecting my future conduct, all 
 combined to make me pause. I sat down on the lower 
 step and began to meditate. 
 
 By some transition it occurred to me that the supply 
 of my most urgent wants might be found in some inha 
 bitant of this house. I needed at present a few cents ; 
 and what where a few cents to the tenant of a mansion 
 like this? I had an invincible aversion to the calling of 
 a beggar, but I regarded with still more antipathy the 
 vocation of a thief; to this alternative, however, I was 
 now reduced. I must either steal or bog ; unless, in-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 49 
 
 deed, assistance could be procured under the notion of a 
 loan. Would a stranger refuse to lend the pittance that 
 I wanted ? Surely not, when the urgency of my wants 
 was explained. 
 
 I recollected other obstacles. To summon the master 
 of the house from his bed, perhaps, for the sake of such 
 an application, would be preposterous. I should be in 
 more danger of provoking his anger than exciting hia 
 benevolence. This request might, surely, with more pro 
 priety be preferred to a passenger. I should, probably, 
 meet several before I should arrive at Schuylkill. 
 
 A servant just then appeared at the door, with bucket 
 and brush. This obliged me, much sooner than I in 
 tended, to decamp. With some reluctance I rose and 
 proceeded. This house occupied the corner of the street, 
 and I now turned this corner towards the country. A 
 person, at some distance before me, was approaching in 
 an opposite direction. 
 
 " Why," said I, "may I not make my demand of the 
 first man I meet ? This person exhibits tokens of ability 
 to lend. There is nothing chilling or austere in his de 
 meanour." 
 
 The resolution to address this passenger was almost 
 formed ; but the nearer he advanced my resolves grew 
 less firm. He noticed me not till he came within a few 
 paces. He seemed busy in reflection ; and, had not my 
 figure caught his eye, or had he merely bestowed a pass 
 ing glance upon me, I should not have been sufficiently 
 courageous to have detained him. The event, however, 
 was widely different. 
 
 He looked at me and started. For an instant, as it 
 were, and till he had time to dart at me a second 
 glance, he checked his pace. This behaviour decided 
 mine, and he stopped on perceiving tokens of a desire 
 to address him. I spoke, but my accents and air suffi 
 ciently denoted my embarrassments: 
 
 "1 am going to solicit a favour which my situation 
 makes of the highest importance to me, and which I 
 hope it will be easy for you, sir, to grant. It is not an 
 alms, but a loan, that I seek ; a loan that I will repay 
 the moment I am able to do it. I am going to the 
 4
 
 5O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 country, but have not wherewith to pay my passage over 
 Schuyikill, or to buy a morsel of bread. May I venture 
 to request of you, sir, the loan of sixpence ? As I told 
 you, it is my intention to repay it." 
 
 I delivered this address, not withoxit some faltering, 
 but with great earnestness. I laid particular stress upon 
 my intention to refund the money. He listened with a 
 most inquisitive air. His eye perused me from head to 
 foot. 
 
 After some pause, he said, in a very emphatic manner, 
 " Why into the country ? Have you family ? Kindred ? 
 Friends?" 
 
 "No," answered I, "I have neither. I go in search 
 of the means of subsistence. I have passed my life 
 upon a farm, and propose to die in the same condition." 
 
 "Whence have you come?" 
 
 "I came yesterday from the country, with a view to 
 earn my bread in some way, but have changed my plan 
 and propose now to return." 
 
 "Why have you changed it? In what way are you 
 capable of earning your bread?" 
 
 "I hardly know," said I. "I can, as yet, manage no 
 tool, that can be managed in the city, but the pen. My 
 habits have, in some small degree, qualified me for a writer. 
 I would willingly accept employment of that kind." 
 
 He fixed his eyes upon the earth, and was silent for 
 some minutes. At length, recovering himself, he said, 
 "Follow me to my house. Perhaps something may be 
 done for you. If not, I will lend you sixpence." 
 
 It may be supposed that I eagerly complied with the 
 invitation. My companion said no more, his air bespeak 
 ing him to be absorbed by his own thoughts, till he 
 reached his house, which proved to be that at the door of 
 which I had been seated. We entered a parlour together. 
 
 Unless you can assume my ignorance and my simplicity, 
 you will be unable to conceive the impressions that were 
 made by the size and ornaments of this apartment. I 
 shall omit these impressions, which, indeed, no descrip 
 tion could adequately convey, and dwell on incidents of 
 greater moment. He asked me to give him a specimen 
 of my penmanship. I told you that I had bestowed
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. $1 
 
 very great attention upon this art. Implements were 
 brought, and I sat down to the task. By some in 
 explicable connection a line in Shakspeare occurred to 
 me, and I wrote, 
 
 " My poverty, but not my will, consents." 
 
 The sentiment conveyed in this line powerfully affected 
 hiui, but in a way which I could not then comprehend. 
 I collected from subsequent events that the inference 
 was not unfavourable to my understanding or my morals. 
 He questioned me as to my history. I related my origin 
 and my inducements to desert my father s house. With 
 respect to last night s adventures I was silent. I saw no 
 useful purpose that could be answered by disclosure, and 
 I half suspected that my companion would refuse credit 
 to my tale. 
 
 There were frequent intervals of abstraction and re 
 flection between his questions. My examination lasted 
 not much less than an hour. At length he said, "I want 
 an amanuensis or copyist. On what terms will you live 
 with me?" 
 
 I answered that I knew not how to estimate the value 
 of my services. I knew not whether these services 
 were agreeable or healthful. My life had hitherto been 
 active. My constitution was predisposed to diseases of 
 the lungs, and the change might be hurtful. I was will 
 ing, however, to try and to content myself for a month 
 or a year, with so much as would furnish me with food, 
 clothing, and lodging. 
 
 " Tis well," said he. "You remain with me as long and 
 no longer than both of us please. You shall lodge and 
 eat in this house. I will supply you with clothing, and 
 your task will be to write what I dictate. Your person, 
 I see, has not shared much of your attention. It is in 
 my power to equip you instantly in the manner which 
 becomes a resident in this house. Come with me." 
 
 He led the way into the court behind and thence into 
 a neat building, which contained large wooden vessels 
 and a pump: "There," said he, "you may wash your 
 self; and, when that is done, I will conduct you to your 
 chamber and your wardrobe."
 
 52 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 This was speedily performed, and he accordingly led 
 the way to the chamber. It was an apartment in the 
 third story, finished and furnished in the same costly and 
 superb style with the rest of the house. He opened 
 closets and drawers which overflowed with clothes and 
 linen of all and of the best kinds. "These are yours," 
 said he, "as long as you stay with me. Dress yourself 
 as likes you best. Here is every thing your nakedness 
 requires. When dressed, you may descend to breakfast." 
 With these words he left me. 
 
 The clothes were all in the French style, as I afterwards, 
 by comparing my garb with that of others, discovered. 
 They were fitted to my shape with the nicest precision. 
 I bedecked myself with all my care. I remembered the 
 style of dress used by my beloved Clavering. My locks 
 were of shining auburn, flowing and smooth like his. 
 Having wrung the wet from them, and combed, I tied 
 them carelessly in a black riband. Thus equipped, I 
 surveyed myself in a mirror. 
 
 You may imagine, if you can, the sensations which this 
 instantaneous transformation produced. Appearances 
 are wonderfully influenced by dress. Check shirt, buttoned 
 at the neck, an awkward fustian coat, check trowsers and 
 bare feet, were now supplanted by linen and muslin, 
 nankeen coat striped with green, a white silk waistcoat 
 elegantly needle-wrought, cassimere pantaloons, stockings 
 of variegated silk, and shoes that in their softness, pliancy, 
 and polished surface vied with satin. I could scarcely 
 forbear looking back to see whether the image in the 
 glass, so well proportioned, so gallant, and so graceful, 
 did not belong to another. I could scarcely recognise 
 any lineaments of my own. I walked to the window. 
 "Twenty minutes ago," said I, "I was traversing that 
 path a barefoot beggar; now I am thus." Again I 
 surveyed myself. "Surely some insanity has fastened 
 on my understanding. My senses are the sport of dreams. 
 Some magic that disdains the cumbrousness of nature s 
 progress has wrought this change." I was roused from 
 these doubts by a summons to breakfast, obsequiously 
 delivered by a black servant. 
 
 I found Welbeck (for I shall henceforth call him by
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 53 
 
 his true name) at the breakfnst-table. A superb equip 
 age of silver and china was before him. He was startled 
 at my entrance. The change in ray dress seemed for a 
 moment to have deceived him. His eye was frequently 
 fixed upon me with unusual steadfastness. At these 
 times there was inquietude and wonder in his features. 
 
 I had now an opportunity of examining my host. There 
 was nicety but no ornament in his dress. His form was of 
 the middle height, spare, but vigorous and graceful. His 
 face was cast, 1 thought, in a foreign mould. His forehead 
 receded beyond the usual degree in visages which I had 
 seen. His eyes large and prominent, but imparting no 
 marks of benignity and habitual joy. The rest of his face 
 forcibly suggested the idea of a convex edge. His whole 
 figure impressed me with emotions of veneration and awe. 
 A gravity that almost amounted to sadness invariably 
 attended him when we were alone together. 
 
 He whispered the servant that waited, who immediately 
 retired. He then said, turning to me, " A lady will enter 
 presently, whom you are to treat with the respect due to 
 my daughter. You must not notice any emotion she may 
 betray at the sight of you, nor expect her to converse 
 with you; for she does not understand your language." 
 He had scarcely spoken when she entered. I was seized 
 with certain misgivings and flutterings which a clownish 
 education may account for. I so far conquered my 
 timidity, however, as to snatch a look at her. I was not 
 born to execute her portrait. Perhaps the turban that 
 wreathed her head, the brilliant texture and inimitable 
 folds of her drapery, and nymphlike port, more than the 
 essential attributes of her person, gave splendour to the 
 celestial vision. Perhaps it was her snowy hues, and 
 the cast rather than the position of her features, that 
 were so prolific of enchantment ; or perhaps the wonder 
 originated only in my own ignorance. 
 
 She did not immediately notice me. When she did 
 she almost shrieked with surprise. She held up her 
 hands, and, gazing upon me, uttered various exclama 
 tions which I could not understand. I could only remark 
 that her accents were thrillingly musical. Her perturba 
 tions refused to be stilled. It was with difficulty that
 
 54 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 she withdrew her regards from me. Much conversation 
 passed between her and Welbeck, but I could compre 
 hend no part of it. I was at liberty to animadvert on 
 the visible part of their intercourse. I diverted some 
 part of my attention from my own embarrassments, and 
 fixed it on their looks. 
 
 In this art, as in most others, I was an unpractised 
 simpleton. In the countenance of Welbeck, there was 
 somewhat else than sympathy with the astonishment and 
 distress of the lady ; but I could not interpret these ad 
 ditional tokens. When her attention was engrossed by 
 Welbeck, her eyes were frequently vagrant or downcast ; 
 her cheeks contracted a deeper hue ; and her breathing 
 was almost prolonged into a sigh. These were marks on 
 which I made no comments at the time. My own situa 
 tion was calculated to breed confusion in my thoughts 
 and awkwardness in my gestures. Breakfast being 
 finished, the lady, apparently at the request of Welbeck, 
 sat down to a piano-forte. 
 
 Here again I must be silent. I was not wholly desti 
 tute of musical practice and musical taste. I had that 
 degree of knowledge which enabled me to estimate the 
 transcendent skill of this performer. As if the pathos 
 of her touch were insufficient, I found after some time 
 that the lawless jarrings of the keys were chastened by 
 her own more liquid notes. She played without a book, 
 and, though her bass might be preconcerted, it was plain 
 that her right-hand notes were momentary and sponta 
 neous inspirations. Meanwhile Welbeck stood, leaning 
 his arms on the back of a chair near her, with his eyes 
 fixed on her face. His features were fraught with a 
 meaning which I was eager to interpret, but unable. 
 
 I have read of transitions effected by magic ; I have 
 read of palaces and deserts which were subject to the 
 dominion of spells ; poets may sport with their power, 
 but I am certain that no transition was ever conceived 
 more marvellous and more beyond the reach of foresight 
 than that which I had just experienced. Heaths vexed 
 by a midnight storm may be changed into a hall of choral 
 nymphs and regal banqueting ; forest glades may give 
 sudden place to colonnades and carnivals ; but he whose
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 55 
 
 senses are deluded finds himself still on his natal earth. 
 These miracles are contemptible when compared with 
 that which placed me under this roof and gave me to par 
 take in this audience. I know that my emotions are in 
 danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those who can 
 not figure to themselves the consequences of a limited 
 and rustic education
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 IN a short time the lady retired. I naturally expected 
 that some comments would be made on her behaviour, and 
 that the cause of her surprise and distress on seeing me 
 would be explained ; but Wclbeck said nothing on that 
 subject. When she had gone, he went to the window 
 and stood for some time occupied, as it seemed, with his 
 own thoughts. Then he turned to me, and, calling me by 
 my name, desired me to accompany him up-stairs. There 
 was neither cheerfulness nor mildness in his address, but 
 neither was there any thing domineering or arrogant. 
 
 We entered an apartment on the same floor with my 
 chamber, but separated from it by a spacious entry. It 
 was supplied with bureaus, cabinets, and bookcases. 
 "This," said he, "is your room and mine; but we must 
 enter it and leave it together. I mean to act not as 
 your master but your friend. My maimed hand" (so 
 saying, he showed me his right hand, the forefinger of 
 which was wanting) "will not allow me to write accu 
 rately or copiously. For this reason I have required 
 your aid, in a work of some moment. Much haste will 
 not be requisite, and, as to the hours and duration of 
 employment, these will be seasonable and short. 
 
 "Your present situation is new to you, and we will 
 therefore defer entering on our business. Meanwhile 
 you may amuse yourself in what manner you please. 
 Consider this house as your home and make yourself 
 familiar with it. Stay within or go out, be busy or be 
 idle, as your fancy shall prompt : only you will con 
 form to our domestic system as to eating and sleep ; the 
 servants will inform you of this. Next week we will 
 enter on the task for which I designed you. You may 
 now withdraw." 
 56
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 57 
 
 I obeyed this mandate with some awkwardness and 
 hesitation. I went into my own chamber not displeased 
 with an opportunity of loneliness. I threw myself on a 
 chair and resigned myself to those thoughts which would 
 naturally arise in this situation. I speculated on the 
 character and views of Welbeck. I saw that he was 
 embosomed in tranquillity and grandeur. Riches, there 
 fore, were his ; but in what did his opulence consist, and 
 whence did it arise ? What were the limits by which it 
 was confined, and what its degree of permanence ? I was 
 unhabituated to ideas of floating or transferable wealth. 
 The rent of houses and lands was the only species of pro 
 perty which was, as yet, perfectly intelligible. My pre 
 vious ideas led me to regard Welbeck as the proprietor 
 of this dwelling and of numerous houses and farms. By 
 the same cause I was fain to suppose him enriched by 
 inheritance, and that his life had been uniform. 
 
 I next adverted to his social condition. This mansion 
 appeared to have but two inhabitants besides servants. 
 Who was the nymph who had hovered for a moment in 
 my sight ? Had he not called her his daughter ? The 
 apparent difference in their ages would justify this rela 
 tion ; but her guise, her features, and her accents, were 
 foreign. Her language I suspected strongly to be that 
 of Italy. How should he be the father of an Italian ? 
 But were there not some foreign lineaments in his 
 countenance ? 
 
 This idea seemed to open a new world to my view. I 
 had gained, from my books, confused ideas of European 
 governments and manners. I knew that the present was 
 a period of revolution and hostility. Might not these 
 be illustrious fugitives from Provence or the Milanese ? 
 Their portable wealth, which may reasonably be sup 
 posed to be great, they have transported hither. Thus 
 may be explained the sorrow that veils their countenance. 
 The loss of estates and honours ; the untimely death of 
 kindred, and perhaps of his wife, may furnish eternal 
 food for regrets. Wclbeck s utterance, though rapid 
 and distinct, partook, as I conceived, in some very slight 
 degree of a foreign idiom. 
 
 Such was the dream that haunted my undisciplined and
 
 58 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 unenlightened imagination. The more I revolved it, the 
 more plausible it seemed. On due supposition every ap 
 pearance that I had witnessed was easily solved, unless 
 it were their treatment of me. This, at first, was a source 
 of hopeless perplexity. Gradually, however, a clue seemed 
 to be afforded. Welbeck had betrayed astonishment on 
 my first appearance. The lady s wonder was mingled 
 with distress. Perhaps they discovered a remarkable 
 resemblance between me and one who stood in the rela 
 tion of son to Welbeck, and of brother to the lady. This 
 youth might have perished on the scaffold or in war. 
 These, no doubt, were his clothes. This chamber might 
 have been reserved for him, but his death left it to be 
 appropriated to another. 
 
 I had hitherto been unable to guess at the reason why 
 all this kindness had been lavished on me. Will not this 
 conjecture sufficiently account for it ? No wonder that 
 this resemblance was enhanced by assuming his dress. 
 
 Taking all circumstances into view, these ideas were 
 not, perhaps, destitute of probability. Appearances 
 naturally suggested them to me. They were, also, 
 powerfully enforced by inclination. They threw me 
 into transports of wonder and hope. When I dwelt upon 
 the incidents of my past life, and traced the chain of 
 events, from the death of my mother to the present mo 
 ment, I almost acquiesced in the notion that some benefi 
 cent and ruling genius had prepared my path for me. 
 Events which, when foreseen, would most ardently have 
 been deprecated, and when they happened were ac 
 counted in the highest degree luckless, were now seen to 
 be propitious. Hence I inferred the infatuation of de 
 spair, and the folly of precipitate conclusions. 
 
 But what was the fate reserved for me ? Perhaps Wel 
 beck would adopt me for his own son. Wealth has ever 
 been capriciously distributed. The mere physical rela 
 tion of birth is all that entitles us to manors and thrones. 
 Identity itself frequently depends upon a casual likeness 
 or an old nurse s imposture. Nations have risen in arms, 
 as in the case of the Stuarts, in the cause of one the 
 genuineness of whose birth has been denied and can never 
 be proved. But if the cause be trivial and fallacious,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 59 
 
 the effects are momentous and solid. It ascertains our 
 portion of felicity and usefulness, and fixes our lot among 
 peasants or princes. 
 
 Something may depend upon my own deportment. 
 Will it not behoove me to cultivate all my virtues and 
 eradicate all my defects ? I see that the abilities of this 
 man are venerable. Perhaps he will not lightly or 
 hastily decide in my favour. lie will be governed by 
 the proofs that I shall give of discernment and integrity. 
 I had always been exempt from temptation, and was 
 therefore undepraved ; but this view of things had a 
 wonderful tendency to invigorate my virtuous resolutions. 
 All within me was exhilaration and joy. 
 
 There was but one thing wanting to exalt me to a 
 dizzy height and give me place among the stars of hea 
 ven. My resemblance to her brother had forcibly af 
 fected this lady; but I was not her brother. I was 
 raised to a level with her and made a tenant of the same 
 mansion. Some intercourse would take place between 
 us. Time would lay level impediments and establish 
 familiarity, and this intercourse might foster love and 
 terminate in marriage! 
 
 These images were of a nature too glowing and expan 
 sive to allow me to be longer inactive. I sallied forth 
 into the open air. This tumult of delicious thoughts in 
 some time subsided, and gave way to images relative to 
 my present situation. My curiosity was awake. As 
 yet I had seen little of the city, and this opportunity for 
 observation was not to be neglected. I therefore coursed 
 through several streets, attentively examining the ob 
 jects that successively presented themselves. 
 
 At length, it occurred to me to search out the house 
 in which I had lately been immured. I was not without 
 hopes that at some future period I should be able to com 
 prehend the allusions and brighten the obscurities that 
 hung about the dialogue of last night. 
 
 The house was easily discovered. I reconnoitred the 
 court and gate through which I had passed. The mansion 
 was of the first order in magnitude and decoration. This 
 was not the bound of my present discovery, for I was 
 gifted with that confidence which would make me set on
 
 6O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 foot inquiries in the neighbourhood. I looked around 
 for a suitable medium of intelligence. The opposite and 
 adjoining houses were small, and apparently occupied by 
 persons of an indigent class. At one of these was a 
 sign denoting it to be the residence of a tailor. Seated 
 on a bench at the door was a young man, with coarse 
 uncombed locks, breeches knee-unbuttoned, stockings 
 ungartered, shoes slipshod and unbuckled, and a face 
 unwashed, gazing stupidly from hollow eyes. His as 
 pect was embellished with good nature, though indicative 
 of ignorance. 
 
 This was the only person in sight. He might be able 
 to say something concerning his opulent neighbour. To 
 him, therefore, I resolved to apply. I went up to him, 
 and, pointing to the house in question, asked him who 
 lived there. 
 
 He answered, " Mr. Matthews." 
 
 "What is his profession, his way of life?" 
 
 "A gentleman. He does nothing but walk about." 
 
 " How long has he been married i" 
 
 " Married ! He is not married as I know on. He 
 never has been married. He is a bachelor." 
 
 This intelligence was unexpected. It made me pause 
 to reflect whether I had not mistaken the house. This, 
 however, seemed impossible. I renewed my questions. 
 
 "A bachelor, say you ? Are you not mistaken ?" 
 
 " No. It would be an odd thing if he was married. 
 An old fellow, with one foot in the grave Comical 
 enough for him to git a vife!" 
 
 "An old man? Does he live alone? What is his 
 family?" 
 
 "No, he does not live alone. He has a niece that 
 lives with him. She is married, and her husband lives 
 there too." 
 
 " What is his name?" 
 
 " I don t know. I never heard it as I know on." 
 
 "What is his trade?" 
 
 " He s a merchant ; he keeps a store somewhere or 
 other; but I don t know where." 
 
 " How long has he been married ?" 
 
 "About two years. They lost a child lately. The
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR fjgj. 6 1 
 
 young woman was in a huge taking about it. They say 
 she was quite crazy some days for the death of the 
 child ; and she is not quite out of the dumps yet. To-be- 
 sure, the child was a sweet little thing ; but they need 
 not make such a rout about it. I ll war n they ll have 
 enough of them before they die." 
 
 " What is the character of the young man? Where was 
 he born and educated? Has he parents or brothers?" 
 
 My companion was incapable of answering these ques 
 tions, and I left him with little essential addition to the 
 knowledge I already possessed.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AFTER viewing various parts of the city, intruding 
 into churches, and diving into alleys, I returned. The 
 rest of the day I spent chiefly in my chamber, reflecting 
 on my new condition ; surveying my apartment, its presses 
 and closets ; and conjecturing the causes of appearances. 
 
 At dinner and supper I was alone. Venturing to in 
 quire of the servant where his master and mistress were, 
 I was answered that they were engaged. I did not ques 
 tion him as to the nature of their engagement, though it 
 was a fertile source of curiosity. 
 
 Next morning, at breakfast, I again met Welbeck and 
 the lady. The incidents were nearly those of the pre 
 ceding morning, if it were not that the lady exhibited 
 tokens of somewhat greater uneasiness. When she left 
 us, Welbeck sank into apparent meditation. I was at a 
 loss whether to retire or remain where I was. At last, 
 however, I was on the point of leaving the room, when 
 he broke silence and began a conversation with me. 
 
 He put questions to me, the obvious scope of which 
 was to know my sentiments on moral topics. I had no 
 motives to conceal my opinions, and therefore delivered 
 them with frankness. At length he introduced allusions 
 to my own history, and made more particular inquiries 
 on that head. Here I was not equally frank ; yet I did 
 not feign any thing, but merely dealt in generals. I had 
 acquired notions of propriety on this head, perhaps some 
 what fastidious. Minute details, respecting our own con 
 cerns, are apt to weary all but the narrator himself. I 
 said thus much, and the truth of my remark was eagerly 
 assented to. 
 
 With some marks of hesitation and after various pre- 
 62
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 63 
 
 liminaries, my companion hinted that my own interest, 
 as well as his, enjoined upon me silence to all but him 
 self, on the subject of my birth and early adventures. 
 It was not likely that, while in his service, my circle of 
 acquaintance would be large or my intercourse with the 
 world frequent; but in my communication with others 
 he requested me to speak rather of others than of my 
 self. This request, he said, might appear singular to me, 
 but he had his reasons for making it, which it wa.s not 
 necessary, at present, to disclose, though, when I should 
 know them, I should readily acknowledge their validity. 
 
 I scarcely knew what answer to make. I was willing 
 to oblige him. I was far from expecting that any exi 
 gence would occur, making disclosure my duty. The em 
 ployment was productive of pain more than of pleasure, 
 and the curiosity that would uselessly seek a knowledge 
 of my past life was no less impertinent than the loquacity 
 that would uselessly communicate that knowledge. 1 
 readily promised, therefore, to adhere to his advice. 
 
 This assurance afforded him evident satisfaction ; yet 
 it did not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. 
 He repeated, in stronger terms, the necessity there was 
 for caution. He was far from suspecting me to possess 
 an impertinent and talkative disposition, or that, in my 
 eagerness to expatiate on my own concerns, I should 
 overstep the limits of politeness. But this was not 
 enough. I was to govern myself by a persuasion that 
 the interests of my friend and myself would be mate 
 rially affected by my conduct. 
 
 Perhaps I ought to have allowed these insinuations to 
 breed suspicion in my mind ; but, conscious as I was of 
 the benefits which I had received from this man ; prone, 
 from my inexperience, to rely upon professions and con 
 fide in appearances ; and unaware that I could be placed 
 in any condition in which mere silence respecting myself 
 could be injurious or criminal, I made no scruple to pro 
 mise compliance with his wishes. Nay, I went further 
 than this ; I desired to be accurately informed as to 
 what it was proper to conceal. He answered that my 
 silence might extend to every thing anterior to my ar 
 rival in the city and my being incorporated with his
 
 64 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 family. Here our conversation ended, and I retired to 
 ruminate on what had passed. 
 
 I derived little satisfaction from my reflections. I 
 began now to perceive inconveniences that might arise 
 from this precipitate promise. Whatever should happen 
 in consequence of my being immured in the chamber, 
 and of the loss of my clothes and of the portrait of my 
 friend, I had bound myself to silence. These inquie 
 tudes, however, were transient. I trusted that these 
 events would operate auspiciously ; but my curiosity was 
 now awakened as to the motives which Welbeck could 
 have for exacting from me this concealment. To act 
 under the guidance of another, and to wander in the 
 dark, ignorant whither my path tended and what effects 
 might flow from my agency, was a new and irksome 
 situation. 
 
 From these thoughts I was recalled by a message from 
 Welbeck. He gave me a folded paper, which he re 
 quested me to carry to No. South Fourth Street. 
 " Inquire," said he, " for Mrs. Wentworth, in order merely 
 to ascertain the house, for you need not ask to see her ; 
 merely give the letter to the servant and retire. Ex 
 cuse me for imposing this service upon you. It is of too 
 great moment to be trusted to a common messenger; I 
 usually perform it myself, but am at present otherwise 
 engaged." 
 
 I took the letter and set out to deliver it. This was a 
 trifling circumstance, yet my mind was full of reflections 
 on the consequences that might flow from it. I remem 
 bered the directions that were given, but construed them 
 in a manner different, perhaps, from Welbeck s expecta 
 tions or wishes. He had charged me to leave the billet 
 with the servant who happened to answer my summons ; 
 but had he not said that the message was important, in 
 somuch that it could not be intrusted to common hands? 
 He had permitted, rather than enjoined, me to dispense 
 with seeing the lady ; and this permission I conceived to 
 be dictated merely by regard to my convenience. It 
 was incumbent on me, therefore, to take some pains to 
 deliver the script into her own hands. 
 
 I arrived at the house and knocked. A female eer-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 6$ 
 
 vant appeared. " Her mistress was up-stairs ; slie would 
 tell her if I wished to see her," and meanwhile invited 
 me to enter the parlour ; I did so ; and the girl retired to 
 inform her mistress that one waited for her. I ought to 
 mention that my departure from the directions which I 
 hud received was, in some degree, owing to an inquisitive 
 temper; I was eager after knowledge, and was disposed 
 to profit by every opportunity to survey the interior of 
 dwellings and converse with their inhabitants. 
 
 I scanned the walls, the furniture, the pictures. Over 
 the fireplace was a portrait in oil of a female. She was 
 elderly and matron-like. Perhaps she was the mistress 
 of this habitation, and the person to whom I should im 
 mediately be introduced. Was it a casual suggestion, 
 or was there an actual resemblance between the strokes 
 of the pencil which executed this portrait and that of 
 Clavering ? However that be, the sight of this picture 
 revived the memory of my friend and called up a fugi 
 tive suspicion that this was the production of his skill. 
 
 I was busily revolving this idea when the lady herself 
 entered. It was the same whose portrait I had been 
 examining. She fixed scrutinizing and powerful eyes 
 upon me. She looked at the superscription of the letter 
 which I presented, and immediately resumed her exa 
 mination of me. I was somewhat abashed by the close 
 ness of her observation, and gave tokens of this state of 
 mind which did not pass unobserved. They seemed in 
 stantly to remind her that she behaved with too little 
 regard to civility. She recovered herself and began to 
 peruse the letter. Having done this, her attention was 
 once more fixed upon me. She was evidently desirous 
 of entering into some conversation, but seemed at a loss 
 in what manner to begin. This situation was new to me 
 and was productive of no small embarrassment. I was 
 preparing to take my leave when she spoke, though not 
 without considerable hesitation : 
 
 " This letter is from Mr. Welbeck you are his friend 
 I presume perhaps a relation ?" 
 
 I was conscious that I had no claim to either of these 
 titles, and that I was no more than his servant. My 
 5
 
 66 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 pride would not allow me to acknowledge this, and I 
 merely said, "I live with him at present, madam." 
 
 I imagined that this answer did not perfectly satisfy 
 her; yet she received it with a certain air of acqui 
 escence. She was silent for a few minutes, and then, 
 rising, said, "Excuse me, sir, for a few minutes. I will 
 write a few words to Mr. Welbeck." So saying, she 
 withdrew. 
 
 I returned to the contemplation of the picture. From 
 this, however, my attention was quickly diverted by a 
 paper that lay on the mantel. A single glance was 
 sufficient to put my blood into motion. I started, and 
 laid my hand upon the well-known packet. It was that 
 which enclosed the portrait of Clavering ! 
 
 I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By what 
 miracle came it hither ? It was found, together with my 
 bundle, two nights before. I had despaired of ever see 
 ing it again, and yet here was the same portrait enclosed 
 in the selfsame paper ! I have forborne to dwell upon 
 the regret, amounting to grief, with which I was affected 
 in consequence of the loss of this precious relic. My 
 joy on thus speedily and unexpectedly regaining it is 
 not easily described. 
 
 For a time I did not reflect that to hold it thus in my 
 hand was not sufficient to entitle me to repossession. I 
 must acquaint this lady with the history of this picture, 
 and convince her of my ownership. But how was this 
 to be done ? Was she connected in any way, by friend 
 ship or by consanguinity, with that unfortunate youth. 
 If she were, some information as to his destiny would be 
 anxiously sought. I did not, just then, perceive any 
 impropriety in imparting it. If it came into her hands 
 by accident, still, it will be necessary to relate the mode 
 in which it was lost in order to prove my title to it. 
 
 I now heard her descending footsteps, and hastily 
 replaced the picture on the mantel. She entered, and, 
 jitvsenting me a letter, desired me to deliver it to Mr. 
 Welbeck. I had no pretext for deferring my departure, 
 but was unwilling to go without obtaining possession of 
 the portrait. An interval of silence and irresolution 
 succeeded. I cast significant glances at the spot where
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 6/ 
 
 it lay, and at length mustered up my strength of mind, 
 and, pointing to the paper, " Madam," said I, "there is 
 something which I recognise to be mine : I know not how 
 it came into your possession, but so lately as the day 
 before yesterday it was in mine. I lost it by a strange 
 accident, and, as I deem it of inestimable value, I hope 
 you will have no objection to restore it." 
 
 During this speech the lady s countenance exhibited 
 marks of the utmost perturbation. "Your picture!" 
 she exclaimed; "you lost it! How? Where? Did 
 you know that person ? What has become of him?" 
 
 "I knew him well," said I. "That picture was exe 
 cuted by himself. He gave it to me with his own hands ; 
 and, till the moment I unfortunately lost it, it was my 
 dear and perpetual companion." 
 
 " Good heaven !" she exclaimed, with increasing 
 vehemence; " where did you meet with him ? What has 
 become of him? Is he dead, or alive?" 
 
 These appearances sufficiently showed me that Clave- 
 ring and this lady were connected by some ties of ten 
 derness. I answered that he was dead ; that my mother 
 and myself were his attendants and nurses, and that this 
 portrait was his legacy to me. 
 
 This intelligence melted her into tears, and it was 
 some time before she recovered strength enough to re 
 sume the conversation. She then inquired, "When and 
 where was it that he died ? How did you lose this por 
 trait ? It was found wrapped in some coarse clothes, lying 
 in a stall in the market-house, on Saturday evening. 
 Two negro women, servants of one of my friends, stroll 
 ing through the market, found it and brought it to their 
 mistress, who, recognising the portrait, sent it to me. 
 To whom did that bundle belong ? Was it yours ?" 
 
 These questions reminded me of the painful predica 
 ment in which I now stood. I had promised Welbeck to 
 conceal from every one my former condition ; but to 
 explain in what manner this bundle was lost, and how 
 my intercourse with Clavering had taken place, was to 
 violate this promise. It was possible, perhaps, to escape 
 the confession of the truth by equivocation. Falsehoods 
 were easily invented, and might lead her far away from
 
 68 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 my true condition ; but I was wholly unused to equivo 
 cation. Never yet had a lie polluted my lips. I was 
 not weak enough to be ashamed of my origin. This 
 lady had an interest in the fate of Clavering, and might 
 justly claim all the information which I was able to im 
 part. Yet to forget the compact which I had so lately 
 made, and an adherence to which might possibly be in 
 the highest degree beneficial to me and to Welbeck ; I 
 was willing to adhere to it, provided falsehood could be 
 avoided. 
 
 These thoughts rendered me silent. The pain of my 
 embarrassment amounted almost to agony. I felt the 
 keenest regret at my own precipitation in claiming the 
 picture. Its value to me was altogether imaginary. The 
 affection which this lady had borne the original, what 
 ever was the source of that affection, would prompt her 
 to cherish the copy, and, however precious it was in my 
 eyes, I should cheerfully resign it to her. 
 
 In the confusion of my thoughts an expedient suggested 
 itself sufficiently inartificial and bold. "It is true, 
 madam, what I have said. I saw him breathe his last. 
 This is his only legacy. If you wish it I willingly re 
 sign it; but this is all that I can now disclose. I am 
 placed in circumstances which render it improper to say 
 more." 
 
 These words were uttered not very distinctly, and the 
 lady s vehemence hindered her from noticing them. She 
 again repeated her interrogations, to which I returned 
 the same answer. 
 
 At first she expressed the utmost surprise at my conduct. 
 From this she descended to some degree of asperity. 
 She made rapid allusions to the history of Clavering. 
 He was the son of the gentleman who owned the house 
 in which Welbeck resided. He was the object of immea 
 surable fondness and indulgence. He had sought per 
 mission to travel, and, this being refused by the absurd 
 timidity of his parents, he had twice been frustrated in 
 attempting to embark for Europe clandestinely. They 
 ascribed his disappearance to a third and successful 
 attempt of this kind, and had exercised anxious and un 
 wearied diligence in endeavouring to trace his footsteps.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 69 
 
 All their efforts had failed. One motive for their return 
 ing to Europe was the hope of discovering some traces 
 of him, as they entertained no doubt of his having 
 crossed the ocean. The vehemence of Mrs. Wcntworth s 
 curiosity as to those particulars of his life and death may 
 be easily conceived. My refusal only heightened this 
 passion. 
 
 Finding me refractory to all her efforts, she at length 
 dismissed me in anger.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THIS extraordinary interview was now past. Plea 
 sure as well as pain attended my reflections on it. I 
 adhered to the promise I had improvidently given to 
 Welbeck, but had excited displeasure, and perhaps sus 
 picion, in the lady. She would find it hard to account 
 for my silence. She would probably impute it to per- 
 verseness, or imagine it to flow from some incident con 
 nected with the death of Clavering, calculated to give 
 a new edge to her curiosity. 
 
 It was plain that some connection subsisted between her 
 and Welbeck. Would she drop the subject at the point 
 which it had now attained? Would she cease to exert 
 herself to extract from me the desired information, or 
 would she not rather make Welbeck a party in the cause, 
 and prejudice my new friend against me? This was an 
 evil proper, by all lawful means, to avoid. I knew of 
 no other expedient than to confess to him the truth with 
 regard to Clavering, and explain to him the dilemma 
 in which my adherence to my promise had involved me. 
 
 I found him on my return home, and delivered him the 
 letter with which I was charged. At the sight of it, sur 
 prise, mingled with some uneasiness, appeared in his 
 looks. "What!" said he, in a tone of disappointment, 
 "you then saw the lady?" 
 
 I now remembered his directions to leave my message 
 at the door, and apologized for my neglecting them by 
 telling my reasons. His chagrin vanished, but not with 
 out an apparent effort, and he said that all was well ; the 
 affair was of no moment. 
 
 After a pause of preparation, I entreated his atten 
 tion to something which I had to relate. I then detailed 
 70
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. "J\ 
 
 the history of Clavering and of my late embarrassments. 
 As I went on, his countenance betokened increasing 
 solicitude. His emotion was particularly strong when. I 
 came to the interrogatories of Mrs. Wentworth in rela 
 tion to Clavering ; but this emotion gave way to profound 
 surprise when I related the manner in which I had eluded 
 her inquiries. I concluded with observing that, when I 
 promised forbearance on the subject of my own adventures, 
 I had not foreseen any exigence which would make an 
 adherence to my promise difficult or inconvenient; that, 
 if his interest was promoted by my silence, I was still 
 willing to maintain it, and requested his directions how 
 to conduct myself on this occasion. 
 
 He appeared to ponder deeply and with much per 
 plexity oh what I had said. When he spoke there was 
 hesitation in his manner and circuity in his expressions, 
 that proved him to have something in his thoughts which 
 he knew not how to communicate. He frequently paused ; 
 but my answers and remarks, occasionally given, appeared 
 to deter him from the revelation of his purpose. Our dis 
 course ended, for the present, by his desiring me to per 
 sist in my present plan ; I should suffer no inconveniences 
 from it, since it would be my own fault if an interview 
 again took place between the lady and me; meanwhile 
 he should see her and effectually silence her inquiries. 
 
 I ruminated not superficially or briefly on this dialogue. 
 By what means would he silence her inquiries? He 
 Burely meant not to mislead her by fallacious representa 
 tions. Some inquietude now crept into my thoughts. I 
 began to form conjectures as to the nature of the scheme 
 to which my suppression of the truth was to be thus 
 made subservient. It seemed as if I were walking in 
 the dark and might rush into snares or drop into pits 
 before I was aware of my danger. Each moment 
 accumulated my doubts, and I cherished a secret fore 
 boding that the event would prove my new situation to 
 be far less fortunate than I had, at first, fondly believed. 
 The question now occurred, with painful repetition, who 
 and what was Wclbeck? What was his relation to thia 
 foreign lady? What was the service for which I was to 
 be employed?
 
 72 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I could not be contented without a solution of these 
 mysteries. Why should I not lay my soul open before 
 my new friend ? Considering my situation, would he re 
 gard my fears and my surmises as criminal? 1 felt that 
 they originated in laudable habits and views. My peace 
 of mind depended on the favourable verdict which con 
 science should pass on my proceedings. I saw the empti 
 ness of fame and luxury, when put in the balance against 
 the recompense of virtue. Never would I purchase the 
 blandishments of adulation and the glare of opulence at 
 the price of my honesty. 
 
 Amidst these reflections the dinner-hour arrived. The 
 lady and Welbeck were present. A new train of senti 
 ments now occupied my mind. I regarded them both with 
 inquisitive eyes. I cannot well account for the revolu 
 tion which had taken place in my mind. Perhaps it was 
 a proof of the capriciousness of my temper, or it was 
 merely the fruit of my profound ignorance of life and 
 manners. Whencesoever it arose, certain it is that I 
 contemplated the scene before me with altered eyes. Its 
 order and pomp was no longer the parent of tranquillity 
 and awe. My wild reveries of inheriting this splendour 
 and appropriating the affections of this nymph, I now 
 regarded as lunatic hope and childish folly. Education 
 and nature had qualified me for a different scene. This 
 might be the mask of misery and the structure of vice. 
 
 My companions as well as myself were silent during 
 the meal. The lady retired as soon as it was finished. 
 My inexplicable melancholy increased. It did not pass 
 unnoticed by Welbeck, who inquired, with an air of 
 kindness, into the cause of my visible dejection. I am 
 almost ashamed to relate to what extremes my folly trans 
 ported me. Instead of answering him, I was weak 
 enough to shed tears. 
 
 This excited afresh his surprise and his sympathy. 
 He renewed his inquiries; my heart was full, but how to 
 disburden it I knew not. At length, with some difficulty, 
 I expressed my wishes to leave his house and return into 
 the country. 
 
 What, he asked, had occurred to suggest this new plan ? 
 What motive could incite me to bury myself in rustic
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 73 
 
 obscurity? How did I purpose to dispose of myself? 
 Had some new friend sprung up more able or more will 
 ing to benefit me than he had been? 
 
 "No," I answered, "I have no relation who would 
 own me, or friend who would protect. If I went into 
 the country it would be to the toilsome occupations of a 
 day-labourer; but even that was better than my present 
 situation." 
 
 This opinion, he observed, must be newly formed. 
 What was there irksome or offensive in my present mode 
 of life? 
 
 That this man condescended to expostulate with me ; 
 to dissuade me from my new plan ; and to enumerate the 
 benefits which he was willing to confer, penetrated my 
 heart with gratitude. I could not but acknowledge that 
 leisure and literature, copious and elegant accommoda 
 tion, were valuable for their own sake ; that all the de 
 lights of sensation and refinements of intelligence were 
 comprised within my present sphere, and would be nearly 
 wanting in that to which I was going. I felt temporary 
 compunction for my folly, and determined to adopt a dif 
 ferent deportment. I could not prevail upon myself to 
 unfold the true cause of my dejection, and permitted him 
 therefore to ascribe it to a kind of homesickness ; to 
 inexperience ; and to that ignorance which, on being 
 ushered into a new scene, is oppressed with a sensation 
 of forlornness. He remarked that these chimeras would 
 vanish before the influence of time, and company, and 
 occupation. On the next week he would furnish me with 
 employment ; meanwhile he would introduce me into 
 company, where intelligence and vivacity would combine 
 to dispel my glooms. 
 
 As soon as we separated, my disquietudes returned. I 
 contended with them in vain, and finally resolved to aban 
 don my present situation. When and how this purpose 
 was to be effected I knew not. That was to be the theme 
 of future deliberation. 
 
 Evening having arrived, Welbcck proposed to me to 
 accompany me on a visit to one of his friends. I cheer 
 fully accepted the invitation, and went with him to your 
 friend Mr. Wortley s. A numerous party was assembled,
 
 74 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 chiefly of the female sex. I was introduced by Welbeck 
 by the title of a young friend of his. Notwithstanding 
 my embarrassment, I did not fail to attend to what 
 passed on this occasion. I remarked that the utmost 
 deference was paid to my companion, on whom his en 
 trance into this company appeared to operate like magic. 
 His eyes sparkled ; his features expanded into a benign 
 serenity ; and his wonted reserve gave place to a torrent- 
 like and overflowing elocution. 
 
 I marked this change in his deportment with the utmost 
 astonishment. So great was it, that I could hardly per 
 suade myself that it was the same person. A mind thus 
 susceptible of new impressions must be, I conceived, of 
 a wonderful texture. Nothing was further from my ex 
 pectations than that this vivacity was mere dissimulation 
 and would take its leave of him when he left the com 
 pany ; yet this I found to be the case. The door was no 
 sooner closed after him than his accustomed solemnity 
 returned. He spake little, and that little was delivered 
 with emphatical and monosyllabic brevity. 
 
 We returned home at a late hour, and I immediately 
 retired to my chamber, not so much from the desire of 
 repose as in order to enjoy and pursue my own reflec 
 tions without interruption. 
 
 The condition of my mind was considerably remote 
 from happiness. I was placed in a scene that furnished 
 fuel to my curiosity. This passion is a source of plea 
 sure, provided its gratification be practicable. I had no 
 reason, in my present circumstances, to despair of know 
 ledge ; yet suspicion and anxiety besot me. I thought 
 upon the delay and toil which the removal of my igno 
 rance would cost, and reaped only pain and fear from 
 tho reflection. 
 
 The air was remarkably sultry. Lifted sashes and 
 lofty ceilings were insufficient to attemper it. The per 
 turbation of my thoughts affected my body, and the heat 
 which oppressed me was aggravated, by my restlessness, 
 almost into fever. Some hours were thus painfully past, 
 when I recollected that the bath, erected in the court 
 below, contained a sufficient antidote to the pcorching 
 influence of the atmosphere.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 75 
 
 I rose, and descended the stairs softly, that I might 
 not alarm Wclbeck and the lady, who occupied the two 
 rooms on the second floor. I proceeded to the bath, and, 
 filling the reservoir with water, speedily dissipated the 
 heat that incommoded me. Of all species of sensual 
 gratification, that was the most delicious ; and I con 
 tinued for a long time laving my limbs and moistening 
 my hair. In the midst of this amusement, I noticed the 
 approach of day, and immediately saw the propriety of 
 returning to my chamber. I returned with the same 
 caution which I had used in descending ; my feet were 
 bare, so that it was easy to proceed unattended by the 
 smallest signal of my progress. 
 
 I had reached the carpeted staircase, and was slowly 
 ascending, when I heard, within the chamber that was 
 occupied by the lady, a noise, as of some one moving. 
 Though not conscious of having acted improperly, yet I 
 felt reluctance to be seen. There was no reason to sup 
 pose that this sound was connected with the detection of 
 me in this situation ; yet I acted as if this reason ex 
 isted, and made haste to pass the door and gain the 
 second flight of steps. 
 
 I was unable to accomplish my design, when the cham 
 ber door slowly opened, and Welbeck, with a light in his 
 hand, came out. I was abashed and disconcerted at this 
 interview. He started at seeing me ; but, discovering in 
 an instant who it was, his face assumed an expression in 
 which shame and anger were powerfully blended. He 
 seemed on the point of opening his mouth to rebuke me ; 
 but, suddenly checking himself, he said, in a tone of 
 mildness, " How is this ? Whence come you ?" 
 
 His emotion seemed to communicate itself, with an 
 electrical rapidity, to my heart. My tongue faltered 
 while I made some answer. I said, " I had been seek 
 ing relief from the heat of the weather, in the bath." 
 He heard my explanation in silence ; and, after a mo 
 ment s pause, passed into his own room, and shut him 
 self in. I hastened to my chamber. 
 
 A different observer might have found in these cir 
 cumstances no food for his suspicion or his wonder.
 
 76 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 To me, however, they suggested vague and tumultuous 
 ideas. 
 
 As I strode across the room I repeated, " This woman 
 is his daughter. What proof have I of that ? He once 
 asserted it ; and has frequently uttered allusions and 
 hints from which no other inference could he drawn. 
 The chamber from which he came, in an hour devoted to 
 sleep, was hers. For what end could a visit like this be 
 paid ? A parent may visit his child at all seasons, with 
 out a crime. On seeing me, methought his features in 
 dicated more than surprise. A keen interpreter would 
 be apt to suspect a consciousness of wrong. What if 
 this woman be not his child ! How shall their relation 
 ship be ascertained?" 
 
 I was summoned at the customary hour to breakfast. 
 My mind was full of ideas connected with this incident. 
 I was not endowed with sufficient firmness to propose the 
 cool and systematic observation of this man s deportment. 
 I felt as if the state of my mind could not but be evident 
 to him ; and experienced in myself all the confusion which 
 this discovery was calculated to produce in him. I would 
 have willingly excused myself from meeting him ; but 
 that was impossible. 
 
 At breakfast, after the usual salutations, nothing was 
 said. For a time I scarcely lifted my eyes from the table. 
 Stealing a glance at Welbeck, I discovered in his fea 
 tures nothing but his wonted gravity. He appeared oc 
 cupied with thoughts that had no relation to last night s 
 adventure. This encouraged me; and I gradually reco 
 vered my composure. Their inattention to me allowed 
 me occasionally to throw scrutinizing and comparing 
 glances at the face of each. 
 
 The relationship of parent and child is commonly dis 
 covered in the visage; but the child may resemble either 
 of its parents, yet have no feature in common with both. 
 Here outlines, surfaces, and hues were in absolute con 
 trariety. That kindred subsisted between them was pos 
 sible, notwithstanding this dissimilitude; but this circum 
 stance contributed to envenom my suspicions. 
 
 Breakfast being finished, Welbeck cast an eye of invi 
 tation to the piano-forte. The lady rose to comply with
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. ?/ 
 
 his request. My eye chanced to be, at that moment, 
 fixed on her. In stepping to the instrument, some motion 
 or appearance awakened a thought in my mind which 
 affected my feelings like the shock of an earthquake. 
 
 I have too slight acquaintance with the history of the 
 passions to truly explain the emotion which now throbbed 
 in my veins. I had been a stranger to what is called 
 love. From subsequent reflection, I have contracted a 
 suspicion that the sentiment with which I regarded this 
 lady was not untiricturcd from this source, and that hence 
 arose the turbulence of my feelings on observing what I 
 construed into marks of pregnancy. The evidence af 
 forded me was slight ; yet it exercised an absolute sway 
 over my belief. 
 
 It was well that this suspicion had not been sooner 
 excited. Now civility did not require my stay in the 
 apartment, and nothing but flight could conceal the 
 state of my mind. I hastened, therefore, to a distance, 
 and shrouded myself in the friendly secrecy of my own 
 chamber. 
 
 The constitution of my mind is doubtless singular and 
 perverse ; yet that opinion, perhaps, is the fruit of my 
 ignorance. It may by no means be uncommon for men 
 to fashion their conclusions in opposition to evidence and 
 probability, and so as to feed their malice and subvert 
 their happiness. Thus it was, in an eminent degree, in 
 my case. The simple fact was connected, in my mind, 
 with a train of the most hateful consequences. The de 
 pravity of Welbeck was inferred from it. The charms 
 of this angelic woman were tarnished and withered. I 
 had formerly surveyed her as a precious and perfect 
 monument, but now it was a scene of ruin and blast. 
 
 This had been a source of sufficient anguish ; but this 
 was not all. I recollected that the claims of a parent 
 had been urged. Will you believe that these claims 
 were now admitted, and that they heightened the 
 iniquity of Welbeck into the blackest and most stupen 
 dous of all crimes ? These ideas were necessarily tran 
 sient. Conclusions more conformable to appearances 
 succeeded. This lady might have been lately reduced 
 to widowhood. The recent loss of a beloved companion
 
 78 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 would sufficiently account for her dejection, and make 
 her present situation compatible with duty. 
 
 By this new train of ideas I was somewhat comforted. 
 I saw the folly of precipitate inferences and the injustice 
 of my atrocious imputations, and acquired some degree 
 of patience in my present state of uncertainty. My 
 heart was lightened of its wonted burden, and I laboured 
 to invent some harmless explication of the scene that I 
 had witnessed the preceding night. 
 
 At dinner Welbeck appeared as usual, but not the 
 lady. I ascribed her absence to some casual indisposi 
 tion, and ventured to inquire into the state of her health. 
 My companion said she was well, but that she had left 
 the city for a month or two, finding the heat of summer 
 inconvenient where she was. This was no unplausible 
 reason for retirement. A candid mind would have ac 
 quiesced in this representation, and found in it nothing 
 inconsistent with a supposition respecting the cause of 
 appearances favourable to her character ; but otherwise 
 was I affected. The uneasiness which had flown for a 
 moment returned, and I sunk into gloomy silence. 
 
 From this I was roused by my patron, who requested 
 me to deliver a billet, which he put into my hand, at the 
 counting-house of Mr. Thetford. and to bring him an 
 answer. This message was speedily performed. I en 
 tered a large building by the river-side. A spacious 
 apartment presented itself, well furnished with pipes 
 and hogsheads. In one corner was a smaller room, in 
 which a gentleman was busy at writing. I advanced to 
 the door of the room, but was there met by a young 
 person, who received my paper and delivered it to him 
 within. I stood still at the door ; but was near enough 
 to overhear what would pass between them. 
 
 The letter was l.iid upon the desk, and presently he 
 that sat at it lifted his eyes and glanced at the super 
 scription. He scarcely spoke above a whisper ; but his 
 words, nevertheless, were clearly distinguishable. I did 
 not call to mind the sound of his voice, but his words 
 called up a train of recollections. 
 
 "Lo !" said he, carelessly, "this from the Nabob!" 
 
 An incident so alight as this was sufficient to open a
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 79 
 
 spacious scene of meditation. This little word, half 
 whispered in a thoughtless mood, was a key to unlock 
 an extensive cabinet of secrets. Thetford was probably 
 indifferent whether his exclamation were overheard 
 Little did he think on the inferences which would be 
 built upon it. 
 
 "The Nabob!" By this appellation had some one 
 been denoted in the chamber dialogue of which I had 
 been an unsuspected auditor. The man who pretended 
 poverty, and yet gave proofs of inordinate wealth ; 
 whom it was pardonable to defraud of thirty thousand 
 dollars ; first, because the loss of that sum would be 
 trivial to one opulent as he ; and, secondly, because he 
 was imagined to have acquired this opulence by other 
 than honest methods. Instead of forthwith returning 
 home, I wandered into the fields, to indulge myself in the 
 new thoughts which were produced by this occurrence. 
 
 I entertained no doubt that the person alluded to was 
 iny patron. No new light was thrown upon his charac 
 ter ; unless something were deducible from the charge 
 vaguely made, that his wealth was the fruit of illicit 
 practices. lie was opulent, and the sources of his wealth 
 were unknown, if not to the rest of the community, at 
 least to Thetford. But here had a plot been laid. The 
 fortune of Thetford s brother was to rise from the success 
 of artifices of which the credulity of Welbeck was to be 
 the victim. To detect and to counterwork this plot was 
 obviously my duty. My interference might now indeed 
 be too late to be useful ; but this was at least to be ascer 
 tained by experiment. 
 
 How should my intention be effected ? I had hitherto 
 concealed from Welbeck my adventures at Thetford a 
 house. These it was now necessary to disclose, and to 
 mention the recent occurrence. My deductions, in con 
 sequence of my ignorance, might be erroneous ; but of 
 their truth his knowledge of his own affairs would enable 
 him to judge. It was possible that Thetford and he 
 whose chamber conversation I had overheard were dif 
 ferent persons. I endeavoured in vain to ascertain their 
 identity by a comparison of their voices. The words
 
 8O ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 lately heard, my remembrance did not enable me cer 
 tainly to pronounce to be uttered by the same organs. 
 
 This uncertainty was of little moment. It sufficed 
 that Welbeck was designated by this appellation, and 
 that therefore he was proved to be the subject of some 
 fraudulent proceeding. The information that I pos 
 sessed it was my duty to communicate as expeditiously 
 as possible. I was resolved to employ the first oppor 
 tunity that offered for this end. 
 
 My meditations had been ardently pursued, and, when 
 I recalled my attention, I found myself bewildered among 
 fields and fences. It was late before I extricated myself 
 from unknown paths, and reached home. 
 
 I entered the parlour ; but Welbeck was not there. 
 A table, with tea-equipage for one person, was set ; from 
 which I inferred that Welbeck was engaged abroad. This 
 belief was confirmed by the report of the servant. He 
 could not inform me where his master was, but merely 
 that he should not take tea at home. This incident was 
 a source of vexation and impatience. I knew not but 
 that delay would be of the utmost moment to the safety 
 of my friend. Wholly unacquainted as I was with the 
 nature of his contracts with Thetford, I could not decide 
 whether a single hour would not avail to obviate the evils 
 that threatened him. Had I known whither to trace his 
 footsteps, I should certainly have sought an immediate 
 interview ; but, as it was, I was obliged to wait, with what 
 patience I could collect, for his return to his own house. 
 
 I waited hour after hour in vain. The sun declined, 
 and the shades of evening descended ; but Welbeck was 
 still at a distance.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WELBECK did not return, though hour succeeded hour 
 till the clock struck ten. I inquired of the servants, 
 who informed me that their master was not accustomed 
 to stay out so late. I seated myself at a table, in a par 
 lour, on which there stood a light, and listened for the 
 signal of his coming, either by the sound of steps on the 
 pavement without or by a peal from the bell. The silence 
 was uninterrupted and profound, and each minute added 
 to my sum of impatience and anxiety. 
 
 To relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which 
 was aggravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well 
 as to beguile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me 
 to betake myself to the bath. I left the candle where it 
 stood, and imagined that even in the bath I should hear 
 the sound of the bell which would be rung upon his 
 arrival at the door. 
 
 No such signal occurred, and, after taking this re 
 freshment, I prepared to return to my post. The parlour 
 was still unoccupied, but this was not all ; the candle I 
 had left upon the table was gone. This was an inexpli 
 cable circumstance. On my promise to wait for their 
 master, the servants had retired to bed. No signal of 
 any one s entrance had been given. The street door 
 was locked, and the key hung at its customary place 
 upon the wall. What was I to think ? It was obvious 
 to suppose that the candle had been removed by a 
 domestic ; but their footsteps could not be traced, and I 
 was not sufficiently acquainted with the house to find the 
 way, especially immersed in darkness, to their chamber. 
 One measure, however, it was evidently proper to take, 
 6 81
 
 82 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 which was to supply myself, anew, with a light. This 
 was instantly performed ; but what was next to be done ? 
 
 I was weary of the perplexities in which I was em 
 broiled. I saw no avenue to escape from them but that 
 which led me to the bosom of nature and to my ancient 
 occupations. For a moment I was tempted to resume 
 my rustic garb, and, on that very hour, to desert this 
 habitation. One thing only detained me; the desire to 
 apprize my patron of the treachery of Thetford. For 
 this end I was anxious to obtain an interview; but now 
 I reflected that this information could by other means be 
 imparted. Was it not sufficient to write him briefly these 
 particulars, and leave him to profit by the knowledge ? 
 Thus I might, likewise, acquaint him with my motives 
 for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his service. 
 
 To the execution of this scheme pen and paper were 
 necessary. The business of writing was performed in 
 the chamber on the third story. I had been hitherto 
 denied access to this room. In it was a show of papers 
 and books. Here it was that the task, for which I had 
 been retained, was to be performed ; but I was to enter 
 it and leave it only in company with Welbeck. For 
 what reasons, I asked, was this procedure to be adopted ? 
 
 The influence of prohibitions and an appearance of 
 disguise in awakening curiosity is well known. My mind 
 fastened upon the idea of this room with an unusual 
 degree of intcnsencss. I had seen it but for a moment. 
 Many of Welbeck s hours were spent in it. It was not 
 to be inferred that they were consumed in idleness: what 
 then was the nature of his employment over which a veil 
 of such impenetrable secrecy was cast ? 
 
 Will you wonder that the design of entering this recess 
 was insensibly formed? Possibly it was locked, but its 
 accessibleness was likewise possible. I meant not the 
 commission of any crime. My principal purpose was to 
 procure the implements of writing, which were elsewhere 
 not to be found. I should neither unseal papers nor open 
 drawers. I would merely take a survey of the volumes 
 and attend to the objects that spontaneously presented 
 themselves to my view. In this there surely was nothing 
 criminal or blameworthy. Meanwhile I was nit un-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 83 
 
 mindful of the sudden disappearance of the candle. 
 Tliis incident filled my bosom with the inquietudes of 
 fear and the perturbations of wonder. 
 
 Once more I paused to catch any sound that might 
 arise from without. All was still. I seized the candle 
 and prepared to mount the stairs. I had not reached 
 the first landing when I called to mind my midnight 
 meeting with Welbeck at the door of his daughter s 
 chamber. The chamber was now desolate; perhaps it 
 was accessible ; if so, no injury was done by entering it. 
 My curiosity was strong, but it pictured to itself no pre 
 cise object. Three steps would bear me to the door. 
 The trial, whether it was fastened, might be made in a 
 moment ; and I readily imagined that something might 
 be found within to reward the trouble of examination. 
 The door yielded to my hand, and I entered. 
 
 No remarkable object was discoverable. The apart 
 ment was supplied with the usual furniture. I bent my 
 steps towards a table over which a mirror was suspended. 
 My glances, which roved with swiftness from one object 
 to another, shortly lighted on a miniature portrait that 
 hung near. I scrutinized it with eagerness. It was 
 impossible to overlook its resemblance to my own visage. 
 This was so great that for a moment I imagined myself 
 to have been the original from which it had been drawn. 
 This flattering conception yielded place to a belief merely 
 of similitude between me and the genuine original. 
 
 The thoughts which this opinion was fitted to produce 
 were suspended by a new object. A small volume, that 
 had, apparently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. I 
 opened it, and found it to contain some of the Dramas 
 of Apostolo Zeno. I turned over the leaves ; a written 
 paper saluted my sight. A single glance informed me 
 that it was English. For the present I was insensible 
 to all motives that would command me to forbear. I 
 seized the paper with an intention to peruse it. 
 
 At that moment a stunning report was heard. It was 
 loud enough to shake the walls of the apartment, and 
 abrupt enough to throw me into tremors. I dropped the 
 book and yielded for a moment to confusion and surprise. 
 From what quarter it came, I was unable accurately to
 
 84 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 determine ; but there could be no doubt, from its loud- 
 ness, that it was near, and even in the house. It was 
 no less manifest that the sound arose from the discharge 
 of a pistol. Some hand must have drawn the trigger. 
 I recollected the disappearance of the candle from the 
 room below. Instantly a supposition darted into my 
 mind which made my hair rise and my teeth chatter. 
 
 " This," I said, "is the deed of Welbeck. He entered 
 while I was absent from the room ; he hied to his cham 
 ber; and, prompted by some unknown instigation, has 
 inflicted on himself death!" This idea had a tendency 
 to palsy my lirnbs and my thoughts. Some time passed 
 in painful and tumultuous fluctuation. My aversion to 
 this catastrophe, rather than a belief of being, by that 
 means, able to prevent or repair the evil, induced me to 
 attempt to enter his chamber. It was possible that my 
 conjectures were erroneous. 
 
 The door of his room was locked. I knocked ; I de 
 manded entrance in a low voice; I put my eye and my 
 ear to the keyhole and the crevices ; nothing could be 
 heard or seen. It was unavoidable to conclude that no 
 one was within; yet the effluvia of gunpowder was per 
 ceptible. 
 
 Perhaps the room above had been the scene of this 
 catastrophe. I ascended the second flight of stairs. 
 I approached the door. No sound could be caught by 
 my most vigilant attention. I put out the light that I 
 carried, and was then able to perceive that there was 
 light within the room. I scarcely knew how to act. 
 For some minutes I paused at the door. I spoke, and 
 requested permission to enter. My words were suc 
 ceeded by a deathlike stillness. At length I ventured 
 softly to withdraw the bolt, to open and to advance 
 within the room. Nothing could exceed the horror of 
 my expectation ; yet I was startled by the scene that I 
 beheld. 
 
 In a chair, whose back was placed against the front 
 wall, sat Welbeck. My entrance alarmed him not, nor 
 roused him from the stupor into which he was plunged. 
 He rested his hands upon his knees, and his eyes were 
 riveted to something that lay, at the distance of a few
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 85 
 
 feet before him, on the floor. A second glance waa 
 sufficient to inform me of what nature this object was. 
 It was the body of a man, bleeding, ghastly, and still 
 exhibiting the marks of convulsion and agony ! 
 
 I shall omit to describe the shock which a spectacle 
 like this communicated to my unpractised senses. I was 
 nearly as panic-struck and powerless as Welbeck him 
 self. I gazed, without power of speech, at one time, at 
 Welbeck; then I fixed terrified eyes on the distorted 
 features of the dead. At length, Welbeck, recovering 
 from his reverie, looked up, as if to see who it was that 
 had entered. No surprise, no alarm, was betrayed by 
 him on seeing me. He manifested no desire or intention 
 to interrupt the fearful silence. 
 
 My thoughts wandered in confusion and terror. The 
 first impulse was to fly from the scene ; but I could not 
 be long insensible to the exigences of the moment. I 
 saw that affairs must not be suffered to remain in their 
 present situation. The insensibility or despair of Wel 
 beck required consolation and succour. How to com 
 municate my thoughts, or offer my assistance, I knew 
 not. What led to this murderous catastrophe; who it 
 was whose breathless corpse was before me ; what con 
 cern Welbeck had in producing his death; were as yet 
 unknown. 
 
 At length he rose from his seat, and strode at first 
 with faltering, and then with more steadfast steps, across 
 the floor. This motion seemed to put him in possession 
 of himself. He seemed now, for the first time, to recog 
 nise my presence. He turned to me, and said, in a tone 
 of severity, 
 
 " How now ? What brings you here ?" 
 
 This rebuke was unexpected. I stammered out, in 
 reply, that the report of the pistol had alarmed me, and 
 that I came to discover the cause of it. 
 
 He noticed riot my answer, but resumed his perturbed 
 steps, and his anxious but abstracted looks. Suddenly 
 he checked himself, and, glancing a furious eye at the 
 corpse, he muttered, "Yes, the die is cast. This worth 
 less and miserable scone shall last no longer. I will at 
 once get rid of life and all its humiliations."
 
 86 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Here succeeded a new pause. The course of his 
 thoughts seemed now to become once more tranquil. 
 Sadness, rather than fury, overspread his features; and 
 his accent, when he spoke to me, was not faltering, but 
 solemn. 
 
 "Mcrvyn," said he, "you comprehend not this scene. 
 Your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a 
 deceitful and flagitious world. You know me not. It is 
 time that this ignorance should vanish. The knowledge 
 of me and of my actions may be of use to you. It may 
 teach you to avoid the shoals on which my virtue and my 
 peace have been wrecked; but to the rest of mankind it 
 can be of no use. The ruin of my fame is, perhaps, 
 irretrievable; but the height of my iniquity need not be 
 known. I perceive in you a rectitude and firmness 
 worthy to be trusted ; promise me, therefore, that not a 
 syllable of what I tell you shall ever pass your lips." 
 
 I had lately experienced the inconvenience of a pro 
 mise; but I was now confused, embarrassed, ardently 
 inquisitive as to the nature of this scene, and unapprized 
 of the motives that might afterwards occur, persuading 
 or compelling me to disclosure. The promise which he 
 exacted was given. He resumed : 
 
 " I have detained you in my service, partly for your 
 own benefit, but chiefly for mine. I intended to inflict 
 upon you injury and to do you good. Neither of these 
 ends can I now accomplish, unless the lessons which my 
 example may inculcate shall inspire you with fortitude 
 and arm you with caution. 
 
 "What it was that made me thus, I know not. I am 
 not destitute of understanding. My thirst of knowledge, 
 though irregular, is ardent. I can talk and can feel as 
 virtue and justice prescribe; yet the tenor of my actions 
 has been uniform. One tissue of iniquity and folly has 
 been my life; while my thoughts have been familiar with 
 enlightened and disinterested principles. Scorn and de 
 testation I have heaped upon myself. Yesterday is re 
 membered with remorse. To-morrow is contemplated 
 with anguish and fear; yet every day is productive of 
 the same crimes and of the same follies. 
 
 "I was left, by the insolvency of my father, (a trader
 
 MEMOTRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 87 
 
 of Liverpool,^ without any means of support but such as 
 labour should afford me. Whatever could generate pride, 
 and the love of independence, was my portion. What 
 ever can incite to diligence was the growth of my con 
 dition; yet my indolence was a cureless disease; and 
 there were no arts too sordid for me to practise. 
 
 "I was content to live on the bounty of a kinsman. 
 His family was numerous, and his revenue small. He 
 forbore to upbraid me, or even to insinuate the propriety 
 of providing for myself; but he empowered me to pursue 
 any liberal or mechanical profession which might suit my 
 taste. I was insensible to every generous motive. I 
 laboured to forget my dependent and disgraceful con 
 dition, because the remembrance was a source of anguish, 
 without beifig able to inspire me with a steady resolution 
 to change it. 
 
 " I contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was 
 unchaste, perverse, and malignant. Me, however, she 
 found it no difficult task to deceive. My uncle remon 
 strated against the union. He took infinite pains to 
 unveil my error, and to convince me that wedlock was 
 improper for one destitute, as I was, of the means of 
 support, even if the object of my choice were personally 
 unexceptionable. 
 
 " His representations were listened to with anger. 
 That he thwarted my will in this respect, even by affec 
 tionate expostulation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude 
 which I owed to him. I rewarded him for all his kind 
 ness by invective and disdain, and hastened to complete 
 my ill-omened marriage. I had deceived the woman s 
 father by assertions of possessing secret resources. To 
 gratify my passion, I descended to dissimulation and 
 falsehood. He admitted me into his family, as the hus 
 band of his child; but the character of my wife and the 
 fallacy of my assertions were quickly discovered. He 
 denied me accommodation under his roof, and I was 
 turned forth to the world to endure the penalty of my 
 rashness and my indolence. 
 
 "Temptation would have moulded me into any villa- 
 nous shape. My virtuous theories and comprehensive
 
 88 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 erudition would not have saved me from the basest of 
 crimes. Luckily for me, I was, for the present, exempted 
 from temptation. I had formed an acquaintance with a 
 young American captain. On being partially informed 
 of my situation, he invited me to embark with him for 
 his own country. My passage was gratuitous. I arrived, 
 in a short time, at Charleston, which was the place of 
 his abode. 
 
 " He introduced me to his family, every member of 
 which was, like himself, imbued with affection and bene 
 volence. I was treated like their son and brother. I was 
 hospitably entertained until I should be able to select 
 some path of lucrative industry. Such was my incurable 
 depravity, that I made no haste to select my pursuit. 
 An interval of inoccupation succeeded, whick I applied 
 to the worst purposes. 
 
 "My friend had a sister, who was married, but during 
 the absence of her husband resided with her family. 
 Hence originated our acquaintance. The purest of 
 human hearts and the most vigorous understanding were 
 hers. She idolized her husband, who well deserved to 
 be the object of her adoration. Her affection for him, 
 and her general principles, appeared to be confirmed 
 beyond the power to be shaken. I sought her inter 
 course without illicit views ; I delighted in the effusions 
 of her candour and the flashes of her intelligence; I 
 conformed, by a kind of instinctive hypocrisy, to her 
 views ; I spoke and felt from the influence of immediate 
 and momentary conviction. She imagined she had found 
 in me a friend worthy to partake in all her sympathies 
 and forward all her wishes. We were mutually deceived. 
 She was the victim of self-delusion ; but I must charge 
 myself with practising deceit both upon myself and her. 
 
 "I reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps 
 whicli led to her degradation and to my calamity. In 
 the high career of passion all consequences were over 
 looked. She was the dupe of the most audacious sophis 
 try and the grossest delusion. I was the slave of sensual 
 impulses and voluntary blindness. The effect may be 
 easily conceived. Not till symptoms of pregnancy began
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 89 
 
 to appear were our eyes opened to the ruin which im 
 pended over us. 
 
 " Then I began to revolve the consequences, which the 
 mist of passion had hitherto concealed. I was tormented 
 by the pangs of remorse, and pursued by the phantom 
 of ingratitude. To complete my despair, this unfortunate 
 lady was apprized of my marriage with another woman ; 
 a circumstance which I had anxiously concealed from her. 
 She fled from her father s house at a time when her hus 
 band and brother were hourly expected. What became 
 of her I knew not. She left behind her a letter to her 
 father, in which the melancholy truth was told. 
 
 " Shame and remorse had no power over my life. To 
 elude the storm of invective and upbraiding, to quiet the 
 uproar of my mind, I did not betake myself to voluntary 
 death. My pusillanimity still clung to this wretched 
 existence. I abruptly retired from the scene, and, re 
 pairing to the port, embarked in the first vessel which 
 appeared. The ship chanced to belong to Wilmington, 
 in Delaware, and here I sought out an obscure and cheap 
 abode. 
 
 " I possessed no means of subsistence. I was unknoAvn 
 to my neighbours, and desired to remain unknown. I was 
 unqualified for manual labour by all the habits of my life; 
 but there was no choice between penury and diligence, 
 between honest labour and criminal inactivity. I mused 
 incessantly on the forlornness of my condition. Hour 
 after hour passed, and the horrors of want began to en 
 compass me. I sought with eagerness for an avenue by 
 which I might escape from it. The perverseness of my 
 nature led me on from one guilty thought to another. I 
 took refuge in my customary sophistries, and reconciled 
 myself at length to a scheme of forgery!" *
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " HAVING- ascertained my purpose, it was requisite to 
 search out the means by which 1 might effect it. These 
 were not clearly or readily suggested. The more I con 
 templated my project,, the more numerous and arduous 
 its difficulties appeared. I had no associates in my 
 undertaking. A due regard to my safety, and the un- 
 extinguished sense of honour, deterred me from seeking 
 auxiliaries and co-agents. The esteem of mankind was 
 the spring of all my activity, the parent of all my virtue 
 and all my vice. To preserve this, it was necessary thai my 
 guilty projects should have neither witness nor partaker. 
 
 " I quickly discovered that to execute this scheme de 
 manded time, application, and money, none of which my 
 present situation would permit me to devote to it. At 
 first it appeared that an attainable degree of skill and 
 circumspection would enable me to arrive, by means of 
 counterfeit bills, to the pinnacle of affluence and honour. 
 My error was detected by a closer scrutiny, and I finally 
 saw nothing in this path but enormous perils and insur 
 mountable impediments. 
 
 " Yet what alternative was offered me ? To maintain 
 myself by the labour of my hands, to perform any toil 
 some or prescribed task, was incompatible with my na 
 ture. My habits debarred me from country occupations. 
 My pride regarded as vile and ignominious drudgery any 
 employment which the town could afford. Meanwhile, 
 my wants were as urgent as ever, and my funds were 
 exhausted. 
 
 " There are few, perhaps, whose external situation re 
 sembled mine, who would have found in it any thing but 
 incitements to industry and invention. A thousand me- 
 90
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 9! 
 
 thods of subsistence, honest but laborious, were at my 
 command, but to these I entertained an irreconcilable 
 aversion. Ease and the respect attendant upon opulence 
 I was willing to purchase at the price of ever-wakeful 
 suspicion and eternal remorse ; but, even at this price, 
 the purchase was impossible. 
 
 " The desperateness of my condition became hourly 
 more apparent. The further I extended my view, the 
 darker grew the clouds which hung over futurity. An 
 guish and infamy appeared to be the inseparable conditions 
 of my existence. There was one mode of evading the 
 evils that impended. To free myself from self-upbraid 
 ing and to shun the persecutions of my fortune was pos 
 sible only by shaking off life itself. 
 
 " One evening, as I traversed the bank of the creek, 
 these dismal meditations were uncommonly intense. They 
 at length terminated in a resolution to throw myself into 
 the stream. The first impulse was to rush instantly to 
 my death; but the remembrance of papers, lying at my 
 lodgings, which might unfold more than I desired to the 
 curiosity of survivors, induced me to postpone this ca 
 tastrophe till the next morning. 
 
 " My purpose being formed, I found my heart lightened 
 of its usual weight. By you it will be thought strange, 
 but it is nevertheless true, that I derived from this new 
 prospect not only tranquillity but cheerfulness. I hastened 
 home. As soon as I entered, my landlord informed me 
 that a person had been searching for me in my absence. 
 This was an unexampled incident, and foreboded me no 
 good. I was strongly persuaded that my visitant had 
 been led hither not by friendly but hostile purposes. 
 This persuasion was confirmed by the description of the 
 stranger s guise and demeanour given by my landlord. 
 My fears instantly recognised the image of Watson, the 
 man by whom I had been so eminently benefited, and 
 whose kindness I had compensated by the ruin of hia 
 sister and the confusion of his family. 
 
 "An interview with this man was less to be endured 
 than to look upon the face of an avenging deity. I was 
 determined to avoid this interview, and, for this end, to 
 execute my fatal purpose within the hour. My papers
 
 92 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 were collected with a tremulous hand, and consigned tr 
 the flames. I then bade my landlord inform all visitants 
 that I should not return till the next day, and once more 
 hastened towards the river. 
 
 " My way led past the inn where one of the stages 
 from Baltimore was accustomed to stop. I was not un 
 aware that Watson had possibly been brought in the 
 coach which had recently arrived, and which now stood 
 before the door of the inn. The danger of my being 
 descried or encountered by him as I passed did not fail 
 to occur. This was to be eluded by deviating from the 
 main street. 
 
 " Scarcely had I turned a corner for this purpose 
 when I was accosted by a young man whom I knew to 
 be an inhabitant of the town, but with whom I had 
 hitherto had no intercourse but what consisted in a tran 
 sient salutation. He apologized for the liberty of ad 
 dressing me, and, at the same time, inquired if I under 
 stood the French language. 
 
 " Being answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to 
 tell me that in the stage, just arrived, had come a pas 
 senger, a youth who appeared to be French, who was 
 wholly unacquainted with our language, and who had 
 been seized with a violent disease. 
 
 " My informant had felt compassion for the forlorn 
 condition of the stranger, and had just been seeking me 
 at my lodgings, in hope that my knowledge of French 
 would enable me to converse with the sick man, and 
 obtain from him a knowledge of his situation and views. 
 
 " The apprehensions I had precipitately formed were 
 thus removed, and I readily consented to perform this 
 service. The youth was, indeed, in a deplorable condition. 
 Besides the pains of his disease, he was overpowered by 
 dejection. The innkeeper was extremely anxious for the 
 removal of his guest. lie was by no means willing to 
 sustain the trouble and expense of a sick or a dying man, 
 for which it was scarcely probable that he should ever be 
 reimbursed. The traveller had no baggage, and hia 
 dress betokened the pressure of many wants. 
 
 " My compassion for this stranger was powerfully 
 awakened. 1 was in possession of a suitable apartment,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 93 
 
 for which I had no power to pay the rent that was ac 
 cruing ; but my inability in this respect was unknown, and 
 I might enjoy my lodgings unmolested for some weeks. 
 The fate of this youth would be speedily decided, and I 
 should be left at liberty to execute my first intentions 
 before my embarrassments should he visibly increased. 
 
 " After a moment s pause, I conducted the stranger to 
 my home, placed him in my own bed, and became his 
 nurse. His malady was such as is known in the tropical 
 islands by the name of the yellow or malignant fever, 
 and the physician who was called speedily pronounced 
 his case desperate. 
 
 " It was my duty to warn him of the death that was 
 hastening, and to promise the fulfilment of any of his 
 wishes not inconsistent with my present situation. He 
 received my intelligence with fortitude, and appeared 
 anxious to communicate some information respecting his 
 own state. His pangs and his weakness scarcely allowed 
 him to be intelligible. From his feeble efforts and broken 
 narrative I collected thus much concerning his family 
 and fortune. 
 
 " His father s name was Vincentio Lodi. From a mer 
 chant at Leghorn, he had changed himself into a planter 
 in the island of Guadaloupe. His son had been sent, 
 at an early age, for the benefits of education, to Europe. 
 The young Vincentio was, at length, informed by his 
 father, that, being weary of his present mode of exist 
 ence, he had determined to sell his property and trans 
 port himself to the United States. The son was directed 
 to hasten home, that he might embark, with his father, 
 on this voyage. 
 
 " The summons was cheerfully obeyed. The youth, on 
 his arrival at the island, found preparation making for the 
 funeral of his father. It appeared that the elder Lodi 
 had flattered one of his slaves with the prospect of his 
 freedom, but had, nevertheless, included this slave in the 
 sale that he had made of his estate. Actuated by re 
 venge, the slave assassinated Lodi in the open street, and 
 resigned himself, without a struggle, to the punishment 
 which the law had provided for such a deed. 
 
 " The property had been recently transferred, and the
 
 94 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 price was now presented to young Vincentio by the pur 
 chaser. He was by no means inclined to adopt his 
 father s project, and was impatient to return with his 
 inheritance to France. Before this could be done, the 
 conduct of his father had rendered a voyage to the Con 
 tinent indispensable. 
 
 " Lodi had a daughter, whom, a few weeks previous to 
 Iris death, he had intrusted to an American captain for 
 whom he had contracted a friendship. The vessel was 
 bound to Philadelphia; but the conduct she was to pur 
 sue, and the abode she was to select, on her arrival, were 
 known only to the father, whose untimely death involved 
 the son in considerable uncertainty with regard to his 
 sister s fate. His anxiety on this account induced him 
 to seize the first conveyance that ottered. In a short 
 time he landed at Baltimore. 
 
 "As soon as he recovered from the fatigues of his 
 voyage, he prepared to go to Philadelphia. Thither his 
 baggage was immediately sent under the protection of a 
 passenger and countryman. His money consisted in 
 Portuguese gold, which, in pursuance of advice, he had 
 changed into bank-notes. He besought me, in pathetic 
 terms, to search out his sister, whose youth and poverty, 
 and ignorance of the language and manners of the coun 
 try, might expose her to innumerable hardships. At the 
 same time, he put a pocket-book and small volume into 
 my hand, indicating, by his countenance and gestures, 
 his desire that I would deliver them to his sister. 
 
 " His obsequies being decently performed, I had leisure 
 to reflect upon the change in my condition which this in 
 cident had produced. In the pocket-book were found bills 
 to the amount of twenty thousand dollars. The volume 
 proved to be a manuscript, written by the elder Lodi in 
 Italian, and contained memoirs of the ducal house of 
 Yisconti, from whom the writer believed himself to have 
 lineally descended. 
 
 "Thus had I arrived, by an avenue so much beyond 
 my foresight, at the possession of wealth. The evil 
 which impelled me to the brink of suicide, and which 
 was the source, though not of all. yet of the larger por 
 tion, of my anguish, was now removed. What claims tc
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 95 
 
 honour or to ease were consequent on riches were, hy an 
 extraordinary fortune, now conferred upon me. 
 
 "Such, for a time, were my new-born but transitory 
 raptures. I forgot that this money was not mine. That 
 it had been received, under every sanction of fidelity, for 
 another s use. To retain it was equivalent to robbery. 
 The sister of the deceased was the rightful claimant ; it 
 was my duty to search her out, and perform my tacit 
 but sacred obligations, by putting the whole into her 
 possession. 
 
 " This conclusion was too adverse to my wishes not to 
 be strenuously combated. I asked what it was that gave 
 man the power of ascertaining the successor to his pro 
 perty. During his life, he might transfer the actual 
 possession ; but, if vacant at his death, he into whose 
 hands accident should cast it was the genuine proprietor. 
 It is true, that the law had sometimes otherwise decreed, 
 but in law there was no validity further than it was able, 
 by investigation and punishment, to enforce its decrees : 
 but would the law extort this money from me ? 
 
 "It was rather by gesture than by words that the will 
 of Lodi was imparted. It was the topic of remote in 
 ferences and vague conjecture rather than of explicit 
 and unerring declarations. Besides, if the lady were 
 found, would riot prudence dictate the reservation of her 
 fortune to be administered by me, for her benefit ? Of 
 this her age and education had disqualified herself. It 
 was sufficient for the maintenance of both. She would 
 regard me as her benefactor and protector. By supply 
 ing all her wants and watching over her safety without 
 apprizing her of the means by which I shall be enabled 
 to do this, I shall lay irresistible claims to her love and 
 her gratitude. 
 
 "Such were the sophistries by which reason was se 
 duced and my integrity annihilated. I hastened away 
 from my present abode. I easily traced the baggage of 
 the deceased to an inn, and gained possession of it. It 
 contained nothing but clothes and books. I then insti 
 tuted the most diligent search after the young lady. 
 For a time, my exertions were fruitless. 
 
 "Meanwhile, the possessor of this house thought
 
 g6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 proper to embark with his family for Europe. The 
 sum which he demanded for his furniture, though enor 
 mous, was precipitately paid by me. His servants 
 were continued in their former stations, and in the 
 day at which he relinquished the mansion, I entered on 
 possession. 
 
 "There was no difficulty in persuading the world that 
 Welbeck was a personage of opulence and rank. My 
 birth and previous adventures it was proper to conceal. 
 The facility with which mankind arc misled in their esti 
 mate of characters, their proneness to multiply infer 
 ences and conjectures, will not be readily conceived by 
 one destitute of my experience. My sudden appearance 
 on the stage, my stately reserve, my splendid habita 
 tion, and my circumspect deportment, were sufficient to 
 entitle me to homage. The artifices that were used to 
 unveil the truth, and the guesses that were current re 
 specting me, were adapted to gratify my ruling passion. 
 
 " I did not remit my diligence to discover the retreat 
 of Mademoiselle Lodi. I found her, at length, in the 
 family of a kinsman of the captain under whose care she 
 had come to America. Her situation was irksome and 
 perilous. She had already experienced the evils of being 
 protcctorlcss and indigent, and my seasonable interference 
 snatched her from impending and less supportable ills. 
 
 " I could safely unfold all that I knew of her brother s 
 history, except the legacy which he had left. I ascribed 
 the diligence with which I had sought her to his death 
 bed injunctions, and prevailed upon her to accept from 
 me the treatment which she would have received from 
 her brother .if he had continued to live, and if his power 
 to benefit had been equal to my own. 
 
 " Though less can be said in praise of the understand 
 ing than of the sensibilities of this woman, she is one 
 whom no one could refrain from loving, though placed 
 in situations far less favourable to the generation of that 
 sentiment than mine. In habits of domestic and inces 
 sant intercourse, in the perpetual contemplation of fea 
 tures animated by boundless gratitude and ineffable 
 sympathies, it could not be expected that either she or 
 I should escape enchantment.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 9/ 
 
 " The poison was too sweet not to be swallowed with 
 avidity by me. Too late I remembered that I was 
 already enslaved by inextricable obligations. It was 
 easy to have hidden this impediment from the eyes of 
 my companion, but here my integrity refused to yield. 
 I can, indeed, lay claim to little merit on account of 
 this forbearance. If there had been no alternative be 
 tween deceit and the frustration of my hopes, I should 
 doubtless have dissembled the truth with as little scruple 
 on this as on a different occasion ; but I could not be 
 blind to the weakness of her with whom I had to 
 contend.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "MEANWHILE large deductions had been made from 
 my stock of money, and the remnant would be speedily 
 consumed by my present mode of life. My expenses 
 far exceeded my previous expectations. In no long 
 time I should be reduced to my ancient poverty, which 
 the luxurious existence that I now enjoyed, and the re 
 gard due to my beloved and helpless companion, would 
 render more irksome than ever. Some scheme to rescue 
 me from this fate was indispensable ; but my aversion to 
 labour, to any pursuit the end of which was merely gain, 
 and which would require application and attention, con 
 tinued undiminished. 
 
 "I was plunged anew into dejection and perplexity. 
 From this I was somewhat relieved by a plan suggested 
 by Mr. Thetford. I thought I had experience of his 
 knowledge and integrity, and the scheme that he pro 
 posed seemed liable to no possibility of miscarriage. A 
 ship was to be purchased, supplied with a suitable cargo, 
 and despatched to a port in the West Indies. Loss 
 from storms and enemies was to be precluded by in 
 surance. Every hazard was to be enumerated, and the 
 ship and cargo valued at the highest rate. Should the 
 voyage be safely performed, the profits would be double 
 the original expense. Should the ship be taken or 
 wrecked, the insurers would have bound themselves to 
 make ample, speedy, and certain indemnification. Thet- 
 ford s brother, a wary and experienced trader, was to be 
 the supercargo. 
 
 "All my money was laid out upon this scheme. 
 Scarcely enough was reserved to supply domestic and 
 personal wants. Large debts were likewise incurred. 
 98
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 99 
 
 Our caution had, as we conceived, annihilated every 
 chance of failure. Too much could not be expended on 
 a project so infallible ; and the vessel, amply fitted and 
 freighted, departed on her voyage. 
 
 "An interval, not devoid of suspense and anxiety, 
 succeeded. My mercantile inexperience made me dis 
 trust the clearness of my own discernment, arid I could 
 not but remember that my utter and irretrievable de 
 struction was connected with the failure of my scheme. 
 Time added to my distrust and apprehensions. The 
 time at which tidings of the ship were to be expected 
 elapsed without affording any information of her destiny. 
 My anxieties, however, were to be carefully hidden from 
 the world. I had taught mankind to believe that this 
 project had been adopted more for amusement than 
 gain ; and the debts which I had contracted seemed to 
 arise from willingness to adhere to established maxims, 
 more than from the pressure of necessity. 
 
 "Month succeeded month, and intelligence was still 
 withheld. The notes which I had given for one-third 
 of the cargo, and for the premium of insurance, would 
 shortly become due. For the payment of the former, 
 and the cancelling of the latter, I had relied upon the 
 expeditious return or the demonstrated loss of the ves 
 sel. Neither of these events had taken place. 
 
 " My cares were augmented from another quarter. 
 My companion s situation now appeared to be such as, 
 if our intercourse had been sanctified by wedlock, would 
 have been regarded with delight. As it was, no symp 
 toms were equally to be deplored. Consequences, as long 
 as they were involved in uncertainty, were extenuated or 
 overlooked ; but now, when they became apparent and 
 inevitable, were fertile of distress and upbraiding. 
 
 " Indefinable fears, and a desire to monopolize all the 
 meditations and affections of this being, had induced me 
 to perpetuate her ignorance of any but her native lan 
 guage, and debar her from all intercourse with the world. 
 My friends were of course inquisitive respecting her cha 
 racter, adventures, and particularly her relation to me. 
 The consciousness how much the truth redounded to my 
 dishonour made me solicitous to lead conjecture astray.
 
 IOO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 For this purpose I did not discountenance the conclusion 
 that was adopted by some, that she was my daughter. 
 I reflected that all dangerous surmises would be effec 
 tually precluded by this belief. 
 
 " These precautions afforded me some consolation in 
 my present difficulties. It was requisite to conceal the 
 lady s condition from the world. If this should be inef 
 fectual, it would not be difficult to divert suspicion from 
 my person. The secrecy that I had practised would be 
 justified, in the apprehension of those to whom the per 
 sonal condition of Clemenza should be disclosed, by the 
 feelings of a father. 
 
 " Meanwhile, it was an obvious expedient to remove 
 the unhappy lady to a distance from impertinent observ 
 ers. A rural retreat, lonely and sequestered, was easily 
 procured, and hither she consented to repair. This ar 
 rangement being concerted, I had leisure to reflect upon 
 the evils which every hour brought nearer, and which 
 threatened to exterminate me. 
 
 " My inquietudes forbade me to sleep, and I was ac 
 customed to rise before day and seek some respite in the 
 fields. Returning from one of these unseasonable ram 
 bles, I chanced to meet you. Your resemblance to the 
 deceased Lodi, in person and visage, is remarkable. 
 When you first met my eye, this similitude startled me. 
 Your subsequent appeal to my compassion was clothed 
 in such terms as formed a powerful contrast with your 
 dress, and prepossessed me greatly in favour of your 
 education and capacity. 
 
 " In my present hopeless condition, every incident, 
 however trivial, was attentively considered, with a view 
 to extract from it some means of escaping from my dif 
 ficulties. My love for the Italian girl, in spite of all my 
 efforts to keep it alive, had begun to languish. Marriage 
 was impossible ; and had now, in some degree, ceased to 
 be desirable. We are apt to judge of others by our 
 selves. The passion I now found myself disposed to 
 ascribe chiefly to fortuitous circumstances ; to the im 
 pulse of gratitude, and the exclusion of competitors; 
 and believed that your resemblance to her brother, your 
 age and personal accomplishments, might, after a certain
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. IOI 
 
 time, and in consequence of suitable contrivances on my 
 part, give a new direction to her feelings. To gain your 
 concurrence, I relied upon your simplicity, your grati 
 tude, and your susceptibility to the charms of this be 
 witching creature. 
 
 " I contemplated, likewise, another end. Mrs. Went- 
 worth is rich. A youth who was once her favourite, and 
 designed to inherit her fortunes, has disappeared, for 
 some years, from the scene. His death is most probable, 
 but of that there is no satisfactory information. The life 
 of this person, whose name is Clavering, is an obstacle to 
 some designs which had occurred to me in relation to this 
 woman. My purposes were crude and scarcely formed. 
 I need not swell the catalogue of my errors by expatiat 
 ing upon them. Suffice it to say that the peculiar cir 
 cumstances of your introduction to me led me to reflec 
 tions on the use that might be made of your agency, in 
 procuring this lady s acquiescence in my schemes. You 
 were to be ultimately persuaded to confirm her in the 
 belief that her nephew was dead. To this consummation 
 it was indispensable to lead you by slow degrees and 
 circuitous paths. Meanwhile, a profound silence, with 
 regard to your genuine history, was to be observed ; and 
 to this forbearance your consent was obtained with more 
 readiness than I expected. 
 
 " There was an additional motive for the treatment 
 you received from me. My personal projects and cares 
 had hitherto prevented me from reading Lodi s manu 
 script ; a slight inspection, however, was sufficient to 
 prove that the work was profound and eloquent. My 
 ambition has panted, with equal avidity, after the repu 
 tation of literature and opulence. To claim the author 
 ship of this work was too harmless and specious a strata 
 gem not to be readily suggested. I meant to translate 
 it into English, and to enlarge it by enterprising inci 
 dents of my own invention. My scruples to assume the 
 merit of the original composer might thus be removed. 
 For this end, your assistance as an amanuensis would be 
 necessary. 
 
 " You will perceive that all these projects depended
 
 102 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 on the seasonable arrival of intelligence from . The 
 
 delay of another week would seal my destruction. The 
 silence might arise from the foundering of the ship and 
 the destruction of all on board. In this case, the in 
 surance was not forfeited, but payment could not be ob 
 tained within a year. Meanwhile, the premium and 
 other debts must be immediately discharged, and this 
 was beyond my power. Meanwhile, I was to live in a 
 manner that would not belie my pretensions ; but my 
 coffers were empty. 
 
 " I cannot adequately paint the anxieties with which I 
 have been haunted. Each hour has added to the burden 
 of my existence, till, in consequence of the events of 
 this day, it has become altogether insupportable. Some 
 hours ago, I was summoned by Thetford to his house. 
 The messenger informed me that tidings had been re 
 ceived of my ship. In answer to my eager interroga 
 tions, he could give no other information than that she 
 had been captured by the British. lie was unable to 
 relate particulars. 
 
 "News of her safe return would, indeed, have been 
 far more acceptable ; but even this information was a 
 source of infinite congratulation. It precluded the de 
 mand of my insurers. The payment of other debts 
 might be postponed for a month, and my situation be the 
 same as before the adoption of this successless scheme. 
 Hope and joy were reinstated in my bosom, and I hasted 
 to Thetford s counting-house. 
 
 " He received me with an air of gloomy dissatisfac 
 tion. I accounted for his sadness by supposing him 
 averse to communicate information which was less fa 
 vourable than our wishes had dictated. He confirmed, 
 with visible reluctance, the news of her capture. He 
 had just received letters from his brother, acquainting 
 him with all particulars, and containing the official docu 
 ments of this transaction. 
 
 " This had no tendency to damp my satisfaction, and 
 I proceeded to peruse with eagerness the papers which 
 he put into my hand. I had not proceeded far, when 
 my joyous hopes vanished. Two French mulattoes had, 
 after much solicitation, and the most solemn promises to
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR J793- IO3 
 
 carry with them no articles which the laws of war decree 
 to be contraband, obtained a passage in the vessel. She 
 was speedily encountered by a privateer, by whom every 
 receptacle was ransacked. In a chest, belonging to the 
 Frenchmen, and which they had affirmed to contain no 
 thing but their clothes, were found two sabres, and other 
 accoutrements of an officer of cavalry. Under this pre 
 tence, the vessel was captured and condemned, and this 
 was a cause of forfeiture which had not been provided 
 against in the contract of insurance. 
 
 " By this untoward event my hopes were irreparably 
 blasted. The utmost efforts were demanded to conceal 
 my thoughts from my companion. The anguish that 
 preyed upon my heart was endeavoured to be masked by 
 looks of indifference. I pretended to have been pre 
 viously informed by the messenger not only of the cap 
 ture, but of the cause that led to it, and forbore to ex 
 patiate upon my loss, or to execrate the authors of my 
 disappointment. My mind, however, was the theatre of 
 discord and agony, and I waited with impatience for an 
 opportunity to leave him. 
 
 " For want of other topics, I asked by whom this in 
 formation had been brought. He answered, that the 
 bearer was Captain Amos Watson, whose vessel had been 
 forfeited, at the same time, under a different pretence. 
 He added that, my name being mentioned accidentally 
 to Watson, the latter had betrayed marks of great sur 
 prise, and been very earnest in his inquiries respecting 
 my situation. Having obtained what knowledge Thet- 
 ford was able to communicate, the captain had departed, 
 avowing a former acquaintance with me, and declaring 
 his intention of paying me a visit. 
 
 " These words operated on my frame like lightning. 
 All within me was tumult and terror, and I rushed pre 
 cipitately out of the house. I went forward with un 
 equal steps, and at random. Some instinct led me into 
 the fields, and I was not apprized of the direction of my 
 steps, till, looking up, I found myself upon the shore of 
 Schuylkill. 
 
 "Thus was I, a second time, overborne by hopeless
 
 104 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 and incurable evils. An interval of motley feelings, of 
 specious artifice and contemptible imposture, had elapsed 
 since my meeting with the stranger at Wilmington. Then 
 my forlorn state had led me to the brink of suicide. A 
 brief and feverish respite had been afforded me, but now 
 was I transported to the verge of the same abyss. 
 
 "Amos Watson was the brother of the angel whom I 
 had degraded and destroyed. What but fiery indigna 
 tion and unappeasable vengeance could lead him into my 
 presence? With what heart could I listen to his invec 
 tives ? How could I endure to look upon the face of one 
 whom I had loaded with such atrocious and intolerable 
 injuries? 
 
 " I was acquainted with his loftiness of mind ; his de 
 testation of injustice, and the whirlwind passions that 
 ingratitude and villany like mine were qualified to awaken 
 in his bosom. I dreaded not his violence. The death 
 that he might be prompted to inflict was no object of 
 aversion. It was poverty and disgrace, the detection of 
 my crimes, the looks and voice of malediction and up 
 braiding, from which my cowardice shrunk. 
 
 " Why should I live ? I must vanish from that stage 
 which I had lately trodden. My flight must be instant 
 and precipitate. To be a fugitive from exasperated 
 creditors, and from the industrious revenge of Watson, 
 was an easy undertaking; but whither could I fly, where 
 I should not be pursued by the phantoms of remorse, by 
 the dread of hourly detection, by the necessities of hun 
 ger and thirst ? In what scene should I be exempt from 
 servitude and drudgery ? Was my existence embellished 
 with enjoyments that would justify my holding it, en 
 cumbered with hardships and immersed in obscurity? 
 
 " There was no room for hesitation. To rush into the 
 stream before me, and put an end at once to my life and 
 the miseries inseparably linked with it, was the only 
 proceeding which fate had left to my choice. My 
 muscles were already exerted for this end, when the 
 helpless condition of Clcmenza WHS remembered. What 
 provision could I make against the evils that threatened 
 her? Should I leave her utterly forlorn and friendless? 
 Mrs. Wcntworth s temper was forgiving and compas-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 1 05 
 
 sionate. Adversity had taught her to participate and 
 her wealth enabled her to relieve distress. Who was 
 there by whom such powerful claims to succour and pro 
 tection could be urged as by this desolate girl? Might 
 I not state her situation in a letter to this lady, and urge 
 irresistible pleas for the extension of her kindness to this 
 object? 
 
 " These thoughts made me suspend my steps. I de 
 termined to seek my habitation once more, and, having 
 written and deposited this letter, to return to the execu 
 tion of my fatal purpose. I had scarcely reached my 
 own door, when some one approached along the pave 
 ment. The form, at first, was undistinguishable, but, by 
 coming, at length, within the illumination of a lamp, it 
 was perfectly recognised. 
 
 " To avoid this detested interview was now impossible. 
 Watson approached and accosted me. In this conflict 
 of tumultuous feelings I was still able to maintain an air 
 of intrepidity. His demeanour was that of a man who 
 struggles with his rage. His accents were hurried, and 
 scarcely articulate. I have ten words to say to you, 
 said he ; lead into the house, and to some private room. 
 My business with you will be despatched in a breath. 
 
 "I made him no answer, but led the way into my 
 house, and to my study. On entering this room, I put 
 the light upon the table, and, turning to my visitant, 
 prepared silently to hear what he had to unfold. He 
 struck his clenched hand against the table with violence. 
 His motion was of that tempestuous kind as to over 
 whelm the power of utterance, and found it easier to vent 
 itself in gesticulations than in words. At length he 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " It is well. Now has the hour, so long and so im 
 patiently demanded by my vengeance, arrived. Wei- 
 beck ! Would that my first words could strike thee 
 dead ! They will so, if thou hast any title to the name 
 of man. 
 
 " My sister is dead; dead of anguish and a broken 
 heart. Remote from her friends ; in a hovel ; the abode 
 of indigence and misery. 
 
 " Her husband is no more. He returned after a
 
 106 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 long absence, a tedious navigation, and vicissitudes of 
 hardships, lie flew to the bosom of his love; of his 
 wife. She was gone; lost to him, and to virtue. In a 
 fit of desperation, he retired to his chamber and de 
 spatched himself. This is the instrument with which 
 the deed was performed. 
 
 " Saying this, Watson took a pistol from his pocket, 
 and held it to my head. I lifted not my hand to turn 
 aside the weapon. I did not shudder at the spectacle, 
 or shrink from his approaching hand. With fingers 
 clasped together, and eyes fixed upon the floor, I waited 
 till his fury was exhausted. He continued : 
 
 " All passed in a few hours. The elopement of his 
 daughter, the death of his son. my father ! Most 
 loved and most venerable of men ! To see thee changed 
 into a maniac ! Haggard and wild ! Deterred from 
 outrage on thyself and those around thee by fetters and 
 stripes ! What was it that saved me from a like fate ? 
 To view this hideous ruin, and to think by whom it was 
 occasioned ! Yet not to become frantic like thee, my 
 father ; or not destroy myself like thee, my brother ! 
 My friend ! 
 
 " No. For this hour was I reserved; to avenge 
 your wrongs and mine in the blood of this ungrateful 
 villain. 
 
 " There, continued he, producing a second pistol, 
 and tendering it to me, there is thy defence. Take 
 we opposite sides of this table, and fire at the same 
 instant. 
 
 " During this address I was motionless. He tendered 
 the pistol, but I unclasped not my hands to receive it. 
 
 " Why do you hesitate? resumed he. Let the 
 chance between us be equal, or fire you first. 
 
 " No, said I, I am ready to die by your hand. I 
 wish it. It will preclude the necessity of performing 
 the office for myself. I have injured you, and merit all 
 that your vengeance can inflict. I know your nature 
 too well to believe that my death will be perfect expia 
 tion. When the gust of indignation is past, the remem 
 brance of your deed will only add to your sum of misery ; 
 yet I do not love you well enough to wish that you
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. IO/ 
 
 would forbear. I desire to die, and to die by another s 
 hand rather than my own." 
 
 " Coward! exclaimed Watson, with augmented ve 
 hemence, you know me too well to believe me capable 
 of assassination. Vile subterfuge ! Contemptible pica! 
 Take the pistol and defend yourself. You want not the 
 power or the will ; but, knowing that I spurn at murder, 
 you think your safety will be found in passiveness. Your 
 refusal will avail you little. Your fame, if not your 
 life, is at my mercy. If you falter now, I will allow you 
 to live, but only till I have stabbed your reputation. 
 
 " I now fixed my eyes steadfastly upon him, and 
 spoke : How much a stranger are you to the feelings 
 of Welbeck! How poor a judge of his cowardice ! I 
 take your pistol, and consent to your conditions. 
 
 "We took opposite sides of the table. Are you 
 ready? he cried ; fire ! 
 
 " Both triggers were drawn at the same instant. Both 
 pistols were discharged. Mine was negligently raised. 
 Such is the untoward chance that presides over human 
 affairs; such is the malignant destiny by which my steps 
 have ever been pursued. The bullet whistled harmlessly 
 by me, levelled by an eye that never before failed, and 
 with so small an interval between us. I escaped, but 
 my blind and random shot took place in his heart. 
 
 "There is the fruit of this disastrous meeting. The 
 catalogue of death is thus completed. Thou sleepest, 
 Watson ! Thy sister is at rest, and so art thou. Thy 
 vows of vengeance are at an end. It was not reserved 
 for thee to be thy own and thy sister s avenger. Wei- 
 beck s measure of transgressions is now full, and his own 
 hand must execute the justice that is due to him."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 SUCH was Welbeck s tale, listened to by me with an 
 eagerness in which every faculty was absorbed. How 
 adverse to my dreams were the incidents that had just 
 been related ! The curtain was lifted, and a scene of 
 guilt and ignominy disclosed where my rash and inex 
 perienced youth had suspected nothing but loftiness and 
 magnanimity. 
 
 For a while the wondrousness of this tale kept me from 
 contemplating the consequences that awaited us. My 
 unfledged fancy had not hitherto soared to this pitch. 
 All was astounding by its novelty, or terrific by its horror. 
 The very scene of these offences partook, to my rustic 
 apprehension, of fairy splendour and magical abruptness. 
 My understanding was bemazcd, and my senses were 
 taught to distrust their own testimony. 
 
 From this musing state I was recalled by my companion, 
 who said to me, in solemn accents, "Mervyn! I have but 
 two requests to make. Assist me to bury these remains, 
 and then accompany me across the river. I have no power 
 to compel your silence on the acts that you have wit 
 nessed. I have meditated to benefit as well as to injure 
 you; but I do not desire that your demeanour should 
 conform to any other standard than justice. You have 
 promised, and to that promise I trust. 
 
 "If you choose to fly from this scene, to withdraw 
 yourself from what you may conceive to be a theatre of 
 guilt or peril, the avenues are open ; retire unmolested 
 and in silence. If you have a manlike spirit, if you are 
 grateful for the benefits bestowed upon you, if your dis 
 cernment enables you to see that compliance with my 
 108
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. ICX) 
 
 request will entangle you in no guilt and betray you into 
 no danger, stay, and aid rue in hiding these remains 
 from human scrutiny. 
 
 "Watson is beyond the reach of further injury. I 
 never intended him harm, though I have torn from him 
 his sister and friend, and have brought his life to an un 
 timely close. To provide him a grave is a duty that I 
 owe to the dead and to the living. I shall quickly place 
 myself beyond the reach of inquisitors and judges, but 
 would willingly rescue from molestation or suspicion those 
 whom I shall leave behind." 
 
 What would have been the fruit of deliberation, if I 
 had had the time or power to deliberate, I know not. 
 My thoughts flowed with tumult and rapidity. To shut 
 this spectacle from my view was the first impulse ; but to 
 desert this man, in a time of so much need, appeared a 
 thankless and dastardly deportment. To remain where 
 I was, to conform implicitly to his direction, required no 
 effort. Some fear was connected with his presence, and 
 with that of the dead ; but, in the tremulous confusion of 
 my present thoughts, solitude would conjure up a thou 
 sand phantoms. 
 
 I made no preparation to depart. I did not verbally 
 assent to his proposal. He interpreted my silence into 
 acquiescence. He wrapped the body in the carpet, and 
 then, lifting one end, cast at me a look which indicated 
 his expectations that I would aid him in lifting this 
 ghastly burden. During this process, the silence was 
 unbroken. 
 
 I knew not whither he intended to convey the corpse. 
 lie had talked of burial, but no receptacle had been pro 
 vided. How far safety might depend upon his conduct 
 in this particular, I was unable to estimate. I was in 
 too heartless a mood to utter my doubts. I followed his 
 example in raising the corpse from the floor. 
 
 He led the way into the passage and down-stairs. 
 Having reached the first floor, he unbolted a door which 
 led into the cellar. The stairs and passage were illumi 
 nated by lamps that hung from the ceiling and were 
 accustomed to burn during the night. Now, however, 
 we were entering darksome and murky recesses.
 
 110 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "Return," said he, in a tone of command, "and fetch 
 the light. I will wait for you." 
 
 I obeyed. As I returned with the light, a suspicion 
 stole into my mind, that Wclbeck had taken this oppor 
 tunity to fly ; and that, on regaining the foot of the stairs, 
 I should find the spot deserted by all but the dead. My 
 blood was chilled by this image. The momentary reso 
 lution it inspired was to follow the example of the fugi 
 tive, and leave the persons whom the ensuing day might 
 convene on this spot, to form their own conjectures as to 
 the cause of this catastrophe. 
 
 Meanwhile, I cast anxious eyes forward. Welbcck 
 was discovered in the same place and posture in which 
 he had been left. Lifting the corpse and its shroud in his 
 arms, he directed me to follow him. The vaults beneath 
 were lofty and spacious. He passed from one to the 
 other till we reached a small and remote cell. Here he 
 cast his burden on the ground. In the fall, the face of 
 Watson chanced to be disengaged from its covering. Its 
 closed eyes and sunken muscles were rendered in a ten 
 fold degree ghastly and rueful by the feeble light which 
 the candle shed upon it. 
 
 This object did not escape the attention of Wclbeck. 
 lie leaned against the wall, and, folding his arms, re 
 signed himself to reverie. He gazed upon the counte 
 nance of Watson, but his looks denoted his attention to 
 be elsewhere employed. 
 
 As to me, my state will not be easily described. My 
 eye roved fearfully from one object to another. By turns 
 it was fixed upon the murdered person and the murderer. 
 The narrow cell in which we stood, its rudely-fashioned 
 walls and arches, destitute of communication with the 
 external air, and its palpable dark scarcely penetrated 
 by the rays of a solitary candle, added to the silence 
 which was deep and universal, produced an impression 
 on my fancy which no time will obliterate. 
 
 Perhaps my imagination was distempered by terror. 
 The incident which I am going to relate may appear to 
 have existed only in my fancy. Be that as it may, I 
 experienced all the effects which the fullest belief is 
 adapted to produce. Glancing vaguely at the counte-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- III 
 
 nance of Watson, my attention was arrested by a con 
 vulsive motion in the eyelids. This motion increased, 
 till at length the eyes opened, and a glance, languid but 
 wild, was thrown around. Instantly they closed, and 
 the tremulous appearance vanished. 
 
 I started from my place and was on the point of utter 
 ing some involuntary exclamation. At the same moment, 
 Welbeck seemed to recover from his reverie. 
 
 "How is this?" said he. "Why do we linger here? 
 Every moment is precious. We cannot dig for him a 
 grave with our hands. Wait here, while I go in search 
 of a spade." 
 
 Saying this, he snatched the candle from my hand, and 
 hasted away. My eye followed the light as its gleams 
 shifted their place upon the walls and ceilings, and, gra 
 dually vanishing, gave place to unrespited gloom. This 
 proceeding was so unexpected and abrupt, that I had no 
 time to remonstrate against it. Before I retrieved the 
 power of reflection, the light had disappeared and the 
 footsteps were no longer to be heard. 
 
 I was not, on ordinary occasions, destitute of equa 
 nimity ; but perhaps the imagination of man is naturally 
 abhorrent of death, until tutored into indifference by 
 habit. Every circumstance combined to fill me with 
 shuddering and panic. For a while, I was enabled to 
 endure my situation by the exertions of my reason. 
 That the lifeless remains of a human being are power 
 less to injure or benefit, I was thoroughly persuaded. I 
 summoned this belief to my aid, and was able, if not to 
 subdue, yet to curb, my fears. I listened to catch the 
 sound of the returning footsteps of Welbeck, and hoped 
 that every new moment would terminate my solitude. 
 
 No signal of his coming was afforded. At length it 
 occurred to me that Welbeck had gone with no intention 
 to return; that his malice had seduced me hither to 
 encounter the consequences of his deed. He had fled 
 and barred every door behind him. This suspicion 
 may well be supposed to overpower my courage, and to 
 call forth desperate efforts for my deliverance. 
 
 I extended my hands and went forward. I had been 
 too little attentive to the situation and direction of these
 
 112 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 vaults and passages, to go forward with undeviating 
 accuracy. My fears likewise tended to confuse my per 
 ceptions and bewilder my steps. Notwithstanding the 
 danger of encountering obstructions, I rushed towards 
 the entrance with precipitation. 
 
 My temerity was quickly punished. In a moment, I 
 was repelled by a jutting angle of the wall, with such 
 force that I staggered backward and fell. The blow was 
 stunning, and, when I recovered my senses, I perceived 
 that a torrent of blood was gushing from my nostrils. 
 My clothes were moistened with this unwelcome effusion, 
 and I could not but reflect on the hazard which I should 
 incur by being detected in this recess, covered by these 
 accusing stains. 
 
 This reflection once more set me on my feet and incited 
 my exertions. I now proceeded with greater wariness 
 arid caution. I had lost all distinct notions of rny way. 
 My motions were at random. All my labour was to 
 shun obstructions and to advance whenever the vacuity 
 would permit. By this means, the entrance was at 
 length found, and, after various efforts, I arrived, beyond 
 my hopes, at the foot of the staircase. 
 
 I ascended, but quickly encountered an insuperable 
 impediment. The door at the stair-head was closed and 
 barred. My utmost strength was exerted in vain, to 
 break the lock or the hinges. Thus were my direst ap 
 prehensions fulfilled. Welbeck had left me to sustain 
 the charge of murder ; to obviate suspicions the most 
 atrocious and plausible that the course of human events 
 is capable of producing. 
 
 Here I must remain till the morrow ; till some one 
 can be made to overhear my calls and come to ray de 
 liverance. What effects will my appearance produce on 
 the spectator ? Terrified by phantoms and stained with 
 blood, shall I not exhibit the tokens of a maniac as well 
 as an assassin ? 
 
 The corpse of Watson will quickly be discovered. If, 
 previous to this disclosure, I should change my blood 
 stained garments and withdraw into the country, shall I 
 not be pursued by the most vehement suspicions, and, 
 perhaps, hunted to my obscurest retreat by the minis-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 113 
 
 ters of justice ? I am innocent ; but my tale, however 
 circumstantial or true, will scarcely suffice for my vindi 
 cation. My flight will be construed into a proof of in 
 contestable guilt. 
 
 While harassed by these thoughts, my attention was 
 attracted by a faint gleam cast upon the bottom of the 
 staircase. It grew stronger, hovered for a moment in 
 my sight, and then disappeared. That it proceeded 
 from a lamp or candle, borne by some one along the 
 passages, was no untenable opinion, but was far less 
 probable than that the effulgence was meteorous. I 
 confided in the latter supposition, and fortified myself 
 anew against the dread of preternatural dangers. My 
 thoughts reverted to the contemplation of the hazards 
 and suspicions which flowed from my continuance in 
 this spot. 
 
 In the midst of my perturbed musing, my attention 
 was again recalled by an illumination like the former. 
 Instead of hovering and vanishing, it was permanent. 
 No ray could be more feeble ; but the tangible obscurity 
 to which it succeeded rendered it conspicuous as an 
 electrical flash. For a while I eyed it without moving 
 from my place, and in momentary expectation of its 
 disappearance. 
 
 Remarking its stability, the propriety of scrutinizing 
 it more nearly, and of ascertaining the source whence it 
 flowed, was at length suggested. Hope, as well as 
 curiosity, was the parent of my conduct. Though 
 utterly at a loss to assign the cause of this appearance, 
 I was willing to believe some connection between that 
 cause and the means of my deliverance. 
 
 I had scarcely formed the resolution of descending 
 the stair, when my hope was extinguished by the recol 
 lection that the cellar had narrow and grated windows, 
 through which light from the street might possibly have 
 found access. A second recollection supplanted this 
 belief, for in my way to this staircase my attention 
 would have been solicited, and my steps, in some degree, 
 been guided, by light coming through these avenues. 
 
 Having returned to the bottom of the stair, I per 
 ceived every part of the long-drawn passage illuminated. 
 8
 
 114 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I threw a glance forward to the quarter whence the rays 
 seemed to proceed, and beheld, at a considerable dis 
 tance, Welbeck in the cell which I had left, turning up 
 the earth with a spade. 
 
 After a pause of astonishment, the nature of the error 
 which I had committed rushed upon my apprehension. 
 I now perceived that the darkness had misled me to a 
 different staircase from that which I had originally de 
 scended. It was apparent that Welbeck intended me 
 no evil, but had really gone in search of the instrument 
 which he had mentioned. 
 
 This discovery overwhelmed me with contrition and 
 shame, though it freed me from the terrors of imprison 
 ment and accusation. To return to the cell which I had 
 left, and where Welbeck was employed in his disastrous 
 office, was the expedient which regard to my own safety 
 unavoidably suggested. 
 
 Welbeck paused at my approach, and betrayed a mo 
 mentary consternation at the sight of my ensanguined 
 visage. The blood, by some inexplicable process of 
 nature, perhaps by the counteracting influence of fear, 
 had quickly ceased to flow. Whether the cause of my 
 evasion, and of my flux of blood, was guessed, or whether 
 his attention was withdrawn, by more momentous objects, 
 from my condition, he proceeded in his task in silence. 
 
 A shallow bed and a slight covering of clay were pro 
 vided for the hapless Watson. Welbeck s movements 
 were hurried and tremulous. His countenance betokened 
 a mind engrossed by a single purpose, in some degree 
 foreign to the scene before him. An intensity and 
 fixedness of features were conspicuous, that led me to 
 saspect the subversion of his reason. 
 
 Having finished the task, he threw aside his imple 
 ment. He then put into my hand a pocket-book, saying 
 it belonged to Watson, and might contain something 
 serviceable to the living. I might make what use of it 
 I thought proper. He then remounted the stairs, and, 
 placing the candle on a table in the hall, opened the 
 principal door and went forth. I was driven, by a sort 
 of mechanical impulse, in his footsteps. I followed him
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 11$ 
 
 because it was agreeable to him and because I knew not 
 whither else to direct my steps. 
 
 The streets were desolate and silent. The watchman s 
 call, remotely and faintly heard, added to the general 
 solemnity. I followed my companion in a state of mind 
 not easily described. I had no spirit even to inquire 
 whither he was going. It was not till we arrived at the 
 water s edge that I persuaded myself to break silence. 
 I then began to reflect on the degree in which his pre 
 sent schemes might endanger Welbeck or myself. I had 
 acted long enough a servile and mechanical part ; and 
 been guided by blind and foreign impulses. It was time 
 to lay aside my fetters, and demand to know whither the 
 path tended in which I was importuned to walk. 
 
 Meanwhile I found myself entangled among boats and 
 shipping. I am unable to describe the spot by any in 
 disputable tokens. I know merely that it was the termi 
 nation of one of the principal streets. Here Welbeck 
 selected a boat and prepared to enter it. For a moment 
 I hesitated to comply with his apparent invitation. I 
 stammered out an interrogation: "Why is this? Why 
 should we cross the river ? What service can I do for 
 you ? I ought to know the purpose of my voyage before 
 I enter it." 
 
 He checked himself and surveyed me for a minute in 
 silence. "What do you fear?" said he. "Have I not 
 explained my wishes ? Merely cross the river with me, 
 for I cannot navigate a boat by myself. Is there any 
 thing arduous or mysterious in this undertaking ? we 
 part on the Jersey shore, and I shall leave you to your 
 destiny. All I shall ask from you will be silence, and 
 to hide from mankind what you know concerning me." 
 
 He now entered the boat and urged me to follow his 
 example. I reluctantly complied I perceived that the 
 boat contained but one oar, and that was a small one. 
 He seemed startled and thrown into great perplexity by 
 this discovery. "It will be impossible," said he, in a 
 tone of panic and vexation, "to procure another at this 
 hour: what is to be done?" 
 
 This impediment was by no means insuperable. I had 
 sinewy arms, and knew well how to use an oar for the
 
 Il6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 double purpose of oar and rudder. I took my station at 
 the stern, and quickly extricated the boat from its neigh 
 bours and from the wharves. I was wholly unacquainted 
 with the river. The bar by which it was encumbered I 
 knew to exist, but in what direction and to what extent 
 it existed, and how it might be avoided in the present 
 state of the tide, I knew not. It was probable, there 
 fore, unknowing as I was of the proper track, that our 
 boat would speedily have grounded. 
 
 My attention, meanwhile, was fixed upon the oar. 
 My companion sat at the prow, and was in a consider 
 able degree unnoticed. I cast my eyes occasionally at 
 the scene which I had left. Its novelty, joined with the 
 incidents of my condition, threw me into a state of sus 
 pense and wonder which frequently slackened my hand 
 and left the vessel to be driven by the downward cur 
 rent. Lights were sparingly seen, and these were per 
 petually fluctuating, as masts, yards, and hulls were in 
 terposed, and passed before them. In proportion as we 
 receded from the shore, the clamours seemed to multiply, 
 and the suggestion that the city was involved in con 
 fusion and uproar did not easily give way to maturer 
 thoughts. Twelve was the hour cried, and this ascended 
 at once from all quarters, and was mingled with the 
 baying of dogs, so as to produce trepidation and alarm. 
 
 From this state of magnificent and awful feeling I was 
 suddenly called by the conduct of Welbeck. We had 
 scarcely moved two hundred yards from the shore, when 
 he plunged into the water. The first conception was 
 that some implement or part of the boat had fallen over 
 board. I looked back and perceived that his seat was 
 vacant. In my first astonishment I loosened my hold 
 of the oar, and it floated away. The surface was smooth 
 as glass, and the eddy occasioned by his sinking was 
 scarcely visible. I had not time to determine whether 
 this was designed or accidental. Its suddenness de 
 prived me of the power to exert myself for his succour. 
 I wildly gazed around me, in hopes of seeing him rise. 
 After some time my attention was drawn, by the sound 
 of agitation in the water, to a considerable distance. 
 
 It was too dark for any thing to be distinctly seen.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 1/ 
 
 There was no cry for help. The noise was like that of 
 one vigorously struggling for a moment, and then sinking 
 to the bottom. I listened with painful eagerness, but 
 was unable to distinguish a third signal. He sunk to 
 rise no more. 
 
 I was for a time inattentive to my own situation. 
 The dreadfulness and unexpectedness of this catastrophe 
 occupied me wholly. The quick motion of the lights 
 upon the shore showed me that I was borne rapidly along 
 with the tide. How to help myself, how to impede my 
 course or to regain either shore, since I had lost the oar, 
 I was unable to tell. I was no less at a loss to con 
 jecture whither the current, if suffered to control my 
 vehicle, would finally transport me. 
 
 The disappearance of lights and buildings, and the 
 diminution of the noises, acquainted me that I had 
 passed the town. It was impossible longer to hesitate. 
 The shore was to be regained by one way only, which 
 was swimming. To any exploit of this kind, my strength 
 and my skill were adequate. I threw away my loose 
 gown ; put the pocket-book of the unfortunate Watson 
 in my mouth, to preserve it from being injured by 
 moisture ; and committed myself to the stream. 
 
 I landed in a spot incommoded with mud and reeds. 
 I sunk knee-deep into the former, and was exhausted by 
 the fatigue of extricating myself. At length I reco 
 vered firm ground, and threw myself on the turf to 
 repair my wasted strength, and to reflect on the mea 
 sures which my future welfare enjoined me to pursue. 
 
 What condition was ever parallel to mine ? The 
 transactions of the last three days resembled the mon 
 strous creations of delirium. They were painted with 
 vivid hues on my memory; but so rapid and incongruous 
 were these transitions, that I almost denied belief to 
 their reality. They exercised a bewildering and stupe 
 fying influence on my mind, from which the meditations 
 of an hour were scarcely sufficient to relieve me. Gra 
 dually I recovered the power of arranging my ideas and 
 forming conclusions. 
 
 Welbeck was dead. His property was swallowed up, 
 and his creditors left to wonder at his disappearance.
 
 Il8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 All that was left was the furniture of his house, to which 
 Mrs. Wentworth would lay claim, in discharge of the 
 unpaid rent. What now was the destiny that awaited 
 the lost and friendless Mademoiselle Lodi ? Where was 
 she concealed ? Welheck had dropped no intimation by 
 which I might be led to suspect the place of her abode. 
 If my power, in other respects, could have contributed 
 aught to her relief, my ignorance of her asylum had 
 utterly disabled me. 
 
 But what of the murdered person ? He had suddenly 
 vanished from the face of the earth. His fate and the 
 place of his interment would probably be suspected arid 
 ascertained. Was I sure to escape from the conse 
 quences of this deed ? Watson had relatives and 
 friends. W T hat influence on their state and happiness 
 his untimely and mysterious fate would possess, it was 
 obvious to inquire. This idea led me to the recollection 
 of his pocket-book. Some papers might be there ex 
 planatory of his situation. 
 
 I resumed my feet. I knew not where to direct my 
 steps. I was dropping with wet, and shivering with the 
 cold. I was destitute of habitation and friend. I had 
 neither money nor any valuable thing in my possession. 
 I moved forward mechanically and at random. Where I 
 landed was at no great distance from the verge of the 
 town. In a short time I discovered the glimmering of a 
 distant lamp. To this I directed my steps, and here I 
 paused to examine the contents of the pocket-book. 
 
 I found three bank-notes, each of fifty dollars, en 
 closed in a piece of blank paper. Besides these were 
 three letters, apparently written by his wife, and dated 
 at Baltimore. They were brief, but composed in a strain 
 of great tenderness, and containing affecting allusions 
 to their child. I could gather, from their date and 
 tenor, that they were received during his absence on his 
 recent voyage; that her condition was considerably ne 
 cessitous, and surrounded by wants which their prolonged 
 separation had increased. 
 
 The fourth letter was open, and seemed to have been 
 very lately written. It was directed to Mrs. Mary Wat- 
 Bon. He informed her in it of his arrival at Philadel-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793, 1 19 
 
 plua from St. Domingo; of the loss of his ship and 
 cargo; and of his intention to hasten home with all 
 possible expedition. He told her that all was lost but 
 one hundred and fifty dollars, the greater part of which 
 he should bring with him, to relieve her more pressing 
 wants. The letter was signed, and folded, and super 
 scribed, but unsealed. 
 
 A little consideration showed me in what manner it 
 became me, on this occasion, to demean myself. I put 
 the bank-notes in the letter, and sealed it with a wafer ; 
 a few of which were found in the pocket-book. I hesi 
 tated some time whether I should add any thing to the 
 information which the letter contained, by means of a 
 pencil which offered itself to my view ; but I concluded 
 to forbear. I could select no suitable terms in which to 
 communicate the mournful truth. I resolved to deposit 
 this letter at the post-office, where I knew letters could 
 be left at all hours. 
 
 My reflections at length reverted to my own condition. 
 What was the fate reserved for me ? How far my safety 
 might be affected by remaining in the city, in conse 
 quence of the disappearance of Welbeck, and my known 
 connection with the fugitive, it was impossible to foresee. 
 My fears readily suggested innumerable embarrassments 
 and inconveniences which would flow from this source. 
 Besides, on what pretence should I remain ? To whom 
 could I apply for protection or employment? All ave 
 nues, even to subsistence, were shut against me. The 
 country was my sole asylum. Here, in exchange for 
 my labour, I could at least purchase food, safety, and 
 repose. But, if my choice pointed to the country, there 
 was no reason for a moment s delay. It would be 
 prudent to regain the fields, and be far from this de 
 tested city before the rising of the sun. 
 
 Meanwhile I was chilled and chafed by the clothes 
 that I wore. To change them for others was absolutely 
 necessary to my ease. The clothes which I wore were 
 not my own, and were extremely unsuitable to my new 
 condition. My rustic and homely garb was deposited in 
 my chamber at Welbeck s. These thoughts suggested 
 the design of returning thither. I considered that, pro-
 
 120 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR t 
 
 bably, the servants had not been alarmed. That tho 
 door was unfastened, and the house was accessible. It 
 would be easy to enter and retire without notice ; and 
 this, not without some waverings and misgivings, I 
 presently determined to do. 
 
 Having deposited my letter at the office, I proceeded 
 to my late abode. I approached, and lifted the latch 
 with caution. There were no appearances of any one 
 having been disturbed. I procured a light in the kitchen, 
 and hied softly and with dubious footsteps to my cham 
 ber. There I disrobed, and resumed my check shirt, 
 and trowsers, and fustian coat. This change being ac 
 complished, nothing remained but that I should strike 
 into the country with the utmost expedition. 
 
 In a momentary review which I took of the past, the 
 design for which Welbeck professed to have originally 
 detained me in his service occurred to my mind. I knew 
 the danger of reasoning loosely on the subject of pro 
 perty. To any trinket or piece of furniture in this 
 house I did not allow myself to question the right of 
 Mrs. Wentworth ; a right accruing to her in consequence 
 of Welbeck s failure in the payment of his rent; but 
 there was one thing which I felt an irresistible desire, 
 and no scruples which should forbid me, to possess, and 
 that was, the manuscript to which Welbeck had alluded, 
 as having been written by the deceased Lodi. 
 
 I was well instructed in Latin, and knew the Tuscan 
 language to be nearly akin to it. I despaired not of 
 being at some time able to cultivate this language, and 
 believed that the possession of this manuscript might 
 essentially contribute to this end, as well as to many 
 others equally beneficial. It was easy to conjecture 
 that the volume was to be found among his printed books, 
 and it was scarcely less easy to ascertain the truth of 
 this conjecture. I entered, not without tremulous sen 
 sations, into the apartment which had been the scene of 
 the disastrous interview between Watson and Welbeck. 
 At every step I almost dreaded to behold the spectre of 
 the former rise before me. 
 
 Numerous and splendid volumes were arranged on 
 mahogany shelves, and screened by doors of glass. I
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7<7J. 121 
 
 ran swiftly over their names, and was at length so fortu 
 nate as to light upon the book of which I was in search. 
 I immediately secured it, and, leaving the candle ex 
 tinguished on a table in the parlour, I once more issued 
 forth into the street. With light steps and palpitating 
 heart I turned my face towards the country. My necessi 
 tous condition I believed would justify me in passing 
 without payment the Schuylkill bridge, and the eastern 
 sky began to brighten with the dawn of morning not till 
 I had gained the distance of nine miles from the city. 
 
 Such is the tale which I proposed to relate to you. 
 Such are the memorable incidents of five days of my 
 life ; from which I have gathered more instruction than 
 from the whole tissue of my previous existence. Such 
 are the particulars of my knowledge respecting the crimes 
 and misfortunes of Welbeck ; which the insinuations of 
 Wortley, and my desire to retain your good opinion, have 
 induced me to unfold.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MERVYN S pause allowed his auditors to reflect on the 
 particulars of his narration, and to compare them with 
 the facts with a knowledge of which their own observa- 
 tion had supplied them. My profession introduced me 
 to the friendship of Mrs. Wentworth, by whom, after 
 the disappearance of Welbeck, many circumstances re 
 specting him had been mentioned. She particularly 
 dwelt upon the deportment and appearance of this youth, 
 at the single interview which took place between them, 
 and her representations were perfectly conformable to 
 those which Mervyn had himself delivered. 
 
 Previously to this interview, Welbeck had insinuated 
 to her that a recent event had put him in possession cf 
 the truth respecting the destiny of Clavering. A kins 
 man of his had arrived from Portugal, by whom this in 
 telligence had been brought. He dexterously eluded her 
 entreaties to be furnished with minuter information, or 
 to introduce this kinsman to her acquaintance. As soon 
 as Mervyn was ushered into her presence, she suspected 
 him to be the person to whom Welbeck had alluded, and 
 this suspicion his conversation had confirmed. She was 
 at a loss to comprehend the reasons of the silence which 
 he so pertinaciously maintained. 
 
 Her uneasiness, however, prompted her to renew her 
 solicitations. On the day subsequent to the catastrophe 
 related by Mervyn, she sent a messenger to Welbeck, 
 witli a request to see him. Gabriel, the black servant, 
 informed the messenger that his master had gone into 
 the country for a week. At the end of the week, a 
 messenger was again despatched with the same errand. 
 He called and knocked, but no one answered his signals. 
 122
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?93- 123 
 
 He examined the entrance by the kitchen, but every 
 avenue was closed. It appeared that the house was 
 wholly deserted. 
 
 These appearances naturally gave birth to curiosity 
 and suspicion. The house was repeatedly examined, but 
 the solitude and silence within continued the same. The 
 creditors of Welbeck were alarmed by these appearances, 
 and their claims to the property remaining in the house 
 were precluded by Mrs. Wentworth, who, as owner of 
 the mansion, was legally entitled to the furniture, in place 
 of the rent which Welbeck had suffered to accumulate. 
 
 On examining the dwelling, all that was valuable and 
 portable, particularly linen and plate, was removed. The 
 remainder was distrained, but the tumults of pestilence 
 succeeded and hindered it from being sold. Things were 
 allowed to continue in their former situation, and the 
 house was carefully secured. We had no leisure to form 
 conjectures on the causes of this desertion. An expla 
 nation was afforded us by the narrative of this youth. 
 It is probable that the servants, finding their master s 
 absence continue, had pillaged the house and fled. 
 
 Meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to Wel 
 beck was appeased, it was obvious to inquire by what 
 series of inducements and events Mervyn was reconducted 
 to the city and led to the spot where I first met with 
 him. We intimated our wishes in this respect, and our 
 young friend readily consented to take up the thread of 
 his story and bring it down to the point that was desired. 
 For this purpose, the ensuing evening was selected. Hav 
 ing, at an early hour, shut ourselves up from all intruders 
 and visitors, he continued as follows. 
 
 I have mentioned that, by sunrise, I had gained the 
 distance of many miles from the city. My purpose was 
 to stop at the first farm-house, and seek employment 
 as a day-labourer. The first person whom I observed 
 was a man of placid mien and plain garb. Habitual 
 benevolence was apparent amidst the wrinkles of age. 
 He was traversing his buckwheat-field, and measuring, as 
 it seemed, the harvest that was now nearly ripe. 
 
 I accosted him with diffidence, and explained my
 
 124 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 wishes. lie listened to my tale with complacency, in 
 quired into my name and family, and into my qualifications 
 for the office to which I aspired. My answers were 
 candid and full. 
 
 "Why," said he, "I believe thou and I can make a 
 bargain. We will, at least, try each other for a week or 
 two. If it does not suit our mutual convenience, we can 
 change. The morning is damp and cool, and thy plight 
 does not appear the most comfortable that can be imagined. 
 Come to the house and eat some breakfast." 
 
 The behaviour of this good man filled me with grati 
 tude and joy. Methought I could embrace him as a 
 father, and entrance into his house appeared like return 
 to a long-lost and much-loved home. My desolate and 
 lonely condition appeared to be changed for paternal re 
 gards and the tenderness of friendship. 
 
 These emotions were confirmed and heightened by every 
 object that presented itself under this roof. The family 
 consisted of Mrs. Hadwin, two simple and affectionate 
 girls, his daughters, and servants. The manners of this 
 family, quiet, artless, and cordial, the occupations allotted 
 me, the land by which the dwelling was surrounded, its 
 pure airs, romantic walks, and exhaustless fertility, con 
 stituted a powerful contrast to the scenes which I had left 
 behind, and were congenial with every dictate of my un 
 derstanding and every sentiment that glowed in my heart. 
 
 My youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deport 
 ment, entitled me to deference and confidence. Each 
 hour confirmed me in the good opinion of Mr. Hadwin, 
 and in the affections of his daughters. In the mind of 
 my employer, the simplicity of the husbandman and the 
 devotion of the Quaker were blended with humanity and 
 intelligence. The sisters, Susan and Eliza, were un 
 acquainted with calamity and vice through the medium 
 of either observation or books. They were strangers to 
 the- benefits of an elaborate education, but they were 
 endowed with curiosity and discernment, and had not 
 suffered their slender means of instruction to remain un 
 improved. 
 
 The sedateness of the elder formed an amusing con 
 trast with the laughing eye and untamable vivacity of
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 12$ 
 
 the younger; but they smiled and they wept in unison. 
 They thought and acted in different but not discordant 
 keys. On all momentous occasions, they reasoned and 
 felt alike. In ordinary cases, they separated, as it were, 
 into different tracks; but this diversity was productive 
 not of jarring, but of harmony. 
 
 A romantic and untutored disposition like mine may 
 be supposed liable to strong impressions from perpetual 
 converse with persons of their age and sex. The elder 
 was soon discovered to have already disposed of her 
 affections. The younger was free, and somewhat that is 
 more easily conceived than named stole insensibly upon 
 my heart. The images that haunted -me at home and 
 abroad, in her absence and her presence, gradually 
 coalesced into one shape, and gave birth to an incessant 
 train of latent palpitations and indefinable hopes. My 
 days were little else than uninterrupted reveries, and 
 night only called up phantoms more vivid and equally 
 enchanting. 
 
 The memorable incidents which had lately happened 
 scarcely counterpoised my new sensations or diverted my 
 contemplations from the present. My views were gradually 
 led to rest upon futurity, and in that I quickly found 
 cause of circumspection and dread. My present labours 
 were light, and were sufficient for my subsistence in a 
 single state ; but wedlock was the parent of new wants 
 and of new cares. Mr. Hadwin s possessions were ade 
 quate to his own frugal maintenance, but, divided between 
 hia children, would be too scanty for either. Besides, 
 this division could only take place at his death, and that 
 was an event whose speedy occurrence was neither de 
 sirable nor probable. 
 
 Another obstacle was now remembered. Hadwin was 
 the conscientious member of a sect which forbade the 
 marriage of its votaries with those of a different com 
 munion. I had been trained in an opposite creed, and 
 imagined it impossible that I should ever become a pro 
 selyte to Quakerism. It only remained for me to feign 
 conversion, or to root out the opinions of my friend and 
 win her consent to a secret marriage. Whether hypo 
 crisy was eligible was no subject of deliberation. If the
 
 126 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 possession of all that ambition can conceive were added 
 to the transports of union with Eliza Hadwin, and offered 
 as the price of dissimulation, it would have been instantly 
 rejected. My external goods were not abundant nor nu 
 merous, but the consciousness of rectitude was mine ; and, 
 in competition with this, the luxury of the heart and of 
 the senses, the gratifications of boundless ambition and 
 inexhaustible wealth, were contemptible and frivolous. 
 
 The conquest of Eliza s errors was easy; but to intro 
 duce discord and sorrow into this family was an act of the 
 utmost ingratitude and profligacy. It was only requisite 
 for my understanding clearly to discern, to be convinced 
 of the insuperability of this obstacle. It was manifest, 
 therefore, that the point to which my wishes tended was 
 placed beyond my reach. 
 
 To foster my passion was to foster a disease destruc 
 tive either of my integrity or my existence. It was in 
 dispensable to fix my thoughts upon a different object, 
 and to debar myself even from her intercourse. To 
 ponder on themes foreign to my darling image, and to 
 seclude myself from her society, at hours which had 
 usually been spent with her, were difficult tasks. The 
 latter was the least practicable. I had to contend with 
 eyes which alternately wondered at and upbraided me 
 for my unkindness. She was wholly unaware of the 
 nature of her own feelings, and this ignorance made her 
 less scrupulous in the expression of her sentiments. 
 
 Hitherto I had needed not employment beyond my 
 self and my companions. Now my new motives made 
 me eager to discover some means of controlling and be 
 guiling my thoughts. In this state, the manuscript of 
 Lodi occurred to me. In my way hither, I had resolved 
 to make the study of the language of this book, and the 
 translation of its contents into English, the business and 
 solace of my leisure. Now this resolution was revived 
 with new force. 
 
 My project was perhaps singular. The ancient lan 
 guage of Italy possessed a strong affinity with the mo 
 dern. My knowledge of the former was my only means 
 of gaining the latter. I had no grammar or vocabulary 
 to explain how far the meanings and inflections of Tus-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 12? 
 
 can words varied from the Roman dialect. I was to 
 ponder on each sentence and phrase ; to select among 
 different conjectures the most plausible, and to ascertain 
 the true by patient and repeated scrutiny. 
 
 This undertaking, fantastic and impracticable as it 
 may seem, proved, upon experiment, to be within the 
 compass of my powers. The detail of my progress 
 would be curious and instructive. What impediments, 
 in the attainment of a darling purpose, human ingenuity 
 and patience are able to surmount ; how much may be 
 done by strenuous and solitary efforts ; how the mind, 
 unassisted, may draw forth the principles of inflection 
 and arrangement ; may profit by remote, analogous, and 
 latent similitudes, would be forcibly illustrated by my 
 example ; but the theme, however attractive, must, for 
 the present, be omitted. 
 
 My progress was slow; but the perception of hourly 
 improvement afforded me unspeakable pleasure. Having 
 arrived near the last pages, I was able to pursue, with 
 little interruption, the thread of an eloquent narration. 
 The triumph of a leader of outlaws over the popular 
 enthusiasm of the Milanese and the claims of neighbour 
 ing potentates was about to be depicted. The Condot- 
 tiero Sforza had taken refuge from his enemies in a 
 tomb, accidentally discovered amidst the ruins of a Ro 
 man fortress in the Apennines. lie had sought this 
 recess for the sake of concealment, but found in it a 
 treasure by which he would be enabled to secure the 
 wavering and venal faith of that crew of ruffians that 
 followed his standard, provided he fell not into the hands 
 of the enemies who were now in search of him. 
 
 My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly checked by the 
 following leaves being glued together at the edges. To dis 
 sever them without injury to the written spaces was by no 
 means easy. I proceeded to the task, not without precipi 
 tation. The edges were torn away, and the leaves parted. 
 
 It may be thought that I took up the thread where it 
 had been broken ; but no. The object that my eyes en 
 countered, and which the cemented leaves had so long 
 concealed, was beyond the power of the most capricious 
 or lawless fancy to have prefigured ; yet it bore a sha-
 
 128 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 dowy resemblance to the images with which my imagina 
 tion was previously occupied. I opened, and beheld a 
 bank-note! 
 
 To the first transports of surprise, the conjecture suc 
 ceeded, that the remaining leaves, cemented together in 
 the same manner, might enclose similar bills. They were 
 hastily separated, and the conjecture was verified. My 
 sensations at this discovery were of an inexplicable kind. 
 I gazed at the notes in silence. I moved my finger over 
 them ; held them in different positions ; read and reread 
 the name of each sum, and the signature ; added them 
 together, and repeated to myself Twenty thousand 
 dollars! They are mine, and by such means!" 
 
 This sum would have redeemed the fallen fortunes of 
 Welbeck. The dying Lodi was unable to communicate 
 all the contents of this inestimable volume. lie had 
 divided his treasure, with a view to its greater safety, 
 between this volume and his pocket-book. Death hasted 
 upon him too suddenly to allow him to explain his pre 
 cautions. Welbeck had placed the book in his collec 
 tion, purposing some time to peruse it ; but, deterred by 
 anxieties which the perusal would have dissipated, he 
 rushed to desperation and suicide, from which some 
 evanescent contingency, by unfolding this treasure to 
 his view, would have effectually rescued him. 
 
 But was this event to be regretted ? This sum, like 
 the former, would probably have been expended in the 
 same pernicious prodigality. His career would have 
 continued some time longer ; but his inveterate habits 
 would have finally conducted his existence to the same 
 criminal and ignominious close. 
 
 But the destiny of Welbeck was accomplished. The 
 money was placed, without guilt or artifice, in my pos 
 session. My fortune had been thus unexpectedly and 
 wondrously propitious. How was 1 to profit by her 
 favour? Would not this sum enable me to gather round 
 me all the instruments of pleasure? Equipage, and 
 palace, and a multitude of servants ; polished mirrors, 
 splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers, were equally 
 abhorrent to my taste and my principles. The accu 
 mulation of knowledge, and the diffusion of happiness,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 12$ 
 
 in which riches may be rendered eminently instrumental, 
 were the only precepts of duty, and the only avenues to 
 genuine felicity. 
 
 "But what," said I, "is my title to this money? By 
 retaining it, shall I not be as culpable as Welbeck ? It 
 came into his possession, as it came into mine, without 
 a crime ; but my knowledge of the true proprietor is 
 equally certain, and the claims of the unfortunate 
 stranger are as valid as ever. Indeed, if utility, and 
 not law, be the measure of justice, her claim, desolate 
 and indigent as she is, unfitted, by her past life, by the 
 softness and the prejudices of her education, for con 
 tending with calamity, is incontestable. 
 
 "As to me, health and diligence will give me, not only 
 the competence which I seek, but the power of enjoying 
 it. If my present condition be unchangeable, I shall 
 not be unhappy. My occupations are salutary and me 
 ritorious ; I am a stranger to the cares as well as to the 
 enjoyment of riches ; abundant means of knowledge are 
 possessed by me, as long as I have eyes to gaze at man 
 and at nature, as they are exhibited in their original 
 forms or in books. The precepts of my duty cannot be 
 mistaken. The lady must be sought and the money 
 restored to her." 
 
 Certain obstacles existed to the immediate execution 
 of this scheme. How should I conduct my search? 
 What apology should I make for withdrawing thus 
 abruptly, and contrary to the terms of an agreement 
 into which I had lately entered, from the family and 
 service of my friend and benefactor Hadwin ? 
 
 My thoughts were called away from pursuing these 
 inquiries by a rumour, which had gradually swelled to 
 formidable dimensions ; and which, at length, reached 
 us in our quiet retreats. The city, we were told, was 
 involved in confusion and panic, for a pestilential disease 
 had begun its destructive progress. Magistrates and 
 citizens were flying to the country. The numbers of 
 the sick multiplied beyond all example; even in the pest- 
 affected cities of the Levant. The malady was malignant 
 and unsparing. 
 
 The usual occupations and amusements of life were at 
 9
 
 130 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 an end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of 
 nature. Wives were deserted by husbands, and children 
 by parents. Some had shut themselves in their houses, 
 and debarred themselves from all communication with 
 the rest of mankind. The consternation of others had 
 destroyed their understanding, and their misguided steps 
 hurrie4 them into the midst of the danger which they 
 had previously laboured to shun. Men were seized by 
 this disease in the streets ; passengers fled from them ; 
 entrance into their own dwellings was denied to them ; 
 they perished in the public ways. 
 
 The chambers of disease were deserted, and the sick 
 left to die of negligence. None could be found to re 
 move the lifeless bodies. Their remains, suffered to 
 decay by piecemeal, filled the air with deadly exhala 
 tions, and added tenfold to the devastation. 
 
 Such was the tale, distorted and diversified a thousand 
 ways by the credulity and exaggeration of the tellers. 
 At first I listened to the story with indifference or mirth. 
 Methought it was confuted by its own extravagance. 
 The enormity and variety of such an evil made it un 
 worthy to be believed. I expected that every new day 
 would detect the absurdity and fallacy of such repre 
 sentations. Every new day, however, added to the 
 number of witnesses and the consistency of the tale, till, 
 at length, it was not possible to withhold my faith.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Tins rumour was of a nature to absorb and suspend 
 the whole soul. A certain sublimity is connected with 
 enormous dangers that imparts to our consternation or 
 our pity a tincture of the pleasing. This, at least, may 
 be experienced by those who are beyond the verge of 
 peril. My own person was exposed to no hazard. I 
 had leisure to conjure up terrific images, and to per 
 sonate the witnesses and sufferers of this calamity. This 
 employment was not enjoined upon me by necessity, but 
 was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been re 
 commended by some nameless charm. 
 
 Others were very differently affected. As often as the 
 tale was embellished with new incidents or enforced by 
 new testimony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was 
 stifled by inquietudes, his blood was chilled, and his 
 stomach was bereaved of its usual energies. A tempo 
 rary indisposition was produced in many. Some were 
 haunted by a melancholy bordering upon madness, and 
 some, in consequence of sleepless panics, for which no 
 cause could be assigned, and for which no opiates 
 could be found, were attacked by lingering or mortal 
 diseases. 
 
 Mr. Hadwin was superior to groundless apprehensions. 
 His daughters, however, partook in all the consternation 
 which surrounded them. The eldest had, indeed, abun 
 dant reason for her terror. The youth to whom she 
 was betrothed resided in the city. A year previous to 
 this, he had left the house of Mr. Hadwin, who was his 
 uncle, and had removed to Philadelphia in pursuit of 
 fortune. 
 
 He made himself clerk to a merchant, and, by some 
 
 131
 
 132 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 mercantile adventures in which he had successfully en 
 gaged, began to flatter himself with being able, in no 
 long time, to support a family. Meanwhile, a tender 
 and constant correspondence was maintained between 
 him and his beloved Susan. This girl was a soft enthu 
 siast, in whose bosom devotion and love glowed with an 
 ardour that has seldom been exceeded. 
 
 The first tidings of the yellow fever was heard by her 
 with unspeakable perturbation. Wallace was interro 
 gated, by letter, respecting its truth. For a time, he 
 treated it as a vague report. At length, a confession 
 was extorted from him that there existed a pestilential 
 disease in the city; but he added that it was hitherto 
 confined to one quarter, distant from the place of his 
 abode. 
 
 The most pathetic entreaties were urged by her that 
 he would withdraw into the country. He declared his 
 resolution to comply when the street in which he lived 
 should become infected and his stay should be attended 
 with real danger. He stated how much his interests 
 depended upon the favour of his present employer, who 
 had used the most powerful arguments to detain him, 
 but declared that, when his situation should become, in 
 the least degree, perilous, he would slight every con 
 sideration of gratitude and interest, and fly to Malver- 
 ton. Meanwhile, he promised to communicate tidings 
 of his safety by every opportunity. 
 
 Belding, Mr. Hadwin s next neighbour, though not 
 uninfected by the general panic, persisted to visit the 
 city daily with his market-cart. He set out by sunrise, 
 and usually returned by noon. By him a letter was 
 punctually received by Susan. As the hour of Belding s 
 return approached, her impatience and anxiety increased. 
 The daily epistle was received and read, in a transport 
 of eagerness. For a while her emotion subsided, but 
 returned with augmented vehemence at noon on the 
 ensuing day. 
 
 These agitations were too vehement for a feeble con 
 stitution like hers. She renewed her supplications to 
 Wallace to quit the city. He repeated his assertions 
 of being, hitherto, secure, and his promise of coming
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 133 
 
 when the danger should be imminent. When Bclding 
 returned, and, instead of being accompanied by Wallace, 
 merely brought a letter from him, the unhappy Susan 
 would sink into fits of lamentation and weeping, and 
 repel every effort to console her with an obstinacy that 
 partook of madness. It was, at length, manifest that 
 Wallace s delays Avould be fatally injurious to the health 
 of his mistress. 
 
 Mr. Had win had hitherto been passive. He con 
 ceived that the entreaties and remonstrances of his 
 daughter were more likely to influence the conduct of 
 Wallace than any representations which he could make. 
 Now, however, he wrote the contumacious Wallace a 
 letter, in which he laid his commands upon him to return 
 in company with Belding, and declared that by a longer 
 delay the youth would forfeit his favour. 
 
 The malady had, at this time, made considerable pro 
 gress. Belding s interest at length yielded to his fears, 
 and this was the last journey which he proposed to make. 
 Hence our impatience for the return of Wallace was 
 augmented ; since, if this opportunity were lost, no suit 
 able conveyance might again be offered him. 
 
 Belding set out, as usual, at the dawn of day. The 
 customary interval between his departure and return 
 was spent by Susan in a tumult of hopes and fears. As 
 noon approached, her suspense arose to a pitch of wild- 
 ness and agony. She could scarcely be restrained from 
 running along the road, many miles, towards the city ; 
 that she might, by meeting Belding half-way, the sooner 
 ascertain the fate of her lover. She stationed herself at 
 a window which overlooked the road along which Belding 
 was to pass. 
 
 Her sister and her father, though less impatient, 
 marked, with painful eagerness, the first sound of the 
 approaching vehicle. They snatched a look at it as 
 soon as it appeared in sight. Belding was without a 
 companion. 
 
 This confirmation of her fears overwhelmed the un 
 happy Susan. She sunk into a fit, from which, for a 
 long time, her recovery was hopeless. This was suc 
 ceeded by paroxysms of a furious insanity, in which she
 
 134 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 attempted to snatch any pointed implement which lay 
 within her reach, with a view to destroy herself. These 
 being carefully removed, or forcibly wrested from her, 
 she resigned herself to sobs and exclamations. 
 
 Having interrogated Belding, he informed us that he 
 occupied his usual post in the market-place ; that here 
 tofore Wallace had duly sought him out, and exchanged 
 letters ; but that, on this morning, the young man had 
 not made his appearance, though Belding had been in 
 duced, by his wish to see him, to prolong his stay in the 
 city much beyond the usual period. 
 
 That some other cause than sickness had occasioned 
 this omission was barely possible. There was scarcely 
 room for the most sanguine temper to indulge a hope. 
 Wallace was without kindred, and probably without 
 friends, in the city. The merchant in whose service lie 
 had placed himself was connected with him by no con 
 siderations but that of interest. What then must be his 
 situation when seized with a malady which all believed 
 to be contagious, and the fear of which was able to dis 
 solve the strongest ties that bind human beings together ? 
 
 I was personally a stranger to this youth. I had seen 
 his letters, and they bespoke, not indeed any great re 
 finement or elevation of intelligence, but a frank and 
 generous spirit, to which I could not refuse my esteem ; 
 but his chief claim to my affection consisted in his con 
 sanguinity to Mr. Hadwin, and his place in the affec 
 tions of Susan. His welfare was essential to the happi 
 ness of those whose happiness had become essential to 
 mine. I witnessed the outrages of despair in the daugh 
 ter, and the symptoms of a deep but less violent grief 
 in the sister and parent. Was it not possible for me to 
 alleviate their pangs ? Could not the fate of Wallace 
 be ascertained ? 
 
 This disease assailed men with different degrees of ma 
 lignity. In its worst form perhaps it was incurable ; but, 
 in some of its modes, it was doubtless conquerable by the 
 skill of physicians and the fidelity of nurses. In its least 
 formidable symptoms, negligence and solitude would ren 
 der it fatal. 
 
 Wallace might, perhaps, experience this pest in its
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 135 
 
 most lenient degree ; but the desertion of all mankind, 
 the want not only of medicines but of food, would irre 
 vocably seal his doom. My imagination was incessantly 
 pursued by the image of this youth, perishing alone, and 
 in obscurity; calling on the name of distant friends, or 
 invoking, ineffectually, the succour of those who were 
 near. 
 
 Hitherto distress had been contemplated at a distance, 
 and through the medium of a fancy delighting to be 
 startled by the wonderful, or transported by sublimity. 
 Now the calamity had entered my own doors, imaginary 
 evils were supplanted by real, and my heart was the seat 
 of commiseration and horror. 
 
 I found myself unfit for recreation or employment. I 
 shrouded myself in the gloom of the neighbouring forest, 
 or lost myself in the maze of rocks and dells. I en 
 deavoured, in vain, to shut out the phantoms of the dying 
 Wallace, and to forget the spectacle of domestic woes. 
 At length it occurred to me to ask, May not this evil be 
 obviated, and the felicity of the Hadwins re-established? 
 Wallace is friendless and succourless ; but cannot I sup 
 ply to him the place of protector and nurse ? Why not 
 hasten to the city, search out his abode, and ascertain 
 whether he be living or dead ? If he still retain life, 
 may I not, by consolation and attendance, contribute to 
 the restoration of his health, and conduct him once more 
 to the bosom of his family ? 
 
 With what transports will his arrival be hailed ! How 
 amply will their impatience and their sorrow be compen 
 sated by his return ! In the spectacle of their joys, how 
 rapturous and pure will be my delight ! Do the benefits 
 which I have received from the Hadwins demand a less 
 retribution than this ? 
 
 It is true that my own life will be endangered ; but 
 my danger will be proportioned to the duration of my 
 stav in this seat of infection. The death or the flight 
 
 d 
 
 of Wallace may absolve me from the necessity of spend 
 ing one night in the city. The rustics who daily fre 
 quent the market are, as experience proves, exempt from 
 this disease ; in consequence, perhaps, of limiting their 
 continuance in the city to a few hours. May I not, in
 
 136 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 this respect, conform to their example, and enjoy a simi 
 lar exemption ? 
 
 My stay, however, may be longer than the day. I 
 m;iy be condemned to share in the common destiny. 
 What then ? Life is dependent on a thousand contin 
 gencies, not to be computed or foreseen. The seeds of 
 an early and lingering death are sown in my constitu 
 tion. It is in vain to hope to escape the malady by which 
 my mother and my brothers have died. We are a race 
 whose existence some inherent property has limited to 
 the short space of twenty years. We are exposed, in 
 common with the rest of mankind, to innumerable casu 
 alties ; but, if these be shunned, we are unalterably fated 
 to perish by consumption. Why then should 1 scruple 
 to lay down my life in the cause of virtue and humanity? 
 It is better to die in the consciousness of having offered 
 an heroic sacrifice, to die by a speedy stroke, than by 
 the perverseness of nature, in ignominious inactivity and 
 lingering agonies. 
 
 These considerations determined me to hasten to the 
 city. To mention my purpose to the Hadwins would be 
 useless or pernicious. It would only augment the sum of 
 their present anxieties. I should meet with a thousand 
 obstacles in the tenderness and terror of Eliza, and in 
 the prudent affection of her father. Their arguments I 
 should be condemned to hear, but should not be able to 
 confute ; and should only load myself with imputations 
 of perverseness and temerity. 
 
 But how else should I explain my absence ? I had 
 hitherto preserved my lips untainted by prevarication or 
 falsehood. Perhaps there was no occasion which would 
 justify an untruth ; but here, at least, it was superfluous- 
 or hurtful. My disappearance, if effected without notice 
 or warning, will give birth to speculation and conjecture; 
 but my true motives will never be suspected, and there 
 fore will excite no fears. My conduct will not be charged 
 with guilt. It will merely be thought upon with some 
 regret, which will be alleviated by the opinion of my 
 safety, and the daily expectation of my return. 
 
 But, since my purpose was to search out Wallace, I 
 must be previously furnished with directions to the place
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 137 
 
 of his abode, and a description of his person. Satisfac 
 tion on this head was easily obtained from Mr. Had win ; 
 who was prevented from suspecting the motives of my 
 curiosity, by my questions being put in a manner appa 
 rently casual. He mentioned the street, and the number 
 of the house. 
 
 I listened with surprise. It was a house with which I 
 was already familiar. He resided, it seems, with a mer 
 chant. \Vas it possible for me to be mistaken? 
 
 What, I asked, was the merchant s name ? 
 
 Thetford. 
 
 This was a confirmation of my first conjecture. I 
 recollected the extraordinary means by which I had 
 gained access to the house and bedchamber of this gen 
 tleman. I recalled the person and appearance of the 
 youth by whose artifices I had been entangled in the 
 snare. These artifices implied some domestic or con 
 fidential connection between Thetford and my guide. 
 Wallace was a member of the family. Could it be he 
 by whom I was betrayed ? 
 
 Suitable questions easily obtained from Had win a de 
 scription of the person and carriage of his nephew. Every 
 circumstance evinced the identity of their persons. Wal 
 lace, then, was the engaging and sprightly youth whom 
 I had encountered at Lesher s ; and who, for purposes 
 not hitherto discoverable, had led me into a situation so 
 romantic and perilous. 
 
 I was far from suspecting that these purposes were cri 
 minal. It was easy to infer that his conduct proceeded 
 from juvenile wantonness and a love of sport. My re 
 solution was unaltered by this disclosure ; and, having 
 obtained all the information which I needed, I secretly 
 began my journey. 
 
 My reflections, on the way, were sufficiently employed 
 in tracing the consequences of my project ; in computing 
 the inconveniences and dangers to which I was preparing 
 to subject myself; in fortifying my courage against the 
 influence of rueful sights and abrupt transitions ; and in 
 imagining the measures which it would be proper to pur 
 sue in every emergency. 
 
 Connected as these views were with the family and
 
 138 ARTHUR MERl YN. 
 
 character of Thetford, I could not but sometimes advert 
 to those incidents which formerly happened. The mer 
 cantile alliance between him and Welbeck was remem 
 bered ; the allusions which were made to the condition 
 of the latter in the chamber-conversation of which I was 
 an unsuspected auditor ; and the relation which these 
 allusions might possess with subsequent occurrences. 
 Welbeck s property was forfeited. It had been confided 
 to the care of Thetford s brother. Had the cause of this 
 forfeiture been truly or thoroughly explained ? Might 
 not contraband articles have been admitted through the 
 management or under the connivance of the brothers ? 
 and might not the younger Thetford be furnished with 
 the means of purchasing the captured vessel and her 
 cargo, which, as usual, would be sold by auction at a 
 fifth or tenth of its real value ? 
 
 Welbeck was not alive to profit by the detection of 
 this artifice, admitting these conclusions to be just. My 
 knowledge will be useless to the world ; for by what 
 motives can I be influenced to publish the truth ? or by 
 whom will my single testimony be believed, in opposition 
 to that plausible exterior, and, perhaps, to that general 
 integrity, which Thetford has maintained ? To myself 
 it will not be unprofitable. It is a lesson on the princi 
 ples of human nature ; on the delusiveness of appear 
 ances ; on the perviousness of fraud ; and on the power 
 with which nature has invested human beings over the 
 thoughts and actions of each other. 
 
 Thetford and his frauds were dismissed from my 
 thoughts, to give place to considerations relative to Cle- 
 menza Lodi, and the money which chance had thrown 
 into my possession. Time had only confirmed my pur 
 pose to restore these bills to the rightful proprietor, and 
 heightened my impatience to discover her retreat. I re 
 flected, that the means of doing this were more likely to 
 suggest themselves at the place to which I was going 
 than elsewhere. I might, indeed, perish before my views, 
 in this respect, could be accomplished. Against these 
 evils I had at present no power to provide. While I 
 lived, I would bear perpetually about me the volume and 
 its precious contents. If I died, a superior power must 
 direct the course of this as of all other events.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THESE meditations did not enfeeble my resolution, or 
 slacken my pace. In proportion as I drew near the city, 
 the tokens of its calamitous condition became more appa 
 rent. Every farm-house was filled with supernumerary 
 tenants, fugitives from home, and haunting the skirts of 
 the road, eager to detain every passenger with inquiries 
 after news. The passengers were numerous; for the 
 tide of emigration was by no means exhausted. Some 
 were on foot, bearing in their countenances the tokens 
 of their recent terror, and filled with mournful reflections 
 on the forlornness of their state. Few had secured to 
 themselves an asylum ; some were without the means of 
 paying for victuals or lodging for the coming night; 
 others, who were not thus destitute, yet knew not whither 
 to apply for entertainment, every house being already 
 overstocked with inhabitants, or barring its inhospitable 
 doors at their approach. 
 
 Families of weeping mothers and dismayed children, 
 attended with a few pieces of indispensable furniture, 
 were carried in vehicles of every form. The parent or 
 husband had perished ; and the price of some movable, 
 or the pittance handed forth by public charity, had been 
 expended to purchase the means of retiring from this 
 theatre of disasters, though uncertain and hopeless of 
 accommodation in the neighbouring districts. 
 
 Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had 
 led to the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which 
 I was suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of 
 sorrow was repeated with new aggravations. Pictures 
 of their own distress, or of that of their neighbours, 
 were exhibited in all the hues which imagination can 
 annex to pestilence and poverty. 
 
 139
 
 140 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 My preconceptions of the evil now appeared to have 
 fallen short of the truth. The dangers into which I was 
 rushing seemed more numerous and imminent than I had 
 previously imagined. I wavered not in my purpose. A 
 panic crept to my heart, which more vehement exertions 
 were necessary to subdue or control ; but I harboured not 
 a momentary doubt that the course which I had taken 
 was prescribed by duty. There was no difficulty or re 
 luctance in proceeding. All for which my efforts were 
 demanded was to walk in this path without tumult or 
 alarm. 
 
 Various circumstances had hindered me from setting 
 out upon this journey as early as was proper. My fre 
 quent pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers con 
 tributed likewise to procrastination. The sun had nearly 
 set before I reached the precincts of the city. I pursued 
 the track which I had formerly taken, and entered High 
 Street after nightfall. Instead of equipages and a 
 throng of passengers, the voice of levity and glee, which 
 I had formerly observed, and which the mildness of the 
 season would, at other times, have produced, I found 
 nothing but a dreary solitude. 
 
 The market-place, and each side of this magnificent 
 avenue, were illuminated, as before, by lamps ; but between 
 the verge of Schuylkill and the heart of the city I met 
 not more than a dozen figures; and these were ghost 
 like, wrapped in cloaks, from behind which they cast 
 upon me glances of wonder and suspicion, and, as I 
 approached, changed their course, to avoid touching me. 
 Their clothes were sprinkled with vinegar, and their 
 nostrils defended from contagion by some powerful 
 perfume. 
 
 I cast a look upon the houses, which I recollected to 
 have formerly been, at this hour, brilliant with lights, 
 resounding with lively voices, and thronged with busy 
 faces. Now they were closed, above and below; dark, 
 and without tokens of being inhabited. From the upper 
 windows of some, a gleam sometimes fell upon the pave 
 ment I was traversing, and showed that their tenants 
 had not fled, but were secluded or disabled. 
 
 These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 14! 
 
 Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded 
 that the floating pestilence had already lighted on my 
 frame. I had scarcely overcome these tremors, when I 
 approached a house the door of which was opened, and 
 before which stood a vehicle, which I presently recognised 
 to be a hearse. 
 
 The driver was seated on it. I stood still to mark his 
 visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to 
 take. Presently a coffin, borne by two men, issued from 
 the house. The driver was a negro ; but his companions 
 were white. Their features were marked by ferocious in 
 difference to danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted 
 in thrusting the coffin into the cavity provided for it, 
 said, "I ll be damned if I think the poor dog was quite 
 dead. It wasn t the fever that ailed him, but the sight 
 of the girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how 
 they all got into that room. What carried them there?" 
 
 The other surlily muttered, "Their legs, to-be-sure." 
 
 "But what should they hug together in one room 
 for?" 
 
 "To save us trouble, to-be-sure." 
 
 " And I thank them with all my heart ; but, damn it, 
 it wasn t right to put him in his coffin before the breath 
 was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me 
 told me to stay a few minutes." 
 
 "Pshaw! He could not live. The sooner dead the 
 better for him ; as well as for us. Did you mark how 
 he eyed us when we carried away his wife and daughter ? 
 I never cried in my life, since I was knee-high, but curse 
 me if I ever felt in better tune for the business than just 
 then. Hey!" continued he, looking up, and observing 
 me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their 
 discourse; "what s wanted? Anybody dead?" 
 
 I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. 
 My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. 
 I was ashamed of my own infirmity; and, by vigorous 
 efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. 
 The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to 
 procure accommodation at some of the inns. 
 
 These were easily distinguished by their signs, but 
 many were without inhabitants. At length I lighted
 
 142 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 upon one, the hall of which was open and the windows 
 lifted. After knocking for some time, a young girl 
 appeared, with many marks of distress. In answer to 
 my question, she answered that both her parents were 
 sick, and that they could receive no one. I inquired, in 
 vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be 
 accommodated. She knew of none such, and left me, 
 on some one s calling to her from above, in the midst of 
 my embarrassment. After a moment s pause, I returned, 
 discomfited and perplexed, to the street. 
 
 I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At 
 length I reached a spacious building in Fourth Street, 
 which the sign-post showed me to be an inn. I knocked 
 loudly and often at the door. At length a female opened 
 the window of the second story, and, in a tone of peevish 
 ness, demanded what I wanted. I told her that I wanted 
 lodging. 
 
 " Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she; "you ll find 
 none here." I began to expostulate; but she shut the 
 window with quickness, and left me to my own reflections. 
 
 I began now to feel some regret at the journey I had 
 taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I 
 equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by 
 the habitations of men; but I was destitute of associate 
 or friend. I had money, but a horse-shelter, or a morsel 
 of food, could not be purchased. I came for the purpose 
 of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need myself. 
 Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn; 
 but what would become of me should this fatal malady 
 be contracted ? To hope that an asylum would be afforded 
 to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was 
 unreasonable. 
 
 The first impulse which flowed from these reflections 
 was to hasten back to Malverton; which, with sufficient 
 diligence, I might hope to regain before the morning 
 light. I could not, methought, return upon my steps 
 with too much speed. I was prompted to run, as if the 
 pest was rushing upon me and could be eluded only by 
 the most precipitate flight. 
 
 This impulse was quickly counteracted by new ideas. 
 I thought with indignation and shame on the imbecility
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 17^3. 143 
 
 of my proceeding. I called up the images of Susan 
 Hadwin, and of Wallace. I reviewed the motives which 
 had led me to the undertaking of this journey. Time 
 had, by no means, diminished their force. I had, in 
 deed, nearly arrived at the accomplishment of what I 
 had intended. A few steps would carry me to Thet 
 ford s habitation. This might be the critical moment 
 when succour was most needed and would be most effica 
 cious. 
 
 I had previously concluded to defer going thither till 
 the ensuing morning; but why should I allow myself a 
 moment s delay ? I might at least gain an external view 
 of the house, and circumstances might arise which would 
 absolve me from the obligation of remaining an hour 
 longer in the city. All for which I came might be per 
 formed; the destiny of Wallace be ascertained; and I 
 be once more safe within the precincts of Maherton 
 before the return of day. 
 
 I immediately directed my steps towards the habita 
 tion of Thetford. Carriages bearing the dead were fre 
 quently discovered. A few passengers likewise occurred, 
 whose hasty and perturbed steps denoted their partici 
 pation in the common distress. The house of which I 
 was in quest quickly appeared. Light from an upper 
 window indicated that it was still inhabited. 
 
 I paused a moment to reflect in what manner it be 
 came me to proceed. To ascertain the existence and 
 condition of Wallace was the purpose of my journey. 
 He had inhabited this house; and whether he remained 
 in it was now to be known. I felt repugnance to enter, 
 since my safety might, by entering, be unawares and 
 uselessly endangered. Most of the neigbouring houses 
 were apparently deserted. In some there were various 
 tokens of people being within. Might I not inquire, at 
 one of these, respecting the condition of Thetford s 
 family? Yet why should I disturb them by inquiries so 
 impertinent at this unseasonable hour? To knock at 
 Thetford s door, and put my questions to him who should 
 obey the signal, was the obvious method. 
 
 I knocked dubiously and lightly. No one came. I 
 knocked again, and more loudly; I likewise drew the
 
 144 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 bell. I distinctly heard its distant peals. If any were 
 within, my signal could not fail to be noticed. I paused, 
 and listened, but neither voice nor footsteps could be 
 heard. The light, though obscured by window-curtains, 
 which seemed to be drawn close, was still perceptible. 
 
 I ruminated on the causes that might hinder my sum 
 mons from being obeyed. I figured to myself nothing 
 but the helplessness of disease, or the insensibility of 
 death. These images only urged me to persist in endea 
 vouring to obtain admission. Without weighing the 
 consequences of my act, I involuntarily lifted the latch. 
 The door yielded to my hand, and I put my feet within 
 the passage. 
 
 Once more I paused. The passage was of considerable 
 extent, and at the end of it I perceived light as from a 
 lamp or candle. This impelled me to go forward, till I 
 reached the foot of a staircase. A candle stood upon 
 the lowest step. 
 
 This was a new proof that the house was not deserted. 
 I struck my heel against the floor with some violence; 
 but this, like my former signals, was unnoticed. Having 
 proceeded thus far, it would have been absurd to retire 
 with my purpose uneffected. Taking the candle in my 
 hand, I opened a door that was near. It led into a spa 
 cious parlour, furnished with profusion and splendour. I 
 walked to and fro, gazing at the objects which presented 
 themselves ; and, involved in perplexity, I knocked with 
 my heel louder than ever ; but no less ineffectually. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lights which I had seen, it was 
 possible that the house was uninhabited. This I was 
 resolved to ascertain, by proceeding to the chamber 
 which I had observed, from without, to be illuminated. 
 This chamber, as far as the comparison of circumstances 
 would permit me to decide, I believed to be the same in 
 which I had passed the first night of my late abode in 
 the city. Now was I, a second time, in almost equal 
 ignorance of my situation, and of the consequences 
 which impended, exploring my way to the same recess. 
 
 I mounted the stair. As I approached the door of 
 which I was in search, a vapour, infectious and deadly, 
 assailed my senses. It resembled nothing of which I
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7$tf. 145 
 
 had ever before been sensible. Many odours had been 
 met with, even since my arrival in the city, less sup 
 portable than this. I seemed not so much to smell as 
 to taste the element that now encompassed me. I felt 
 as if I had inhaled a poisonous and subtle fluid, whose 
 power instantly bereft my stomach of all vigour. Some 
 fatal influence appeared to seize upon my vitals, and the 
 work of corrosion and decomposition to be busily begun. 
 
 For a moment, I doubted whether imagination had 
 not some share in producing my sensation; but I had 
 not been previously panic-struck ; and even now I at 
 tended to my own sensations without mental discom 
 posure. That I had imbibed this disease was not to be 
 questioned. So far the chances in my favour were 
 annihilated. The lot of sickness was drawn. 
 
 Whether my case would be lenient or malignant, whe 
 ther I should recover or perish, was to be left to the 
 decision of the future. This incident, instead of appal 
 ling me, tended rather to invigorate my courage. The 
 danger which I feared had come. I might enter with 
 indifference on this theatre of pestilence. I might exe 
 cute, without faltering, the duties that my circumstances 
 might create. My state was no longer hazardous ; and 
 my destiny would be totally uninfluenced by my future 
 conduct. 
 
 The pang with which I was first seized, and the mo 
 mentary inclination to vomit, which it produced, pre 
 sently subsided. My wholesome feelings, indeed, did 
 not revisit me, but strength to proceed was restored to 
 me. The effluvia became more sensible as I approached 
 the door of the chamber. The door was ajar ; and the 
 light within was perceived. My belief that those within 
 were dead was presently confuted by sound, which I first 
 supposed to be that of steps moving quickly and timo 
 rously across the floor. This ceased, and was succeeded 
 by sounds of different but inexplicable import. 
 
 Having entered the apartment, I saw a candle on the 
 hearth. A table was covered with vials and other appa 
 ratus of a sick-chamber. A bed stood on one side, the 
 curtain of which was dropped at the foot, so as to con 
 ceal any one within. I fixed my eyes upon this object. 
 10
 
 146 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 There were sufficient tokens that some one lay upon th 
 bed. Breath, drawn at long intervals ; mutteringg 
 scarcely audible; and a tremulous motion in the bed 
 stead, were fearful and intelligible indications. 
 
 If my heart faltered, it must not be supposed that my 
 trepidations arose from any selfish considerations. Wal 
 lace only, the object of my search, was present to my 
 fancy. Pervaded with remembrance of the Hadwins; 
 of the agonies which they had already endured ; of the 
 despair which would overwhelm the unhappy Susan 
 when the death of her lover should be ascertained ; ob 
 servant of the lonely condition of this house, whence I 
 could only infer that the sick had been denied suitable 
 attendance; and reminded, by the symptoms that ap 
 peared, that this being was struggling with the agoniea 
 of death; a sickness of the heart, more insupportable 
 than that which I had just experienced, stole upon me. 
 
 My fancy readily depicted the progress and comple 
 tion of this tragedy. Wallace was the first of the 
 family on whom the pestilence had seized. Thetford 
 had fled from his habitation. Perhaps as a father and 
 husband, to shun the danger attending his stay was the 
 injunction of his duty. It was questionless the conduct 
 which selfish regards would dictate. Wallace was left 
 to perish alone; or, perhaps, (which, indeed, was a sup 
 position somewhat justified by appearances,) he had been 
 left to the tendance of mercenary wretches; by whom, 
 at this desperate moment, he had been abandoned. 
 
 I was not mindless of the possibility that these fore 
 bodings, specious as they were, might be false. The 
 dying person might be some other than Wallace. The 
 whispers of my hope were, indeed, faint; but they, at 
 least, prompted me to snatch a look at the expiring man. 
 For this purpose I advanced arid thrust my head within 
 the curtain.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE features of one whom I had seen so transiently 
 as Wallace may be imagined to be not easily recognised, 
 especially when those features were tremulous and death- 
 ful. Here, however, the differences were too conspicuous 
 to mislead me. I beheld one in whom I could recollect 
 none that bore resemblance. Though ghastly and livid, 
 the traces of intelligence and beauty were undefaced. 
 The life of Wallace was of more value to a feeble indi 
 vidual ; but surely the being that was stretched before 
 me, and who was hastening to his last breath, was pre 
 cious to thousands. 
 
 Was he not one in whose place I would willingly have 
 died ? The offering was too late. His extremities were 
 already cold. A vapour, noisome and contagious, hovered 
 over him. The flutterings of his pulse had ceased. His 
 existence was about to close amidst convulsion and 
 pangs. 
 
 I withdrew my gaze from this object, and walked to a 
 table. I was nearly unconscious of my movements. My 
 thoughts were occupied with contemplations of the train 
 of horrors and disasters that pursue the race of man. 
 My musings were quickly interrupted by the sight of a 
 small cabinet, the hinges of which were broken and the 
 lid half raised. In the present state of my thoughts, I 
 was prone to suspect the worst. Here were traces of 
 pillage. Some casual or mercenary attendant had not 
 only contributed to hasten the death of the patient, but 
 had rifled his property and fled. 
 
 This suspicion would, perhaps, have yielded to mature 
 reflections, if I had been suffered to reflect. A moment 
 scarcely elapsed, when some appearance in the mirror, 
 
 147
 
 148 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 which hung over the table, called my attention. It was 
 a human figure. Nothing could be briefer than the 
 glance that I fixed upon this apparition ; yet there was 
 room enough for the vague conception to suggest itself, 
 that the dying man had started from his bed and was 
 approaching me. This belief was, at the same instant, 
 confuted, by the survey of his form and garb. One eye, 
 a scar upon his cheek, a tawny skin, a form grotesquely 
 misproportioned, brawny as Hercules, and habited in 
 livery, composed, as it were, the parts of one view. 
 
 To perceive, to fear, and to confront this apparition 
 were blended into one sentiment. I turned towards him 
 with the swiftness of lightning ; but my speed was use 
 less to my safety. A blow upon my temple was suc 
 ceeded by an utter oblivion of thought and of feeling. 
 I sunk upon the floor prostrate and senseless. 
 
 My insensibility might be mistaken by observers for 
 death, yet some part of this interval was haunted by a 
 fearful dream. I conceived myself lying on the brink 
 of a pit, whose bottom the eye could not reach. My 
 hands and legs were fettered, so as to disable me from 
 resisting two grim and gigantic figures who stooped to 
 lift me from the earth. Their purpose, methought, was 
 to cast me into this abyss. My terrors were unspeak 
 able, and I struggled with such force, that my bonds 
 snapped and I found myself at liberty. At this moment 
 my senses returned, and I opened my eyes. 
 
 The memory of recent events was, for a time, effaced 
 by my visionary horrors. I was conscious of transition 
 from one state of being to another ; but my imagination 
 was still filled with images of danger. The bottomless 
 gulf and my gigantic persecutors were still dreaded. I 
 looked up with eagerness. Beside me I discovered three 
 figures, whose character or office was explained by a 
 coffin of pine boards which lay upon the floor. One 
 stood with hammer and nails in his hand, as ready to 
 replace and fasten the lid of the coffin as soon as its 
 burden should be received. 
 
 I attempted to rise from the floor, but my head was 
 dizzy and my sight confused. Perceiving me revive, 
 one of the men assisted me to regain my feet. The mist
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR //?. 149 
 
 and confusion presently vanished, so as to allow me to 
 stand unsupported and to move. I once more gazed at 
 my attendants, and recognised the three men whom I 
 had met in High Street, and whose conversation I have 
 mentioned that I overheard. I looked again upon the 
 coffin. A wavering recollection of the incidents that 
 led me hither, and of the stunning blow which I had 
 received, occurred to me. I saw into what error ap 
 pearances had misled these men, and shuddered to 
 reflect by what hairbreadth means I had escaped being 
 buried alive. 
 
 Before the men had time to interrogate me, or to 
 comment upon my situation, one entered the apartment, 
 whose habit and mien tended to encourage me. The 
 stranger was characterized by an aspect full of com 
 posure and benignity, a face in which the serious lines 
 of age were blended with the ruddiness and smoothness 
 of youth, and a garb that bespoke that religious pro 
 fession with whose benevolent doctrines the example of 
 Hadwin had rendered me familiar. 
 
 On observing me on my feet, he betrayed marks of 
 surprise and satisfaction. He addressed me in a tone 
 of mildness : 
 
 "Young man," said he, "what is thy condition? Art 
 thou sick : If thou art, thou must consent to receive 
 the best treatment which the times will afford. These 
 men will convey thee to the hospital at Bush Hill." 
 
 The mention of that contagious and abhorred recep 
 tacle inspired me with some degree of energy. "No," 
 said I, "I am not sick; a violent blow reduced me to 
 this situation. I shall presently recover strength enough 
 to leave this spot without assistance." 
 
 He looked at me with an incredulous but compas 
 sionate air: "I fear thou dost deceive thyself or me. 
 The necessity of going to the hospital is much to be re 
 gretted, but, on the whole, it is best. Perhaps, indeed, 
 thou hast kindred or friends who will take care of thee?" 
 
 "No," said I; "neither kindred nor friends. I am 
 a stranger in the city. I do not even know a single 
 being." 
 
 "Alas!" returned the stranger, with a sigh, "thy
 
 I5O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Btate is sorrowful. But how earnest thou hither?" con 
 tinued he, looking around him; "and whence coraest 
 thou?" 
 
 "I came from the country. I reached the city a few 
 hours ago. I was in search of a friend who lived in this 
 house." 
 
 " Thy undertaking was strangely hazardous and 
 rash ; but who is the friend thou seekest ? Was it he 
 who died in that bed, and whose corpse has just been 
 removed?" 
 
 The men now betrayed some impatience ; and in 
 quired of the last comer, whom they called Mr. Est- 
 wick, what they were to do. He turned to me, and 
 asked if I were willing to be conducted to the hospital. 
 
 I assured him that I was free from disease, and stood 
 in no need of assistance ; adding, that my feebleness was 
 owing to a stunning blow received from a ruffian on my 
 temple. The marks of this blow were conspicuous, and 
 after some hesitation he dismissed the men ; who, lifting 
 the empty coffin on their shoulders, disappeared. 
 
 He now invited me to descend into the parlour ; 
 "for," said he, "the air of this room is deadly. I feel 
 already as if I should have reason to repent of having 
 entered it." 
 
 He now inquired into the cause of those appearances 
 which he had witnessed. I explained my situation aa 
 clearly and succinctly as I was able. 
 
 After pondering, in silence, on my story, "I see 
 how it is," said he; "the person whom thou sawest in the 
 agonies of death was a stranger. He was attended by 
 his servant and a hired nurse. His master s death being 
 certain, the nurse was despatched by the servant to pro 
 cure a coffin. He probably chose that opportunity to 
 rifle his master s trunk, that stood upon the table. Thy 
 unseasonable entrance interrupted him ; and he designed, 
 by the blow which he gave thee, to secure his retreat 
 before the arrival of a hearse. I know the man, and 
 the apparition thou hast so well described was his. 
 Thou sayest that a friend of thine lived in this house : 
 thou hast come too late to be of service. The whole 
 family have perished. Not one was suffered to escape."
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. !$! 
 
 This intelligence was fatal to my hopes. It required 
 some efforts to subdue my rising emotions. Compassion 
 not only for Wallace, but for Thetford, his father, his 
 wife and his child, caused a passionate effusion of tears. 
 I was ashamed of this useless and childlike sensibility; 
 and attempted to apologize to my companion. The 
 sympathy, however, had proved contagious, and the 
 stranger turned away his face to hide his own tears. 
 
 "Nay," said he, in answer to my excuses, "there is 
 no need to be ashamed of thy emotion. Merely to have 
 known this family, and to have witnessed their de 
 plorable fate, is sufficient to melt the most obdurate 
 heart. I suspect that thou wast united to some one of 
 this family by ties of tenderness like those which led the 
 unfortunate Maravegli hither." 
 
 This suggestion was attended, in relation to myself, 
 with some degree of obscurity ; but my curiosity was 
 somewhat excited by the name that he had mentioned. 
 I inquired into the character and situation of this per 
 son, and particularly respecting his connection with this 
 family. 
 
 "Maravegli," answered he, "was the lover of the 
 eldest daughter, and already betrothed to her. The 
 whole family, consisting of helpless females, had placed 
 themselves under his peculiar guardianship. Mary Wai- 
 pole and her children enjoyed in him a husband and a 
 father." 
 
 The name of Walpole, to which I was a stranger, sug 
 gested doubts which I hastened to communicate. " I am 
 in search," said I, "not of a female friend, though not 
 devoid of interest in the welfare of Thetford and his 
 family. My principal concern is for a youth, by name 
 Wallace." 
 
 He looked at me with surprise. " Thetford ! this is 
 not his abode. He changed his habitation some weeks 
 previous to the fever. Those who last dwelt under this 
 roof were an Englishwoman and seven daughters." 
 
 This detection of my error somewhat consoled me. It 
 was still possible that Wallace was alive and in safety. 
 I eagerly inquired whither Thetford had removed, and
 
 152 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 whether he had any knowledge of his present condi 
 tion. 
 
 They had removed to No. , in Market Street. Con 
 cerning their state he knew nothing. His acquaintance 
 with Thetford was imperfect. Whether he had left the 
 city or had remained, he was wholly uninformed. 
 
 It became me to ascertain the truth in these respects. 
 I was preparing to offer my parting thanks to the person 
 by whom I had been so highly benefited ; since, as he 
 now informed me, it was by his interposition that I was 
 hindered from being enclosed alive in a coffin. He was 
 dubious of my true condition, and peremptorily com 
 manded the followers of the hearse to desist. A delay 
 of twenty minutes, and some medical application, would, 
 he believed, determine whether my life was extinguished 
 or suspended. At the end of this time, happily, my 
 senses were recovered. 
 
 Seeing my intention to depart, he inquired why, and 
 whither I was going. Having heard my answer, "Thy 
 design," resumed he, " is highly indiscreet and rash. 
 Nothing will sooner generate this fever than fatigue and 
 anxiety. Thou hast scarcely recovered from the blow so 
 lately received. Instead of being useful to others, this 
 precipitation will only disable thyself. Instead of roam 
 ing the streets and inhaling this unwholesome air, thou 
 hadst better betake thyself to bed and try to obtain 
 some sleep. In the morning, thou wilt be better quali 
 fied to ascertain the fate of thy friend, and afford him 
 the relief which he shall want." 
 
 I could not but admit the reasonableness of these re 
 monstrances ; but where should a chamber and bed be 
 sought ? It was not likely that a new attempt to pro 
 cure accommodation at the inns would succeed better 
 than the former. 
 
 " Thy state," replied he, " is sorrowful. I have no 
 house to which I can lead thee. I divide my chamber, 
 and even my bed, with another, and my landlady could 
 not be prevailed upon to admit a stranger. What thou 
 wilt do, I know not. This house has no one to defend 
 it. It was purchased and furnished by the last posses 
 sor; but the whole family, including mistress, children,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 153 
 
 and servants, were cut off in a single week. Perhaps no 
 one in America can claim the property. Meanwhile, 
 plunderers are numerous and active. A house thus 
 totally deserted, and replenished with valuable furniture, 
 will, I fear, become their prey. To-night nothing can 
 be done towards rendering it secure, but staying in it. 
 Art thou willing to remain here till the morrow ? 
 
 " Every bed in the house has probably sustained a 
 dead person. It would not be proper, therefore, to lie 
 in any one of them. Perhaps thou mayest find some 
 repose upon this carpet. It is, at least, better than the 
 harder pavement and the open air." 
 
 This proposal, after some hesitation, I embraced. He 
 was preparing to leave me, promising, if life were spared 
 to him, to return early in the morning. My curiosity 
 respecting the person whose dying agonies I had wit 
 nessed prompted me to detain him a few minutes. 
 
 "Ah!" said he, "this, perhaps, is the only one of 
 many victims to this pestilence whose loss the remotest 
 generations may have reason to deplore. He was the 
 only descendant of an illustrious house of Venice. He 
 has been devoted from his childhood to the acquisition of 
 knowledge and the practice of virtue. He came hither 
 as an enlightened observer; and, after traversing the 
 country, conversing with all the men in it eminent for their 
 talents or their office, and collecting a fund of observa 
 tions whose solidity and justice have seldom been paral 
 leled, he embarked, three months ago, for Europe. 
 
 " Previously to his departure, he formed a tender con 
 nection with the eldest daughter of this family. The 
 mother and her children had recently arrived from Eng 
 land. So many faultless women, both mentally and per 
 sonally considered, it was not my fortune to meet with 
 before. This youth well deserved to be adopted into this 
 family. He proposed to return with the utmost expedi 
 tion to his native country, and, after the settlement of 
 his affairs, to hasten back to America and ratify his con 
 tract with Fanny Walpole. 
 
 " The ship in which he embarked had scarcely gone 
 twenty leagues to sea, before she was disabled by a storm, 
 and obliged to return to port. He posted to New York,
 
 154 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to gain a passage in a packet shortly to sail. Meanwhile 
 this malady prevailed among us. Mary Wai pole was 
 hindered by her ignorance of the nature of that evil 
 which assailed us, and the counsel of injudicious friends, 
 from taking the due precautions for her safety. She 
 hesitated to fly till flight was rendered impracticable. 
 Her death added to the helplessness and distraction of 
 the family. They were successively seized and destroyed 
 by the same pest. 
 
 " Maravegli was apprized of their danger. He allowed 
 the packet to depart without him, and hastened to rescue 
 the Walpoles from the perils which encompassed them. 
 He arrived in this city time enough to witness the inter 
 ment of the last survivor. In the same hour he was seized 
 himself by this disease: the catastrophe is known to 
 thee. 
 
 " I will now leave thee to thy repose. Sleep is no less 
 needful to myself than to thee ; for this is the second 
 night which has passed without it." Saying this, my 
 companion took his leave. 
 
 I now enjoyed leisure to review my situation. I ex 
 perienced no inclination to sleep. I lay down for a mo 
 ment, but my comfortless sensations and restless contem 
 plations would not permit me to rest. Before I entered 
 this house, I was tormented with hunger; but my craving 
 had given place to inquietude and loathing. I paced, 
 in thoughtful and anxious mood, across the floor of the 
 apartment. 
 
 I mused upon the incidents related by Estwick, upon 
 the exterminating nature of this pestilence, and on the 
 horrors of which it was productive. I compared the ex 
 perience of the last hours with those pictures which my 
 imagination had drawn in the retirements of Malverton. 
 I wondered at the contrariety that exists between the 
 scenes of the city and the country; and fostered, with 
 more zeal than ever, the resolution to avoid those scats 
 of depravity and danger. 
 
 Concerning my own destiny, however, I entertained no 
 doubt. My new sensations assured me that my stomach 
 had received this corrosive poison. Whether I should 
 die or live was easily decided. The sickness which
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 155 
 
 assiduous attendance and powerful prescriptions might 
 remove would, by negligence and solitude, be rendered 
 fatal ; but from whom could I expect medical or friendly 
 treatment ? 
 
 I had indeed a roof over my head. I should not perish 
 in the public way; but what was my ground for hoping to 
 continue under this roof? My sickness being suspected, 
 I should be dragged in a cart to the hospital ; where I 
 should, indeed, die, but not with the consolation of lone 
 liness and silence. Dying groans were the only music, 
 and livid corpses were the only spectacle, to which I 
 should there be introduced. 
 
 Immured in these dreary meditations, the night passed 
 away. The light glancing through the window awakened 
 in niy bosom a gleam of cheerfulness. Contrary to my 
 expectations, my feelings were not more distempered, 
 notwithstanding my want of sleep, than on the last 
 evening. This was a token that my state was far from 
 being so desperate as I suspected. It was possible, I 
 thought, that this was the worst indisposition to which I 
 was liable. 
 
 Meanwhile, the coming of Estwick was impatiently ex 
 pected. The sun arose, and the morning advanced, but 
 he came not. I remembered that he talked of having 
 reason to repent his visit to this house. Perhaps he, like 
 wise, was sick, and this was the cause of his delay. This 
 man s kindness had even my love. If I had known the 
 way to his dwelling, I should have hastened thither, to 
 inquire into his condition, and to perform for him every 
 office that humanity might enjoin ; but he had not af 
 forded me any information on that head.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IT was now incumbent on me to seek the habitation of 
 Thetford. To leave this house accessible to every passen- 
 
 fer appeared to be imprudent. I had no key by which 
 might lock the principal door. I therefore bolted it 
 on the inside, and passed through a window, the shutters 
 of which I closed, though I could not fasten after me. 
 This led me into a spacious court, at the end of which 
 was a brick wall, over which I leaped into the street. 
 This was the means by which I had formerly escaped 
 from the same precincts. 
 
 The streets, as I passed, were desolate and silent. The 
 largest computation made the number of fugitives two- 
 thirds of the whole people; yet, judging by the universal 
 desolation, it seemed as if the solitude were nearly abso 
 lute. That so many of the houses were closed, I was 
 obliged to ascribe to the cessation of traffic, which made 
 the opening of their windows useless, and the terror of 
 infection, which made the inhabitants seclude themselves 
 from the observation of each other. 
 
 I proceeded to search out the house to which Estwick 
 had directed me as the abode of Thetford. What wag 
 my consternation when I found it to be the same at the 
 door of which the conversation took place of which I 
 had been an auditor on the last evening ! 
 
 I recalled the scene of which a rude sketch had been 
 given by the hearse-men. If such were the fate of the 
 master of the family, abounding with money and friends, 
 what could be hoped for the moneyless and friendless 
 Wallace? The house appeared to be vacant and silent; 
 but these tokens might deceive. There was little room 
 156
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 1 57 
 
 fur hope ; but certainty was wanting, and might, perhaps, 
 be obtained by entering the house. In some of the upper 
 rooms a wretched being might be immured ; by whom 
 the information, so earnestly desired, might be imparted, 
 and to whom my presence might bring relief, not only 
 from pestilence, but famine. For a moment, I forgot 
 my own necessitous condition, and reflected not that 
 abstinence had already undermined my strength. 
 
 I proceeded to knock at the door. That ray signal 
 was unnoticed produced no surprise. The door was un 
 locked, and I opened. At this moment my attention 
 was attracted by the opening of another door near me. 
 I looked, and perceived a man issuing forth from a house 
 at a small distance. 
 
 It now occurred to me, that the information which I 
 sought might possibly be gained from one of Thetford s 
 neighbours. This person was aged, but seemed to have 
 lost neither cheerfulness nor vigour. He had an air of 
 intrepidity and calmness. It soon appeared that I was 
 the object of his curiosity. He had, probably, marked 
 my deportment through some window of his dwelling, 
 and had come forth to make inquiries into the motives 
 of my conduct. 
 
 He courteously saluted me. " You seem," said he, 
 "to be in search of some one. If I can afford you the 
 information you want, you will be welcome to it." 
 
 Encouraged by this address, I mentioned the name of 
 Thetford ; and added my fears that he had not escaped 
 the general calamity. 
 
 "It is true," said he. "Yesterday himself, his wife, 
 and his child, were in a hopeless condition. I saw them 
 in the evening, and expected not to find them alive this 
 morning. As soon as it was light, however, I visited 
 the house again ; but found it empty. I suppose they 
 must have died, and been removed in the night." 
 
 Though anxious to ascertain the destiny of Wallace, I 
 was unwilling to put direct questions. I shuddered, 
 while I longed to know the truth. 
 
 "Why," said I, falteringly, "did he not seasonably 
 withdraw from the city ? Surely he had the means of 
 purchasing an asylum in the country."
 
 158 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "I can scarcely tell you," he answered. "Some in 
 fatuation appeared to have seized him. No one was 
 more timorous; but he seemed to think himself safe as 
 long as he avoided contact with infected persons. lie 
 was likewise, I believe, detained by a regard to his inte 
 rest. His flight would not have been more injurious to 
 his affairs than it was to those of others; but gain was, 
 in his eyes, the supreme good. lie intended ultimately 
 to withdraw ; but his escape to-day, gave him new cou 
 rage to encounter the perils of to-morrow. He de 
 ferred his departure from day to day, till it ceased to be 
 practicable." 
 
 "His family," said I, "was numerous. It consisted 
 of more than his wife and children. Perhaps these re 
 tired in sufficient season." 
 
 "Yes," said he; "his father left the house at an early 
 period. One or two of the servants likewise forsook 
 him. One girl, more faithful and heroic than the rest, 
 resisted the remonstrances of her parents and friends, 
 and resolved to adhere to him in every fortune. She 
 was anxious that the family should fly from danger, and 
 would willingly have 11 ed in their company ; but while 
 they stayed, it was her immovable resolution not to 
 abandon them. 
 
 "Alas, poor girl! She knew not of what stuff the 
 heart of Thetford was made. Unhappily, she was the 
 first to become sick. I question much whether her dis 
 ease was pestilential. It was, probably, a slight indis 
 position, which, in a few days, would have vanished of 
 itself, or have readily yielded to suitable treatment. 
 
 " Thetford was transfixed with terror. Instead of 
 summoning a physician, to ascertain the nature of her 
 symptoms, he called a negro and his cart from Bush 
 Hill. In vain the neighbours interceded for this unhappy 
 victim. In vain she implored his clemency, and asserted 
 the lightness of her indisposition. She besought him to 
 allow her to send to her mother, who resided a few miles 
 in the country, who would hasten to her succour, and re 
 lieve him and his family from the danger and trouble of 
 nursing her. 
 
 "The man was lunatic with apprehension. He re-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 159 
 
 jccted her entreaties, though urged in a manner that 
 would have subdued a heart of flint. The girl was inno 
 cent, and amiable, and courageous, but entertained an 
 unconquerable dread of the hospital. Finding entreaties 
 ineffectual, she exerted all her strength in opposition to 
 the man who lifted her into the cart. 
 
 "Finding that her struggles availed nothing, she re 
 signed herself to despair. In going to the hospital, she 
 believed herself led to certain death, and to the suffer 
 ance of every evil which the known inhumanity of its 
 attendants could inflict. This state of mind, added to 
 exposure to a noonday sun, in an open vehicle, moving, 
 for a mile, over a rugged pavement, was sufficient to 
 destroy her. I was not surprised to hear that she died 
 the next day. 
 
 " This proceeding was sufficiently iniquitous ; yet it was 
 not the worst act of this man. The rank and education 
 of the young woman might be some apology for negli 
 gence ; but his clerk, a youth who seemed to enjoy his 
 confidence, and to be treated by his family on the footing 
 of a brother or son, fell sick on the next night, and was 
 treated in the same manner." 
 
 These tidings struck me to the heart. A burst of in 
 dignation and sorrow filled my eyes. I could scarcely 
 stifle my emotions sufficiently to ask, " Of whom, sir, 
 do you speak ? Was the name of the youth his name 
 
 " His name was Wallace. I see that you have some 
 interest in his fate. He was one whom I loved. I 
 would have given half my fortune to procure him ac 
 commodation under some hospitable roof. His attack 
 was violent ; but, still, his recovery, if he had been suit 
 ably attended, was possible. That he should survive re 
 moval to the hospital, and the treatment he must receive 
 when there, was not to be hoped. 
 
 " The conduct of Thctford was as absurd as it was 
 wicked. To imagine the disease to be contagious was 
 the height of folly ; to suppose himself secure, merely 
 by not permitting a sick man to remain under his roof, 
 was no less stupid; but Thetford s fears had subverted 
 his understanding. He did not listen to arguments or
 
 160 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 supplications. His attention was incapable of straying 
 from one object. To influence bira by words was equiva 
 lent to reasoning with the deaf. 
 
 " Perhaps the wretch was more to be pitied than hated. 
 The victims of his implacable caution could scarcely 
 have endured agonies greater than those which his 
 pusillanimity inflicted on himself. Whatever be the 
 amount of his guilt, the retribution has been adequate, 
 lie witnessed the death of his wife and child, and last 
 night was the close of his own existence. Their sole 
 attendant was a black woman ; whom, by frequent visits, 
 I endeavoured, with little success, to make diligent in 
 the performance of her duty." 
 
 Such, then, was the catastrophe of Wallace. The 
 end for which I journeyed hither was accomplished. His 
 destiny was ascertained; and all that remained was to 
 fulfil the gloomy predictions of the lovely but unhappy 
 Susan. To tell them all the truth would be needlessly 
 to exasperate her sorrow. Time, aided by the tender 
 ness and sympathy of friendship, may banish her despair, 
 and relieve her from all but the witcheries of melancholy. 
 
 Having disengaged my mind from these reflections, I 
 explained to my companion, in general terms, my rea 
 sons for visiting the city, and my curiosity respecting 
 Thetford. He inquired into the particulars of my jour 
 ney, and the time of my arrival. When informed that 
 I had come in the preceding evening, and had passed 
 the subsequent hours without sleep or food, he expressed 
 astonishment and compassion. 
 
 "Your undertaking," said he, "has certainly been 
 hazardous. There is poison in every breath which you 
 draw, but this hazard has been greatly increased by 
 abstaining from food and sleep. My advice is to hasten 
 back into the country ; but you must first take some 
 repose and some victuals. If you pass Schuylkill be 
 fore nightfall, it will be sufficient." 
 
 I mentioned the difficulty of procuring accommodation 
 on the road. It would be most prudent to set out upon 
 my journey so as to reach Malverton at night. As to 
 food and sleep, they were not to be purchased in this 
 city.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. l6l 
 
 " True," answered mj companion, with quickness, 
 "they are not to be bought ; but I will furnish you with 
 as much as you desire of both, for nothing. That is my 
 abode," continued he, pointing to the house which he 
 had lately left. " I reside with a widow lady and her 
 daughter, who took my counsel, and fled in due season. 
 I remain to moralize upon the scene, with only a faithful 
 black, who makes my bed, prepares my coffee, and bakes 
 my loaf. If I am sick, all that a physician can do, I 
 will do for myself, and all that a nurse can perform, I 
 expect to be performed by Austin. 
 
 " Come with me, drink some coffee, rest a while on my 
 mattress, and then fly, with my benedictions on your 
 head." 
 
 These words were accompanied by features disembar 
 rassed and benevolent. My temper is alive to social 
 impulses, and I accepted his invitation, not so much be 
 cause I wished to eat or to sleep, but because I felt re 
 luctance to part so soon with a being who possessed so 
 much fortitude and virtue. 
 
 He was surrounded by neatness and plenty. Austin 
 added dexterity to submissiveness. My companion, 
 whose name I now found to be Medlicote, was prone to 
 converse, and commented on the state of the city like 
 one whose reading had been extensive and experience 
 large. He combated an opinion which I had casually 
 formed respecting the origin of this epidemic, and im 
 puted it, not to infected substances imported from the 
 East or West, but to a morbid constitution of the atmo 
 sphere, owing wholly or in part to filthy streets, airless 
 habitations, and squalid persons. 
 
 As I talked with this man, the sense of danger was 
 obliterated, I felt confidence revive in my heart, and 
 energy revisit my stomach. Though far from my wonted 
 health, my sensation grew less comfortless, and I found 
 myself to stand in no need of repose. 
 
 Breakfast being finished, my friend pleaded his daily 
 engagements as reasons for leaving me. He counselled 
 me to strive for some repose, but I was conscious of in 
 capacity to sleep. I was desirous of escaping, as soon 
 as possible, from this tainted atmosphere, and reflected 
 11
 
 l62 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 whether any thing remained to be done respecting 
 Wallace. 
 
 It now occurred to me that this youth must have left 
 some clothes and papers, and, perhaps, books. The pro 
 perty of these was now vested in the Hadwins. I might 
 deem myself, without presumption, their representative 
 or agent. Might I not take some measures for obtaining 
 possession, or at least for the security, of these articles : 
 
 The house and its furniture were tenantless and un 
 protected. It was liable to be ransacked and pillaged 
 by those desperate ruffians of whom many were said to 
 be hunting for spoil even at a time like this. If these 
 should overlook this dwelling, Thetford s unknown suc 
 cessor or heir might appropriate the whole. Numberless 
 accidents might happen to occasion the destruction or 
 embezzlement of what belonged to Wallace, which might 
 be prevented by the conduct which I should now pursue. 
 
 Immersed in these perplexities, I remained bewildered 
 and motionless. I was at length roused by some one 
 knocking at the door. Austin obeyed the signal, and 
 instantly returned, leading in Mr. lladwin ! 
 
 I know not whether this unlooked-for interview ex 
 cited on my part most grief or surprise. The motive 
 of his coining was easily divined. His journey was on 
 two accounts superfluous. He whom he sought was 
 dead. The duty of ascertaining his condition I had 
 assigned to myself. 
 
 I now perceived and deplored the error of which I had 
 been guilty, in concealing my intended journey from my 
 patron. Ignorant of the part I had acted, he had 
 rushed into the jaws of this pest, and endangered a life 
 unspeakably valuable to his children and friends. I 
 should doubtless have obtained his grateful consent to 
 the project which I had conceived; but my wretched 
 policy had led me into this clandestine path. Secrecy 
 may seldom be a crime. A virtuous intention may pro 
 duce it; but surely it is always erroneous and pernicious. 
 
 My friend s astonishment at the sight of me was not 
 inferior to my own. The causes which led to this unex 
 pected interview were mutually explained. To soothe 
 the agonies of his child, he consented to approach the
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 163 
 
 city, and endeavour to procure intelligence of Wallace. 
 When he left his house, he intended to stop in the envi 
 rons, and hire some emissary, whom an ample reward 
 might tempt to enter the city, and procure the informa 
 tion which was needed. 
 
 No one could be prevailed upon to execute so danger 
 ous a service. Averse to return without performing his 
 commission, he concluded to examine for himself. Thot- 
 ford s removal to this street was known to him ; but, 
 being ignorant of my purpose, he had not mentioned 
 this circumstance to me, during our last conversation. 
 
 I was sensible of the danger which Hadwin had in 
 curred by entering the city. Perhaps my knowledge of 
 the inexpressible importance of his life to the happiness 
 of his daughters made me aggravate his danger. I 
 knew that the longer he lingered in this tainted air, the 
 hazard was increased. A moment s delay was unneces 
 sary. Neither Wallace nor myself were capable of 
 being benefited by his presence. 
 
 I mentioned the death of his nephew as a reason for 
 hastening his departure. I urged him in the most vehe 
 ment terms to remount his horse and to fly; I endea 
 voured to preclude all inquiries respecting myself or 
 Wallace; promising to follow him immediately, and an 
 swer all his questions at Malverton. My importunities 
 were enforced by his own fears, and, after a moment s 
 hesitation, he rode away. 
 
 The emotions produced by this incident were, in the 
 present critical state of my frame, eminently hurtful. 
 My morbid indications suddenly returned. I had reason 
 to ascribe my condition to my visit to the chamber of 
 Maravegli; but this and its consequences to myself, as 
 well as the journey of Hadwin, were the fruits of my 
 unhappy secrecy. 
 
 I had always been accustomed to perform my journeys 
 on foot. This, on ordinary occasions, was the preferable 
 method, but now I ought to have adopted the easiest and 
 swiftest means. If Hadwin had been acquainted with 
 my purpose he would not only have approved, but would 
 have allowed me, the use of a horse. These reflections 
 were rendered less pungent by the recollection that my
 
 164 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 motives were benevolent, and that I had endeavoured 
 the benefit of others by means which appeared to me 
 most suitable. 
 
 Meanwhile, how was I to proceed ? What hindered 
 me from pursuing the footsteps of Hadwin with all the 
 expedition which my uneasiness, of brain and stomach, 
 would allow ? I conceived that to leave any thing un 
 done, with regard to Wallace, would be absurd. His 
 property might be put under the care of my new friend. 
 But how was it to be distinguished from the property 
 of others? It was, probably, contained in trunks, which 
 were designated by some label or mark. I was unac 
 quainted with his chamber, but, by passing from one to 
 the other, I might finally discover it. Some token, 
 directing my footsteps, might occur, though at present 
 unforeseen. 
 
 Actuated by these considerations, I once more entered 
 Thetford s habitation. I regretted that I had not pro 
 cured the counsel or attendance of my new friend; but 
 some engagements, the nature of which he did not ex 
 plain, occasioned him to leave me as soon as breakfast 
 was finished.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 I WANDERED over this deserted mansion, in a con 
 siderable degree, at random. Effluvia of a pestilential 
 nature assailed me from every corner. In the front room 
 of the second story, I imagined that I discovered vestiges 
 of that catastrophe which the past night had produced. 
 The bed appeared as if .some one had recently been 
 dragged from it. The sheets were tinged with yellow, 
 and with that substance which is said to be characteristic 
 of this disease, the gangrenous or black vomit. The 
 floor exhibited similar stains. 
 
 There are many who will regard my conduct as the 
 last refinement of temerity, or of heroism. Nothing, 
 indeed, more perplexes me than a review of my own 
 conduct. Not, indeed, that death is an object always to 
 be dreaded, or that my motive did not justify my actions; 
 but of all dangers, those allied to pestilence, by being 
 mysterious and unseen, are the most formidable. To 
 disarm them of their terrors requires the longest fami 
 liarity. Nurses and physicians soonest become intrepid 
 or indifferent ; but the rest of mankind recoil from the 
 scene with unconquerable loathing. 
 
 I was sustained, not by confidence of safety, and a 
 belief of exemption from this malady, or by the in 
 fluence of habit, which inures us to all that is detestable 
 or perilous, but by a belief that this was as eligible an 
 avenue to death as any other; and that life is a trivial 
 sacrifice in the cause of duty. 
 
 I passed from one room to the other. A portmanteau, 
 marked with the initials of Wallace s name, at length 
 attracted my notice. From this circumstance I inferred 
 that this apartment had been occupied by him. The 
 
 165
 
 1 66 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 room was neatly arranged, and appeared as if no one 
 had lately used it. There were trunks and drawers. 
 That which I have mentioned was the only one that bore 
 marks of Wallace s ownership. This I lifted in my arms 
 with a. view to remove it to Medlicote s house. 
 
 At that moment, methought I heard a footstep slowly 
 and lingeringly ascending the stair. I was disconcerted 
 at this incident. The footstep had in it a ghost-like 
 solemnity and tardiness. This phantom vanished in a 
 moment, and yielded place to more humble conjectures. 
 A human being approached, whose office and commission 
 were inscrutable. That we were strangers to each other 
 was easily imagined ; but how would my appearance, in 
 this remote chamber, and loade d with another s property, 
 be interpreted ? Did he enter the house after me, or was 
 he the tenant of some chamber hitherto unvisited ; whom 
 my entrance had awakened from his trance and called 
 from his couch? 
 
 In the confusion of my mind, I still held my burden 
 uplifted. To have placed it on the floor, and encountered 
 this visitant, without this equivocal token about me, was 
 the obvious proceeding. Indeed, time only could decide 
 whether these footsteps tended to this, or to some other 
 apartment. 
 
 My doubts were quickly dispelled. The door opened, 
 and a figure glided in. The portmanteau dropped from 
 my arms, and my heart s blood was chilled. If an ap 
 parition of the dead were possible, (and that possibility 
 I could not deny,) this was such an apparition. A hue, 
 yellowish and livid ; bones, uncovered with flesh ; eyes, 
 ghastly, hollow, woe-begone, and fixed in an agony of 
 wonder upon me ; and locks, matted and negligent, con 
 stituted the image which I now beheld. My belief of 
 somewhat preternatural in this appearance was confirmed 
 by recollection of resemblances between these features 
 and those of one who was dead. In this shape and 
 visage, shadowy and death-like as they were, the linea 
 ments of Wallace, of him who had misled my rustic sim 
 plicity on my first visit to this city, and whose death I 
 had conceived to be incontestably ascertained, were 
 forcibly recognised.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 67 
 
 This recognition, which at first alarmed ray supersti 
 tion, speedily led to more rational inferences. Wallace 
 had been dragged to the hospital. Nothing was less to 
 be suspected than that he would return alive from that 
 hideous receptacle, but this was by no means impossible. 
 The figure that stood before me had just risen from the 
 bed of sickness, and from the brink of the grave. The 
 crisis of his malady had passed, and he was once more 
 entitled to be ranked among the living. 
 
 This event, and the consequences which my imagina 
 tion connected with it, filled me with the liveliest joy. I 
 thought not of his ignorance of the causes of my satis 
 faction, of the doubts to which the circumstances of our 
 interview would give birth, respecting the integrity of my 
 purpose. I forgot the artifices by which I had formerly 
 been betrayed, and the embarrassments which a meeting 
 with the victim of his artifices would excite in him ; I 
 thought only of the happiness which his recovery would 
 confer upon his uncle and his cousins. 
 
 I advanced towards him with an air of congratulation, 
 and offered him my hand. He shrunk back, and ex 
 claimed, in a feeble voice, " Who are you ? What busi 
 ness have you here?" 
 
 " I am the friend of Wallace, if he will allow me to 
 be so. I am a messenger from your uncle and cousins 
 at Malverton. I came to know the cause of your silence, 
 and to afford you any assistance in my power." 
 
 He continued to regard me with an air of suspicion 
 and doubt. These I endeavoured to remove by explain 
 ing the motives that led me hither. It was with diffi 
 culty that he seemed to credit my representations. When 
 thoroughly convinced of the truth of my assertions, he 
 inquired with great anxiety and tenderness concerning 
 his relations ; and expressed his hope that they were 
 ignorant of what had befallen him. 
 
 I could not encourage his hopes. I regretted my own 
 precipitation in adopting the belief of his death. This 
 belief had been uttered with confidence, and without 
 stating my reasons for embracing it, to Mr. Hadwin. 
 These tidings would be borne to his daughters, and their
 
 1 68 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 grief would be exasperated to a deplorable and perhaps 
 to a fatal degree. 
 
 There was but one method of repairing or eluding this 
 mischief. Intelligence ought to be conveyed to them of 
 his recovery. But where was the messenger to be found ? 
 No one s attention could be found disengaged from his 
 own concerns. Those who were able or willing to leave 
 the city had sufficient motives for departure, in relation 
 to themselves. If vehicle or horse were procurable for 
 money, ought it not to be secured for the use of Wallace 
 himself, whose health required the easiest and speediest 
 conveyance from this theatre of death? 
 
 My companion was powerless in mind as in limbs. He 
 seemed unable to consult upon the means of escaping 
 from the inconveniences by which he was surrounded. 
 As soon as sufficient strength was regained, he had left 
 the hospital. To repair to Mahcrton was the measure 
 which prudence obviously dictated ; but he was hopeless 
 of effecting it. The city was close at hand ; this was 
 his usual home ; and hither his tottering and almost in 
 voluntary steps conducted him. 
 
 He listened to my representations and counsels, and 
 acknowledged their propriety. He put himself under 
 my protection and guidance, aud promised to conform 
 implicitly to my directions. His strength had sufficed 
 to bring him thus far, but was now utterly exhausted. 
 The task of searching for a carriage and horse devolved 
 upon me. 
 
 In effecting this purpose, I was obliged to rely upon 
 my own ingenuity and diligence. Wallace, though so 
 long a resident in the city, knew not to whom I could 
 apply, or by whom carriages were let to hire. My own 
 reflections taught me, that this accommodation was most 
 likely to be furnished by innkeepers, or that some of 
 those might at least inform me of the best measures to 
 be taken. I resolved to set out immediately on this 
 search. Meanwhile, Wallace was persuaded to take 
 refuge in Medlicote s apartments ; and to make, by the 
 assistance of Austin, the necessary preparation for hia 
 journey. 
 
 The morning had now advanced. The rays of a sul-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 169 
 
 try sun had a sickening and enfeebling influence beyond 
 any which I had ever experienced. The drought of un 
 usual duration had bereft the air and the earth of every 
 particle of moisture. The element which I breathed 
 appeared to have stagnated into noxiousness and putre 
 faction. I was astonished at observing the enormous 
 diminution of my strength. My brows were heavy, my 
 intellects benumbed, my sinews enfeebled, and my sensa 
 tions universally unquiet. 
 
 These prognostics were easily interpreted. What I 
 chiefly dreaded was, that they would disable me from 
 executing the task which I had undertaken. I sum 
 moned up all my resolution, and cherished a disdain of 
 yielding to this ignoble destiny. I reflected that the 
 source of all energy, and even of life, is seated in 
 thought ; that nothing is arduous to human efforts ; that 
 the external frame will seldom languish, while actuated 
 by an unconquerable soul. 
 
 I fought against my dreary feelings, which pulled me 
 to the earth. I quickened my pace, raised my droop 
 ing eyelids, and hummed a cheerful and favourite air. 
 For ;ill that I accomplished during this day, I believe 
 myself indebted to the strenuousness and ardour of my 
 resolutions. 
 
 I went from one tavern to another. One was de 
 serted ; in another the people were sick, and their 
 attendants refused to hearken to my inquiries or offers ; 
 at a third, their horses were engaged. I was deter 
 mined to prosecute my search as long as an inn or a 
 livery-stable remained unexamined, and my strength 
 would permit. 
 
 To detail the events of this expedition, the arguments 
 and supplications which I used to overcome the dictates 
 of avarice and fear, the fluctuation of my hopes and my 
 incessant disappointments, would be useless. Having 
 exhausted all my expedients ineffectually, I was com 
 pelled to turn my weary steps once more to Mcdlicote s 
 lodgings. 
 
 My meditations were deeply engaged by the present 
 circumstances of my situation. Since the means which 
 were first suggested were impracticable, I endeavoured
 
 I7O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to investigate others. Wallace s debility made it impos 
 sible for him to perform this journey on foot ; but would 
 not his strength and his resolution suffice to carry him 
 beyond Schuylkill ? A carriage or horse, though not 
 to be obtained in the city, could, without difficulty, be 
 procured in the country. Every farmer had beasts for 
 burden and draught. One of these might be hired, at 
 no immoderate expense, for half a day. 
 
 This project appeared so practicable and so specious, 
 that I deeply regretted the time and the efforts which 
 had already been so fruitlessly expended. If my pro 
 ject, however, had been mischievous, to review it with 
 regret was only to prolong and to multiply its mischiefs. 
 I trusted that time and strength would not be wanting 
 to the execution of this new design. 
 
 On entering Medlicotc s house, my looks, which, in 
 spite of my languors, were sprightly and confident, flat 
 tered Wallace with the belief that my exertions had 
 succeeded. When acquainted with their failure, he 
 sunk as quickly into hopelessness. My new expedient 
 was heard by him with no marks of satisfaction. It was 
 impossible, he said, to move from this spot by his own 
 strength. All his powers were exhausted by his walk 
 from Bush Hill. 
 
 I endeavoured, by arguments and railleries, to revive 
 his courage. The pure air of the country would exhila 
 rate him into new life. He might stop at every fifty 
 yards, and rest upon the green sod. If overtaken by 
 the night, we would procure a lodging, by address and 
 importunity ; but, if every door should be shut against 
 us, we should at least enjoy the shelter of some barn, 
 and might diet wholesomely upon the new-laid eggs that 
 we should find there. The worst treatment we could 
 meet with was better than continuance in the city. 
 
 These remonstrances had some influence, and he at 
 length consented to put his ability to the test. First, 
 however, it was necessary to invigorate himself by a few 
 hours rest. To this, though with infinite reluctance, I 
 consented. 
 
 This interval allowed him to reflect upon the past, and 
 to inquire into the fate of Thetford and his family. The
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR IJ93- l?l 
 
 intelligence which Medlicote had enabled me to afford 
 him was heard with more satisfaction than regret. The 
 ingratitude and cruelty with which he had been treated 
 seemed to have extinguished every sentiment but hatred 
 and vengeance. I was willing to profit by this interval 
 to know more of Thetford than I already possessed. I 
 inquired why Wallace had so perversely neglected the 
 advice of his uncle and cousin, and persisted to brave so 
 many dangers when flight was so easy. 
 
 "I cannot justify my conduct," answered he. "It 
 was in the highest degree thoughtless and perverse. I 
 was confident and unconcerned as long as our neighbour 
 hood was free from disease, and as long as I forbore any 
 communication with the sick ; yet I should have with 
 drawn to Malverton, merely to gratify my friends, if 
 Thetford had not used the most powerful arguments to 
 detain me. He laboured to extenuate the danger. 
 
 "Why not stay, said he, as long as I and my family 
 stay ? Do you think that we would linger here, if the 
 danger were imminent ? As soon as it becomes so, we 
 will fly. You know that we have a country-house pre 
 pared for our reception. When we go, you shall accom 
 pany us. Your services at this time are indispensable 
 to my affairs. If you will not desert me, your salary 
 next year shall be double ; and that will enable you to 
 marry your cousin immediately. Nothing is more im 
 probable than that any of us should be sick ; but, if this 
 should happen to you, I plight my honour that you shall 
 be carefully and faithfully attended. 
 
 "These assurances were solemn and generous. To 
 make Susan Iladwin my wife was the scope of all my 
 wishes and labours. By staying, I should hasten this 
 desirable event, and incur little hazard. By going, I 
 should alienate the affections of Thetford ; by whom, it 
 is but justice to acknowledge, that I had hitherto been 
 treated with unexampled generosity and kindness ; and 
 blast all the schemes I had formed for rising into wealth. 
 
 " My resolution was by no means steadfast. As often 
 as a letter from Malverton arrived, I felt myself dis 
 posed to hasten away ; but this inclination was combated 
 by new arguments and new entreaties of Thetford.
 
 1/2 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "In this state of suspense, the girl by whom Mrs. 
 Thctford s infant was nursed fell sick. She was an ex 
 cellent creature, and merited better treatment than she 
 received. Like me, she resisted the persuasions of her 
 friends, but her motives for remaining were disinterested 
 and heroic. 
 
 " No sooner did her indisposition appear, than she was 
 hurried to the hospital. I saw that no reliance could be 
 placed upon the assurances of Thetford. Every con 
 sideration gave way to his fear of death. After the 
 girl s departure, though he knew that she was led by his 
 means to execution, yet he consoled himself by repeat 
 ing and believing her assertions, that her disease was 
 not the fever. 
 
 "I was now greatly alarmed for my own safety. I 
 was determined to encounter his anger and repel his 
 persuasions ; and to depart with the market-man next 
 morning. That night, however, I was seized with a 
 violent fever. I knew in what manner patients were 
 treated at the hospital, and removal thither was to the 
 last degree abhorred. 
 
 "The morning arrived, and my situation was dis 
 covered. At the first intimation, Thetford i-ushed out 
 of the house, and refused to re-enter it till I was re 
 moved. I knew not my fate, till three ruffians made 
 their appearance at my bedside, and communicated 
 their commission. 
 
 "1 called on the name of Thetford and his wife. I 
 entreated a moment s delay, till I had seen these per 
 sons, and endeavoured to procure a respite from my 
 sentence. They were deaf to my entreaties, and pre 
 pared to execute their office by force. I was delirious 
 with rage and terror. 1 heaped the bitterest execra 
 tions on my murderer ; and by turns, invoked the com 
 passion of, and poured a torrent of reproaches on, the 
 wretches whom he had selected for his ministers. My 
 struggles and outcries were vain. 
 
 " I have no perfect recollection of what passed till my 
 arrival at the hospital. My passions combined with my 
 disease to make me frantic and wild. In a state like 
 \nine, the slightest motion could not be endured without
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 173 
 
 agony. What then must I have felt, scorched and 
 dazzled by the sun, sustained by hard boards, and borne 
 for miles over a rugged pavement ? 
 
 "I cannot make you comprehend the anguish of my 
 feelings. To be disjointed and torn piecemeal by the 
 rack was a torment inexpressibly inferior to this. 
 Nothing excites my wonder but that I did not expire 
 before the cart had moved three paces. 
 
 "I knew not how, or by whom, I was moved from 
 this vehicle. Insensibility came at length to my relief. 
 After a time I opened my eyes, and slowly gained some 
 knowledge of my situation. I lay upon a mattress, 
 whose condition proved that a half-decayed corpse had 
 recently been dragged from it. The room was large, 
 but it was covered with beds like my own. Between 
 each, there was scarcely the interval of three feet. 
 Each sustained a wretch, whose groans and distortions 
 bespoke the desperateness of his condition. 
 
 "The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A 
 vapour, suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me 
 to breathe. No suitable receptacle was provided for 
 the evacuations produced by medicine or disease. My 
 nearest neighbour was struggling with death, and rny 
 bed, casually extended, was moist with the detestable 
 matter which had flowed from his stomach. 
 
 "You will scarcely believe that, in this scene of 
 horrors, the sound of laughter should be overheard. 
 While the upper rooms of this building are filled with 
 the sick and the dying, the lower apartments are the 
 scene of carousals and mirth. The wretches who are 
 hired, at enormous wages, to tend the sick and convey 
 away the dead, neglect their duty, and consume the cor 
 dials which are pnmded for the patients, in debauchery 
 and riot. 
 
 "A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunken 
 ness, occasionally looked in. Dying eyes were cast upon 
 her, invoking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, 
 or her assistance to change a posture which compelled 
 him to behold the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of 
 his neighbour. 
 
 " The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only
 
 174 ARTHUR MERVYN, 
 
 to see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking 
 eyes and reeling steps showed her to be totally unquali 
 fied for ministering the aid that was needed. Presently 
 she disappeared, and others ascended the staircase, a 
 coffin was deposited at the door, the wretch, whose heart 
 still quivered, was seized by rude hands, and dragged 
 along the floor into the passage. 
 
 " Oh ! how poor are the conceptions which are formed, 
 by the fortunate few, of the sufferings to which millions 
 of their fellow-beings are condemned. This misery was 
 more frightful, because it was seen to flow from the de 
 pravity of the attendants. My own eyes only would 
 make me credit the existence of wickedness so enormous. 
 No wonder that to die in garrets, and cellars, and stables, 
 unvisited and unknown, had, by so many, been preferred 
 to being brought hither. 
 
 "A physician cast an eye upon my state. He gave 
 some directions to the person who attended him. I did 
 not comprehend them, they were never executed by the 
 nurses, and, if the attempt had been made, I should pro 
 bably have refused to receive what was offered. Re 
 covery was equally beyond my expectations and my 
 wishes. The scene which was hourly displayed before 
 me, the entrance of the sick, most of whom perished in 
 a few hours, and their departure to the graves prepared 
 for them, reminded me of the fate to which I, also, was 
 reserved. 
 
 "Three days passed away, in which every hour was 
 expected to be the last. That, amidst an atmosphere 
 so contagious and deadly, amidst causes of destruction 
 hourly accumulating, I should yet survive, appears to 
 me nothing less than miraculous. That of so many con 
 ducted to this house the only one who passed out of it 
 alive should be myself almost surpasses my belief. 
 
 "Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those 
 potent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and 
 vanished. My strength was revived, and the first use 
 that I made of my limbs was to bear me far from the 
 contemplation and sufferance of those evils."
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HAVING gratified my curiosity in this respect, Wallace 
 proceeded to remind me of the circumstances of our first 
 interview. He had entertained doubts whether I was 
 the person whom he had met at Lesher s. I acknowledged 
 myself to be the same, and inquired, in my turn, into 
 the motives of his conduct on that occasion. 
 
 "I confess," said he, with some hesitation, "I meant 
 only to sport with your simplicity and ignorance. You 
 must not imagine, however, that my stratagem was deep- 
 laid and deliberately executed. My professions at the 
 tavern were sincere. I meant not to injure but to serve 
 you. It was not till I reached the head of the staircase 
 that the mischievous contrivance occurred. I foresaw 
 nothing, at the moment, but ludicrous mistakes and 
 embarrassment. The scheme was executed almost at 
 the very moment it occurred. 
 
 " After I had returned to the parlour, Thetford charged 
 me with the delivery of a message in a distant quarter 
 of the city. It was not till I had performed this com 
 mission, arid had set out on my return, that I fully re 
 volved the consequences likely to flow from my project. 
 
 "That Thetford and his wife would detect you in their 
 bedchamber was unquestionable. Perhaps, weary of 
 my long delay, you would have fairly undressed and gone 
 to bed. The married couple would have made prepara 
 tion to follow you, and, when the curtain was undrawn, 
 would discover a robust youth, fast asleep, in their place. 
 These images, which had just before excited my laughter, 
 now produced a very different emotion. I dreaded some 
 fatal catastrophe from the fiery passions of Thetford. 
 In the first transports of his fury he might pistol you, 
 or, at least, might command you to be dragged to prison, 
 
 175
 
 176 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "I now heartily repented of my jest, and hastened 
 home, that I might prevent, as far as possible, the evil 
 effects that might flow from it. The acknowledgment 
 of my own agency in this affair would, at least, transfer 
 Thetford s indignation to myself, to whom it was equitably 
 due. 
 
 " The married couple had retired to their chamber, and 
 no alarm or confusion had followed. This was an in 
 explicable circumstance. I waited with impatience till 
 the morning should furnish a solution of the difficulty. 
 The morning arrived. A strange event had, indeed, taken 
 place in their bedchamber. They found an infant 
 asleep in their bed. Thetford had been roused twice in 
 the night, once by a noise in the closet, and afterwards 
 by a noise at the door. 
 
 " Some connection between these sounds and the found 
 ling was naturally suspected. In the morning the closet 
 was examined, and a coarse pair of shoes was found on 
 the floor. The chamber door, which Thetford had locked 
 in the evening, was discovered to be open, as likewise a 
 window in the kitchen. 
 
 "These appearances were a source of wonder and 
 doubt to others, but were perfectly intelligible to me. I 
 rejoiced that my stratagem had no more dangerous con 
 sequence, and admired the ingenuity and perseverance 
 with which you had extricated yourself from so critical 
 a state." 
 
 This narrative was only the verification of my own 
 guesses. Its facts were quickly supplanted in my thoughts 
 by the disastrous picture he had drawn of the state of 
 the hospital. I was confounded and shocked by the 
 magnitude of this evil. The cause of it was obvious. 
 The wretches whom money could purchase were, of 
 course, licentious and unprincipled. Superintended and 
 controlled, they might be useful instruments; but that 
 superintendence could not be bought. 
 
 What qualities were requisite in the governor of such 
 an institution? He must have zeal, diligence, and 
 perseverance. He must act from lofty and pure motives. 
 lie must be mild and firm, intrepid and compliant. One 
 perfectly qualified for the office it is desirable, but not
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 
 
 possible, to find. A dispassionate and honest zeal in 
 the cause of duty and humanity may he of eminent 
 utility. Am I not endowed with this zeal ? Cannot my 
 feehle efforts obviate some portion of this evil? 
 
 No one has hitherto claimed this disgustful and peril 
 ous situation. My powers and discernment are small, 
 hut if they he honestly exerted they cannot fail to be 
 somewhat beneficial. 
 
 The impulse produced by these reflections was to has 
 ten to the City Hall, and make known my wishes. This 
 impulse was controlled by recollections of my own indis 
 position, and of the state of Wallace. To deliver this 
 youth to his friends was the strongest obligation. When 
 this was discharged, I might return to the city, and acquit 
 myself of more comprehensive duties. 
 
 Wallace had now enjoyed a few hours rest, and was 
 persuaded to begin the journey. It was now noonday, 
 and the sun darted insupportable rays. Wallace was 
 more sensible than I of their unwholesome influence. We 
 had not reached the suburbs, when his strength was 
 wholly exhausted, and, had I not supported him, he 
 would have sunk upon the pavement. 
 
 My limbs were scarcely less weak, but my resolutions 
 were much more strenuous than his. I made light of his 
 indisposition, and endeavoured to persuade him that his 
 vigour would return in proportion to his distance from 
 the city. The moment we should reach a shade, a short 
 respite would restore us to health and cheerfulness. 
 
 Nothing could revive his courage or induce him to go 
 on. To return or to proceed was equally impracticable. 
 But, should he be able to return, where should he find a 
 retreat? The danger of relapse was imminent; his own 
 chamber at Thetford s was unoccupied. If he could re 
 gain this house, might I not procure him a physician and 
 perform for him the part of nurse ? 
 
 His present situation was critical and mournful. To 
 remain in the street, exposed to the malignant fervours 
 of the sun, was not to be endured. To carry him in my 
 arms exceeded my strength. Should I not cluim the 
 assistance of the first passenger that appeared ? 
 
 At that moment a horse and chaise passed us. The 
 12
 
 178 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 vehicle proceeded at a quick pace. He that rode in it 
 might afford us the succour that we needed. He might 
 be persuaded to deviate from his course and convey the 
 helpless Wallace to the house we had just left. 
 
 This thought instantly impelled me fonvard. Feeble 
 as I was, I even ran with speed, in order to overtake the 
 vehicle. My purpose was effected with the utmost diffi 
 culty. It fortunately happened that the carriage con 
 tained but one person, who stopped at my request. His 
 countenance and guise was mild and encouraging. 
 
 " Good friend," I exclaimed, "here is a young man too 
 indisposed to walk. I want him carried to his lodgings. 
 Will you, for money or for charity, allow him a place 
 in your chaise, and set him down where I shall direct ?" 
 Observing tokens of hesitation, I continued, " You need 
 have no fears to perform this office. He is not sick, but 
 merely feeble. I will not ask twenty minutes, and you 
 may ask what reward you think proper." 
 
 Still he hesitated to comply. His business, he said, 
 had not led him into the city. He merely passed along 
 the skirts of it, whence he conceived that no danger 
 would arise. He was desirous of helping the unfortu 
 nate; but he could not think of risking his own life in 
 the cause of a stranger, when he had a wife and chil 
 dren depending on his existence and exertions for bread. 
 It gave him pain to refuse, but he thought his duty to 
 himself and to others required that he should not hazard 
 his safety by compliance. 
 
 This plea was irresistible. The mildness of his man 
 ner showed that he might have been overpowered by 
 persuasion or tempted by reward. I would not take 
 advantage of his tractability ; but should have declined 
 his assistance, even if it had been spontaneously offered. 
 I turned away from him in silence, and prepared to return 
 to the spot where I had left my friend. The man pre 
 pared to resume his way. 
 
 In this perplexity, the thought occurred to me that, 
 since this person was going into the country, he might, 
 possibly, consent to curry Wallace along with him. I 
 confided greatly in the salutary influence of rural airs. 
 I believed that debility constituted the whole of his com-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 179 
 
 plaint ; that continuance in the city might occasion his 
 relapse, or, at least, procrastinate his restoration. 
 
 I once more addressed myself to the traveller, and in 
 quired in what direction and how far he was going. To 
 my unspeakable satisfaction, his answer informed me 
 that his home lay beyond Mr. Iladwin s, arid that this 
 road carried him directly past that gentleman s door. 
 He was willing to receive Wallace into his chaise, and 
 to leave him at his uncle s. 
 
 This joyous and auspicious occurrence surpassed my 
 fondest hopes. I hurried with the pleasing tidings to 
 Wallace, who eagerly consented to enter the carriage. 
 I thought not at the moment of myself, or how far the 
 same means of escaping from my danger might be used. 
 The stranger could not be anxious on my account ; and 
 Wallace s dejection and weakness may apologize for his 
 not soliciting my company, or expressing his fears for 
 my safety. He was no sooner seated, than the traveller 
 harried away. I gazed after them, motionless and mute, 
 till the carriage, turning a corner, passed beyond my 
 sight. 
 
 I had now leisure to revert to my own condition, and 
 to ruminate on that series of abrupt and diversified events 
 that had happened during the few hours which had been 
 passed in the city: the end of my coming was thus 
 speedily and satisfactorily accomplished. My hopes and 
 fears had rapidly fluctuated; but, respecting this young 
 man, had now subsided into calm and propitious cer 
 tainty. Before the decline of the sun, he would enter 
 his paternal roof, and diifuse ineffable joy throughout 
 that peaceful and chaste asylum. 
 
 This contemplation, though rapturous and soothing, 
 speedily gave way to reflections on the conduct which 
 my duty required, and the safe departure of Wallace 
 afforded me liberty, to pursue. To offer myself as a 
 superintendent of the hospital was still my purpose. The 
 languors of my frame might terminate in sickness, but 
 this event it was useless to anticipate. The lofty site 
 and pure airs of Bush Hill might tend to dissipate my 
 languors and restore me to health. At least while I had 
 power, I was bound to exert it to the wisest purposes.
 
 ISO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I resolved to seek the City Hull immediately, and, for 
 that end, crossed the intermediate fields which separated 
 Sassafras from Chestnut Street. 
 
 More urgent considerations had diverted my attention 
 from the money which I bore about me, and from the 
 image of the desolate lady to whom it belonged. My 
 intentions, with regard to her, were the same as ever; 
 but now it occurred to me, with new force, that my death 
 might preclude an interview between us, and that it was 
 prudent to dispose, in some useful way, of the money 
 which would otherwise be left to the sport of chance. 
 
 The evils which had befallen this city were obvious 
 and enormous. Hunger and negligence had exasperated 
 the malignity and facilitated the progress of the pesti 
 lence. Could this money be more usefully employed 
 than in alleviating these evils ? During my life, I had 
 no power over it, but my death would justify me in pre 
 scribing the course which it should take. 
 
 How was this course to be pointed out ? How might 
 I place it, so that I should effect my intentions without 
 relinquishing the possession during my life ? 
 
 These thoughts were superseded by a tide of new 
 sensations. The weight that incommoded my brows and 
 my stomach was suddenly increased. My brain was 
 usurped by some benumbing power, and my limbs re 
 fused to support me. My pulsations were quickened, 
 and the prevalence of fever could no longer be doubted. 
 
 Till now, I had entertained a faint hope that my indis 
 position would vanish of itself. This hope was at an 
 end. The grave was before me, and my projects of 
 curiosity or benevolence were to sink into oblivion. I 
 was not bereaved of the powers of reflection. The con 
 sequences of lying in the road, friendless and unpro 
 tected, were sure. The first passenger would notice me, 
 and hasten to summon one of those carriages which are 
 busy night and day in transporting its victims to the 
 hospital. 
 
 This fate was, beyond all others, abhorrent to my 
 imagination. To hide me under some roof, where my 
 existence would be unknown and unsuspected, and where 
 I might perish unmolested and in quiet, was my present
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. l8l 
 
 wish. Thetford s or Mcdlicote s might afford me such 
 an asylum, if it were possible to reach it. 
 
 I made the most strenuous exertions ; but they could 
 not carry me forward more than a hundred paces. Here 
 I rested on steps, which, on looking up, I perceived to 
 belong to Welbeck s house. 
 
 This incident was unexpected. It led my reflections 
 into a new train. To go farther, in the present condi 
 tion of my frame, was impossible. I was well acquainted 
 with this dwelling. All its avenues were closed. Whe 
 ther it had remained unoccupied since my flight from it, 
 I could not decide. It was evident that, at present, it 
 was without inhabitants. Possibly it might have con 
 tinued in the same condition in which Wei beck had left 
 it. Beds or sofas might be found, on Avhich a sick man 
 might rest, and be fearless of intrusion. 
 
 This inference was quickly overturned by the obvious 
 supposition that every avenue was bolted and locked. 
 This, however, might not be the condition of the bath 
 house, in which there was nothing that required to be 
 guarded with unusual precautions. I was suffocated by 
 inward and scorched by external heat ; and the relief of 
 bathing and drinking appeared inestimable. 
 
 The value of this prize, in addition to my desire to 
 avoid the observation of passengers, made me exert all 
 my remnant of strength. Repeated efforts at length 
 enabled me to mount the wall ; and placed me, as I ima 
 gined, in security. I swallowed large draughts of water 
 as soon as I could reach the well. 
 
 The effect was, for a time, salutary and delicious. My 
 fervours were abated, and my faculties relieved from the 
 weight which had lately oppressed them. My present 
 condition was unspeakably more advantageous than the 
 former. I did not believe that it could be improved, till, 
 casting my eye vaguely over the building, I happened 
 to observe the shutters of a lower window partly opened. 
 
 Whether this was occasioned by design or by accident 
 there was no means of deciding. Perhaps, in the pre 
 cipitation of the latest possessor, this window had been 
 overlooked. Perhaps it had been unclosed by violence, 
 and afforded entrance to a robber. By what means
 
 1 82 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 soever it had happened, it undoubtedly afforded ingress 
 to me. I felt no scruple in profiting by this cireumstance. 
 My purposes were not dishonest. I should not injure or 
 purloin any thing. It was laudable to seek a refuge from 
 the well-meant persecutions of those who governed the 
 city. All I sought was the privilege of dying alone. 
 
 Having gotten in at the window, I could not but re 
 mark that the furniture and its arrangements had under 
 gone no alteration in my absence. I moved softly from 
 one apartment to another, till at length I entered that 
 which had formerly been Welbeck s bedchamber. 
 
 The bed was naked of covering. The cabinets and 
 closets exhibited their fastenings broken. Their con 
 tents were gone. Whether these appearances had been 
 produced by midnight robbers, or by the ministers of 
 law and the rage of the creditors of Welbeck, was a 
 topic of fruitless conjecture. 
 
 My design was now effected. This chamber should be 
 the scene of my disease and my refuge from the charita 
 ble cruelty of my neighbours. My new sensations con 
 jured up the hope that my indisposition might prove a 
 temporary evil. Instead of pestilential or malignant 
 fever, it might be a harmless intermittent. Time would 
 ascertain its true nature ; meanwhile, I would turn the 
 carpet into a coverlet, supply my pitcher with water, and 
 administer without sparing, and without fear, that remedy 
 which was placed within my reach.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 I LAID myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs in 
 the folds of the carpet. My thoughts were restless and 
 perturbed. I was once more busy in reflecting on the 
 conduct which I ought to pursue with regard to the bank- 
 bills. I weighed, with scrupulous attention, every cir 
 cumstance that might influence my decision. I could not 
 conceive any more beneficial application of this property 
 than to the service of the indigent, at this season of mul 
 tiplied distress ; but I considered that, if my death were 
 unknoAvn, the house would not be opened or examined 
 till the pestilence had ceased, and the benefits of this 
 application would thus be partly or wholly precluded. 
 
 This season of disease, however, would give place to a 
 season of scarcity. The number and wants of the poor, 
 during the ensuing winter, would be deplorably aggra 
 vated. What multitudes might be rescued from famine 
 and nakedness by the judicious application of this sum ! 
 
 But how should I secure this application ? To enclose 
 the bills in a letter, directed to some eminent citizen or 
 public officer, was the obvious proceeding. Both of these 
 conditions were fulfilled in the person of the present 
 chief-magistrate. To him, therefore, the packet was to 
 be sent. 
 
 Paper and the implements of writing were necessary 
 for this end. Would they be found, I asked, in the up 
 per room ? If that apartment, like the rest which I had 
 seen, and its furniture, had remained untouched, my task 
 would be practicable ; but, if the means of writing were 
 not to be immediately procured, my purpose, momentous 
 and dear as it was, must be relinquished. 
 
 The truth, in this respect, was easily and ought imme- 
 
 1R3
 
 184 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 diately to be ascertained. I rose from the bed which 1 
 had lately taken, and proceeded to the study. The en 
 tries and staircases were illuminated by a pretty strong 
 twilight. The rooms, in consequence of every ray being 
 excluded by the closed shutters, were nearly as dark as 
 if it had been midnight. The rooms into which I had 
 already passed were locked, but its key was in each lock. 
 I flattered myself that the entrance into the study would 
 be found in the same condition. The door was shut, but 
 no key was to be seen. My hopes were considerably 
 damped by this appearance, but I conceived it to be still 
 possible to enter, since, by chance or by design, the door 
 might be unlocked. 
 
 My fingers touched the lock, when a sound was heard 
 as if a bolt, appending to the door on the inside, had 
 been drawn. I was startled by this incident. It be 
 tokened that the room was already occupied by some 
 other, who desired to exclude a visitor. The unbarred 
 shutter below was remembered, and associated itself with 
 this circumstance. That this house should be entered by 
 the same avenue, at the same time, and this room should 
 be sought, by two persons, was a mysterious concurrence. 
 
 I began to question whether I had heard distinctly. 
 Numberless inexplicable noises are apt to assail the ear 
 in an empty dwelling. The very echoes of our steps 
 are unwonted and new. This, perhaps, was some such 
 sound. Resuming courage, I once more applied to the 
 lock. The door, in spite of my repeated efforts, would 
 not open. 
 
 My design was too momentous to be readily relin 
 quished. My curiosity and my fears likewise were 
 awakened. The marks of violence, which I had seen 
 on the closets and cabinets below, seemed to indicate the 
 presence of plunderers. Here was one who laboured for 
 seclusion and concealment. 
 
 The pillage was not made upon my property. My 
 weakness would disable me from encountering or master 
 ing a man of violence. To solicit admission into this 
 room would be useless. To attempt to force my way 
 would be absurd. These reflections prompted me to 
 withdraw from the door; but the uncertainty of the con-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 185 
 
 elusions I had drawn, and the importance of gaining 
 access to this apartment, combined to check my steps. 
 
 Perplexed as to the means I should employ, I once 
 more tried the lock. The attempt was fruitless as the 
 former. Though hopeless of any information to be gained 
 by that means, I put my eye to the keyhole. I dis 
 covered a light different from what was usually met with 
 at this hour. It was not the twilight which the sun, 
 imperfectly excluded, produces, but gleams, as from a 
 lamp ; yet its gleams were fainter and obscurer than a 
 lamp generally imparts. 
 
 Was this a confirmation of my first conjecture? Lamp 
 light at noonday, in a mansion thus deserted, and in a 
 room which had been the scene of memorable and disas 
 trous events, was ominous. Hitherto no direct proof had 
 been given of the presence of a human being. How to 
 ascertain his presence, or whether it were eligible by any 
 means to ascertain it, were points on which I had not 
 deliberated. 
 
 I had no power to deliberate. My curiosity impelled 
 me to call, "Is there any one within? Speak." 
 
 These words were scarcely uttered, when some one 
 exclaimed, in a voice vehement but half-smothered, 
 " Good God !" 
 
 A deep pause succeeded. I waited for an answer; for 
 somewhat to which this emphatic invocation might be a 
 prelude. Whether the tones were expressive of surprise, 
 or pain, or grief, was, for a moment, dubious. Perhaps 
 the motives which led me to this house suggested the sus 
 picion which presently succeeded to my doubts, that the 
 person within was disabled by sickness. The circum 
 stances of my own condition took away the improbability 
 from this belief. Why might not another be induced 
 like me to hide himself in this desolate retreat ? Might 
 not a servant, left to take care of the house, a measure 
 usually adopted by the opulent at this time, be seized by 
 the reigning malady ? Incapacitated for exertion, or 
 fearing to be dragged to the hospital, he has shut him 
 self in this apartment. The robber, it may be, who 
 came to pillage, was overtaken and detained by disease.
 
 1 86 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 In cither case, detection or intrusion would be hateful, 
 and would be assiduously eluded. 
 
 These thoughts had no tendency to weaken or divert 
 my efforts to obtain access to this room. The person was 
 a brother in calamity, whom it was ray duty to succour 
 and cherish to the utmost of my power. Once more I 
 spoke : 
 
 " Who is within? I beseech you answer me. What 
 ever you be, I desire to do you good and not injury. 
 Open the door and let me know your condition. I will 
 try to be of use to you." 
 
 I was answered by a deep groan, and by a sob coun 
 teracted and devoured as it were by a mighty effort. 
 This token of distress thrilled to my heart. My terrors 
 wholly disappeared, and gave place to unlimited compas 
 sion. I again entreated to be admitted, promising all 
 the succour or consolation which my situation allowed 
 me to afford. 
 
 Answers were made in tones of anger and impatience, 
 blended with those of grief: "I want no succour; vex 
 me not with your entreaties and offers. Fly from this 
 spot ; linger not a moment, lest you participate my 
 destiny and rush upon your death." 
 
 These I considered merely as the effusions of delirium, 
 or the dictates of despair. The style and articulation 
 denoted the speaker to be superior to the class of ser 
 vants. Hence my anxiety to see and to aid him was 
 increased. My remonstrances were sternly and perti 
 naciously repelled. For a time, incoherent and impas 
 sioned exclamations flowed from him. At length, I was 
 only permitted to hear strong aspirations and sobs, more 
 eloquent and more indicative of grief than any language. 
 
 This deportment filled me with no less wonder than 
 commiseration. By what views this person was led 
 hither, by what motives induced to deny himself to my 
 entreaties, was wholly incomprehensible. Again, though 
 hopeless of success, I repeated my request to be ad 
 mitted. 
 
 My perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all 
 his patience, and he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, 
 "Arthur Mervyu ! Begone. Linger but a moment,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. l8/ 
 
 and iny rage, tiger-like, will rush upon you and rend 
 you limb from limb." 
 
 This address petrified me. The voice that uttered 
 this sanguinary menace was strange to my ears. It 
 suggested no suspicion of ever having heard it before. 
 Yet my accents had betrayed me to him. He was fami 
 liar with my name. Notwithstanding the improbability 
 of my entrance into this dwelling, I was clearly recog 
 nized and unhesitatingly named ! 
 
 My curiosity and compassion were in no wise dimi 
 nished, but I found myself compelled to give up my 
 purpose. I withdrew reluctantly from the door, and 
 once more threw myself upon my bed. Nothing was 
 more necessary, in the present condition of my frame, 
 than sleep ; and sleep had, perhaps, been possible, if the 
 scene around me had been less pregnant with causes of 
 wonder and panic. 
 
 Once more I tasked memory in order to discover, in 
 the persons with whom I had hitherto conversed, some 
 resemblance, in voice or tones, to him whom I had just 
 heard. This process was effectual. Gradually my ima 
 gination called up an image which, now that it was 
 clearly seen, I was astonished had not instantly oc 
 curred. Three years ago, a man, by name Colvill, came 
 on foot, and with a knapsack on his back, into the dis 
 trict where my father resided. He had learning and 
 genius, and readily obtained the station for which only 
 he deemed himself qualified ; that of a schoolmaster. 
 
 His demeanour was gentle and modest ; his habits, as 
 to sleep, food, and exercise, abstemious and regular. 
 Meditation in the forest, or reading in his closet, seemed 
 to constitute, together with attention to his scholars, his 
 sole amusement and employment. He estranged him 
 self from company, not because society afforded no plea 
 sure, but because studious seclusion afforded him chief 
 satisfaction. 
 
 No one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neigh 
 bours. His scholars revered him as a father, and made 
 under his tuition a remarkable proficiency. His charac 
 ter seemed open to boundless inspection, and his conduct 
 was pronounced by all to be faultless.
 
 1 88 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 At the end of a year the scene was changed. A 
 daughter of one of his patrons, young, artless, and 
 beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey to the arts of 
 some detestable seducer. The betrayer was gradually 
 detected, and successive discoveries showed that the 
 same artifices had been practised, with the same success, 
 upon many others. Colvill was the arch-villain. lie 
 retired from the storm of vengeance that was gathering 
 over him, and had not been heard of since that period. 
 
 I saw him rarely, and for a short time, and I was a 
 mere boy. Hence the failure to recollect his voice, and 
 to perceive that the voice of him immured in the room 
 above was the same with that of Colvill. Though I had 
 slight reasons for recognising his features or accents, I 
 had abundant cause to think of him with detestation, 
 and pursue him with implacable revenge, for the victim 
 of his acts, she whose ruin was first detected, was 
 my sister. 
 
 This unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of 
 her parents, from the contumelies of the world, from the 
 goatlings of remorse, and the anguish flowing from the 
 perfidy and desertion of Colvill, in a voluntary death. 
 She was innocent and lovely. Previous to this evil, my 
 soul was linked with hers by a thousand resemblances 
 and sympathies, as well as by perpetual intercourse 
 from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. She was 
 my sister, my preceptress and friend ; but she died her 
 end was violent, untimely, and criminal ! I cannot think 
 of her without heart-bursting grief; of her destroyer, 
 without a rancour which I know to be wrong, but which 
 I cannot subdue. 
 
 When the image of Colvill rushed, upon this occasion, 
 on my thought, 1 almost started on niy feet. To meet 
 him, after so long a separation, here, and in these cir 
 cumstances, was so unlooked-for and abrupt an event, 
 and revived a tribe of such hateful impulses and 
 agoni/ing recollections, that a total revolution seemed to 
 have been effected in my frame. His recognition of my 
 person, his aversion to be seen, his ejaculation of terror 
 and surprise on first hearing my voice, all contributed 
 to strengthen my belief.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 189 
 
 How was I to act? My feeble frame could but ill 
 second my vengeful purposes ; but vengeance, though it 
 sometimes occupied my thoughts, was hindered by my 
 reason from leading me, in any instance, to outrage or 
 even to upbraiding. 
 
 All my wishes with regard to this man were limited 
 to expelling his image from my memory, and to shun 
 ning a meeting with him. That he had not opened the 
 door at my bidding was now a topic of joy. To look 
 upon some bottomless pit, into which I was about to be 
 cast headlong, and alive, was less to be abhorred than to 
 look upon the face of Colvill. Had I known that he 
 had taken refuge in this house, no power should have 
 compelled me to enter it. To be immersed in the infec 
 tion of the hospital, and to be hurried, yet breathing 
 and observant, to my grave, was a more supportable 
 fate. 
 
 I dwell, with self-condemnation and shame, upon this 
 part of my story. To feel extraordinary indignation at 
 vice, merely because we have partaken in an extraordi 
 nary degree of its mischiefs, is unjustifiable. To regard 
 the wicked with no emotion but pity, to be active in re 
 claiming them, in controlling their malevolence, and 
 preventing or repairing the ills Avhich they produce, is 
 the only province of duty. This lesson, as well as a 
 thousand others, I have yet to learn ; but I despair of 
 living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose. 
 
 My emotions witli regard to Colvill were erroneous, 
 but omnipotent. I started from my bed, and prepared 
 to rush into the street. I was careless of the lot that 
 should befall me, since no fate could be worse than that 
 of abiding under the same roof with a wretch spotted 
 with so many crimes. 
 
 I had not set my feet upon the floor before my preci 
 pitation was checked by a sound from above. The door 
 of the study was cautiously and slowly opened. This 
 incident admitted only of one construction, supposing all 
 obstructions removed. Colvill was creeping from his 
 hiding-place, and would probably ily with speed from 
 the house. My belief of his sickness was now confuted.
 
 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 An illicit design was congenial with his character and 
 congruous with those appearances already observed. 
 
 I had no power or wish to obstruct his flight. I 
 thought of it with transport, and once more threw my 
 self upon the bed, and wrapped my averted face in the 
 carpet. He would probably pass this door, unobservant 
 of me, and my muffled face would save me from the 
 agonies connected with the sight of him. 
 
 The footsteps above were distinguishable, though it 
 was manifest that they moved with lightsomeness and 
 circumspection. They reached the stair and descended. 
 The room in which I lay was, like the rest, obscured by 
 the closed shutters. This obscurity now gave way to a 
 light, resembling that glimmering and pale reflection 
 which I had noticed in the study. My eyes, though 
 averted from the door, were disengaged from the folds 
 which covered the rest of my head, and observed these 
 tokens of Colvill s approach, flitting on the wall. 
 
 My feverish perturbations increased as he drew nearer. 
 He reached the door, and stopped. The light rested for 
 a moment. Presently he entered the apartment. My 
 emotions suddenly rose to a height that would not be 
 controlled. I imagined that he approached the bed, 
 and was gazing upon me. At the same moment, by an 
 involuntary impulse, I threw off my covering, and, turn 
 ing my face, fixed my eyes upon my visitant. 
 
 It was as I suspected. The figure, lifting in his right 
 hand a candle, and gazing at the bed, with lineaments 
 and attitude bespeaking fearful expectation and torment 
 ing doubts, was now beheld. One glance communicated 
 to my senses all the parts of this terrific vision. A 
 sinking at my heart, as if it had been penetrated by a 
 dagger, seized me. This was not enough : I uttered a 
 shriek, too rueful and loud not to have startled the 
 attention of the passengers, if any had, at that moment, 
 been passing the street. 
 
 Heaven seemed to have decreed that this period should 
 be filled with trials of iny equanimity and fortitude. 
 The test of my courage was once more employed to 
 cover me with humiliation and remorse. This second 
 time, my fancy conjured up a spectre, and I shuddered
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. \gi 
 
 as if the grave were forsaken and the unquiet dead 
 haunted my pillow. 
 
 The visage and the shape had indeed preternatural 
 attitudes, but they belonged, not to Colvill, but to 
 WELBECK.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 HE whom I had accompanied to the midst of the river ; 
 whom I had imagined that I saw sink to rise no more, 
 was now before me. Though incapable of precluding 
 the groundless belief of preternatural visitations, I was 
 able to banish the phantom almost at the same instant 
 at which it appeared. Welbeck had escaped from the 
 stream alive ; or had, by some inconceivable means, been 
 restored to life. 
 
 The first was the most plausible conclusion. It 
 instantly engendered a suspicion, that his plunging 
 into the water was an artifice, intended to establish a be 
 lief of his death. His own tale had shown him to be 
 versed in frauds, and flexible to evil. But was he not 
 associated with Colvill? and what, but a compact in 
 iniquity, could bind together such men? 
 
 While thus musing, Welbeck s countenance and gesture 
 displayed emotions too vehement for speech. The glances 
 that he fixed upon me were unsteadfast and wild. He 
 walked along the floor, stopping at each moment, and 
 darting looks of eagerness upon me. A conflict of 
 passions kept him mute. At length, advancing to the 
 bed, on the side of which I was now sitting, he addressed 
 ine: 
 
 " What is this ? Are you here ? In defiance of pesti 
 lence, are you actuated by some demon to haunt me, like 
 the ghost of my offences, and cover me with shame ? 
 What have I to do with that dauntless yet guiltless front? 
 With that foolishly-confiding and obsequious, yet erect 
 and unconquerable, spirit? Is there no means of evading 
 your pursuit? Must I dip my hands, a second time, in 
 blood; and dig for you a grave by the side of Watson? 
 192
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 193 
 
 These words were listened to with calmness. I sus 
 pected and pitied the man, but I did not fear him. His 
 words and his looks were indicative less of cruelty than 
 madness. I looked at him with an air compassionate 
 and wistful. I spoke with mildness and composure : 
 
 " Mr. Welbeck, you are unfortunate and criminal. 
 Would to God I could restore you to happiness and virtue ! 
 but, though my desire be strong, I have no power to 
 change your habits or rescue you from misery. 
 
 " I believed you to be dead. I rejoice to find myself 
 mistaken. While you live, there is room to hope that 
 your errors will be cured ; and the turmoils and inquiet 
 udes that have hitherto beset your guilty progress will 
 vanish by your reverting into better paths. 
 
 "From me you have nothing to fear. If your welfare 
 will be promoted by my silence on the subject of your 
 history, my silence shall be inviolate. I deem not lightly 
 of my promises. They are given, and shall not be re 
 called. 
 
 " This meeting was casual. Since I believed you to 
 be dead, it could not be otherwise. You err, if you sup 
 pose that any injury will accrue to you from my life; 
 but you need not discard that error. Since my death is 
 coming, I am not averse to your adopting the belief that 
 the event is fortunate to you. 
 
 "Death is the inevitable and universal lot. When or 
 how it comes, is of little moment. To stand, when so 
 many thousands are falling around me, is not to be ex 
 pected. I have acted an humble and obscure part in 
 the world, and my career has been short; but I murmur 
 not at the decree that makes it so. 
 
 "The pestilence is now upon me. The chances of 
 recovery are too slender to deserve my confidence. I 
 came hither to die unmolested, and at peace. All I ask 
 of you is to consult your own safety by immediate 
 flight ; and not to disappoint my hopes of concealment, 
 by disclosing my condition to the agents of the hos 
 pital." 
 
 Welbeck listened with the deepest attention. The 
 vildness of his air disappeared, and gave place to per 
 plexity and apprehension. 
 13
 
 194 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "You are sick," said he, in a tremulous tone, in which 
 terror was mingled with affection. "You know this, and 
 expect not to recover. No mother, nor sister, nor friend, 
 will be near to administer food, or medicine, or comfort ; 
 yet you can talk calmly ; can be thus considerate of 
 others of me ; whose guilt has been so deep, and who 
 has merited so little at your hands ! 
 
 "Wretched coward ! Thus miserable as I am and ex 
 pect to be, I cling to life. To comply with your heroic 
 counsel, and to fly ; to leave you thus desolate and help 
 less, is the strongest impulse. Fain would I resist it, 
 but cannot. 
 
 " To desert you would be flagitious and dastardly be 
 yond all former acts ; yet to stay with you is to contract 
 the disease, and to perish after you. 
 
 "Life, burdened as it is with guilt and ignominy, is 
 still dear yet you exhort me to go ; you dispense with 
 my assistance. Indeed, I could be of no use ; I should 
 injure myself and profit you nothing. I cannot go into 
 the city and procure a physician or attendant. I must 
 never more appear in the streets of this city. I must 
 leave you, then." He hurried to the door. Again, he 
 hesitated. I renewed my entreaties that he would leave 
 me ; and encouraged his belief that his presence might 
 endanger himself without conferring the slightest benefit 
 upon me. 
 
 "Whither should I fly ? The wide world contains no 
 asylum for me. I lived but on one condition. I came 
 hither to find what would save me from ruin, from 
 death. I find it not. It has vanished. Some audacious 
 and fortunate hand has snatched it from its place, and 
 now my ruin is complete. My last hope is extinct. 
 
 " Yes, Mervyn ! I will stay with you. I will hold 
 your head. I will put water to your lips. I will watch 
 night and day by your side. When you die, I will carry 
 you by night to the neighbouring field ; will bury you, 
 and water your grave with those tears that are due to 
 your incomparable worth and untimely destiny. Then 
 I will lay myself in your bed, and wait for the same 
 oblivion." 
 
 Welbeck seemed now no longer to be fluctuating be-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 195 
 
 tween opposite purposes. His tempestuous features sub 
 sided into calm. He put the candle, still lighted, on the 
 table, and paced the floor with less disorder than at his 
 first entrance. 
 
 His resolution was seen to be the dictate of despair. 
 I hoped that it would not prove invincible to my re 
 monstrances. I was conscious that his attendance might 
 preclude, in some degree, my own exertions, and alleviate 
 the pangs of death ; but these consolations might be 
 purchased too dear. To receive them at the hazard of 
 his life would be to make them odious. 
 
 But, if he should remain, what conduct would his 
 companion pursue ? Why did he continue in the study 
 when Welbeck had departed ? By what motives were 
 those men led hither ? I addressed myself to Welbeck : 
 
 " Your resolution to remain is hasty and rash. By 
 persisting in it, you will add to the miseries of my con 
 dition ; you will take away the only hope that I cherished. 
 But, however you may act, Colvill or I must be banished 
 from this roof. What is the league between you ? Break 
 it, I conjure you, before his frauds have involved you in 
 inextricable destruction." 
 
 Welbeck looked at me with some expression of doubt. 
 
 " I mean," continued I, " the man whose voice I heard 
 above. He is a villain and betrayer. I have manifold 
 proofs of his guilt. Why does he linger behind you ? 
 However you may decide, it is fitting that he should 
 vanish." 
 
 "Alas!" said Welbeck, "I have no companion, none 
 to partake with me in good or evil. I came hither alone." 
 
 "How?" exclaimed I. "Whom did I hear in the 
 room above? Some one answered my interrogations 
 and entreaties, whom I too certainly recognised. Why 
 does he remain?" 
 
 "You heard no one but myself. The design that 
 brought me hither was to be accomplished without a wit 
 ness. I desired to escape detection, and repelled your 
 solicitations for admission in a counterfeited voice. 
 
 " That voice belonged to one from whom I had lately 
 parted. What his merits or demerits are, I know not. 
 He found me wandering in the forests of New Jersey.
 
 196 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 He took me to his home. When seized by a lingering 
 malady, he nursed me with fidelity and tenderness. 
 When somewhat recovered, I speeded hither ; but our 
 ignorance of each other s character and views was mutual 
 and profound. 
 
 " I deemed it useful to assume a voice different from 
 my own. This was the last which I had heard, and this 
 arbitrary and casual circumstance decided my choice." 
 
 This imitation was too perfect, and had influenced my 
 fears too strongly, to be easily credited. I suspected 
 Welbeck of some new artifice to baffle my conclusions 
 and mislead my judgment. This suspicion, however, 
 yielded to his earnest and repeated declarations. If 
 Colvill were not here, where had he made his abode? 
 How came friendship and intercourse between Welbeck 
 and him ? By what miracle escaped the former from 
 the river, into which I had imagined him forever sunk ? 
 
 " I will answer you," said he, with candour. " You 
 know already too much for me to have any interest in 
 concealing any part of my life. You have discovered 
 my existence, and the causes that rescued me from 
 destruction may be told without detriment to my person 
 or fame. 
 
 " When I leaped into the river, I intended to perish. 
 I harboured no previous doubts of my ability fo execute 
 my fatal purpose. In this respect I was deceived. Suf 
 focation would not come at my bidding. My muscles 
 and limbs rebelled against my will. There was a me 
 chanical repugnance to the loss of life, which I could not 
 vanquish. My struggles might thrust me below the sur 
 face, but my lips were spontaneously shut, and excluded 
 the torrent from my lungs. When my breath was ex 
 hausted, the efforts that kept me at the bottom were 
 involuntarily remitted, and I rose to the surface. 
 
 " I cursed my own pusillanimity. Thrice I plunged 
 to the bottom, and as often rose again. My aversion to 
 life swiftly diminished, and at length I consented to 
 make use of my skill in swimming, which has seldom 
 been exceeded, to prolong my existence. I landed in a 
 few minutes on the Jersey shore. 
 
 " This scheme being frustrated, I sunk into dreariness
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 197 
 
 and inactivity. I felt as if no dependence could be 
 placed upon my courage, as if any effort I should make 
 for self-destruction would be fruitless ; yet existence was 
 as void as ever of enjoyment and embellishment. My 
 means of living were annihilated. I saw no path before 
 me. To shun the presence of mankind was my sove 
 reign wish. Since I could not die by my own hands, I 
 must be content to crawl upon the surface, till a superior 
 fate should permit me to perish. 
 
 " I wandered into the centre of the wood. I stretched 
 myself on the mossy verge of a brook, and gazed at the 
 stars till they disappeared. The next day was spent 
 with little variation. The cravings of hunger were felt, 
 and the sensation was a joyous one, since it afforded me 
 the practicable means of death. To refrain from food 
 was easy, since some efforts would be needful to procure 
 it, and these efforts should not be made. Thus was the 
 sweet oblivion for which I so earnestly panted placed 
 within my reach. 
 
 " Three days of abstinence, and reverie, and solitude, 
 succeeded. On the evening of the fourth, I was seated 
 on a rock, with my face buried in my hands. Some one 
 laid his hand upon my shoulder. I started and looked 
 up. I beheld a face beaming with compassion and be 
 nignity. He endeavoured to extort from me the cause 
 of my solitude and sorrow. I disregarded his entrea 
 ties, and was obstinately silent. 
 
 " Finding me invincible in this respect, he invited me 
 to his cottage, which was hard by. I repelled him at 
 first with impatience and anger, but he was not to be 
 discouraged or intimidated. To elude his persuasions I 
 was obliged to comply. My strength was gone, and the 
 vital fabric was crumbling into pieces. A fever raged 
 in my veins, and I was consoled by reflecting that my 
 life was at once assailed by famine and disease. 
 
 " Meanwhile, my gloomy meditations experienced no 
 respite. I incessantly ruminated on the events of my 
 past life. The long series of my crimes arose daily and 
 afresh to my imagination. The image of Lodi was re 
 called, his expiring looks and the directions which were 
 mutually given respecting his sister s and his property.
 
 198 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 11 As I perpetually revolved these incidents, they as 
 sumed new forms, and were linked with new associations. 
 The volume written by his father, and transferred to 
 me by tokens which were now remembered to be more 
 emphatic than the nature of the composition seemed to 
 justify, was likewise remembered. It came attended by 
 recollections respecting a volume which I filled, when a 
 youth, with extracts from the Roman and Greek poets. 
 Besides this literary purpose, I likewise used to preserve 
 in it the bank-bills with the keeping or carriage of which 
 I chanced to be entrusted. This image led me back to 
 the leather case containing Lodi s property, which was 
 put into my hands at the same time with the volume. 
 
 " These images now gave birth to a third conception, 
 which darted on my benighted understanding like an elec 
 trical flash. Was it not possible that part of Lodi s pro 
 perty might be enclosed within the leaves of this volume? 
 In hastily turning it over, I recollected to have noticed 
 leaves whose edges by accident or design adhered to 
 each other. Lodi, in speaking of the sale of his father s 
 West-India property, mentioned that the sum obtained 
 for it was forty thousand dollars. Half only of this sum 
 had been discovered by me. How had the remainder 
 been appropriated ? Surely this volume contained it. 
 
 " The influence of this thought was like the infusion 
 of a new soul into my frame. From torpid and despe 
 rate, from inflexible aversion to medicine and food, I 
 was changed in a moment into vivacity and hope, into 
 ravenous avidity for whatever could contribute to my 
 restoration to health. 
 
 " I was not without pungent regrets and racking fears. 
 That this volume would be ravished away by creditors or 
 plunderers was possible. Every hour might be that 
 which decided my fate. The first impulse was to seek 
 my dwelling and search for this precious deposit. 
 
 " Meanwhile, my perturbations and impatience only 
 exasperated my disease. While chained to my bed, the 
 rumour of pestilence was spread abroad. This event, 
 however, generally calamitous, was propitious to me, and 
 was hailed with satisfaction. It multiplied the chances 
 that my house and its furniture would be unmolested.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 199 
 
 " My friend was assiduous and indefatigable in his 
 kindness. My deportment, before and subsequent to 
 the revival of my hopes, was incomprehensible, and 
 argued nothing less than insanity. My thoughts were 
 carefully concealed from him, and all that he witnessed 
 was contradictory and unintelligible. 
 
 "At length, my strength wfcs sufficiently restored. I 
 resisted all my protector s importunities to postpone my 
 departure till the perfect confirmation of my health. I 
 designed to enter the city at midnight, that prying eyes 
 might be eluded ; to bear with me a candle and the 
 means of lighting it, to explore my way to my ancient 
 study, and to ascertain my future claim to existence and 
 felicity. 
 
 "I crossed the river this morning. My impatience 
 would not suffer me to wait till evening. Considering 
 the desolation of the city, I thought I might venture to 
 approach thus near, without hazard of detection. The 
 house, at all its avenues, was closed. I stole into the 
 back court. A window-shutter proved to be unfastened. 
 I entered, and discovered closets and cabinets unfastened 
 and emptied of all their contents. At this spectacle my 
 heart sunk. My books, doubtless, had shared the com 
 mon destiny. My blood throbbed with painful vehe 
 mence as I approached the study and opened the door. 
 
 "My hopes, that languished for a moment, were re 
 vived by the sight of my shelves, furnished as formerly. 
 I had lighted my candle below, for I desired not to 
 awaken observation and suspicion by unclosing the win 
 dows. My eye eagerly sought the spot where I remem 
 bered to have left the volume. Its place was empty. 
 The object of all my hopes had eluded my grasp, and 
 disappeared forever. 
 
 "To paint my confusion, to repeat my execrations on 
 the infatuation which had rendered, during so long a 
 time that it was in my possession, this treasure useless 
 to me, and my curses of the fatal interference which had 
 snatched away the prize, would be only aggravations of 
 my disappointment and my sorrow. You found me ic 
 this state, and know what followed."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THIS narrative threw new light on the character of 
 Welbeck. If accident had given him possession of this 
 treasure, it was easy to predict on what schemes of 
 luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. 
 The same dependence on the world s erroneous estima 
 tion, the same devotion to imposture, and thoughtless 
 ness of futurity, would have Constituted the picture of 
 his future life, as had distinguished the past. 
 
 This money was another s. To retain it for his own 
 use was criminal. Of this crime he appeared to be as 
 insensible as ever. His own gratification was the su 
 preme law of his actions. To be subjected to the neces 
 sity of honest labour was the heaviest of all evils, and 
 one from which he was willing to escape by the commis 
 sion of suicide. 
 
 The volume which he sought was mine. It was my 
 duty to restore it to the rightful owner, or, if the legal 
 claimant could not be found, to employ it in the promo 
 tion of virtue and happiness. To give it to Welbeck 
 was to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and 
 misery. My right, legally considered, was as valid as his. 
 
 But, if I intended not to resign it to him, was it proper 
 to disclose the truth and explain by whom the volume 
 was purloined from the shelf? The first impulse was to 
 hide this truth ; but my understanding had been taught, 
 by recent occurrences, to question the justice and deny 
 the usefulness of secrecy in any case. My principles 
 were true ; my motives were pure : why should I scruple 
 to avow my principles and vindicate my actions ? 
 
 Welbeck had ceased to be dreaded or revered. Tha* 
 awe which was once created by his superiority of age, 
 200
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2OI 
 
 refinement of manners, and dignity of garb, had va 
 nished. I was a boy in years, an indigent and unedu 
 cated rustic ; but I was able to discern the illusions of 
 power and riches, and abjured every claim to esteem that 
 was not founded on integrity. There was no tribunal 
 before which I should falter in asserting the truth, and 
 no species of martyrdom which I would not cheerfully 
 embrace in its cause. 
 
 After some pause, I said, " Cannot you conjecture in 
 what way this volume has disappeared :" 
 
 "No," he answered, with a sigh. "Why, of all his 
 volumes, this only should have vanished, was an inexpli 
 cable enigma." 
 
 "Perhaps," said I, "it is less important to know how 
 it was removed, than by whom it is now possessed." 
 
 "Unquestionably; and yet, unless that knowledge 
 enables me to regain the possession, it will be useless." 
 
 " Useless then it will be, for the present possessor will 
 never return it to you." 
 
 "Indeed," replied he, in a tone of dejection, "your 
 conjecture is most probable. Such a prize is of too much 
 value to be given up." 
 
 "What I have said flows not from conjecture, but 
 from knowledge. I know that it will never be restored 
 to you." 
 
 At these words, Welbeck looked at me with anxiety 
 and doubt : " You know that it will not ! Have you 
 any knowledge of the book ? Can you tell me what has 
 become of it :" 
 
 " Yes. After our separation on the river, I returned 
 to this house. I found this volume and secured it. You 
 rightly suspected its contents. The money was there." 
 
 Welbeck started as if he had trodden on a mine of 
 gold. His first emotion was rapturous, but was imme 
 diately chastened by some degree of doubt : " What has 
 become of it? Have you got it ? Is it entire? Have 
 you it with you ?" 
 
 " It is unimpaired. I have got it, and shall hold it as 
 a sacred trust for the rightful proprietor." 
 
 The tone with which this declaration was accompanied 
 shook the new-born confidence of Welbeck. " The right-
 
 202 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 ful proprietor ! true, but I am he. To me only it belongs. 
 and to me you are, doubtless, willing to restore it." 
 
 "Mr. Welbeck ! It is not my desire to give you per 
 plexity or anguish ; to sport with your passions. On the 
 supposition of your death, I deemed it no infraction of 
 justice to take this manuscript. Accident unfolded its 
 contents. I could not hesitate to choose my path. The 
 natural and legal successor of Vincentio Lodi is his 
 sister. To her, therefore, this property belongs, and to 
 her only will I give it." 
 
 "Presumptuous boy! And this is your sage decision. 
 I tell you that I am the owner, and to me you shall 
 render it. Who is this girl ? Childish and ignorant ! 
 Unable to consult and to act for herself on the most tri 
 vial occasion. Am I not, by the appointment of her 
 dying brother, her protector and guardian ? Her age 
 produces a legal incapacity of property. Do you ima 
 gine that so obvious an expedient as that of procuring 
 my legal appointment as her guardian was overlooked by 
 me ? If it were neglected, still my title to provide her 
 subsistence and enjoyment is unquestionable. 
 
 " Did I not rescue her from poverty, and prostitution, 
 and infamy ? Have I not supplied all her wants with 
 incessant solicitude ? Whatever her condition required 
 has been plenteously supplied. The dwelling and its 
 furniture was hers, as far a rigid jurisprudence would 
 permit. To prescribe her expenses and govern her 
 family was the province of her guardian. 
 
 " You have heard the tale of my anguish and despair. 
 Whence did they flow but from the frustration of schemes 
 projected for her benefit, as they were executed with her 
 money and by means which the authority of her guardian 
 fully justified ? Why have I encountered this contagious 
 atmosphere, and explored my way, like a thief, to this 
 recess, but with a view to rescue her from poverty and 
 restore to her her own ? 
 
 " Your scruples are ridiculous and criminal. I treat 
 them with less severity, because your youth is raw and 
 your conceptions crude. But if, after this proof of the 
 justice of my claim, you hesitate to restore the money,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 
 
 I shall treat you as a robber, who has plundered my 
 cabinet and refused to refund his spoil." 
 
 These reasonings were powerful and new. I was ac 
 quainted with the rights of guardianship. Welbeck had, 
 in some respects, acted as the friend of this lady. To 
 vest himself with this office was the conduct which her 
 youth and helplessness prescribed to her friend. His 
 title to this money, as her guardian, could not be denied. 
 
 But how was this statement compatible with former 
 representations ? No mention had then been made of 
 guardianship. By thus acting, he would have thwarted 
 all his schemes for winning the esteem of mankind and 
 fostering the belief which the world entertained of his 
 opulence and independence. 
 
 I was thrown, by these thoughts, into considerable per 
 plexity. If his statement were true, his claim to thin 
 money was established ; but I questioned its truth. To 
 intimate my doubts of his veracity would be to provoke 
 abhorrence and outrage. 
 
 His last insinuation was peculiarly momentous. Sup 
 pose him the fraudulent possessor of this money : shall I 
 be justified in taking it away by violence under pretence 
 of restoring it to the genuine proprietor, who, for aught 
 I know, may be dead, or with whom, at least, I may 
 never procure a meeting ? But will not my behaviour 
 on this occasion be deemed illicit ? I entered Welbeck s 
 habitation at midnight, proceeded to his closet, possessed 
 myself of portable property, and retired unobserved. Is 
 not guilt imputable to an action like this ? 
 
 Welbeck waited with impatience for a conclusion to 
 my pause. My perplexity and indecision did not abate, 
 and my silence continued. At length, he repeated his 
 demands, with new vehemence. I was compelled to an 
 swer. I told him, in few words, that his reasonings 
 had not convinced me of the equity of his claim, and 
 that my determination was unaltered. 
 
 He had not expected this inflexibility from one in my 
 situation. The folly of opposition, when my feebleness 
 and loneliness were contrasted with his activity and re 
 sources, appeared to him monstrous and glaring ; but his 
 contempt was converted into rage and fear when he re-
 
 204 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 fleeted that this folly might finally defeat his hopes. He 
 had probably determined to obtain the money, let the 
 purchase cost what it would, but was willing to exhaust 
 pacific expedients before he should resort to force, lie 
 might likeAvise question whether the money was within 
 his reach. I had told him that I had it, but whether it 
 was now about me was somewhat dubious ; yet, though 
 he used no direct inquiries, he chose to proceed on 
 the supposition of its being at hand. His angry tones 
 were now changed into those of remonstrance and per- 
 suasion : 
 
 " Your present behaviour, Mervyn, does not justify 
 the expectation I had formed of you. You have been 
 guilty of a base theft. To this you have added the 
 deeper crime of ingratitude, but your infatuation and 
 folly are, at least, as glaring as your guilt. Do you 
 think I can credit your assertions that you keep this 
 money for another, when I recollect that six weeks have 
 passed since you carried it oft ? Why have you not 
 sought the owner and restored it to her ? If your in 
 tentions had been honest, would you have suffered so long 
 a time to elapse without doing this ? It is plain that you 
 designed to keep it for your own use. 
 
 "But, whether this were your purpose or not, you 
 have no longer power to restore it or retain it. You 
 say that you came hither to die. If so, what is to be 
 the fate of the money ? In your present situation you 
 cannot gain access to the lady. Some other must in 
 herit this wealth. Next to Hignora Lodi, whose right 
 can be put in competition with mine ? But, if you will 
 not give it to me on my own account, let it be given in 
 trust for her. Let me be the bearer of it to her own 
 hands. I have already shown you that my claim to it, 
 as her guardian, is legal and incontrovertible, but this 
 claim I waive. I will merely be the executor of your 
 will. I will bind myself to comply with your directions 
 by any oath, however solemn and tremendous, which 
 you shall prescribe." 
 
 As long as my own heart acquitted me, these imputa 
 tions of dishonesty affected me but little. They excited 
 no anger, because they originated in ignorance, and
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2CK 
 
 were rendered plausible to Welbeck by such facts as 
 were known to him. It was needless to confute the 
 charge by elaborate and circumstantial details. 
 
 It was true that my recovery was, in the highest de 
 gree, improbable, and that my death would put an end 
 to ray power over this money ; but had I not determined 
 to secure its useful application in case of my death ? 
 This project was obstructed by the presence of Wel 
 beck ; but I hoped that his love of life would induce him 
 to fly. He might wrest this volume from me by violence, 
 or he might wait till my death should give him peace 
 able possession. But these, though probable events, 
 were not certain, and would, by no means, justify the 
 voluntary surrender. His strength, if employed for this 
 end, could not be resisted ; but then it would be a sacri 
 fice, not a choice, but necessity. 
 
 Promises were easily given, but were surely not to be 
 confided in. Welbeck s own tale, in which it could not 
 be imagined that he had aggravated his defects, attested 
 the frailty of his virtue. To put into his hands a sum 
 like this, in expectation of his delivering it to another, 
 when my death would cover the transaction with impene 
 trable secrecy, would be, indeed, a proof of that infatua 
 tion which he thought proper to impute to me. 
 
 These thoughts influenced my resolutions, but they 
 were revolved in silence. To state them verbally was 
 useless. They would not justify my conduct in his eyes. 
 They would only exasperate dispute, and impel him to 
 those acts of violence which I was desirous of prevent 
 ing. The sooner this controversy should end, and I in 
 any measure be freed from the obstruction of his com 
 pany, the better. 
 
 "Mr. Welbeck," said I, "my regard to your safety 
 compels me to wish that this interview should terminate. 
 At a different time, I should not be unwilling to discuss 
 this matter. Now it will be fruitless. My conscience 
 "points out to me too clearly the path I should pursue 
 for me to mistake it. As long as I have power over this 
 jioney, I shall keep it for the use of the unfortunate 
 lady whom I have seen in this house. I shall exert 
 myself to find her ; but, if that be impossible, I shall
 
 206 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 appropriate it in a way in which you shall have nc 
 participation." 
 
 I will not repeat the contest that succeeded between 
 my forbearance and his passions. I listened to the dic 
 tates of his rage and his avarice in silence. Astonish 
 ment at my inflexibility was blended with his anger. By 
 turns he commented on the guilt and on the folly of my 
 resolutions. Sometimes his emotions would mount into 
 fury, and he would approach me in a menacing attitude, 
 and lift his hand as if he would exterminate me at a 
 blow. My languid eyes, my cheeks glowing and my 
 temples throbbing with fever, and my total passiveness, 
 attracted his attention and arrested his stroke. Com 
 passion would take the place of rage, and the belief be 
 revived that remonstrances and arguments would answer 
 his purpose.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THIS scene lasted I know not how long. Insensibly 
 the passions and reasonings of Welbeck assumed a new 
 form. A grief, mingled with perplexity, overspread his 
 countenance. He ceased to contend or to speak. His 
 regards were withdrawn from me, on whom they had 
 hitherto been fixed ; and, wandering or vacant, testified 
 a conflict of mind terrible beyond any that my young 
 imagination had ever conceived. 
 
 For a time he appeared to be unconscious of my pre 
 sence. He moved to and fro with unequal steps, and 
 with gesticulations that possessed a horrible but indis 
 tinct significance. Occasionally he struggled for breath, 
 and his efforts were directed to remove some choking 
 impediment. 
 
 No test of my fortitude had hitherto occurred equal 
 to that to which it was now subjected. The suspicion 
 which this deportment suggested was vague and form 
 less. The tempest which I witnessed was the prelude 
 of horror. These were throes which would terminate in 
 the birth of some gigantic and sanguinary purpose. Did 
 he meditate to offer a bloody sacrifice ? Was his own 
 death or was mine to attest the magnitude of his despair 
 or the impetuosity of his vengeance ? 
 
 Suicide was familiar to his thoughts. He had con 
 sented to live but on one condition; that of regaining 
 possession of this money. Should I be justified in driving 
 him, by my obstinate refusal, to this fatal consummation 
 of his crimes ? Yet my fear of this catastrophe was 
 groundless. Hitherto he had argued and persuaded ; 
 but this method was pursued because it was more eligible 
 than the employment of force, or than procrastination. 
 
 207
 
 2O8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 No. These were tokens that pointed to me. Some 
 unknown instigation was at work within him, to tear 
 away his remnant of humanity and fit him for the office 
 of my murderer. I knew not how the accumulation of 
 guilt could contribute to his gratification or security. 
 His actions had been partially exhibited and vaguely 
 scon. What extenuations or omissions had vitiated his 
 foi mer or recent narrative ; how far his actual perform 
 ances were congenial with the deed which was now to be 
 perpetrated, I knew not. 
 
 These thoughts lent new rapidity to my blood. I 
 raised my head from the pillow, and watched the deport 
 ment of this man with deeper attention. The paroxysm 
 which controlled him at length, in some degree, sub 
 sided. He muttered, "Yes. It must come. My last 
 humiliation must cover me. My last confession must be 
 made. To die, and leave behind me this train of enor 
 mous perils, must not be. 
 
 " Clemenza ! Mervyn ! Ye have not merited 
 that I should leave you a legacy of persecution and 
 death. Your safety must be purchased at what price 
 my malignant destiny will set upon it. The cord of the 
 executioner, the note of everlasting infamy, is better 
 than to leave you beset by the consequences of my guilt. 
 It must not be." 
 
 Saying this, Welbeck cast fearful glances at the win 
 dows and door. He examined every avenue and listened. 
 Thrice he repeated this scrutiny. Having, as it seemed, 
 ascertained that no one lurked within audience, he ap 
 proached the bed. He put his mouth close to my face. 
 He attempted to speak, but once more examined the 
 apartment with suspicious glances. 
 
 He drew closer, and at length, in a tone scarcely arti 
 culate, and suffocated with emotion, he spoke : "Excel 
 lent but fatally-obstinate youth ! Know at least the 
 cause of my importunity. Know at least the depth of 
 my infatuation and the enormity of my guilt. 
 
 "The bills surrender them to me, and save yourself 
 from persecution arid disgrace. Save the woman whom 
 you wish to benefit, from the blackest imputations ; from
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2CX) 
 
 hazard to her life and her fame; from languishing in 
 dungeons ; from expiring on the gallows ! 
 
 " The bills oh, save me from the bitterness of death ! 
 Let the evils to which my miserable life has given birth 
 
 terminate here and in myself. Surrender them to me, 
 
 e 
 
 for 
 
 There he stopped. His utterence was choked by 
 terror. Rapid glances were again darted at the win 
 dows and door. The silence was uninterrupted, except 
 by far-oif sounds, produced by some moving carriage. 
 Once more he summoned resolution, and spoke : 
 
 "Surrender them to me for they are forged! 
 
 " Formerly I told you, that a scheme of forgery had 
 been conceived. Shame would not suffer me to add, that 
 my scheme was carried into execution. The bills were 
 fashioned, but my fears contended against my necessities, 
 and forbade me to attempt to exchange them. The in 
 terview with Lodi saved me from the dangerous experi 
 ment. I enclosed them in that volume, as the means of 
 future opulence, to be used when all other and less 
 hazardous resources should fail. 
 
 " In the agonies of my remorse at the death of Wat 
 son, they were forgotten. They afterwards recurred to 
 recollection. My wishes pointed to the grave; but the 
 stroke that should deliver me from life was suspended 
 only till I could hasten hither, get possession of these 
 papers, and destroy them. 
 
 "When I thought upon the chances that should give 
 them an owner; bring them into circulation; load the 
 innocent with suspicion; and lead them to trial, and, 
 perhaps, to death, my sensations were fraught with 
 agony ; earnestly as I panted for death, it was necessarily 
 deferred till I had gained possession of and destroyed 
 these papers. 
 
 " What now remains ? You have found them. Happily 
 they have not been used. Give them, therefore, to me, 
 that I may crush at once the brood of mischiefs which 
 they could not but generate." 
 
 This disclosure was strange. It was accompanied with 
 every token of sincerity. How had I tottered on the 
 brink of destruction ! If I had made use of this money, 
 14
 
 2IO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 in what a labyrinth of misery might I not have been 
 involved ! My innocence could never have been proved. 
 An alliance with "Welbeck could not have failed to be in 
 ferred. My career would have found an ignominious 
 close; or, if my punishment had been transmuted into 
 slavery and toil, would the testimony of my conscience 
 have supported me? 
 
 I shuddered at the view of those disasters from which 
 I was rescued by the miraculous chance which led me to 
 this house. Welbeck i request was salutary to me and 
 honourable to himself. I could not hesitate a moment 
 in compliance. The notes were enclosed in paper, and 
 deposited in a fold of my clothes. I put my hand upon 
 them. 
 
 My motion and attention were arrested, at the instant, 
 by a noise which arose in the street. Footsteps were 
 heard upon the pavement before the door, and voices, as 
 if busy in discourse. This incident was adapted to in 
 fuse the deepest alarm into myself and my companion. 
 The motives of our trepidation were, indeed, different, 
 and were infinitely more powerful in my case than in his. 
 It portended to me nothing less than the loss of my 
 asylum, and condemnation to an hospital. 
 
 Welbeck hurried to the door, to listen to the conversa 
 tion below. This interval was pregnant with thought. 
 That impulse which led my reflections from Welbeck to 
 my own state passed away in a moment, and suffered me 
 to meditate anew upon the terms of that confession 
 which had just been made. 
 
 Horror at the fate which this interview had enabled 
 me to shun was uppermost in my conceptions. I was 
 eager to surrender these fatal bills. I held them for 
 that purpose in my hand, and was impatient for Welbeck s 
 return. He continued at the door; stooping, with his 
 face averted, and eagerly attentive to the conversation 
 in the street. 
 
 All the circumstances of my present situation tended 
 to arrest the progress of thought and chain my con 
 templations to one image; but even now there was room 
 for foresight and deliberation. Welbeck intended to 
 destroy these bills. Perhaps he had not been sincere;
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 211 
 
 or, if his purpose had been honestly disclosed, this pur 
 pose might change when the bills were in his possession. 
 His poverty and sanguineness of temper might prompt 
 him to use them. 
 
 That this conduct was evil, and would only multiply 
 his miseries, could not be questioned. Why should I 
 subject his frailty to this temptation? The destruction 
 of these bills was the loudest injunction of my duty ; 
 was demanded by every sanction which bound me to pro 
 mote the welfare of mankind. 
 
 The means of destruction was easy. A lighted candle 
 stood on a table, at the distance of a few yards. Why 
 should I hesitate a moment to annihilate so powerful a 
 cause of error and guilt ? A passing instant was sufficient. 
 A momentary lingering might change the circumstances 
 that surrounded me, and frustrate my project. 
 
 My languors were suspended by the urgencies of this 
 occasion. I started from my bed and glided to the table. 
 Seizing the notes with my right hand, I held them in 
 the flame of the candle, and then threw them, blazing, 
 on the floor. 
 
 The sudden illumination was perceived by Welbeck. 
 The cause of it appeared to suggest itself as soon. He 
 turned, and, marking the paper where it lay, leaped to 
 the spot, and extinguished the fire with his foot. His 
 interposition was too late. Only enough of them re 
 mained to inform him of the nature of the sacrifice. 
 
 Welbeck now stood, with limbs trembling, features 
 aghast, and eyes glaring upon me. For a time he was 
 without speech. The storm was gathering in silence, 
 and at length burst upon me. In a tone menacing and 
 loud, he exclaimed, 
 
 "Wretch! what have you done ?" 
 
 "I have done justly. These notes were false. You 
 desired to destroy them, that they might not betray the 
 innocent. I applauded your purpose, and have saved you 
 from the danger of temptation by destroying them 
 myself." 
 
 "Maniac! Miscieant! To befooled by so gross an 
 artifice! The notes were genuine. The tale of their 
 forgery was false and meant only to wrest them from
 
 212 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 you. Execrable and perverse idiot! Your deed has 
 sealed my perdition. It has sealed your own. You 
 shall pay for it with your blood. I will slay you by 
 inches. I will stretch you, as you have stretched mo, 
 on the rack." 
 
 During this speech, all was frenzy and storm in the 
 countenance and features of Welbeck. Nothing less 
 could be expected than that the scene would terminate 
 in some bloody catastrophe. I bitterly regretted the 
 facility with which I had been deceived, and the pre 
 cipitation of my sacrifice. The act, however lamentable, 
 could not be revoked. What remained but to encounter 
 or endure its consequences with unshrinking firmness? 
 
 The contest was too unequal. It is possible that the 
 frenzy which actuated Welbeck might have speedily sub 
 sided. It is more likely that his passions would have 
 been satiated with nothing but my death. This event 
 was precluded by loud knocks at the street door, and 
 calls by some one on the pavement without, of " Who 
 is within? Is any one within?" 
 
 These noises gave a new direction to Welbeck s thoughts. 
 "They are coming," said he. "They will treat you as 
 a sick man and a thief. I cannot desire you to suffer a 
 worse evil than they will inflict. I leave you to your 
 fate." So saying, he rushed out of the room. 
 
 Though confounded and stunned by this rapid suc 
 cession of events, I was yet able to pursue measures for 
 eluding these detested visitants. I first extinguished 
 the light, and then, observing that the parley in the 
 street continued and grew louder, I sought an asylum in 
 the remotest corner of the house. During my former 
 abode here, I noticed that a trap-door opened in the ceil 
 ing of the third story, to which you were conducted by 
 a movable stair or ladder. I considered that this, pro 
 bably, was an opening into a narrow and darksome nook 
 formed by the angle of the roof. By ascending, draw 
 ing after me the ladder, and closing the door, 1 should 
 escape the most vigilant search. 
 
 Enfeebled as I was by my disease, my resolution 
 rendered me strenuous. I gained the uppermost room, 
 and, mounting the ladder, found myself at a sufficient
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 213 
 
 distance from suspicion. The stair was hastily drawn 
 up, and the door closed. In a few minutes, however, 
 my new retreat proved to be worse than any for which 
 it was possible to change it. The air was musty, stag 
 nant, and scorchingly hot. My breathing became diffi 
 cult, and I saw that to remain here ten minutes would 
 unavoidably produce suffocation. 
 
 My terror of intruders had rendered me blind to the 
 consequences of immuring myself in this cheerless re 
 cess. It was incumbent on me to extricate myself as 
 speedily as possible. I attempted to lift the door. My 
 first effort was successless. Every inspiration was quicker 
 and more difficult than the former. As my terror, so 
 my strength and my exertions increased. Finally my 
 trembling hand lighted on a nail that was imperfectly 
 driven into the wood, and which, by affording me a firmer 
 hold, enabled me at length to raise it, and to inhale the 
 air from beneath. 
 
 Relieved from my new peril by this situation, I bent 
 an attentive ear through the opening, with a view to 
 ascertain if the house had been entered or if the outer 
 door was still beset, but could hear nothing. Hence I 
 was authorized to conclude that the people had departed, 
 and that I might resume my former station without 
 hazard. 
 
 Before I descended, however, I cast a curious eye 
 over this recess. It was large enough to accommodate 
 a human being. The means by which it was entered 
 were easily concealed. Though narrow and low, it was 
 long, and, were it possible to contrive some inlet for the 
 air, one studious of concealment might rely on its pro 
 tection with unbounded confidence. 
 
 My scrutiny was imperfect by reason of the faint 
 light which found its way through the opening; yet it 
 was sufficient to set me afloat on a sea of new wonders 
 and subject my fortitude to a new test. 
 
 Here Mcrvyn paused in his narrative. A minute 
 passed in silence and seeming indecision. His perplexi 
 ties gradually disappeared, and he continued : 
 
 I have promised to relate the momentous incidents of
 
 214 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 ray life, and have hitherto been faithful in my enumera 
 tion. There is nothing which I more detest than equivo 
 cation and mystery. Perhaps, however, I shall now 
 incur some imputation of that kind. I would willingly 
 escape the accusation, but confess that I am hopeless of 
 escaping it. 
 
 I might, indeed, have precluded your guesses and sur 
 mises by omitting to relate what befell me from the time 
 of my leaving my chamber till I regained it. I might 
 deceive you by asserting that nothing remarkable oc 
 curred ; but this would be false, and every sacrifice is 
 trivial which is made upon the altar of sincerity. Be 
 sides, the time may come when no inconvenience will 
 arise from minute descriptions of the objects which I 
 now saw, and of the reasonings and inferences which 
 they suggested to my understanding. At present, it 
 appears to be my duty to pass them over in silence ; but 
 it would be needless to conceal from you that the inter 
 val, though short, and the scrutiny, though hasty, fur 
 nished matter which my curiosity devoured with un 
 speakable eagerness, and from which consequences may 
 hereafter flow, deciding on my peace and my life. 
 
 Nothing, however, occurred which could detain me 
 long in this spot. I once more sought the lower story 
 and threw myself on the bed which I had left. My 
 mind was thronged with the images flowing from my late 
 adventure. My fever had gradually increased, and my 
 thoughts were deformed by inaccuracy and confusion. 
 
 My heart did not sink when I reverted to my own 
 condition. That I should quickly be disabled from 
 moving, was readily perceived. The foresight of my 
 destiny was steadfast and clear. To linger for days in 
 this comfortless solitude, to ask in vain, not for powerful 
 restoratives or alleviating cordials, but for water to 
 moisten my burning lips and abate the torments of 
 thirst; ultimately to expire in torpor or frenzy, was 
 the fate to which I looked forward ; yet I was not terri 
 fied. I seemed to be sustained by a preternatural en 
 ergy. I felt as if the opportunity of combating such 
 evils was an enviable privilege, and, though none would 
 witness my victorious magnanimity, yet to be conscious
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /70J. 21$ 
 
 that praise was my due was all that my ambition re 
 quired. 
 
 These sentiments were doubtless tokens of delirium. 
 The excruciating agonies which now seized upon my 
 head, and the cord which seemed to be drawn across my 
 breast, and which, as my fancy imagined, was tightened 
 by some forcible hand, with a view to strangle me, were 
 incompatible with sober and coherent views. 
 
 Thirst was the evil which chiefly oppressed me. The 
 means of relief was pointed out by nature and habit. 
 I rose, and determined to replenish my pitcher at the 
 well. It was easier, however, to descend than to return. 
 My limbs refused to bear me, and I sat down upon the 
 lower step of the staircase. Several hours had elapsed 
 since my entrance into this dwelling, and it was now 
 night. 
 
 My imagination now suggested a new expedient. 
 Medlicote was a generous and fearless spirit. To put 
 myself under his protection, if I could walk as far as 
 his lodgings, was the wisest proceeding which I could 
 adopt. From this design, my incapacity to walk thus 
 far, and the consequences of being discovered in the 
 street, had hitherto deterred me. These impediments 
 were now, in the confusion of my understanding, over 
 looked or despised, and I forthwith set out upon this 
 hopeless expedition. 
 
 The doors communicating with the court, and, through 
 the court, with the street, were fastened by inside bolts. 
 These were easily withdrawn, and I issued forth with 
 alacrity and confidence. My perturbed senses and the 
 darkness hindered me from discerning the right way. I 
 was conscious of this difficulty, but was not disheartened. 
 I proceeded, as I have since discovered, in a direction 
 different from the true, but hesitated not till my powers 
 were exhausted and I sunk upon the ground. I closed 
 my eyes, and dismissed all fear, and all foresight of 
 futurity. In this situation I remained some hours, and 
 should probably have expired on this spot, had not I 
 attracted your notice, and been provided, under this 
 roof, with all that medical skill, that the tcnderest 
 humanity could suggest.
 
 2l6 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 In consequence of your care, I have been restored to 
 life and to health. Your conduct was not influenced by 
 the prospect of pecuniary recompense, of service, or 
 of gratitude. It is only in one way that I am able to 
 heighten the gratification which must flow from reflection 
 on your conduct : by showing that the being whose life 
 you have prolonged, though uneducated, ignorant, and 
 poor, is not profligate and worthless, and will not dedi 
 cate that life which your bounty has given, to mischiev 
 ous or contemptible purposes. 
 
 END OF VOL I.
 
 ARTHUR MERVYN; 
 
 OR, 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793 
 
 VOL. II.
 
 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HERE ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its 
 incidents were of no common kind. During this season 
 of pestilence, my opportunities of observation had been 
 numerous, and I had not suffered them to pass unim 
 proved. The occurrences which fell within my own ex 
 perience bore a general resemblance to those which had 
 just been related, but they did not hinder the latter 
 from striking on my mind with all the force of novelty. 
 They served no end, but as vouchers for the truth of 
 the tale. 
 
 Surely the youth had displayed inimitable and heroic 
 qualities. His courage was the growth of benevolence 
 and reason, and not the child of insensibility and the 
 nursling of habit. He had been qualified for the en 
 counter of gigantic dangers by no laborious education. 
 He stepped forth upon the stage, unfurnished, by antici 
 pation or experience, with the means of security against 
 fraud ; and yet, by the aid of pure intentions, had frus 
 trated the wiles of an accomplished and veteran deceiver. 
 
 I blessed the chance which placed the youth under my 
 protection. When I reflected on that tissue of nice con 
 tingencies which led him to my door, and enabled me to 
 save from death a being of such rare endowments, my 
 heart overflowed with joy, not unmingled with regrets 
 and trepidation. How many have been cut off by this 
 disease, in their career of virtue and their blossom-time 
 of genius ! How many deeds of heroism and self-devo 
 tion are ravished from existence, and consigned to hope 
 less oblivion ! 
 
 8
 
 4 ARTHUR MERVYX ; OR, 
 
 I had saved the life of this youth. Tin s was not the 
 limit of my duty or my power. Could I not render that 
 life profitable to himself and to mankind ? The gains of 
 my profession were slender; but these gains were suffi 
 cient for his maintenance as well as my own. By residing 
 with me, partaking my instructions, and reading my 
 books, he would, in a few years, be fitted for the practice 
 of physic. A science whose truths are so conducive to 
 the welfare of mankind, and which comprehends the 
 whole system of nature, could not but gratify a mind so 
 beneficent and strenuous as his. 
 
 This scheme occurred to me as soon as the conclusion 
 of his tale allowed me to think. I did not immediately 
 mention it, since the approbation of my wife, of whose 
 concurrence, however, I entertained no doubt, was pre 
 viously to be obtained. Dismissing it, for the present, 
 from my thoughts, I reverted to the incidents of his tale. 
 
 The lady whom Welbeck had betrayed and deserted 
 was not unknown to me. I was but too well acquainted 
 with her fate. If she had been single in calamity, her 
 tale would have been listened to with insupportable sym 
 pathy; but the frequency of the spectacle of distress 
 seems to lesson the compassion with which it is reviewed. 
 Now that those scenes are only remembered, rny anguish 
 is greater than when they were witnessed. Then every 
 new day was only a repetition of the disasters of the 
 foregoing. My sensibility, if not extinguished, was 
 blunted ; and I gazed upon the complicated ills of po 
 verty and sickness with a degree of unconcern on which 
 I should once have reflected with astonishment. 
 
 The fate of Clcmenza Lodi was not, perhaps, more 
 signal than many which have occurred. It threw detest 
 able light upon the character of Welbeck, and showed 
 him to be more inhuman than the tale of Mervyn had 
 evinced him to be. That man, indeed, was hitherto im 
 perfectly seen. The time had not come which should 
 fully unfold the enormity of his transgressions and the 
 complexity of his frauds. 
 
 There lived in a remote quarter of the city a woman, 
 by name Villars, who passed for the widow of an Eng 
 lish officer. Her manners and mode of living were spe-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?<?j. 5 
 
 cious. She had three daughters, well trained in the 
 school of fashion, and elegant in person, manners, and 
 dress. They had lately arrived from Europe, and, for a 
 time, received from their neighbours that respect to which 
 their education and fortune appeared to lay claim. 
 
 The fallacy of their pretensions slowly appeared. It 
 began to be suspected that their subsistence was derived 
 not from pension or patrimony, but from the wages of 
 pollution. Their habitation was clandestinely frequented 
 by men who were unfaithful to their secret ; one of these 
 was allied to me by ties which authorized me in watching 
 his steps and detecting his errors, with a view to his re 
 formation. From him I obtained a knowledge of the 
 genuine character of these women. 
 
 A man like Welbeck, who was the slave of depraved 
 appetites, could not fail of being quickly satiated with 
 innocence and beauty. Some accident introduced him to 
 the knowledge of this family, and the youngest daughter 
 found him a proper subject on which to exercise her 
 artifices. It was to the frequent demands made upon 
 his purse, by this woman, that part of the embarrass 
 ments in which Mervyn found him involved are to be 
 ascribed. 
 
 To this circumstance must likewise be imputed his 
 anxiety to transfer to some other the possession of the 
 unhappy stranger. Why he concealed from Mervyn his 
 connection with Lucy Villars may be easily imagined. 
 His silence with regard to Clemenza s asylum will not 
 create surprise, when it was told that she was placed 
 with Mrs. Villars. On what conditions she was received 
 under this roof, cannot be so readily conjectured. It is 
 obvious, however, to suppose that advantage was to be 
 taken of her ignorance and weakness, and that they 
 hoped, in time, to make her an associate in their profli 
 gate schemes. 
 
 The appearance of pestilence, meanwhile, threw them 
 into panic, and they hastened to remove from danger. 
 Mrs. Villars appears to have been a woman of no ordi 
 nary views. She stooped to the vilest means of amass 
 ing money; but this money was employed to secure to 
 herself and her daughters the benefits of independence.
 
 6 ARTHUR MERVYX; OR, 
 
 She purchased the house which she occupied in the city, 
 and a mansion in the environs, well huilt and splendidly 
 furnished. To the latter, she and her family, of which the 
 Italian girl was now a member, retired at the close of July. 
 
 I have mentioned that the source of my intelligence 
 was a kinsman, who had been drawn from the paths of 
 sobriety and rectitude by the impetuosity of youthful 
 passions. He had power to confess and deplore, but 
 none to repair, his errors. One of these women held 
 him by a spell which he struggled in vain to dissolve, 
 and by which, in spite of resolutions and remorses, he 
 was drawn to her feet, and made to sacrifice to her plea 
 sure his reputation and his fortune. 
 
 My house was his customary abode during those inter 
 vals in which he was persuaded to pursue his profession. 
 Some time before the infection began its progress, he 
 had disappeared. No tidings were received of him, till 
 a messenger arrived, entreating my assistance. I was 
 conducted to the house of Mrs. Villars, in which I found 
 no one but my kinsman. Here, it seems, he had im 
 mured himself from my inquiries, and, on being seized 
 by the reigning malady, had been deserted by the family, 
 who, ere they departed, informed me by a messenger of 
 his condition. 
 
 Despondency combined with his disease to destroy him. 
 Before he died, he informed me fully of the character of 
 his betrayers. The late arrival, name, and personal con 
 dition of Clemen za Lodi were related. Welbeck was not 
 named, but was described in terms which, combined with 
 the narrative of Mervyn, enabled me to recognise the 
 paramour of Lucy Villars in the man whose crimes had 
 been the principal theme of our discourse. 
 
 Mervyn s curiosity was greatly roused when I inti 
 mated my acquaintance with the fate of Clemenza. In 
 answer to his eager interrogations, I related what I knew. 
 The tale plunged him into reverie. Recovering, at length, 
 from his thoughtfulness, he spoke : 
 
 " Her condition is perilous. The poverty of Welbeck 
 will drive him far fiorn her abode. Her profligate pro 
 tectors will entice her or abandon her to ruin. Cannot 
 she be saved?"
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. J 
 
 "I know not," answered I, "by what means." 
 
 "The means are obvious. Let her remove to some 
 other dwelling. Let her be apprized of the vices of 
 those who surround her. Let her be entreated to fly. 
 The will need only be inspired, the danger need only be 
 shown, and she is safe, for she will remove beyond its 
 reach." 
 
 "Thou art an adventurous youth. "Who wilt thou 
 find to undertake the office ? Who will be persuaded to 
 enter the house of a stranger, seek without an introduc 
 tion the presence of this girl, tell her that the house she 
 inhabits is a house of prostitution, prevail on her to 
 believe the tale, and persuade her to accompany him? 
 Who will open his house to the fugitive ? Whom will 
 you convince that her illicit intercourse with Welbeck, 
 of which the opprobrious tokens cannot be concealed, 
 has not fitted her for the company of prostitutes, and 
 made her unworthy of protection ? Who will adopt into 
 their family a stranger whose conduct has incurred in 
 famy, and whose present associates have, no doubt, 
 made her worthy of the curse ?" 
 
 " True. These are difficulties which I did not foresee. 
 Must she then perish ? Shall not something be done to 
 rescue her from infamy and guilt ?" 
 
 "It is neither in your power nor in mine to do any 
 thing." 
 
 The lateness of the hour put an end to our conversa 
 tion and summoned us to repose. I seized the first 
 opportunity of imparting to my wife the scheme which 
 had occurred, relative to our guest ; with which, as I 
 expected, she readily concurred. In the morning, I 
 mentioned it to Mervyn. I dwelt upon the benefits that 
 adhered to the medical profession, the power which it 
 confers of lightening the distresses of our neighbours, 
 the dignity which popular opinion annexes to it, the 
 avenue which it opens to the acquisition of competence, 
 the freedom from servile cares which attends it, and 
 the means of intellectual gratification with which it 
 supplies us. 
 
 As I spoke, his eyes sparkled with joy. "Yes," said 
 he, with vehemence, "I willingly embrace your offer.
 
 8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I accept this benefit, because I know that, if my pride 
 should refuse it, I should prove myself less worthy than 
 you think, and give you pain, instead of that pleasure 
 which I am bound to confer. I would enter on the 
 duties and studies of my new profession immediately; 
 but somewhat is due to Mr. Hadwin and his daughters. 
 I cannot vanquish my inquietudes respecting them, but 
 by returning to Malverton and ascertaining their state 
 with my own eyes. You knoAV in what circumstances I 
 parted with Wallace and Mr. Hadwin. I am not sure 
 that either of them ever reached home, or that they did 
 not carry the infection along with them. I now find 
 myself sufficiently strong to perform the journey, and 
 purposed to have acquainted you, at this interview, with 
 my intentions. An hour s delay is superfluous, and I 
 hope you will consent to my setting out immediately. 
 Rural exercise and air, for a week or fortnight, will 
 greatly contribute to my health." 
 
 No objection could be made to this scheme. His nar 
 rative had excited no common affection in our bosoms 
 for the Iladwins. His visit could not only inform us 
 of their true state, but would dispel that anxiety which 
 they could not but entertain respecting our guest. It 
 was a topic of some surprise that neither Wallace nor 
 Hadwin had returned to the city, with a view to obtain 
 some tidings of their friend. It was more easy to sup 
 pose them to have been detained by some misfortune, 
 than by insensibility or indolence. In a few minutes 
 Mervyn bade us adieu, and set out upon his journey, 
 promising to acquaint us with the state of affairs as soon 
 as possible after his arrival. We parted from him with 
 reluctance, and found no consolation but in the prospect 
 of his speedy return. 
 
 During his absence, conversation naturally turned 
 upon those topics which were suggested by the narrative 
 and deportment of this youth. Different conclusions were 
 formed by his two auditors. They had both contracted 
 a deep interest in his welfare, and an ardent curiosity as 
 to those particulars which his unfinished story had left 
 in obscurity. The true character and actual condition 
 of Wclbeck were themes of much speculation. Whether
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. $ 
 
 he wore dead or alive, near or distant from his ancient 
 abode, was a point on which neither Mervyn, nor any 
 of those with whom I had means of intercourse, afforded 
 any information. Whether he had shared the common 
 fate, and had been carried by the collectors of the dead 
 from the highway or the hovel to the pits opened alike 
 for the rich and the poor, the known and the unknown ; 
 whether he had escaped to a foreign shore, or were des 
 tined to reappear upon this stage, were questions involved 
 in uncertainty. 
 
 The disappearance of Watson would, at a different 
 time, have excited much inquiry and suspicion ; but, as 
 this had taken place on the eve of the epidemic, his 
 kindred and friends would acquiesce, without scruple, in 
 the belief that he had been involved in the general cala 
 mity, and was to be numbered among the earliest victims. 
 Those of his profession usually resided in the street where 
 the infection began, and where its ravages had been most 
 destructive ; and this circumstance would corroborate the 
 conclusions of his friends. 
 
 I did not perceive any immediate advantage to flow 
 from imparting the knowledge I had lately gained to 
 others. Shortly after Mervyn s departure to Malverton, 
 I was visited by Wortley. Inquiring for my guest, I 
 told him that, having recovered his health, he had left 
 my house. He repeated his invectives against the vil- 
 lany of Welbeck, his suspicions of Mervyn, and his 
 wishes for another interview with the youth. Why had 
 I suffered him to depart, and whither had he gone : 
 
 " He has gone for a short time into the country. I 
 expect him to return in less than a week, when you will 
 meet with him here as often as you please, for I expect 
 him to take up his abode in this house." 
 
 Much astonishment and disapprobation were expressed 
 by my friend. I hinted that the lad had made disclosures 
 to me, which justified my confidence in his integrity. 
 These proofs of his honesty were not of a nature to be 
 indiscriminately unfolded. Mervyn had authorized me 
 to communicate so much of his story to Wortley, as 
 would serve to vindicate him from the charge of being 
 Welbeck s co-partner in fraud ; but this end would only
 
 IO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 be counteracted by an imperfect tale, and the full re 
 cital, though it might exculpate Mervyn, might produce 
 inconveniences by which this advantage would be out 
 weighed. 
 
 Wortley, as might be naturally expected, was by no 
 means satisfied with this statement. He suspected that 
 Mervyn was a wily impostor ; that he had been trained 
 in the arts of fraud, under an accomplished teacher ; 
 that the tale which he had told to me was a tissue of in 
 genious and plausible lies ; that the mere assertions, 
 however plausible and solemn, of one like him, whose 
 conduct had incurred such strong suspicions, were un 
 worthy of the least credit. 
 
 "It cannot be denied," continued my friend, "that 
 he lived with Welbcck at the time of his elopement ; 
 that they disappeared together ; that they entered a 
 boat, at Pine Street wharf, at midnight ; that this boat 
 was discovered by the owner in the possession of a 
 fisherman at Redbank, who affirmed that he had found 
 it stranded near his door, the day succeeding that on 
 which they disappeared. Of all this I can supply you 
 with incontestable proof. If, after this proof, you can 
 give credit to his story, I shall think you made of very 
 perverse and credulous materials." 
 
 "The proof you mention," said I, "will only enhance 
 his credibility. All the facts which you have stated 
 have been admitted by him. They constitute an essen 
 tial portion of his narrative." 
 
 " What then is the inference ? Are not these evi 
 dences of a compact between them ? Has he not ac 
 knowledged this compact in confessing that he knew 
 Welbcck was my debtor ; that he was apprized of his 
 flight, but that (what matchless effrontery !) he had pro 
 mised secrecy, and would, by no means, betray him ? 
 You say he means to return ; but of that I doubt. You 
 will never see his face more. He is too wise to thrust 
 himself again into the noose ; but I do not utterly despair 
 of lighting upon Welbeck. Old Thetford, Jamieson, and 
 I, have sworn to hunt him through the world. I have 
 strong hopes that he has not strayed far. Some intelli 
 gence has lately been received, which has enabled us tc
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?9J- II 
 
 place our hounds upon his scent. He may double and 
 skulk ; but, if he does not fall into our toils at last, he 
 will have the agility and cunning, as well as the ma 
 lignity, of devils." 
 
 The vengeful disposition thus betrayed by Wortley 
 was not without excuse. The vigour of his days had 
 been spent in acquiring a slender capital ; his diligence 
 and honesty had succeeded, and he had lately thought 
 his situation such as to justify marriage with an ex 
 cellent woman, to whom he had for years been betrothed, 
 but from whom his poverty had hitherto compelled him 
 to live separate. Scarcely had this alliance taken place, 
 and the full career of nuptial enjoyments begun, when 
 his ill fate exposed him to the frauds of Welbeck, and 
 brought him, in one evil hour, to the brink of in 
 solvency. 
 
 Jamieson and Thetford, however, were rich, and I had 
 not till now been informed that they had reasons for 
 pursuing Welbeck with peculiar animosity. The latter 
 was the uncle of him whose fate had been related by 
 Mervyn, and was one of those who employed money, 
 not as the medium of traffic, but as in itself a com 
 modity. He had neither wines nor cloths, to transmute 
 into silver. He thought it a tedious process to exchange 
 to-day one hundred dollars for a cask or bale, and to 
 morrow exchange the bale or cask for one hundred and 
 ten dollars. It was better to give the hundred for a 
 piece of paper, which, carried forthwith to the money 
 changers, he could procure a hundred twenty-three and 
 three-fourths. In short, this man s coffers were supplied 
 by the despair of honest men and the stratagems of 
 rogues. I did not immediately suspect how this man s 
 prudence and indefatigable attention to his own interest 
 should allow him to become the dupe of Welbeck. 
 
 "What," said I, "is old Thetford s claim upon Wel 
 beck?" 
 
 " It is a claim," he replied, " that, if it ever be made 
 good, will doom Welbeck to imprisonment and whole 
 some labour for life." 
 
 "How? Surely it is nothing more than debt." 
 
 " Have you not heard ? But that is no wonder. Hap-
 
 12 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 pily you are a stranger to mercantile anxieties and revo 
 lutions. Your fortune does not rest on a basis which 
 an untoward blast may sweep away, or four strokes of a 
 pen may demolish. That hoary dealer in suspicions was 
 persuaded to put his hand to three notes for eight hundred 
 dollars each. The eight was then dexterously prolonged 
 to eighteen; they were duly deposited in time and place, 
 and the next day Welbeck was credited for fifty-three 
 hundred and seventy-three, which, an hour after, were 
 told out to his messenger. Hard to say whether the old 
 man s grief, shame, or rage, be uppermost. He dis 
 dains all comfort but revenge, and that he will procure 
 at any price. Jamieson, who deals in the same stuff 
 with Thetford, was outwitted in the same manner, to 
 the same amount, and on the same day. 
 
 "This Welbeck must have powers above the common 
 rate of mortals. Grown gray in studying the follies and 
 the stratagems of men, these veterans were overreached. 
 No one pities them. Twere well if his artifices had 
 been limited to such, and he had spared the honest and 
 the poor. It is for his injuries to men who have earned 
 their scanty subsistence without forfeiting their probity, 
 that I hate him, and shall exult to see him suffer all the 
 rigours of the law." Here Wortley s engagements com 
 pelled him to take his leave.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 WHILE musing upon these facts, I could not but reflect 
 with astonishment on the narrow escapes which Mervyn a 
 virtue had experienced. I was by no means certain that 
 his fame or his life was exempt from all danger, or that 
 the suspicions which had already been formed respecting 
 him could possibly be wiped away. Nothing but his 
 own narrative, repeated with that simple but nervous 
 eloquence which we had witnessed, could rescue him 
 from the most heinous charges. Was there any tribunal 
 that would not acquit him on merely hearing his defence? 
 
 Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be 
 the fruit of invention ; and yet, what are the bounds of 
 fraud ? Nature has set no limits to the combinations of 
 fancy. A smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a spe 
 cious tale, are, a thousand times, exhibited in human in 
 tercourse by craft and subtlety. Motives are endlessly 
 varied, while actions continue the same; and an acute 
 penetration may not find it hard to select and arrange 
 motives, suited to exempt from censure any action that 
 a human being can commit. 
 
 Had I heard Mervyn s story from another, or read it 
 in a book, I might, perhaps, have found it possible to 
 suspect the truth ; but, as long as the impression made 
 by his tones, gestures, and looks, remained in my me 
 mory, this suspicion was impossible. Wickedness may 
 sometimes be ambiguous, its mask may, puzzle the ob 
 server; our judgment may be made to falter and fluc 
 tuate, but the face of Mervyn is the index of an honest 
 mind. Calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is 
 full of benevolence and candour. He that listens to hia 
 words may question their truth, but he that looks upon 
 
 13
 
 14 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 his countenance when speaking cannot withhold his 
 faith. 
 
 It was possible, however, to find evidence supporting 
 or confuting his story. I chanced to be acquainted with 
 a family, by name Althorpe, who were natives of that 
 part of the country where his father resided. I paid 
 them a visit, and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned, 
 as if by accident, the name of Mervyn. They imme 
 diately recognised this name as belonging to one of their 
 ancient neighbours. The death of the wife and sons, 
 and the seduction of the only daughter by Colvill, with 
 many pathetic incidents connected with the fate of this 
 daughter, were mentioned. 
 
 This intelligence induced me to inquire of Mrs. 
 Althorpe, a sensible and candid woman, if she were 
 acquainted with the recent or present situation of thia 
 family. 
 
 "I cannot say much," she answered, "of my own 
 knowledge. Since my marriage, I am used to spend a 
 few weeks of summer at my father s, but am less inquisi 
 tive than I once was into the concerns of my old neigh 
 bours. I recollect, however, when there, last year, 
 during the fever, to have heard that Sawny Mervyn had 
 taken a second wife; that his only son, a youth of 
 eighteen, had thought proper to be highly offended 
 with his father s conduct, and treated the new mistress 
 of the house with insult and contempt. I should not 
 much wonder at this, seeing children are so apt to deem 
 themselves unjustly treated by a second marriage of their 
 parent; but it was hinted that the boy s jealousy and 
 discontent were excited by no common cause. The new 
 mother was not much older than himself, had been a 
 servant of the family, and a criminal intimacy had sub 
 sisted between her, while in that condition, and the son. 
 Her marriage with his father was justly accounted by 
 their neighbours a most profligate and odious transac 
 tion. The son, perhaps, had, in such a case, a right 
 to scold, but he ought not to have carried his anger 
 to such extremes as have been imputed to him. He ia 
 said to have grinned upon her with contempt, and even
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 1 5 
 
 to have called her strumpet in the presence of his father 
 and of strangers. 
 
 "It was impossible for such a family to keep together. 
 Arthur took leave one night to possess himself of all hia 
 father s cash, mount the best horse in his meadow, and 
 elope. For a time, no one knew whither he had gone. 
 At last, one was said to have met with him in the streets 
 of this city, metamorphosed from a rustic lad into a fine 
 gentleman. Nothing could be quicker than this change, 
 for he left the country on a Saturday morning, and was 
 seen in a French frock and silk stockings, going into 
 Christ s Church the next day. I suppose he kept it up 
 with a high hand, as long as his money lasted. 
 
 " My father paid us a visit last week, and, among 
 other country-news, told us that Sawny Mervyn had sold 
 his place. His wife had persuaded him to try his for 
 tune in the Western country. The price of his hundred 
 acres here would purchase a thousand there, and the 
 man, being very gross and ignorant, and, withal, quite a 
 simpleton, found no difficulty in perceiving that a thou 
 sand are ten times more than a hundred. He was not 
 aware that a rood of ground upon Schuylkill is tenfold 
 better than an acre on the Tennessee. 
 
 " The woman turned out to be an artful profligate. 
 Having sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed 
 it in her keeping, and she, to enjoy it with the more 
 security, ran away to the city ; leaving him to prosecute 
 his journey to Kentucky moneyless and alone. Some 
 time after, Mr. Althorpe and I were at the play, when 
 he pointed out to me a group of females in an upper 
 box, one of whom was no other than Betty Lawrence. 
 It was not easy to recognise, in her present gaudy trim, 
 all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the 
 same Betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and 
 superintend her basket of cantaloupes in the Jersey 
 market, in pasteboard bonnet and linsey petticoat. Her 
 companions were of the infamous class. If Arthur were 
 still in the city, there is no doubt that the mother and 
 son might renew the ancient terms of their acquaintance. 
 
 " The old man, thus robbed and betrayed, sought con 
 solation in the bottle, of which he had been at all times
 
 1 6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 over-fond. He wandered from one tavern to another 
 till his credit was exhausted, and then was sent to jail, 
 where, I believe, he is likely to continue till his death. 
 Such, my friend, is the history of the Mervyns. 
 
 "What proof," said I, "have you of the immoral con 
 duct of the son? Of his mistreatment of his mother, 
 and his elopement with his father s horse and money? 1 
 
 " I have no proof hut the unanimous report of Mervyn s 
 neighbours. .Respectable and honest men have affirmed, 
 in my hearing, that they had been present when the boy 
 treated his mother in the way that I have described. I 
 was, besides, once in company with the old man, and 
 heard him bitterly inveigh against his son, and charge 
 him with the fact of stealing his horse and money. I 
 well remember that tears rolled from his eyes while talk 
 ing on the subject. As to his being seen in the city the 
 next day after his elopement, dressed in a most costly and 
 fashionable manner, I can doubt that as little as the rest, 
 for he that saw him was my father, and you, who know 
 my father, know what credit is due to his eyes and his 
 word. He had seen Arthur often enough not to be mis 
 taken, and described his appearance with great exact 
 ness. The boy is extremely handsome, give him his due; 
 has dark hazel eyes, auburn hair, and very elegant pro 
 portions. His air and gait have nothing of the clown 
 in them. Take away his jacket and trousers, and you 
 have as spruce a fellow as ever came from dancing-school 
 or college. He is the exact picture of his mother, and 
 the most perfect contrast to the sturdy legs, squat figure, 
 and broad, unthinking, sheepish face of the father that 
 can be imagined. You must confess that his appearance 
 here is a pretty strong proof of the father s assertions. 
 The money given for these clothes could not possibly 
 have been honestly acquired. It is to be presumed that 
 they were bought or stolen, for how else should they 
 have been gotten?" 
 
 "What was this lad s personal deportment during the 
 life of his mother, and before his father s second mar 
 riage?" 
 
 " Very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects. 
 Being the youngest son, the only one who at length
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J- 17 
 
 survived, and having a powerful resemblance to herself, 
 he became the mother s favourite. His constitution was 
 feeble, and he loved to stroll in the woods more than to 
 plough or sow. This idleness was much against his 
 lather s inclination and judgment; and, indeed, it was 
 the foundation of all his vices. When he could be pre 
 vailed upon to do any thing it was in a bungling manner, 
 and so as to prove that his thoughts were fixed on any 
 thing except his business. When his assistance was 
 wanted he was never to be found at hand. They were 
 compelled to search for him among the rocks and bushes, 
 and he was generally discovered sauntering along the 
 bank of a river, or lolling in the shade of a tree. This 
 disposition to inactivity and laziness, in so young a man, 
 was very strange. Persons of his age are rarely fond 
 of work, but then they are addicted to company, and 
 sports, and exercises. They ride, or shoot, or frolic; 
 but this being moped away his time in solitude, never 
 associated with other young people, never mounted a 
 horse but when he could not help it, and never fired a 
 gun or angled for a fish in his life. Some people sup 
 posed him to be half an idiot, or, at least, not to be 
 right in his mind; and, indeed, his conduct was so very 
 perverse and singular, that I do not wonder at those who 
 accounted for it in this way." 
 
 "But surely," said I, "he had some object of pursuit. 
 Perhaps he was addicted to books." 
 
 " Far from it. On the contrary, his aversion to school 
 was as great as his hatred of the plough. He never 
 could get his lessons or bear the least constraint. He 
 was so much indulged by his mother at home, that tasks 
 and discipline of any kind were intolerable. He was 
 a perpetual truant; till, the master one day attempting 
 to strike him, he ran out of the room and never entered 
 it more. The mother excused and countenanced his 
 frowardness, and the foolish father was obliged to give 
 way. I do not believe he had two months schooling in 
 his life." 
 
 "Perhaps," said I, "he preferred studying by himself, 
 and at liberty. I have known boys endowed with great 
 2
 
 1 8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 curiosity and aptitude to learning, who never could endure 
 set tasks, and spurned at the pedagogue and his rod." 
 
 "I have known such likewise, but this was not one of 
 them. I know not whence he could derive his love of 
 knowledge or the means of acquiring it. The family 
 were totally illiterate. The father was a Scotch peasant, 
 whose ignorance was so great that he could not sign his 
 name. His wife, I believe, could read, and might some 
 times decipher the figures in an almanac; but that was 
 all. I am apt to think that the son s ability was not 
 much greater. You might as well look for silver platters 
 or marble tables in his house, as for a book or a pen. 
 
 " I remember calling at their house one evening in the 
 winter before last. It was intensely cold ; and my father, 
 who rode with me, having business with Sawny Mervyn, 
 we stopped a minute at his gate ; and, while the two old 
 men were engaged in conversation, 1 begged leave to 
 warm myself by the kitchen fire. Here, in the chimney- 
 corner, seated on a block, I found Arthur busily engaged 
 in knitting stockings! I thought this a whimsical 
 employment for a young active man. I told him so, for 
 1 wanted to put him to the blush ; but he smiled in my 
 face, and answered, without the least discomposure, 
 Just as whimsical a business for a young active woman. 
 Pray, did you never knit a stocking? 
 
 " Yes ; but that was from necessity. Were I of a 
 different sex, or did I possess the strength of a man, I 
 should rather work in my field or study my book. 
 
 " Rejoice that you are a woman, then, and are at 
 liberty to pursue that which costs least labour and de 
 mands most skill. You see, though a man, I use your 
 privilege, and prefer knitting yarn to threshing my brain 
 with a book or the barn-floor with a flail. 
 
 " I wonder, said I, contemptuously, you do not put 
 on the petticoat as well as handle the needle. 
 
 " Do not wonder, he replied; it is because I hate a 
 petticoat encumbrance as much as I love warm feet. 
 Look there, (offering the stocking to my inspection:) 
 is it not well done? 
 
 "I did not touch it, but sneeringly said, Excellent! 
 I wonder you do not apprentice yourself to a tailor.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 19 
 
 " Ho looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity, 
 and said, How prone the woman is to wonder I You 
 call the work excellent, and yet wonder that I do not 
 make myself a slave to improve my skill! Did you 
 learn needlework from seven years squatting on a tailor s 
 board ? Had you come to me, I would have taught you 
 in a day. 
 
 " I was taught at school. 
 
 " And paid your instructor? 
 
 *" To-he-sure. 
 
 " * Twas liberty and money thrown away. Send your 
 sister, if you have one, to me, and I will teach her with 
 out either rod or wages. Will you? 
 
 " You have an old and a violent antipathy, I believe, 
 to any thing like a school." 
 
 " True. It was early and violent. Had not you ? 
 
 "No. I went to school with pleasure; for I thought 
 to read and write were accomplishments of some value. 
 
 " Indeed? Then I misunderstood you just now. I 
 thought you said that, had you the strength of a man, 
 you should prefer the plough and the book to the needle. 
 Whence, supposing you a female, I inferred that you 
 had a woman s love for the needle and a fool s hatred of 
 books. 
 
 "My father calling me from without, I now made a 
 motion to go. Stay, continued he, with great earnest 
 ness, throwing aside his knitting-apparatus, and begin 
 ning in great haste to pull off his stockings. Draw 
 these stockings over your shoes. They will save your 
 feet from the snow while walking to your horse. 
 
 " Half angry, and half laughing, I declined the offer. 
 He had drawn them off, however, and, holding them in 
 his hand, Be persuaded, said he; only lift your feet, 
 and I will slip them on in a trice. 
 
 "Finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the 
 stockings; and, without more ado, caught me up in his 
 arms, rushed out of the room, and, running barefoot 
 through the snow, set me fairly on my horse. All was 
 done in a moment, and before I had time to reflect on 
 his intentions. He then seized my hand, and, kissing 
 it with great fervour, exclaimed, A thousand thanks to
 
 2O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 you for not accepting my stockings. You have thereby 
 saved yourself and me the time and toil of drawing on 
 and drawing off. Since you have taught me to wonder, 
 let me practise the lesson in wondering at your folly, in 
 wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings at a season 
 like this. Take my counsel, and turn your silk to 
 worsted and your worsted to leather. Then may you 
 hope for warm feet and dry. What! Leave the gate 
 without a blessing on your counsellor? 
 
 "I spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from 
 so strange a being. I could give you many instances of 
 behaviour equally singular, and which betrayed a mix 
 ture of shrewdness and folly, of kindness and impudence, 
 which justified, perhaps, the common notion that his 
 intellects were unsound. Nothing was more remarkable 
 than his impenetrability to ridicule and censure. You 
 might revile him for hours, and he would listen to you 
 with invincible composure. To awaken anger or shame 
 in him was impossible. He would answer, but in such a 
 way as to show him totally unaware of your true mean 
 ing. He would afterwards talk to you with all the 
 smiling affability and freedom of an old friend. Every 
 one despised him for his idleness and folly, no less con 
 spicuous in his words than his actions ; but no one feared 
 him, and few were angry with him, till after the detec 
 tion of his commerce with Betty , and his inhuman treat 
 ment of his father." 
 
 " Have you good reasons for supposing him to have 
 been illicitly connected with that girl?" 
 
 " Yes. Such as cannot be discredited. It would not 
 be proper for me to state these proofs. Nay, he never 
 denied it. When reminded, on one occasion, of the in 
 ference which every impartial person would draw from 
 appearances, he acknowledged, with his usual placid 
 effrontery, that the inference was unavoidable. He even 
 mentioned other concurring and contemporary incidents, 
 which had eluded the observation of his censurer, and 
 which added still more force to the conclusion. He was 
 studious to palliate the vices of this woman, as long as 
 he was her only paramour; but, after her marriage with 
 his father, the tone was changed. He confessed that she
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 21 
 
 was tidy, notable, industrious ; but, then, she was a pros 
 titute. When charged with being instrumental in making 
 her such, and when his companions dwelt upon the de 
 pravity of reviling her for vices which she owed to him, 
 4 True, he would say, there is depravity, and folly in 
 the conduct you describe. Make me out, if you please, 
 to be a villain. What then ? I was talking, not of my 
 self, but of Betty. Still this woman is a prostitute. If 
 it were I that made her such, with more confidence may 
 I make the charge. But think not that I blame Betty. 
 Place me in her situation, and I should have acted just 
 so. I should have formed just such notions of my in 
 terest, and pursued it by the same means. Still, say I, 
 I would fain have a different woman for my father s wife, 
 and the mistress of his family. "
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THIS conversation was interrupted by a messenger 
 from my wife, who desired my return immediately. I 
 had some hopes of meeting with Mervyn, some days 
 having now elapsed since his parting from us, and not 
 being conscious of any extraordinary motives for delay. 
 It was Wortley, however, and not Mervyn, to whom I 
 was called. 
 
 My friend came to share with me his suspicions and 
 inquietudes respecting Welbeck and Mervyn. An acci 
 dent had newly happened which had awakened these 
 suspicions afresh. He desired a patient audience while 
 he explained them to me. These were his words : 
 
 " To-day a person presented me a letter from a mer 
 cantile friend at Baltimore. I easily discerned the bearer 
 to be a sea-captain. He was a man of sensible and 
 pleasing aspect, and was recommended to my friendship 
 and counsel in the letter which he brought. The letter 
 stated, that a man, by name Amos Watson, by profession 
 a mariner, and a resident at Baltimore, had disappeared 
 in the summer of last year, in a mysterious and incom 
 prehensible manner. He was known to have arrived in 
 this city from Jamaica, and to have intended an imme 
 diate journey to his family, who lived at Baltimore ; but 
 he never arrived there, and no trace of his existence 
 has since been discovered. The bearer had come to in 
 vestigate, if possible, the secret of his fate, and I was 
 earnestly entreated to afford him all the assistance and 
 advice in my power, in the prosecution of his search. I 
 expressed my willingness to serve the stranger, whose 
 name was Williams ; and, after offering him entertain 
 ment at my house, which was thankfully accepted, he 
 22
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 171)3. 2$ 
 
 proceeded to unfold to me the particulars of this affair. 
 His story was this. 
 
 " On the 20th of last June, I arrived, said he, from 
 the West Indies, in company with Captain Watson. I 
 commanded the ship in which he came as a passenger, 
 his own ship being taken and confiscated by the English. 
 We had long lived in habits of strict friendship, and I 
 loved him for his own sake, as well as because he had 
 married my sister. We landed in the morning, and 
 went to dine with Mr. Keysler, since dead, but who then 
 lived in Water Street. He was extremely anxious to 
 visit his family, and, having a few commissions to per 
 form in the city, which would not demand more than a 
 couple of hours, he determined to set out next morning 
 in the stage. Meanwhile, I had engagements which re 
 quired me to repair with the utmost expedition to New 
 York. I was scarcely less anxious than my brother to 
 reach Baltimore, where my friends also reside ; but there 
 was an absolute necessity of going eastward. I ex 
 pected, however, to return hither in three days, and then 
 to follow Watson home. Shortly after dinner we parted ; 
 he to execute his commissions, and I to embark in the 
 mail-stage. 
 
 " In the time prefixed I returned. I arrived early in 
 the morning, and prepared to depart again at noon. 
 Meanwhile, I called at Keysler s. This is an old ac 
 quaintance of Watson s and mine ; and, in the course of 
 talk, he expressed some surprise that Watson had so 
 precipitately deserted his house. I stated the necessity 
 there was for Watson s immediate departure southward, 
 and added, that no doubt my brother had explained this 
 necessity. 
 
 " Why, (said Keysler,) it is true, Captain Watson men 
 tioned his intention of leaving town early next day ; but 
 then he gave me reason to expect that he would sup and 
 lodge with me that night, whereas he has not made his 
 appearance since. Besides, his trunk was brought to my 
 house. This, no doubt, he intended to carry home with 
 him, but here it remains still. It is not likely that in 
 the hurry of departure his baggage was forgotten. 
 Hence, I inferred that he was still in town, and have
 
 24 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 been puzzling myself these three days with conjectures 
 as to what is become of him. What surprises me more 
 is, that, on inquiring among the few friends which he has 
 in this city, I find them as ignorant of his motions aa 
 myself. I have not, indeed, been wholly without ap 
 prehensions that some accident or other has befallen 
 him. 
 
 " I was not a little alarmed by this intimation. I 
 went myself, agreeably to Keysler s directions, to Wat 
 son s friends, and made anxious inquiries, but none of 
 them had seen my brother since his arrival. I en 
 deavoured to recollect the commissions which he de 
 signed to execute, and, if possible, to trace him to the 
 spot where he last appeared. He had several packets to 
 deliver, one of which was addressed to Walter Thetford. 
 Him, after some inquiry, I found out, but unluckily he 
 chanced to be in the country. I found, by questioning 
 a clerk, who transacted his business in his absence, that 
 a person, who answered the minute description which I 
 gave of Watson, had been there on the day on which I 
 parted with him, and had left papers relative to the cap 
 ture of one of Thetford s vessels by the English. This 
 was the sura of the information he was able to afford me. 
 
 " * I then applied to three merchants for whom rny 
 brother had letters. They all acknowledged the receipt 
 of these letters, but they were delivered through the me 
 dium of the post-office. 
 
 " * I was extremely anxious to reach home. Urgent 
 engagements compelled me to go on without delay. I 
 had already exhausted all the means of inquiry within 
 my reach, and was obliged to acquiesce in the belief that 
 Watson had proceeded homeward at the time appointed, 
 and left, by forgetfulness or accident, his trunk behind 
 him. On examining the books kept at the stage-offices, 
 his name nowhere appeared, and no conveyance by water 
 had occurred during the last week. Still, the only con 
 jecture I could form was that he had gone homeward. 
 
 " Arriving at Baltimore, I found that Watson had 
 not yet made his appearance. His wife produced a 
 letter, which, by the postmark, appeared to have been 
 put into the office at Philadelphia, on the morning after
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2$ 
 
 our arrival, and on which he had designed to commence 
 his journey. This letter had been written by my bro 
 ther, in my presence, but I had dissuaded him from send 
 ing it, since the same coach that should bear the letter 
 was likewise to carry himself. I had seen him put it 
 unwafered in his pocket-book, but this letter, unaltered 
 in any part, and containing money which he had at first 
 intended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to his wife s 
 hand. In this letter he mentioned his design of setting 
 out for Baltimore on the twenty-first, yet on that day 
 the letter itself had been put into the office. 
 
 " We hoped that a short time would clear up this 
 mystery, and bring the fugitive home ; but, from that 
 day till the present, no atom of intelligence has been 
 received concerning^ him. The yellow fever, which 
 quickly followed, in this city, and my own engagements, 
 have hindered me, till now, from coming hither and re 
 suming the search. 
 
 " My brother was one of the most excellent of men. 
 His wife loved him to distraction, and, together with his 
 children, depended for subsistence upon his efforts. You 
 will not, therefore, be surprised that his disappearance 
 excited, in us, the deepest consternation and distress ; 
 but I have other and peculiar reasons for wishing to 
 know his fate. I gave him several bills of exchange on 
 merchants of Baltimore, which I had received in pay 
 ment of my cargo, in order that they might, as soon as 
 possible, be presented and accepted. These have dis 
 appeared with the bearer. There is likewise another cir 
 cumstance that makes his existence of no small value. 
 
 " There is an English family, who formerly resided 
 in Jamaica, and possessed an estate of great value, but 
 who, for some years, have lived in the neighbourhood of 
 Baltimore. The head of this family died a year ago, 
 and left a widow and three daughters. The lady thought 
 it eligible to sell her husband s property in Jamaica, the 
 island becoming hourly more exposed to the chances of 
 war and revolution, and transfer it to the United States, 
 where she purposes henceforth to reside. Watson had 
 been her husband s friend, and, his probity and disin 
 terestedness being well known, she intrusted him with
 
 26 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 legal powers to sell this estate. This commission was 
 punctually performed, and the purchase-money was re 
 ceived. In order to confer on it the utmost possible 
 security, he rolled up four bills of exchange, drawn upon 
 opulent, merchants of London, in a thin sheet of lead, 
 and, depositing this roll in a leathern girdle, fastened it 
 round his waist, and under his clothes ; a second set he 
 gave to me, and a third he despatched to Mr. Keyslcr, 
 by a vessel which sailed a few days before him. On our 
 arrival in this city, we found that Keysler had received 
 those transmitted to him, and which he had been charged 
 to keep till our arrival. They were now produced, and, 
 together with those which I had carried, were delivered 
 to Watson. By him they were joined to those in the 
 girdle, which he still wore, conceiving this method of 
 conveyance to be safer than any other, and, at the same 
 time, imagining it needless, in so short a journey as re 
 mained to be performed, to resort to other expedients. 
 
 " * The sum which he thus bore about him was no less 
 than ten thousand pounds sterling. It constituted the 
 whole patrimony of a worthy and excellent family, and 
 the loss of it reduces them to beggary. It is gone with 
 Watson, and whither Watson has gone it is impossible 
 even to guess. 
 
 " You may now easily conceive, sir, the dreadful 
 disasters which may be connected with this man s fate, 
 and with what immeasurable anxiety his family and 
 friends have regarded his disappearance. That he is 
 alive can scarcely be believed ; for in what situation 
 could he be placed in which he would not be able and 
 willing to communicate some tidings of his fate to his 
 family ? 
 
 " Our grief has been unspeakably aggravated by the 
 suspicions which Mrs. Maurice and her friends have 
 allowed themselves to admit. They do not scruple to 
 insinuate that Watson, tempted by so great a prize, has 
 secretly embarked for England, in order to obtain pay 
 ment for these bills and retain the money for his own use. 
 
 " No man was more impatient of poverty than Wat 
 son, but no man s honesty was more inflexible. He 
 murmured at the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2.J 
 
 his ease, and risk his life upon the ocean in order to 
 procure the means of subsistence ; and all the property 
 which he had spent the best part of his life in collecting 
 had just been ravished away from him by the English ; 
 but, if he had yielded to this temptation at any time, it 
 would have been on receiving these bills at Jamaica. 
 Instead of coming hither, it would have been infinitely 
 more easy and convenient to have embarked directly for 
 London ; but none who thoroughly knew him can, for a 
 moment, harbour a suspicion of his truth. 
 
 " If he be dead, and if the bills are not to be re 
 covered, yet to ascertain this will, at least, serve to vin 
 dicate his character. As long as his fate is unknown, 
 his fame will be loaded with the most flagrant imputa 
 tions, and, if these bills be ever paid in London, these 
 imputations will appear to be justified. If he has been 
 robbed, the robber will make haste to secure the pay 
 ment, and the Maurices may not unreasonably conclude 
 that the robber was Watson himself. Many other par 
 ticulars were added by the stranger, to show the extent 
 of the evils flowing from the death of his brother, and 
 the loss of the papers which he carried with him. 
 
 "I was greatly at a loss," continued Wortley, "what 
 directions or advice to afford this man. Keysler, as you 
 know, died early of the pestilence ; but Keysler was the 
 only resident in this city with whom Williams had any 
 acquaintance. On mentioning the propriety of prevent 
 ing the sale of these bills in America, by some public 
 notice, he told me that this caution had been early 
 taken ; and I now remembered seeing the advertise 
 ment, in which the bills had been represented as having 
 been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward of a thou 
 sand dollars was offered to any one who should restore 
 them. This caution had been published in September, 
 in all the trading-towns from Portsmouth to Savannah, 
 but had produced no satisfaction. 
 
 " I accompanied Williams to the mayor s office, in 
 hopes of finding in the records of his proceedings, during 
 the last six months, some traces of Watson ; but neither 
 these records nor the memory of the magistrate afforded 
 us any satisfaction. Watson s friends had drawn up,
 
 28 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 likewise, a description of the person and dress of the 
 fugitive, an account of the incidents attending his disap 
 pearance, and of the papers which he had in his posses 
 sion, with the manner in which these papers had been 
 secured. These had been already published in the 
 Southern newspapers, and have been just reprinted in 
 our own. As the former notice had availed nothing, 
 this second expedient was thought necessary to be 
 employed. 
 
 "After some reflection, it occurred to me that it might 
 be proper to renew the attempt which Williams had made 
 to trace the footsteps of his friend to the moment of his 
 final disappearance. He had pursued Watson to Thet- 
 ford s ; but Thetford himself had not been seen, and he 
 had been contented with the vague information of his 
 clerk. Thetford and his family, including his clerk, had 
 perished, and it seemed as if this source of information 
 was dried up. It was possible, however, that old Thet 
 ford might have some knowledge of his nephew s trans 
 actions, by which some light might chance to be thrown 
 upon this obscurity. I therefore called on him, but 
 found him utterly unable to afford me the light that I 
 wished. My mention of the packet which Watson had 
 brought to Thetford, containing documents respecting 
 the capture of a certain ship, reminded him of the in 
 juries which he had received from Welbeck, and excited 
 him to renew his menaces and imputations on that 
 wretch. Having somewhat exhausted this rhetoric, ho 
 proceeded to tell me what connection there was between 
 the remembrance-of his injuries and the capture of this 
 vessel. 
 
 "This vessel and its cargo were, in fact, the property 
 of Welbeck. They had been sent to a good market, and 
 had been secured by an adequate insurance. The value 
 of this ship and cargo, and the validity of the policy, he 
 had taken care to ascertain by means of his two nephews, 
 one of whom had gone out supercargo. This had formed 
 his inducement to lend his three notes to Welbeck, in 
 exchange for three other notes, the whole amount of 
 which included the equitable interest of jive per cent, 
 per month on his own loan. For the payment of these
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2Q 
 
 notes he by no means relied, as the world foolishly 
 imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret funds of 
 Welbeck. These were illusions too gross to have any 
 influence on him. He was too old a bird to be decoyed 
 into the net by such chaff. No ; his nephew, the super 
 cargo, would of course receive the produce of the voyage, 
 and so much of this produce as would pay his debt he 
 had procured the owner s authority to intercept its pas 
 sage from the pocket of his nephew to that of Welbeck. 
 In case of loss, he had obtained a similar security upon 
 the policy. Jamieson s proceedings had been the same 
 with his own, and no affair in which he had ever engaged 
 had appeared to be more free from hazard than this. 
 Their calculations, however, though plausible, were de 
 feated. The ship was taken and condemned, for a cause 
 which rendered the insurance ineffectual. 
 
 "I bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of 
 extortions and frauds, and on that course of events 
 which so often disconcerts the stratagems of cunning. 
 The names of Welbeck and Watson were thus associated 
 together, and filled my thoughts with restlessness and 
 suspicion. Welbeck was capable of any weakness. It 
 was possible an interview had happened between these 
 men, and that the fugitive had been someway instru 
 mental in Watson s fate. These thoughts were men 
 tioned to "Williams, whom the name of Welbeck threw 
 into the utmost perturbation. On finding that one of 
 this name had dwelt in this city, and that he had proved 
 a villain, he instantly admitted the most dreary fore 
 bodings. 
 
 " I have heard, said Williams, the history of this 
 Welbeck a score of times from my brother. There for 
 merly subsisted a very intimate connection between them. 
 My brother had conferred, upon one whom he thought 
 honest, innumerable benefits; but all his benefits had 
 been repaid by the blackest treachery. Welbeck s cha 
 racter and guilt had often been made the subject of 
 talk between us, but, on these occasions, my brother s 
 placid and patient temper forsook him. His grief for 
 the calamities which had sprung from this man, and his 
 desire of revenge, burst all bounds, and transported him
 
 3O ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 to a pitch of temporary frenzy. I often inquired in 
 what manner he intended to act if a meeting should take 
 place between them. He answered, that doubtless he 
 should act like a maniac, in defiance of his sober prin 
 ciples, and of the duty which he owed his family. 
 
 " What ! (said I,) would you stab or pistol him ? 
 
 " No. I was not born for an assassin. I would upbraid 
 him in such terms as the furious moment might suggest, 
 and then challenge him to a meeting, from which either 
 he or I should not part with life. I would allow time 
 for him to make his peace with Heaven, and for me to 
 blast his reputation upon earth, and to make such pro 
 vision for my possible death as duty and discretion 
 would prescribe. 
 
 " Now, nothing is more probable than that Welbeck 
 and my brother have met. Thetford would of course 
 mention his name and interest in the captured ship, and 
 hence the residence of this detested being in this city 
 would be made known. Their meeting could not take 
 place without some dreadful consequence. I am fearful 
 that to that meeting we must impute the disappearance 
 of my brother.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 " HERE was new light thrown upon the character of 
 Welbeck, and new food administered to my suspicions. 
 No conclusion could be more plausible than that which 
 Williams had drawn ; but how should it be rendered cer 
 tain ? Walter Thetford, or some of his family, had pos 
 sibly been witnesses of something, which, added to our 
 previous knowledge, might strengthen or prolong that 
 clue, one end of which seemed now to be put into our 
 hands ; but Thetford s father-in-law was the only one of 
 his family, who, by seasonable flight from the city, had 
 escaped the pestilence. To him, who still resided in 
 the country, I repaired with all speed, accompanied by 
 Williams. 
 
 " The old man, being reminded, by a variety of cir 
 cumstances, of the incidents of that eventful period, 
 was, at length, enabled to relate that he had been pre 
 sent at the meeting which took place between Watson 
 and his son Walter, when certain packets were delivered 
 by the former, relative, as he quickly understood, to the 
 condemnation of a ship in which Thomas Thetford had 
 gone supercargo. He had noticed some emotion of the 
 stranger, occasioned by his son s mentioning the concern 
 which Welbeck" had in the vessel. He likewise remem 
 bered the stranger s declaring his intention of visiting 
 Welbeck, and requesting Walter to afford him directions 
 to his house. 
 
 " Next morning at the breakfast-table, continued 
 the old man, I adverted to yesterday s incidents, and 
 asked my son how Welbeck had borne the news of the 
 loss of his ship. "He bore it," said Walter, "as a man 
 of his wealth ought to bear so trivial a loss. But there 
 
 31
 
 34 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 artfully prepared by Welbeck, the pupil made his ap 
 pearance; and, in a conversation full of studied ambi 
 guities, assured the lady that her nephew was dead. For 
 the present he declined relating the particulars of his 
 death, and displayed a constancy and intrepidity in re 
 sisting her entreaties that would have been admirable 
 in a better cause. Before she had time to fathom this 
 painful mystery, Welbeck s frauds were in danger of 
 detection, and he and his pupil suddenly disappeared. 
 
 "While the plot was going forward, there occurred an 
 incident which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded, 
 and which possibly might have created some confusion or 
 impediment in their designs. A bundle was found one 
 night in the street, consisting of some coarse clothes, 
 and containing, in the midst of it, the miniature portrait 
 of Mrs. Wentworth s nephew. It fell into the hands of 
 one of that lady s friends, who immediately despatched 
 the bundle to her. Mervyn, in his interview with this 
 lady, spied the portrait on the mantel-piece. Led by 
 some freak of fancy, or some web of artifice, he intro 
 duced the talk respecting her nephew, by boldly claiming 
 it as his ; but, when the mode in which it had been found 
 was mentioned, he was disconcerted and confounded, and 
 precipitately withdrew. 
 
 " This conduct, and the subsequent flight of the lad, 
 afforded ground enough to question the truth of his in 
 telligence respecting her nephew; but it has since been 
 confuted, in a letter just received from her brother in 
 England. In this letter, she is informed that her nephew 
 had been seen by one who knew him well, in Charleston ; 
 that some intercourse took place between the youth and 
 the bearer of the news, in the course of which the latter 
 had persuaded the nephew to return to his family, and 
 that the youth had given some tokens of compliance. 
 The letter-writer, who was father to the fugitive, had 
 written to certain friends at Charleston, entreating them 
 to use their influence with the runaway to the same end, 
 and, at any rate, to cherish and protect him. Thus, I 
 hope you will admit that the duplicity of Mervyn is de 
 monstrated." 
 
 " The facts which you have mentioned," said I, after
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 35 
 
 some pause, "partly correspond with Mervyn s story; 
 bat the last particular is irreconcilably repugnant to it. 
 Now, for the first time, I begin to feel that my confidence 
 is shaken. I feel my mind bewildered and distracted by 
 the multitude of new discoveries which have just taken 
 place. I want time to revolve them slowly, to weigh 
 them accurately, and to estimate their consequences 
 fully. I am afraid to speak ; fearing that, in the pre 
 sent trouble of my thoughts, I may say something which 
 I may afterwards regret. I want a counsellor ; but you, 
 Wortley, are unfit for the office. Your judgment is un 
 furnished with the same materials ; your sufferings have 
 soured your humanity and biassed your candour. The 
 only one qualified to divide with me these cares, and aid 
 in selecting the best mode of action, is my wife. She 
 fe mistress of Mervyn s history ; an observer of his con 
 duct during his abode with us ; and is hindered, by her 
 education and temper, from deviating into rigour and 
 malevolence. Will you pardon me, therefore, if I defer 
 commenting on your narrative till I have had an oppor 
 tunity of reviewing it and comparing it with my know 
 ledge of the lad, collected from himself and from my 
 own observation?" 
 
 Wortley could not but admit the justice of my request, 
 and, after some desultory conversation, we parted. I 
 hastened to communicate to my wife the various intelli 
 gence which I had lately received. Mrs. Althorpe s por 
 trait of the Mervyns contained lineaments which the 
 summary detail of Arthur did not enable us fully to 
 comprehend. The treatment which the youth is said to 
 have given to his father; the illicit commerce that sub 
 sisted between him and his father s wife ; the pillage of 
 money and his father s horse, but ill accorded with the 
 tale which we had heard, and disquieted our minds with 
 doubts, though far from dictating our belief. 
 
 What, however, more deeply absorbed our attention, 
 was the testimony of Williams and of Mrs. Wentworth. 
 That which was mysterious and inscrutable to Wortley 
 and the friends of Watson was luminous to us. The 
 coincidence between the vague hints laboriously collected
 
 36 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 by these inquirers, and the narrative of Mervyn, afforded 
 the most cogent attestation of the truth of that narrative. 
 
 Watson had vanished from all eyes, but the spot where 
 rested his remains was known to us. The girdle spoken 
 of by Williams would not be suspected to exist by his 
 murderer. It was unmolested, and was doubtless buried 
 with him. That which was so earnestly sought, and 
 which constituted the subsistence of the Maurices, would 
 probably be found adhering to his body. What con 
 duct was incumbent upon me who possessed this know 
 ledge ? 
 
 It was just to restore these bills to their true owner ; 
 but how could this be done without hazardous processes 
 and tedious disclosures ? To whom ought these disclo 
 sures to be made ? By what authority or agency could 
 these half-decayed limbs be dug up, and the lost trea 
 sure be taken from amidst the horrible corruption in 
 which it was immersed ? 
 
 This ought not to be the act of a single individual. 
 This act would entangle him in a maze of perils and sus 
 picions, of concealments and evasions, from which he 
 could not hope to escape with his reputation inviolate. 
 The proper method was through the agency of the law. 
 It is to this that Mervyn must submit his conduct. The 
 story which he told to me he must tell to the world. 
 Suspicions have fixed themselves upon him, which allow 
 him not the privilege of silence arid obscurity. While 
 he continued unknown and urithought of, the publication 
 of his story would only give unnecessary birth to dan 
 gers; but now dangers are incurred which it may proba 
 bly contribute to lessen, if not to remove. 
 
 Meanwhile the return of Mervyu to the city was 
 anxiously expected. Day after day passed, and no 
 tidings were received. I had business of an urgent na 
 ture which required my presence in Jersey, but which, 
 in the daily expectation of the return of my young 
 friend, I postponed a week longer than rigid discretion 
 allowed. At length I was obliged to comply with the 
 exigence, and left the city, but made such arrangements 
 that I should be apprized by my wife of Mervyn s return 
 with all practicable expedition.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J- 37 
 
 These arrangements were superfluous, for my business 
 was despatched, and my absence at an end, before the 
 youth had given us any tokens of his approach. I now 
 remembered the warnings of Wortley, and his assertions 
 that Mervyn had withdrawn himself forever from our 
 view. The event had hitherto unwelcomely coincided 
 with these predictions, and a thousand doubts and mis 
 givings were awakened. 
 
 One evening, whil* preparing to shake off gloomy 
 thoughts by a visit to a friend, some one knocked at my 
 door, and left a billet containing these words : 
 
 "Dr. Stevens is requested to come immediately to the 
 Debtors Apartments in Prune Street." 
 
 This billet was without signature. The handwriting 
 was unknown, and the precipitate departure of the bearer 
 left me wholly at a loss with respect to the person of the 
 writer, or the end for which my presence was required. 
 This uncertainty only hastened my compliance with the 
 summons. 
 
 The evening was approaching, a time when the pri 
 son-doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to 
 be excluded. This furnished an additional reason for 
 despatch. As I walked swiftly along, I revolved the 
 possible motives that might have prompted this message. 
 A conjecture was soon formed, which led to apprehension 
 and inquietude. 
 
 One of my friends, by name Carlton, was embarrassed 
 with debts which he was unable to discharge. He had 
 lately been menaced with arrest by a creditor not accus 
 tomed to remit any of his claims. I dreaded that this 
 catastrophe had now happened, and called to mind the 
 anguish with which this untoward incident would over 
 whelm his family. I knew his incapacity to take away 
 the claim of his creditor by payment, or to soothe him 
 into clemency by supplication. 
 
 So prone is the human mind to create for itself dis 
 tress, that I was not aware of the uncertainty of this 
 evil till I arrived at the prison. I checked myself at the 
 moment when I opened my lips to utter the name of my 
 friend, and was admitted without particular inquiries. I
 
 38 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 supposed that he by whom I had heen summoned hither 
 would meet me in the common room. 
 
 The apartment was filled with pale faces and withered 
 forms. The marks of negligence and poverty were visible 
 in all ; but few betrayed, in their features or gestures, 
 any symptoms of concern on account of their condition. 
 Ferocious gayety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit 
 upon every brow. The vapour from a heated stove, 
 mingled with the fumes of beer and tallow that were 
 spilled upon it, and with the tainted breath of so pro 
 miscuous a crowd, loaded the stagnant atmosphere. At 
 my first transition from the cold and pure air without, 
 to this noxious element, I found it difficult to breathe. 
 A moment, however, reconciled me to my situation, and 
 I looked anxiously round to discover some face which I 
 knew. 
 
 Almost every mouth was furnished with a cigar, and 
 every hand with a glass of porter. Conversation, car 
 ried on with much emphasis of tone and gesture, was not 
 wanting. Sundry groups, in different corners, were 
 beguiling the tedious hours at whist. Others, unem 
 ployed, were strolling to and fro, and testified their 
 vacancy of thought and care by humming or whistling a 
 tune. 
 
 I fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived 
 me. This hope was strengthened by reflecting that the 
 billet received was written in a different hand from that 
 of my friend. Meanwhile I continued my search. 
 Seated on a bench, silent and aloof from the crowd, his 
 eyes fixed upon the floor, and his face half concealed by 
 his hand, a form was at length discovered which verified 
 all my conjectures and fears. Carlton was he. 
 
 My heart drooped and my tongue faltered at this 
 sight. I surveyed him for some minutes in silence. At 
 length, approaching the bench on which he sat, I touched 
 his hand and awakened him from his reverie. He looked 
 up. A momentary gleam of joy and surprise was suc 
 ceeded by a gloom deeper than before. 
 
 It was plain that my friend needed consolation. He 
 was governed by an exquisite sensibility to disgrace. 
 He was impatient of constraint. He shrunk, with fasti-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 39 
 
 dious abhorrence, from the contact of ^the vulgar and 
 the profligate. His constitution was delicate and feeble. 
 Impure airs, restraint from exercise, unusual aliment, 
 unwholesome or incommodious accommodations, and per 
 turbed thoughts, were, at any time, sufficient to generate 
 disease and to deprive him of life. 
 
 To these evils he was now subjected. He had no 
 money wherewith to purchase food. He had been dragged 
 hither in the morning. He had not tasted a morsel since 
 his entrance. He had not provided a bed on which to 
 lie ; or inquired in what room, or with what companions, 
 the night was to be spent. 
 
 Fortitude was not among my friend s qualities. He 
 was more prone to shrink from danger than encounter 
 it, and to yield to the flood rather than sustain it ; but 
 it is just to observe that his anguish, on the present 
 occasion, arose not wholly from selfish considerations. 
 His parents were dead, and two sisters were dependent 
 on him for support. One of these was nearly of his 
 own age. The other was scarcely emerged from child 
 hood. There was an intellectual as well as a personal 
 resemblance between my friend and his sisters. They 
 possessed his physical infirmities, his vehement passions, 
 and refinements of taste; and the misery of his con 
 dition was tenfold increased, by reflecting on the feelings 
 which would be awakened in them by the knowledge of 
 his state, and the hardships to which the loss of his suc 
 cour would expose them.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 IT was not in my power to release my friend by the 
 payment of his debt ; but, by contracting with the keeper 
 of the prison for his board, I could save him from famine ; 
 and, by suitable exertions, could procure him lodging aa 
 convenient as the time would admit. I could promise to 
 console and protect his sisters, and, by cheerful tones and 
 frequent visits, dispel some part of the evil which encom 
 passed him. 
 
 After the first surprise had subsided, he inquired by 
 what accident this meeting had been produced. Con 
 scious of my incapacity to do him any essential service, 
 and unwilling to make me a partaker in his miseries, he 
 had forborne to inform me of his condition. 
 
 This assurance was listened to with some wonder. I 
 showed him the billet. It had not been written by him. 
 He was a stranger to the penmanship. None but the 
 attorney and officer were apprized of his fate. It was 
 obvious to conclude, that this was the interposition of 
 some friend, who, knowing my affection for Carlton, 
 had taken this mysterious method of calling me to his 
 succour. 
 
 Conjectures as to the author and motives of this inter 
 position were suspended by more urgent considerations. 
 1 requested an interview with the keeper, and inquired 
 how Carlton could be best accommodated. 
 
 He said that all his rooms were full but one, which, in 
 consequence of the dismission of three persons in the 
 morning, had at present but one tenant. This person 
 had lately arrived, was sick, and had with him, at this 
 time, one of his friends. Carlton might divide the 
 chamber with this person. No doubt his consent would 
 40
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 4! 
 
 be readily given; though this arrangement, being the 
 best, must take place whether he consented or not. 
 
 This consent I resolved immediately to seek, and, for 
 that purpose, desired to be led to the chamber. The 
 door of the apartment was shut. I knocked for ad 
 mission. It was instantly opened, and I entered. The 
 first person who met my view was Arthur Mervyn. 
 
 I started with astonishment. Mervyn s countenance 
 betrayed nothing btit satisfaction at the interview. The 
 traces of fatigue and anxiety gave place to tenderness 
 and joy. It readily occurred to me that Mervyn was 
 the writer of the note which I had lately received. To 
 meet him within these walls, and at this time, was the 
 most remote and undesirable of all contingencies. The 
 same hour had thus made me acquainted with the kindred 
 and unwelcome fate of two beings whom I most loved. 
 
 I had scarcely time to return his embrace, when, 
 taking my hand, he led me to a bed that stood in one 
 corner. There was stretched upon it one whom a second 
 glance enabled me to call by his name, though I had never 
 before seen him. The vivid portrait which Mervyn had 
 drawn was conspicuous in the sunken and haggard visage 
 before me. This face had, indeed, proportions and lines 
 which could never be forgotten or mistaken. Welbeck, 
 when once seen or described, was easily distinguished from 
 the rest of mankind. He had stronger motives than 
 other men for abstaining from guilt, the difficulty of con 
 cealment or disguise being tenfold greater in him than 
 in others, by reason of the indelible and eye-attracting 
 marks which nature had set upon him. 
 
 He was pallid and emaciated. He did not open his 
 eyes on my entrance. He seemed to be asleep ; but, 
 before I had time to exchange glances with Mervyn, or 
 to inquire into the nature of the scene, he awoke. On 
 seeing me he started, and cast a look of upbraiding on 
 my companion. The latter comprehended his emotion, 
 and endeavoured to appease him. 
 
 "This person," said he, "is my friend. He is like 
 wise a physician ; and, perceiving your state to require 
 medical assistance, I ventured to send for him." 
 
 Welbeck replied, in a contemptuous and indignant
 
 42 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 tone, "Thou mistakest my condition, boy. My disease 
 lies deeper than his scrutiny will ever reach. I had 
 hoped thou wert gone. Thy importunities are well meant, 
 but they aggravate my miseries." 
 
 He now rose from the bed, and continued, in a firm 
 and resolute tone, "You are intruders into this apart 
 ment. It is mine, and I desire to be left alone." 
 
 Mcrvyn returned, at first, no answer to this address. 
 He was immersed in perplexity. At length, raising his 
 eyes from the floor, he said, "My intentions are indeed 
 honest, and I am grieved that I want the power of per 
 suasion. To-morrow, perhaps, I may reason more cogently 
 with your despair, or your present mood may be changed. 
 To aid my own weakness I will entreat the assistance of 
 this friend." 
 
 These words roused a new spirit in Welbeck. His 
 confusion and anger increased. His tongue faltered as 
 he exclaimed, "Good God! what mean you? Headlong 
 and rash as you are, you will not share with this person 
 your knowledge of me?" Here he checked himself, 
 conscious that the words he had already uttered tended 
 to the very end which he dreaded. This conscious 
 ness, added to the terror of more ample disclosures, 
 which the simplicity and rectitude of Mervyn might 
 prompt him to make, chained up his tongue, and covered 
 him with dismay, 
 
 Mervyn was not long in answering : " I comprehend 
 your fears and your wishes. I am bound to tell you the 
 truth. To this person your story has already been told. 
 Whatever I have witnessed under your roof, whatever 
 I have heard from your lips, have been faithfully dis 
 closed to him." 
 
 The countenance of Welbeck now betrayed a mixture 
 of incredulity and horror. For a time his utterance was 
 stifled by his complicated feelings : 
 
 "It cannot be. So enormous a deed is beyond thy 
 power. Thy qualities are marvellous. Every new act 
 of thine outstrips the last, and belies the newest calcula 
 tions. But this this perfidy exceeds this outrage 
 upon promises, this violation of faith, this blindness to 
 the future, is incredible." There he stopped; while his
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR i?93- 43 
 
 looks seemed to call upon Mervyn for a contradiction of 
 his first assertion. 
 
 "I know full well how inexpiably stupid or wicked my 
 act will appear to you, but I will not prevaricate or lie. 
 I repeat, that every thing is known to him. Your birth ; 
 your early fortunes; the incidents at Charleston and 
 Wilmington; your treatment of the brother and sister; 
 your interview with Watson, and the fatal issue of that 
 interview I have told him all, just as it was told to me. M 
 
 Here the shock that was felt by Welbeck overpowered 
 his caution and his strength. He sunk upon the side of 
 the bed. His air was still incredulous, and he continued 
 to gaze upon Mervyn. He spoke in a tone less vehe 
 ment : 
 
 " And hast thou then betrayed me ? Hast thou shut 
 every avenue to my return to honour ? Am I known to 
 be a seducer and assassin ? To have meditated all 
 crimes, and to have perpetrated the worst ? 
 
 "Infamy and death are my portion. I know they are 
 reserved for me ; but I did not think to receive them at 
 thy hands, that under that innocent guise there lurked 
 a heart treacherous and cruel. But go ; leave me to 
 myself. This stroke has exterminated my remnant of 
 hope. Leave me to prepare my neck for the halter, and 
 my lips for this last and bitterest cup." 
 
 Mervyn struggled with his tears, and replied, "All 
 this was foreseen, and all this I was prepared to endure. 
 My friend and I will withdraw, as you wish ; but to 
 morrow I return ; not to vindicate my faith or my 
 humanity ; not to make you recant your charges, or 
 forgive the faults which I seem to have committed, but 
 to extricate you from your present evil, or to arm you 
 with fortitude." 
 
 So saying, he led the way out of the room. I fol 
 lowed him in silence. The strangeness and abruptness 
 of this scene left me no power to assume a part in it. I 
 looked on with new and indescribable sensations. I 
 reached the street before my recollection was perfectly 
 recovered. I then reflected on the purpose that had led 
 ine to W T elbeck s chamber. This purpose was yet unac 
 complished. I desired Mervyn to linger a moment while
 
 44 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I returned into the house. I once more inquired for the 
 keeper, and told him I should leave to him the province 
 of acquainting Welbeck with the necessity of sharing 
 his apartment with a stranger. I speedily rejoined 
 Mervyn in the street. 
 
 I lost no time in requiring an explanation of the scene 
 that I had witnessed. "How became you once more the 
 companion of Welbeck ? Why did you not inform me 
 by letter of your arrival at Malverton, and of what 
 occurred during your absence ? What is the fate of Mr. 
 Hadwin and of Wallace?" 
 
 "Alas!" said he, "I perceive that, though I have 
 written, you have never received my letters. The tale 
 of what has occurred since we parted is long and various. 
 I am not only willing but eager to communicate the story ; 
 but this is no suitable place. Have patience till we reach 
 your house. I have involved myself in perils and em 
 barrassments from which I depend upon your counsel 
 and aid to release me." 
 
 I had scarcely reached my own door, when I was over 
 taken by a servant, whom I knew to belong to the family 
 in which Carlton and his sisters resided. Her message, 
 therefore, was readily guessed. She came, as I expected, 
 to inquire for my friend, who had left his home in the 
 morning with a stranger, and had not yet returned. 
 His absence had occasioned some inquietude, and his 
 sister had sent this message to me, to procure what in 
 formation respecting the cause of his detention I was 
 able to give. 
 
 My perplexity hindered me, for some time, from 
 answering. I was willing to communicate the painful 
 truth with my own mouth. I saw the necessity of put 
 ting an end to her suspense, and of preventing the news 
 from reaching her with fallacious aggravations or at an 
 unseasonable time. 
 
 I told the messenger that I had just parted with Mr. 
 Carlton, that he was well, and that I would speedily coone 
 and acquaint his sister with the cause of his absence. 
 
 Though burning with curiosity respecting Mervyn and 
 Welbeck, I readily postponed its gratification till my 
 visit to Miss Carlton was performed. I had rarely seen
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR J?9J. 45 
 
 this lady ; my friendship for her hrother, though ardent, 
 having been lately formed, and chiefly matured by inter 
 views at my house. I had designed to introduce her to 
 my wife, but various accidents had hindered the execu 
 tion of my purpose. Now consolation and counsel were 
 more needed than ever, and delay or reluctance in 
 bestowing it would have been, in a high degree, un 
 pardonable. 
 
 I therefore parted with Mervyn, requesting him to 
 await my return, and promising to perform the engage 
 ment which compelled me to leave him, with the utmost 
 despatch. On entering Miss Carlton s apartment, I 
 assumed an air of as much tranquillity as possible. I 
 found the lady seated at a desk, with pen in hand and 
 parchment before her. She greeted me with affectionate 
 dignity, and caught from my countenance that cheerful 
 ness of which on my entrance she was destitute. 
 
 "You come," said she, "to inform me what has made 
 my brother a truant to-day. Till your message was re 
 ceived I was somewhat anxious. This day he usually 
 spends in rambling through the fields ; but so bleak and 
 stormy an atmosphere, I suppose, would prevent his ex 
 cursion. I pray, sir, what is it detains him ?" 
 
 To conquer my embarrassment, and introduce the 
 subject by indirect and cautious means, I eluded her 
 question, and, casting an eye at the parchment, " How 
 now? said I; "this is strange employment for a lady. 
 I knew that my friend pursued this trade, and lived by 
 binding fast the bargains which others made ; but I knew 
 not that the pen was ever usurped by his sister." 
 
 "The usurpation was prompted by necessity. My 
 brother s impatient temper and delicate frame unfitted 
 him for the trade. He pursued it with no less reluc 
 tance than diligence, devoting to the task three nights 
 in the week, and the whole of each day. It would long 
 ago have killed him, had I not bethought myself of 
 sharing his tasks. The pen was irksome and toilsome 
 at first, but use has made it easy, and far more eligible 
 than the needle, which was formerly my only tool. 
 
 "This arrangement affords my brother opportunities 
 of exercise and recreation, without diminishing our
 
 46 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 profits ; and my time, though not less constantly, is 
 more agreeably, as well as more lucratively, employed 
 than formerly." 
 
 "I admire your reasoning. By this means provision 
 is made against untoward accidents. If sickness should 
 disable him, you are qualified to pursue the same means 
 of support." 
 
 At these words the lady s countenance changed. She 
 put her hand on my arm, and said, in a fluttering and 
 hurried accent, "Is my brother sick ?" 
 
 "No. He is in perfect health. My observation was 
 a harmless one. I am sorry to observe your readiness 
 to draw alarming inferences. If I were to say that your 
 scheme is useful to supply deficiencies, not only when 
 your brother is disabled by sickness, but when thrown, 
 by some inhuman creditor, into jail, no doubt you would 
 perversely and hastily infer that he is now in prison." 
 
 I had scarcely ended the sentence, when the piercing 
 eyes of the lady were anxiously fixed upon mine. After 
 a moment s pause, she exclaimed, "The inference, in 
 deed, is too plain. I know his fate. It has long been 
 foreseen and expected, and I have summoned up my 
 equanimity to meet it. Would to Heaven he may find 
 the calamity as light as I should find it ! but I fear his 
 too irritable spirit." 
 
 When her fears were confirmed, she started out into 
 no vehemence of exclamation. She quickly suppressed 
 a few tears which would not be withheld, and listened 
 to my narrative of what had lately occurred, with tokens 
 of gratitude. 
 
 Formal consolation was superfluous. Her mind was 
 indeed more fertile than my own in those topics which 
 take away its keenest edge from affliction. She ob 
 served that it was far from being the heaviest calamity 
 which might have happened. The creditor was perhaps 
 vincible by arguments and supplications. If these 
 should succeed, the disaster would not only be removed, 
 but that security from future molestation be gained, to 
 which they had for a long time been strangers. 
 
 Should he be obdurate, their state was far from being 
 Iiopeless. Carltou s situation allowed him to pursue his
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR J?9J. 47 
 
 profession. His gains would be equal, and his expenses 
 would not be augmented. By their mutual industry 
 they might hope to amass sufficient to discharge the 
 debt at no very remote period. 
 
 What she chiefly dreaded was the pernicious influence 
 of dejection and sedentary labour on her brother s health. 
 Yet this was not to be considered as inevitable. Forti 
 tude might be inspired by exhortation and example, and 
 no condition precluded us from every species of bodily 
 exertion. The less inclined he should prove to cultivate 
 the means of deliverance and happiness within his reach, 
 the more necessary it became for her to stimulate and 
 fortify his resolution. 
 
 If I were captivated by the charms of this lady s per 
 son and carriage, my reverence was excited by these 
 proofs of wisdom and energy. I zealously promised to 
 concur with her in every scheme she should adopt for 
 her own or her brother s advantage ; and, after spending 
 some hours with her, took my leave. 
 
 I now regretted the ignorance in which I had hitherto 
 remained respecting this lady. That she was, in an 
 eminent degree, feminine and lovely, was easily dis 
 covered; but intellectual weakness had been rashly in 
 ferred from external frailty. She was accustomed to 
 shrink from observation, and reserve was mistaken for 
 timidity. I called on Carlton only when numerous en 
 gagements would allow, and when, by some accident, his 
 customary visits had been intermitted. On those occa 
 sions, my stay was short, and my attention chiefly con 
 fined to her brother. I now resolved to atone for my 
 ancient negligence, not only by my own assiduities, but 
 by those of my wife. 
 
 On my return home, I found Mervyn and my wife in 
 earnest discourse. I anticipated the shock which the 
 sensibility of the latter would receive from the tidings 
 which I had to communicate respecting Carlton. I was 
 unwilling, and yet perceived the necessity of disclosing 
 the truth. I desired to bring these women, as soon as 
 possible, to the knowledge of each other, but the neces 
 sary prelude to this was an acquaintance with the dis 
 aster that had happened.
 
 48 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 Scarcely had I entered the room, when Mervyn turned 
 to me, and said, with an air of anxiety and impatience, 
 "Pray, my friend, have you any knowledge of Francis 
 Carlton ?" 
 
 The mention of this name by Mervyn produced 
 some surprise. I acknowledged my acquaintance with 
 him. 
 
 "Do you know in what situation he now is?" 
 
 In answer to this question, I stated by what singular 
 means his situation had been made known to me, and 
 the purpose from the accomplishment of which I had 
 just returned. I inquired in my turn, "Whence origi 
 nated this question?" 
 
 He had overheard the name of Carlton in the prison. 
 Two persons were communing in a corner, and accident 
 enabled him to catch this name, though uttered by them 
 in a half whisper, and to discover that the person talked 
 about had lately been conveyed thither. 
 
 This name was not now heard for the first time. It 
 was connected with remembrances that made him anxious 
 for the fate of him to whom it belonged. In discourse 
 with my wife, this name chanced to be again mentioned, 
 and his curiosity was roused afresh. I was willing to 
 communicate all that I knew, but Mervyn s own destiny 
 was too remarkable not to absorb all my attention, and 
 I refused to discuss any other theme till that were fully 
 explained. He postponed his own gratification to mine, 
 and consented to relate the incidents that had happened 
 from the moment of our separation till the present.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 AT parting with you, my purpose was to reach the 
 abode of the Hadwins as speedily as possible. I tra 
 velled therefore with diligence. Setting out so early, I 
 expected, though on foot, to reach the end of my journey 
 before noon. The activity of muscles is no obstacle to 
 
 thought. So far from being: inconsistent with intense 
 
 i i* 
 
 musing, it is, in my own case, propitious to that state of 
 
 mind. 
 
 Probably no one had stronger motives for ardent medi 
 tation than I. My second journey to the city was 
 prompted by reasons, and attended by incidents, that 
 seemed to have a present existence. To think upon 
 them was to view, more deliberately and thoroughly, 
 objects and persons that still hovered in my sight. In 
 stead of their attributes being already seen, and their 
 consequences at an end, it seemed as if a series of nu 
 merous years and unintermitted contemplation were 
 requisite to comprehend them fully, and bring into ex 
 istence their most momentous effects. 
 
 If men be chiefly distinguished from each other by 
 the modes in which attention is employed, either on 
 external and sensible objects, or merely on abstract 
 ideas and the creatures of reflection, I may justly claim 
 to be enrolled in the second class. My existence is a 
 series of thoughts rather than of motions. Ratiocina 
 tion and deduction leave my senses unemployed. The 
 fulness of my fancy renders my eye vacant and inactive. 
 Sensations do not precede and suggest, but follow and 
 are secondary to, the acts of my mind. 
 
 There was one motive, however, which made me less 
 inattentive to the scene that was continually shifting 
 4 49
 
 5O ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 before and without me than I am wont to he. The love 
 liest form which I had hitherto seen was that of Cle- 
 menza Lodi. I recalled her condition as I had witnessed 
 it, as Welbeck had described, and as you had painted it. 
 The past was without remedy; but the future was, in 
 some degree, within our power to create and to fashion. 
 Her state was probably dangerous. She might already 
 be forlorn, beset with temptation or with anguish ; or 
 danger might only be approaching her, and the worst 
 evils be impending ones. 
 
 I was ignorant of her state. Could I not remove this 
 ignorance ? Would not some benefit redound to her from 
 beneficent and seasonable interposition? 
 
 You had mentioned that her abode had lately been 
 with Mrs. Villars, and that this lady still resided in the 
 country. The residence had been sufficiently described, 
 and I perceived that I was now approaching it. In a 
 short time I spied its painted roof and five chimneys 
 through an avenue of catalpaa. 
 
 When opposite the gate which led into this avenue, I 
 paused. It seemed as if this moment were to decide 
 upon the liberty and innocence of this being. In a mo 
 ment I might place myself before her, ascertain her true 
 condition, and point out to her the path of honour and 
 safety. This opportunity might be the last. Longer 
 delay might render interposition fruitless. 
 
 But how was I to interpose ? I was a stranger to her 
 language, and she was unacquainted with mine. To 
 obtain access to her, it was necessary only to demand it. 
 But how should I explain my views and state my wishes 
 when an interview was gained ? And what expedient 
 was it in my power to propose? 
 
 "Now," said I, "I perceive the value of that wealth 
 which I have been accustomed to despise. The power 
 of eating and drinking, the nature and limits of exist 
 ence and physical enjoyment, are not changed or en 
 larged by the increase of wealth. Our corporeal and 
 intellectual wants are supplied at little expense ; but 
 our own wants are the wants of others, and that which 
 remains, after our own necessities are obviated, it is
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J- 51 
 
 always easy and just to employ in relieving the necessi 
 ties of others. 
 
 " There are no superfluities in my store. It is not in 
 my power to supply this unfortunate girl with decent 
 raiment and honest bread. I have no house to which to 
 conduct her. I have no means of securing her from 
 famine and cold. 
 
 " Yet, though indigent and feeble, I am not destitute 
 of friends and of home. Cannot she be admitted to the 
 same asylum to which I am now going?" This thought 
 was sudden and new. The more it was revolved, the 
 more plausible it seemed. This was not merely the sole 
 expedient, but the best that could have been suggested. 
 
 The Hadwins were friendly, hospitable, unsuspicious. 
 Their board, though simple and uncouth, was wholesome 
 and plenteous. Their residence was sequestered and 
 obscure, and not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and 
 malignant animadversion. Their frank and ingenuous 
 temper would make them easy of persuasion, and their 
 sympathies were prompt and overflowing. 
 
 "I am nearly certain," continued I, "that they will 
 instantly afford protection to this desolate girl. Why 
 shall I not anticipate their consent, and present my 
 self to their embraces and their welcomes in her com 
 pany?" 
 
 Slight reflection showed me that this precipitation 
 was improper. Whether Wallace had ever arrived at 
 Malverton, whether Mr. Hadwin had escaped infection, 
 whether his house were the abode of security and quiet, 
 or a scene of desolation, were questions yet to be deter 
 mined. The obvious and best proceeding was to hasten 
 forward, to afford the Hadwins, if in distress, the feeble 
 consolations of my friendship ; or, if their state were 
 happy, to procure their concurrence to my scheme re 
 specting Clemenza. 
 
 Actuated by these considerations, I resumed my jour 
 ney. Looking forward, I perceived a chaise and horse 
 standing by the left-hand fence, at the distance of some 
 hundred yards. This object was not uncommon or 
 strange, and, therefore, it was scarcely noticed. When 
 I came near, however, inethought I recognised in this
 
 52 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 carriage the same in which my importunities had pro 
 cured a seat for the languishing Wallace, in the manner 
 which I have formerly related. 
 
 It was a crazy vehicle and old-fashioned. When once 
 seen it could scarcely be mistaken or forgotten. The 
 horse was held hy his bridle to a post, but the seat was 
 empty. My solicitude with regard to Wallace s destiny, 
 of which he to whom the carriage belonged might pos 
 sibly afford me some knowledge, made me stop and 
 reflect on what measures it was proper to pursue. 
 
 The rider could not be at a great distance from this 
 spot. His absence would probably be short. By linger 
 ing a few minutes an interview might be gained, and the 
 uncertainty and suspense of some hours be thereby pre 
 cluded. I therefore waited, and the same person whom 
 I had formerly encountered made his appearance, in a 
 short time, from under a copse that skirted the road. 
 
 He recognised me with more difficulty than attended 
 my recognition of him. The circumstances, however, of 
 our first meeting were easily recalled to his remembrance. 
 I eagerly inquired when and where he had parted with 
 the youth who had been, on that occasion, intrusted to 
 his care. 
 
 He answered that, on leaving the city and inhaling 
 the purer air of the fields and woods, Wallace had been, 
 in a wonderful degree, invigorated and refreshed. An 
 instantaneous and total change appeared to have been 
 wrought in him. He no longer languished with fatigue 
 or fear, but became full of gayety and talk. 
 
 The suddenness of this transition ; the levity with 
 which he related and commented on his recent dangers 
 and evils, excited the astonishment of his companion, to 
 whom he not only communicated the history of his dis 
 ease, but imparted many anecdotes of a humorous kind. 
 Some of these my companion repeated. I heard them 
 with regret and dissatisfaction. They betokened a mind 
 vitiated by intercourse with the thoughtless and depraved 
 of both sexes, and particularly with infamous and profli 
 gate women. 
 
 My companion proceeded to mention that Wallace s 
 exhilaration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 53 
 
 as suddenly as it had appeared. He was seized with 
 deadly sickness, and insisted upon leaving the carriage, 
 whose movements shocked his stomach and head to an 
 insupportable degree. His companion was not void of 
 apprehensions on his own account, but was unwilling to 
 desert him, and endeavoured to encourage him. His 
 efforts were vain. Though the nearest house was at the 
 distance of some hundred yards, and though it was pro 
 bable that the inhabitants of this house would refuse to 
 accommodate one in his condition, yet Wallace could not 
 be prevailed on to proceed ; and, in spite of persuasion 
 and remonstrance, left the carnage and threw himself on 
 the grassy bank beside the road. 
 
 This person was not unmindful of the hazard which 
 he incurred by contact with a sick man. He conceived 
 himself to have performed all that was consistent with 
 duty to himself and to his family ; and Wallace, persist 
 ing in affirming that, by attempting to ride farther, he 
 should merely hasten his death, was at length left to his 
 own guidance. 
 
 These were unexpected and mournful tidings. I had 
 fondly imagined that his safety was put beyond the reach 
 of untoward accidents. Now, however, there was reason 
 to suppose him to have perished by a lingering and pain 
 ful disease, rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, 
 by the want of seasonable remedies, and exposure to in 
 clement airs. Some uncertainty, however, rested on his 
 fate. It was my duty to remove it, and to carry to the 
 Hadwins no mangled and defective tale. Where, I asked, 
 had Wallace and his companion parted ? 
 
 It was about three miles farther onward. The spot, 
 and the house within view from the spot, were accurately 
 described. In this house it was possible that Wallace 
 had sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting 
 him might be gained from its inhabitants. My informant 
 was journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to 
 separate. 
 
 In consequence of this man s description of Wallace s 
 deportment, and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless 
 temper which he had given, I began to regard his death 
 as an event less deplorable. Such a one was unworthy
 
 54 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 of a being so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and 
 tenderness, as Susan Had win. If he loved, it was pro 
 bable that, in defiance of his vows, he would seek a dif 
 ferent companion. If he adhered to his first engage 
 ments, his motives would be sordid, and the disclosure 
 of his latent defects might produce more exquisite misery 
 to his wife than his premature death or treacherous de 
 sertion. 
 
 The preservation of this man was my sole motive for 
 entering the infected city, and subjecting my own life to 
 the hazards from which my escape may almost be es 
 teemed miraculous. Was not the end disproportioned to 
 the means ? Was there arrogance in believing my life a 
 price too great to be given for his ? 
 
 I was not, indeed, sorry for the past. My purpose 
 was just, and the means which I selected were the best 
 my limited knowledge supplied. My happiness should 
 be drawn from reflecting on the equity of my intentions. 
 That these intentions were frustrated by the ignorance 
 of others, or my own, was the consequence of human 
 frailty. Honest purposes, though they may not bestow 
 happiness on others, will, at least, secure it to him who 
 fosters them. 
 
 By these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and I 
 prepared to rejoice alike, whether Wallace should be 
 found to have escaped or to have perished. The house 
 to which I had been directed was speedily brought into 
 view. I inquired for the master or mistress of the man 
 sion, and was conducted to a lady of a plain and house 
 wifely appearance. 
 
 My curiosity was fully gratified. Wallace, whom my 
 description easily identified, had made his appearance at 
 her door on the evening of the day on which he left the 
 city. The dread of the fever was descanted on with 
 copious and rude eloquence. I supposed her eloquence 
 on this theme to be designed to apologize to me for her 
 refusing entrance to the sick man. The peroration, how 
 ever, was different. Wallace was admitted, and suitable 
 attention paid to his wants. 
 
 Happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but 
 extreme weakness. Repose, nourishing diet, and salu-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 55 
 
 brious airs restored him in a short time to health. He 
 lingered under this roof for three weeks, and then, with 
 out any professions of gratitude, or offers of pecuniary 
 remuneration, or information of the course which he de 
 termined to take, he left them. 
 
 These facts, added to that which I had previously 
 known, threw no advantageous light upon the character 
 of Wallace. It was ohvious to conclude that he had 
 gone to Malverton, and thither there was nothing to 
 hinder me from following him. 
 
 Perhaps one of my grossest defects is a precipitate 
 temper. I choose my path suddenly, and pursue it with 
 impetuous expedition. In the present instance, my reso 
 lution was conceived with unhesitating zeal, and I walked 
 the faster that I might the sooner execute it. Miss Had- 
 win deserved to be happy. Love was in her heart the 
 all-absorbing sentiment. A disappointment there was a 
 supreme calamity. Depravity and folly must assume the 
 guise of virtue before it can claim her affection. This 
 disguise might be maintained for a time, but its detection 
 must inevitably come, and the sooner this detection takes 
 place the more beneficial it must prove. 
 
 I resolved to unbosom myself, with equal and un 
 bounded confidence, to Wallace and his mistress. I 
 would choose for this end, not the moment when they 
 were separate, but that in which they were together. 
 My knowledge, and the sources of my knowledge, rela 
 tive to Wallace, should be unfolded to the lady with sim 
 plicity and truth. The lover should be present, to con 
 fute, to extenuate, or to verify the charges. 
 
 During the rest of the day these images occupied the 
 chief place in my thoughts. The road was miry and 
 dark, and my journey proved to be more tedious and 
 fatiguing than I expected. At length, just as the even 
 ing closed, the well-known habitation appeared in view. 
 Since my departure, winter had visited the world, and 
 the aspect of nature was desolate and dreary. All around 
 this house was vacant, negligent, forlorn. The contrast 
 between these appearances and those which I had noticed 
 on my first approach to it, when the ground and the
 
 56 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 trees were decked with the luxuriance and vivacity of 
 summer, was mournful, and seemed to foretoken ill. 
 My spirits drooped as I noticed the general inactivity 
 and silence. 
 
 I entered, without warning, the door that led into the 
 parlour. No face was to be seen or voice heard. The 
 chimney was ornamented, as in summer, with evergreen 
 shrubs. Though it was now the second month of frost 
 and snow, fire did not appear to have been lately kindled 
 on this hearth. 
 
 This was a circumstance from which nothing good 
 could be deduced. Had there been those to share its 
 comforts who had shared them on former years, this was 
 the place and hour at which they commonly assembled. 
 A door on one side led, through a narrow entry, into the 
 kitchen. I opened this door, and passed towards the 
 kitchen. 
 
 No one was there but an old man, squatted in the 
 chimney-corner. His face, though wrinkled, denoted 
 undecayed health and an unbending spirit. A homespun 
 coat, leathern breeches wrinkled with age, and blue yarn 
 hose, were well suited to his lean and shrivelled form. 
 On his right knee was a wooden bowl, which he had just 
 replenished from a pipkin of hasty pudding still smoking 
 on the coals; and in his left hand a spoon, which he had, 
 at that moment, plunged into a bottle of molasses that 
 Btood beside him. 
 
 This action was suspended by my entrance. He 
 looked up and exclaimed, "Heyday! who s this that 
 comes into other people s houses without so much as say 
 ing by your leave ? What s thee business ? Who s 
 thee want?" 
 
 I had never seen this personage before. I supposed 
 it to be some new domestic, and inquired for Mr. Hadwin. 
 
 "Ah!" replied he, with a sigh, "William Hadwin. Is 
 it him thee wants? Poor man! He is gone to rest 
 many days since." 
 
 My heart sunk within me at these tidings. "Dead! 
 said I; "do you mean that he is dead?" This excla 
 mation was uttered in a tone of some vehemence. It 
 attracted the attention of some one who was standing
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1773- 57 
 
 without, who immediately entered the kitchen. It was 
 Eliza Iladwin. The moment she beheld me she .shrieked 
 aloud, and, rushing into my arms, fainted away. 
 
 The old man dropped his bowl; and, starting from 
 his seat, stared alternately at me and at the breathless 
 girl. My emotion, made up of joy, and sorrow, and 
 surprise, rendered me for a moment powerless as she. 
 At length he said, "I understand this. I know who 
 thee is, and will tell her thee s come." So saying, he 
 hastily left the room.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 IN a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. 
 She did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, 
 but, leaning on my bosom, she resigned herself to pas 
 sionate weeping. I did not endeavour to check this 
 effusion, believing that its influence would be salutary. 
 
 I had not forgotten the thrilling sensibility and artless 
 graces of this girl. I had not forgotten the scruples 
 which had formerly made me check a passion whose 
 tendency was easily discovered. These new proofs of 
 her affection were, at once, mournful and delightful. 
 The untimely fate of her father and my friend pressed 
 with new force upon my heart, and my tears, in spite of 
 my fortitude, mingled with hers. 
 
 The attention of both was presently attracted by a 
 faint scream, which proceeded from above. Immediately 
 tottering footsteps were heard in the passage, and a 
 figure rushed into the room, pale, emaciated, haggard, 
 and wild. She cast a piercing glance at me, uttered a 
 feeble exclamation, and sunk upon the floor without signs 
 of life. 
 
 It was not difficult to comprehend this scene. I now 
 conjectured, what subsequent inquiry confirmed, that the 
 old man had mistaken me for Wallace, and had carried 
 to the elder sister the news of his return. This fatal 
 disappointment of hopes that had nearly been extinct, 
 and which were now so powerfully revived, could not be 
 endured by a frame verging to dissolution. 
 
 This object recalled all the energies of Eliza, and en 
 grossed all my solicitude. I lifted the fallen girl in my 
 arms ; and, guided by her sister, carried her to her 
 chamber. I had now leisure to contemplate the changes 
 which a few months had made in this lovely frame. I 
 58
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 59 
 
 turned away from the spectacle with anguish, but my 
 wandering eyes were recalled by some potent fascination, 
 and fixed in horror upon a form which evinced the last 
 stage of decay. Eliza knelt on one side, and, leaning 
 her face upon the bed, endeavoured in vain to smother 
 her sobs. I sat on the other motionless, and holding the 
 passive and withered hand of the sufferer. 
 
 I watched with ineffable solicitude the return of life. 
 It returned at length, but merely to betray symptoms 
 that it would speedily depart forever. For a time my 
 faculties were palsied, and I was made an impotent 
 spectator of the ruin that environed me. This pusilla 
 nimity quickly gave way to resolutions and reflections 
 better suited to the exigencies of the time. 
 
 The first impulse was to summon a physician ; but it 
 was evident that the patient had been sinking by slow 
 degrees to this state, and that the last struggle had 
 begun. Nothing remained but to watch her while ex 
 piring, and perform for her, when dead, the rites of in 
 terment. The survivor was capable of consolation and 
 of succour. I went to her and drew her gently into 
 another apartment. The old man, tremulous and wonder- 
 struck, seemed anxious to perform some service. I 
 directed him to kindle a fire in Eliza s chamber. Mean 
 while I persuaded my gentle friend to remain in this 
 chamber, and resign to me the performance of every 
 office which her sister s condition required. I sat beside 
 the bed of the dying till the mortal struggle was past. 
 
 I perceived that the house had no inhabitant besides 
 the two females and the old man. I went in search of 
 the latter, and found him crouched, as before, at the 
 kitchen-fire, smoking his pipe. I placed myself on the 
 same bench, and entered into conversation with him. 
 
 I gathered from him that he had, for many years, 
 been Mr. Iladwin s servant. That lately he had culti 
 vated a small farm in this neighbourhood for his own 
 advantage. Stopping one day in October, at the tavern, 
 he heard that his old master had lately been in the city, 
 had caught the fever, and after his return had died with 
 it. The moment he became sick, his servants fled from 
 the house, and the neighbours refused to approach it.
 
 60 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 The task of attending his sick-bed was allotted to hia 
 daughters, and it was by their hands that his grave was 
 dug and his body covered with earth. The same terror 
 of infection existed after his death as before, and these 
 hapless females were deserted by all mankind. 
 
 Old Caleb was no sooner informed of these particular, 
 than he hurried to the house, and had since continued in 
 their service. His heart was kind, but it was easily seen 
 that his skill extended only to execute the directions of 
 another. Grief for the death of Wallace and her father 
 preyed upon the health of the eldest daughter. The 
 younger became her nurse, and Caleb was always at 
 hand to execute any orders the performance of which 
 was on a level with his understanding. Their neighbours 
 had not withheld their good offices, but they were still 
 terrified and estranged by the phantoms of pestilence. 
 
 During the last week Susan had been too weak to rise 
 from her bed ; yet such was the energy communicated by 
 the tidings that Wallace was alive, and had returned, 
 that she leaped upon her feet and rushed down-stairs. 
 How little did that man deserve so strenuous and im 
 mortal an affection ! 
 
 I would not allow myself to ponder on the sufferings 
 of these women. I endeavoured to think only of the 
 best expedients for putting an .end to these calamities. 
 After a moment s deliberation I determined to go to a 
 house at some miles distance ; the dwelling of one who, 
 though not exempt from the reigning panic, had shown 
 more generosity towards these unhappy girls than others. 
 During my former abode in this district, I had ascertained 
 his character, and found him to be compassionate and 
 liberal. 
 
 Overpowered by fatigue and watching, Eliza was no 
 sooner relieved, by my presence, of some portion of her 
 cares, than she sunk into profound slumber. I directed 
 Caleb to watch the house till my return, which should 
 be before midnight, and then set out for the dwelling of 
 Mr. Ellis. 
 
 The weather was temperate and moist, and rendered 
 the footing of the meadows extremely difficult. The 
 ground, that had lately been frozen and covered with
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 6l 
 
 snow, was now changed into gullies and pools, and this 
 was no time to be fastidious in the choice of paths. A 
 brook, swelled by the recent thaw, was likewise to be 
 passed. The rail which I had formerly placed over it 
 by way of bridge had disappeared, and I was obliged to 
 wade through it. At length I approached the house to 
 which I was going. 
 
 At so late an hour, farmers and farmers servants are 
 usually abed, and their threshold is intrusted to their 
 watch-dogs. Two belonged to Mr. Ellis, whose ferocity 
 and vigilance were truly formidable to a stranger ; but I 
 hoped that in me they would recognise an old acquaint 
 ance, and suffer me to approach. In this I was not mis 
 taken. Though my person could not be distinctly seen 
 by starlight, they seemed to scent me from afar, and met 
 me with a thousand caresses. 
 
 Approaching the house, I perceived that its tenants 
 were retired to their repose. This I expected, and has 
 tened to awaken Mr. Ellis, by knocking briskly at the 
 door. Presently he looked out of a window above, and, 
 in answer to his inquiries, in which impatience at being 
 so unseasonably disturbed was mingled with anxiety, I 
 told him my name, and entreated him to come down and 
 allow me a few minutes conversation. He speedily 
 dressed himself, and, opening the kitchen door, we 
 seated ourselves before the fire. 
 
 My appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his 
 wonder ; he had heard of my elopement from the house 
 of Mr. Hadwin, he was a stranger to the motives that 
 prompted my departure, and to the events that had be 
 fallen me, and no interview was more distant from his 
 expectations than the present. His curiosity was writ 
 ten in his features, but this was no time to gratify his 
 curiosity. The end that I now had in view was to pro 
 cure accommodation for Eliza Hadwin in this man s 
 house. For this purpose it was my duty to describe, 
 with simplicity and truth, the inconveniences which at 
 present surrounded her, and to relate all that had hap 
 pened since my arrival. 
 
 I perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and 
 I continued with new zeal to paint to him the helpless-
 
 62 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 ness of tliis girl. The death of her father and sister left 
 her the property of this farm. Her sex and age dis 
 qualified her for superintending the harvest-field and the 
 threshing-floor ; and no expedient was left but to lease 
 the land to another, and, taking up her abode in the 
 family of some kinsman or friend, to subsist, as she 
 might easily do, upon the rent. Meanwhile her con 
 tinuance in this house was equally useless and dan 
 gerous, and I insinuated to my companion the propriety 
 of immediately removing her to his own. 
 
 Some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which 
 I immediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection. 
 I endeavoured, by appealing to his reason as well as to 
 his pity, to conquer this dread. I pointed out the true 
 cause of the death of the elder daughter, and assured 
 him the youngest knew no indisposition but that which 
 arose from distress. I offered to save him from any 
 hazard that might attend his approaching the house, by 
 accompanying her hither myself. All that her safety 
 required was that his doora should not be shut against 
 her when she presented herself before them. 
 
 Still he was fearful and reluctant ; and, at length, 
 mentioned that her uncle resided not more than sixteen 
 miles farther ; that he was her natural protector, and, 
 he dared to say, would find no difficulty in admitting her 
 into his house. For his part, there might be reason in 
 what I said, but he could not bring himself to think but 
 that there was still some danger of the fever. It was 
 right to assist people in distress, to-be-sure ; but to risk 
 his own life he did not think to be his duty. He was no 
 relation of the family, and it was the duty of relations 
 to help each other. Her uncle was the proper per 
 son to assist her, and no doubt he would be as willing 
 as able. 
 
 The marks of dubiousness and indecision which ac 
 companied these words encouraged me in endeavouring 
 to subdue his scruples. The increase of his aversion to 
 my scheme kept pace with my remonstrances, and he final 
 ly declared that he would, on no account, consent to it. 
 
 Ellis was by no means hard of heart. His determina 
 tion did not prove the coldness of his charity, but merely
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 63 
 
 the strength of his fears. lie was himself an object 
 more of compassion than of anger ; and he acted like 
 the man whose fear of death prompts him to push his 
 companion from the plank which saved him from drown 
 ing, but which is unable to sustain both. Finding him 
 invincible to my entreaties, I thought upon the expe 
 dient which he suggested of seeking the protection of 
 her uncle. It was true that the loss of parents had ren 
 dered her uncle her legal protector. His knowledge of 
 the world ; his house and property and influence, would, 
 perhaps, fit him for this office in a more eminent degree 
 than I was fitted. To seek a different asylum might, 
 indeed, be unjust to both; and, after some reflection, I 
 not only dismissed the regret which Ellis s refusal had 
 given me, but even thanked him for the intelligence and 
 counsel which he had afforded me. I took leave of him, 
 and hastened back to Hadwin s. 
 
 Eliza, by Caleb s report, was still asleep. There was 
 no urgent necessity for awakening her ; but something 
 was forthwith to be done with regard to the unhappy 
 girl that was dead. The proceeding incumbent on us 
 was obvious. All that remained was to dig a grave, and 
 to deposit the remains with as much solemnity and de 
 cency as the time would permit. There were two 
 methods of doing this. I might wait till the next day; 
 till a coflfin could be made and conveyed hither ; till the 
 woman, whose trade it was to make and put on the habi 
 liments assigned by custom to the dead, could be sought 
 out and hired to attend ; till kindred, friends, and neigh 
 bours could be summoned to the obsequies ; till a car 
 riage were provided to remove the body to a burying- 
 ground, belonging to a meeting-house, and five miles 
 distant ; till those whose trade it was to dig graves had 
 prepared one, within the sacred enclosure, for her recep 
 tion ; or, neglecting this toilsome, tedious, and expensive 
 ceremonial, I might seek the grave of Hadwin, and lay 
 the daughter by the side of her parent. 
 
 Perhaps I Avas strong in my preference of the latter 
 mode. The customs of burial may, in most cases, bein 
 themselves proper. If the customs be absurd, yet it may 
 be generally proper to adhere to them ; but doubtless
 
 64 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 there are cases in which it is our duty to omit them. 1 
 conceived the present case to be such a one. 
 
 The season was bleak and inclement. Much time, 
 labour, and expense would be required to go through 
 the customary rites. There was none but myself to per 
 form these, and I had not the suitable means. The 
 misery of Eliza would only be prolonged by adhering 
 to these forms, and her fortune be needlessly diminished 
 by the expenses unavoidably to be incurred. 
 
 After musing upon these ideas for some time, I rose 
 from my seat, and desired Caleb to follow me. We pro 
 ceeded to an outer shed where farmers tools used to be 
 kept. I supplied him and myself with a spade, and re 
 quested him to lead me to the spot where Mr. Hadwin 
 was laid. 
 
 He betrayed some hesitation to comply, and appeared 
 struck with some degree of alarm, as if my purpose had 
 been to molest, instead of securing, the repose of the 
 dead. I removed his doubts by explaining my inten 
 tions ; but he was scarcely less shocked, on discovering 
 the truth, than he had been alarmed by his first suspi 
 cions. He stammered out his objections to my scheme. 
 There was but one mode of burial, he thought, that was 
 decent and proper, and he could not be free to assist me 
 in pursuing any other mode. 
 
 Perhaps Caleb s aversion to the scheme might have 
 been easily overcome ; but I reflected that a mind like 
 his was at once flexible and obstinate. He might yield 
 to arguments and entreaties, and act by their immediate 
 impulse ; but the impulse passed away in a moment, old 
 and habitual convictions were resumed, and his devia 
 tion from the beaten track would be merely productive 
 of compunction. His aid, on the present occasion, 
 though of some use, was by no means indispensable. I 
 forbore to solicit his concurrence, or even to vanquish 
 the scruples he entertained against directing me to the 
 grave of Hadwin. It was a groundless superstition that 
 made one spot more suitable for this purpose than an 
 other. I desired Caleb, in a mild tone, to return to the 
 kitchen, and leave me to act as I thought proper. I 
 then proceeded to the orchard.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 65 
 
 One corner of this field was somewhat above the level 
 of the rest. The tallest tree of the group grew there, 
 and there I had formerly placed a bench, arid made it 
 my retreat at periods of leisure. It had been recom 
 mended by its sequestered situation, its luxuriant ver 
 dure, and profound quiet. On one side was a potato- 
 field, on the other a melon-patch; and before me, in 
 rows, some hundreds of apple-trees. Here I was accus 
 tomed to seek the benefits of contemplation and study 
 the manuscripts of Lodi. A few months had passed 
 since I had last visited this spot. What revolutions had 
 since occurred, and how gloomily contrasted was my 
 present purpose with what had formerly led me hither I 
 
 In this spot I had hastily determined to dig the grave 
 of Susan. The grave was dug. All that I desired was 
 a cavity of sufficient dimensions to receive her. This 
 being made, I returned to the house, lifted the corpse 
 in my arms, and bore it without delay to the spot. 
 Caleb, seated in the kitchen, and Eliza, asleep in her 
 chamber, were wholly unapprized of my motions. The 
 grave was covered, the spade reposited under the shed, 
 and my seat by the kitchen-fire resumed in a time appa 
 rently too short for so solemn and momentous a trans 
 action. 
 
 I look back upon this incident with emotions not 
 easily described. It seems as if I acted with too much 
 precipitation; as if insensibility, and not reason, had 
 occasioned that clearness of conceptions, and bestowed 
 that firmness of muscles, which I then experienced. I 
 neither trembled nor wavered in ray purpose. I bore 
 in my arms the being whom I had known and loved, 
 through the whistling gale and intense darkness of a 
 winter s night ; I heaped earth upon her limbs, and 
 covered them from human observation, without fluctua 
 tions or tremors, though not without feelings that were 
 awful and sublime. 
 
 Perhaps some part of my steadfastness was owing to 
 iny late experience, and some minds may be more easily 
 inured to perilous emergencies than others. If reason 
 acquires strength only by the diminution of sensibility, 
 perkaps it is just for sensibility to be diminished.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE safety of Eliza was the object that now occupied 
 my cares. To have slept, after her example, had been 
 most proper; but my uncertainty with regard to her 
 fate, and my desire to conduct her to some other home, 
 kept my thoughts in perpetual motion. I waited with 
 impatience till she should awake and allow me to consult 
 with her on plans for futurity. 
 
 Her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen. 
 Having recovered the remembrance of what had lately 
 happened, she inquired for her sister. She wanted to 
 view once more the face and kiss the lips of her beloved 
 Susan. Some relief to her anguish she expected to 
 derive from this privilege. 
 
 When informed of the truth, when convinced that Susan 
 had disappeared forever, she broke forth into fresh pas 
 sion. It seemed as if her loss was not hopeless or com 
 plete as long as she was suffered to behold the face of 
 her friend and to touch her lips. She accused me of 
 acting without warrant and without justice ; of defraud 
 ing her of her dearest and only consolation; and of 
 treating her sister s sacred remains with barbarous indif 
 ference and rudeness. 
 
 I explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my 
 conduct. I was not surprised or vexed that she, at first, 
 treated them as futile, and as heightening my offence. 
 Such was the impulse of a grief which was properly 
 excited by her loss. To be tranquil and steadfast, in 
 the midst of the usual causes of impetuosity and agony, 
 is either the prerogative of wisdom that sublimes itself 
 above all selfish considerations, or the badge of giddy 
 and unfeeling folly. 
 66
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J- 67 
 
 The torrent was at length exhausted. Upbraiding 
 was at an end ; and gratitude, and tenderness, and im 
 plicit acquiescence in any scheme which my prudence 
 should suggest, succeeded. I mentioned her uncle as 
 one to whom it would be proper, in her present distress, 
 to apply. 
 
 She started and betrayed uneasiness at this name. It 
 was evident that she by no means concurred with me in 
 my notions of propriety ; that she thought with aversion 
 of seeking her uncle s protection. I requested her to 
 state her objections to this scheme, or to mention any 
 other which she thought preferable. 
 
 She knew nobody. She had not a friend in the world 
 but myself. She had never been out of her father s 
 house. She had no relation but her uncle Philip, and 
 he she could not live with him. I must not insist upon 
 her going to his house. It was not the place for her. 
 She should never be happy there. 
 
 I was, at first, inclined to suspect in my friend some 
 capricious and groundless antipathy. I desired her to 
 explain what in her uncle s character made him so ob 
 noxious. She refused to be more explicit, and persisted 
 in thinking that his house was no suitable abode for her. 
 
 Finding her, in this respect, invincible, I sought for 
 some other expedient. Might she not easily be accom 
 modated as a boarder in the city, or some village, or in 
 a remote quarter of the country? Ellis, her nearest 
 and most opulent neighbour, had refused to receive her ; 
 but there were others who had not his fears. There 
 were others, within the compass of a day s journey, who 
 were strangers to the cause of Hadwin s death ; but 
 would it not be culpable to take advantage of that igno 
 rance ? Their compliance ought not to be the result of 
 deception. 
 
 While thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey 
 recurred to my remembrance, and I asked, "Is not the 
 honest woman, who entertained Wallace, just such a per 
 son as that of whom I am in search ? Her treatment 
 of Wallace shows her to be exempt from chimerical 
 fears, proves that she has room in her house for an occa 
 sional inmate."
 
 6S A&THL g JlEXrry; Of, 
 
 Eacoaraged by these views, I told mj weeping com- 
 panioa that I bad recollected a family in which she 
 woaid be kindly treated: and that, if she chc^e, we 
 woald Mil lose a moment IB repairing thither. Horses. 
 belonging to the farm, grand in Ike meadows, and a 
 eoaple of these would carry us in a few hoars to the 
 place which I had selected for her residence. On her 
 eagerly mmtmnmg to this proposal, I inquired in whose 
 care, and m what state, oar present ^fr ^fr m should 
 :, :- 
 
 The father s jBUfMBtj mam belonged to the daaghter. 
 BEsa s mind was quick, active, and sagacious; bat her 
 total ripnifaff garo her nmniftiintH the appearance of 
 folly. She was eager to fir &om this boose, and to 
 hersetf aad her property, without limitation or 
 to my controL Our intercourse had been 
 hat she relied on BIT protection and counsel as 
 ahaoiatelT as she had been accaatomcd to do upon her 
 Others." 
 
 fihe knew not what answer to make to my inquiry. 
 Whatever I akaacd to do vat the best. What did" I 
 :_/ _ ..- - - 
 
 ~Ah!" thoafehf I, **sweet. artless, and simple girl ! 
 how woakkt thorn have fared, if Hearen had not sent 
 me to thy saccoar? There are beings in the world who 
 wowid Bttke a sei&ak ase of thy confidence ; who would 
 thee at once of Jaaofracr an i prcperty. Such 
 not L Thj welfare m a precious deposit, and no 
 fethrr or brother coald watch orer it with more solici- 
 
 :: . -..._ : -..; : 
 
 I was aware that Mr. Hadwin might hare fixed the 
 deaoaatka of his pmyqij, and the guardianshi p of his 
 daagaters, by wffl. Oft saggesting this to my friend, it 
 Bstantry reminded her of an incident that took place 
 after h last return from the city. He ha-i drawn up 
 mm wilL and gare it into Susan s possession, who placed 
 is in a drawer, whence h was BOW taken by my friend. 
 
 By tikis wifi mm fauyciij was BOW found to be be- 
 qaeathed to his two dsaghlrm; and mm brother, Philip 
 Hadwin. was named tAU.nl IB, and guardian to mm 
 daaghters till they should be twenty years old. Tola 

 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR rfgg. , 
 
 name was no turner heard by v fiirad, thaa ike ex- 
 daimed, in a ton* of afrigiit, "Eiccntor! My vnde! 
 What t that? What power does that gire hiat"r* 
 
 " I know not exactly the power of 11 !<.! He 
 will, doabdeas, hare possession of yor property till yom 
 are twenty year? of age. TOOT person will likewise be 
 under hi= care tiD that time.** 
 
 : .-: - : .--.-: 
 
 * He is rested with aJl the power of a father." 
 This assraa)ee excited the deepest eoBoterBatioB. She 
 fixed her eyes on the gioaad, and was lost, for a tiaw, 
 in the deepest reverie. Recovering, at length, she said, 
 
 with a sigh. - What if my father had made no wfll *" 
 
 In that case, a guardian covJd mat he dispensed 
 with, bat the right of """* hat wovld belong to 
 
 jowrself." 
 
 And my uncle would have ffirt fc **g to do with mj 
 affairs? * 
 
 "I am no lawyer," said I: "b^it I presmae aH a- 
 thority over your petaoa and property would deTohre 
 up>on the guar-Lan of TOUT own choice." 
 
 - Then I am free." Saying this, whh a s^dea BK>- 
 t on. she t<c>re in several piece* the wiH. which, during 
 thi -iialosTie. she Lad held in Ler Lan-i. and threw the 
 fragments into the fire. 
 
 No action was more unexpected to e than tha. My 
 meijt h:nderei me fros atteniT Ciiz to rescue the 
 
 &s at a loss in what Banner to icgaid this saarifice. 
 denoted a force of mind little in VBJSOB with that 
 
 displaye-d. It argued the deepest app 
 treatment from her vncle. Whether 
 jostifie-i this violent antipathy. I had 
 ing. Mr. Hadvin^s choice of him. as 
 certainly one proof of his integrity. 
 My abstraction was notieed by 
 anxiety. I; was plain that she dread 
 which this act of **imiimg temerity ha 
 * Do not be angry with me." said she;
 
 70 ARTHUR MERVY.V; OR, 
 
 been wrong, but I could not help it. I will have but one 
 guardian and one protector." 
 
 The deed was irrevocable. In my present ignorance 
 of the domestic history of the Hadwins, I was unqualified 
 to judge how far circumstances might extenuate or justify 
 the act. On both accounts, therefore, it was improper to 
 expatiate upon it. 
 
 It was concluded to leave the care of the house to 
 honest Caleb; to fasten closets and drawers, and, carry 
 ing away the money which was found in one of them, 
 and which amounted to no inconsiderable sum, to repair 
 to the house formerly mentioned. The air was cold ; a 
 heavy snow began to fall in the night ; the wind blew 
 tempestuously; and we were compelled to confront it. 
 
 In leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her 
 whole life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sor 
 row. It made her feeble and helpless. When placed 
 upon the horse, she was scarcely able to maintain her 
 seat. Already chilled by the cold, blinded by the drift 
 ing snow, and cut by the blast, all my remonstrances 
 were needed to inspire her with resolution. 
 
 I am not accustomed to regard the elements, or suffer 
 them to retard or divert me from any design that I have 
 formed. I had overlooked the weak and delicate frame 
 of my companion, and made no account of her being 
 less able to support cold and fatigue than myself. It 
 was not till we had made some progress in our way, that 
 I began to view, in their true light, the obstacles that 
 were to be encountered. I conceived it, however, too 
 late to retreat, and endeavoured to push on with 
 speed. 
 
 My companion was a skilful rider, but her steed was 
 refractory and unmanageable. She was able, however, 
 to curb his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve 
 miles from Mulverton. The wind and the cold became 
 too violent to be longer endured, and I resolved to stop 
 at the first house which should present itself to ray view, 
 for the sake of refreshment and warmth. 
 
 We now entered a wood of some extent, at the termi 
 nation of which I remembered that a dwelling stood. To 
 pass this wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR i?93- 7 1 
 
 remained before we could reach a hospitable asylum. I 
 endeavoured to sustain, by this information, the sinking 
 spirits of my companion. While busy in conversing with 
 her, a blast of irresistible force twisted off the highest 
 branch of a tree before us. It fell in the midst of the 
 road, at the distance of a few feet from her horse s head. 
 Terrified by this accident, the horse started from the 
 path, and, rushing into the wood, in a moment threw 
 himself and his rider on the ground, by encountering the 
 rugged stock of an oak. 
 
 i dismounted and flew to her succour. The snow was 
 already dyed with the blood which flowed from some 
 wound in her head, and she lay without sense or motion. 
 My terrors did not hinder me from anxiously searching 
 for the hurt which was received, and ascertaining the 
 extent of the injury. Her forehead was considerably 
 bruised ; but, to my unspeakable joy, the blood flowed 
 from the nostrils, and was, therefore, to be regarded as 
 no mortal symptom. 
 
 I lifted her in my arms, and looked around me for 
 some means of relief. The house at which I proposed to 
 stop was upwards of a mile distant. I remembered none 
 that was nearer. To place the wounded girl on my own 
 horse, and proceed gently to the house in question, was 
 the sole expedient ; but, at present, she was senseless, 
 and might, on recovering, be too feeble to sustain her 
 own weight. 
 
 To recall her to life was my first duty; but I was 
 powerless, or unacquainted with the means. I gazed 
 upon her features, and endeavoured, by pressing her in my 
 arms, to inspire her with some warmth. I looked towards 
 the road, and listened for the wished-for sound of some 
 carriage that might be prevailed on to stop and receive 
 her. Nothing was more improbable than that either 
 pleasure or business would induce men to encounter so 
 chilling and vehement a blast. To be lighted on by 
 some traveller was, therefore, a hopeless event. 
 
 Meanwhile, Eliza s swoon continued, and my alarm in 
 creased. What effect her half-frozen blood would have 
 in prolonging this condition, or preventing her return to 
 life, awakened the deepest apprehensions. I left the
 
 /2 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 wood, still bearing her in my arms, and re-entered th 
 road, from the desire of descrying, as soon as possible, 
 the coming passenger. I looked this way and that, and 
 again listened. Nothing but the sweeping blast, rent 
 and fallen branches, and snow that filled and obscured 
 the air, were perceivable. Each moment retarded the 
 course of my own blood and stiffened my sinews, and 
 made the state of my companion more desperate. How 
 was I to act ? To perish myself, or see her perish, was 
 an ignoble fate ; courage and activity were still able to 
 avert it. My horse stood near, docile and obsequious ; 
 to mount him and to proceed on my way, holding my 
 lifeless burden in my arms, was all that remained. 
 
 At this moment my attention was called by several 
 voices issuing from the wood. It was the note of gayety 
 and glee. Presently a sleigh, with several persons of 
 both sexes, appeared, in a road which led through the 
 forest into that in which I stood. They moved at a quick 
 pace, but their voices were hushed, and they checked the 
 speed of their horses, on discovering us. No occurrence 
 was more auspicious than this ; for I relied with perfect 
 confidence on the benevolence of these persons, and, as 
 soon as they came near, claimed their assistance. 
 
 My story was listened to with sympathy, and one of 
 the young men, leaping from the sleigh, assisted me in 
 placing Eliza in the place which he had left. A female, 
 of sweet aspect and engaging manners, insisted upon 
 turning back and hastening to the house, where it seems 
 her father resided, and which the party had just left. I 
 rode after the sleigh, which in a few minutes arrived at 
 the house. The dwelling was spacious and neat, and a 
 venerable man and woman, alarmed by the quick return 
 of the young people, came forth to know the cause. 
 They received their guest with the utmost tenderness, 
 and provided her with all the accommodations which her 
 condition required. Their daughter relinquished the 
 scheme of pleasure in which she had been engaged, and, 
 compelling her companions to depart without her, re 
 mained to nurse and console the sick. 
 
 A little time showed that no lasting injury had been 
 Buffered. Contusions, more troublesome than dangerous,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 73 
 
 and easily curable by such applications as rural and tra 
 ditional wisdom has discovered, were the only conse 
 quences of the fall. My mind, being relieved from 
 apprehensions on this score, had leisure to reflect upon 
 the use which might be made of the present state of 
 things. 
 
 When I remarked the structure of this house, and the 
 features and deportment of its inhabitants, methought I 
 discerned a powerful resemblance between this family 
 and Hadwin s. It seemed as if some benignant power 
 had led us hither as to the most suitable asylum that 
 could be obtained ; and, in order to supply to the forlorn 
 Eliza the place of those parents and that sister she had 
 lost, I conceived that, if their concurrence could be 
 gained, no abode was more suitable than this. No time 
 was to be lost in gaining this concurrence. The curiosity 
 of our host and hostess, whose name was Curling, speedily 
 afforded me an opportunity to disclose the history and 
 real situation of my friend. There were no motives to 
 reserve or prevarication. There was nothing which I did 
 not faithfully arid circumstantially relate. I concluded 
 with stating my wishes that they would admit my friend 
 as a boarder into their house. 
 
 The old man was warm* in his concurrence. His wife 
 betrayed some scruples ; which, however, her husband s 
 arguments and mine removed. I did not even suppress 
 the tenor and destruction of the will, and the antipathy 
 which Eliza had conceived for her uncle, and which I 
 declared myself unable to explain. It presently ap 
 peared that Mr. Curling had some knowledge of Philip 
 Iladwin, and that the latter had acquired the repute of 
 being obdurate and profligate. He employed all means 
 to accomplish his selfish ends, and would probably en 
 deavour to usurp the property which his brother had 
 left. To provide against his power and his malice would 
 be particularly incumbent on us, and my new friend 
 readily promised his assistance in the measures which we 
 should take to that end.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE state of my feelings may be easily conceived to 
 consist of mixed, but, on the whole, of agreeable, sensa 
 tions. The death of Hadwin and his elder daughter 
 could not be thought upon without keen regrets. These 
 it was useless to indulge, and were outweighed by reflec 
 tions on the personal security in which the survivor was 
 now placed. It was hurtful to expend my unprofitable 
 cares upon the dead, while there existed one to whom 
 they could be of essential benefit, and in whose happi 
 ness they would find an ample compensation. 
 
 This happiness, however, was still incomplete. It was 
 still exposed to hazard, and much remained to be done 
 before adequate provision was made against the worst 
 of evils, poverty. I now found that Eliza, being only 
 fifteen years old, stood in need of a guardian, and that 
 the forms of law required that some one should make 
 himself her father s administrator. Mr. Curling, being 
 tolerably conversant with these subjects, pointed out the 
 mode to be pursued, and engaged to act on this occasion 
 as Eliza s friend. 
 
 There was another topic on which my happiness, as 
 well as that of my friend, required us to form some de 
 cision. I formerly mentioned, that, during my abode at 
 Malverton, I had not been insensible to the attractions 
 of this girl. An .affection had stolen upon me, for which 
 it was easily discovered that I should not have been de 
 nied a suitable return. My reasons for stifling these 
 emotions, at that time, have been mentioned. It may 
 now be asked, what effect subsequent events had pro 
 duced on my feelings, and how far partaking and re 
 lieving her distresses had revived a passion which may 
 74
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 75 
 
 readily be supposed to have been, at no time, entirely 
 extinguished. 
 
 The impediments which then existed were removed. 
 Our union would no longer risk the resentment or sor 
 row of her excellent parent. She had no longer a sister 
 to divide with her the property of the farm, and make 
 what was sufficient for both, when living together, too 
 little for either separately. Her youth and simplicity 
 required, beyond most others, a legal protector, and her 
 happiness was involved in the success of those hopes 
 which she took no pains to conceal. 
 
 As to me, it seemed at first view as if every incident 
 conspired to determine my choice. Omitting all regard 
 to the happiness of others, my own interest could not 
 fail to recommend a scheme by which the precious benefits 
 of competence and independence might be honestly ob 
 tained. The excursions of my fancy had sometimes 
 carried me beyond the bounds prescribed by my situa 
 tion, but they were, nevertheless, limited to that field to 
 which I had once some prospect of acquiring a title. 
 All I wanted for the basis of my gaudiest and most 
 dazzling structures was a hundred acres of plough-land 
 and meadow. Here my spirit of improvement, my zeal 
 to invent and apply new maxims of household luxury 
 and convenience, new modes and instruments of tillage, 
 new arts connected with orchard, garden, and cornfield, 
 were supplied with abundant scope. Though the want 
 of these would not benumb my activity, or take away 
 content, the possession would confer exquisite and per 
 manent enjoyments. 
 
 My thoughts have ever hovered over the images of 
 wife and children with more delight than over any other 
 images. My fancy was always active on this theme, and 
 its reveries sufficiently ecstatic and glowing ; but, since 
 my intercourse with this girl, my scattered visions were 
 collected and concentrated. I had now a form and fea 
 tures before me ; a sweet and melodious voice vibrated 
 in my ear ; my soul was filled, as it were, with her linea 
 ments and gestures, actions and looks. All ideas, pos 
 sessing any relation to beauty or sex, appeared to assume 
 this shape. They kept an immovable place in my mind,
 
 76 4RTIIUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 they diffused around them an ineffable complacency 
 Love is merely 6T value as a prelude to a more tender, 
 intimate, and sacred union. Was I not in love? and 
 did I not pant after the irrevocable bounds, the bound 
 less privileges, of wedlock ? 
 
 The question which others might ask, I have asked 
 myself: Was I not in love? I am really at a loss for 
 an answer. There seemed to be irresistible weight in 
 the reasons why 1 should refuse to marry, and even for 
 bear to foster love in my friend. I considered my youth, 
 my defective education, and my limited views. I had 
 passed from my cottage into the world. I had acquired, 
 even in my transient sojourn among the busy haunts of 
 men, more knowledge than the lucubrations arid employ 
 ments of all my previous years had conferred. Hence 
 I might infer the childlike immaturity of my understand 
 ing, and the rapid progress I was still capable of making. 
 Was this an age to form an irrevocable contract ; to 
 choose the companion of my future life, the associate of 
 my schemes of intellectual and benevolent activity ? 
 
 I had reason to contemn my own acquisitions ; but 
 were not those of Eliza still more slender ? Could I 
 rely upon the permanence of her equanimity and her 
 docility to my instructions? What qualities might not 
 time unfold, and how little was I qualified to estimate 
 the character of one whom no vicissitude or hardship 
 had approached before the death of her father, whose 
 ignorance was, indeed, great, when it could justly be 
 said even to exceed my own ! 
 
 Should I mix with the world, enroll myself in different 
 classes of society, be a witness to new scenes ; might 
 not my modes of judging undergo essential varia 
 tions ? Might I not gain the knowledge of beings whose 
 virtue was the gift of experience and the growth of 
 knowledge ? who joined to the modesty and charms 
 of woman the benefits of education, the maturity and 
 steadfastness of age, and with whose character and sen 
 timents my own would be much more congenial than 
 they could possibly be with the extreme youth, rustic 
 simplicity, and mental imperfections of Eliza Hadwin ? 
 
 To say truth, I was now conscious of a revolution in
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 77 
 
 my mind. I can scarcely assign its ti ue cause. No 
 tokens of it appeared during my late retreat to Malver- 
 ton. Subsequent incidents, perhaps, joined with the in 
 fluence of meditation, had generated new views. On my 
 first visit to the city, I had met with nothing but scenes 
 of folly, depravity, and cunning. No wonder that the 
 images connected with the city were disastrous and 
 gloomy ; but my second visit produced somewhat dif 
 ferent impressions. Maravegli, Estwick, Medlicote, and 
 you, were beings who inspired veneration and love. 
 Your residence appeared to beautify and consecrate this 
 spot, and gave birth to an opinion that, if cities are the 
 chosen seats of misery and vice, they are likewise the soil 
 of all the laudable and strenuous productions of mind. 
 
 My curiosity and thirst of knowledge had likewise re 
 ceived a new direction. Books and inanimate nature 
 were cold and lifeless instructors. Men, and the works 
 of men, were the objects of rational study, and our own 
 eyes only could communicate just conceptions of human 
 performances. The influence of manners, professions, 
 and social institutions, could be thoroughly known only 
 by direct inspection. 
 
 Competence, fixed property and a settled abode, rural 
 occupations and conjugal pleasures, were justly to be 
 prized ; but their value could be known and their benefits 
 fully enjoyed only by those who have tried all scenes ; 
 who have mixed with all classes and ranks ; who have 
 partaken of all conditions ; and who have visited dif 
 ferent hemispheres and climates and nations. The next 
 five or eight years of my life should be devoted to ac 
 tivity and change ; it should be a period of hardship, 
 danger, and privation ; it should be my apprenticeship 
 to fortitude and wisdom, and be employed to fit me for 
 the tranquil pleasures and steadfast exertions of the 
 remainder of my life. 
 
 In consequence of these reflections, I determined to 
 suppress that tenderness which the company of Miss 
 Hadwin produced, to remove any mistakes into which 
 she had fallen, and to put it out of my power to claim 
 for her more than the dues of friendship. All ambi 
 guities, in a case like this, and all delays, were hurtful.
 
 78 ARTHUR AIERVYN; OR, 
 
 She was not exempt from passion, but this passion, I 
 thought, was young, and easily extinguished. 
 
 In a short time her health was restored, and her grief 
 melted down into a tender melancholy. I chose a suit 
 able moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of 
 others, to reveal my thoughts. My disclosure was in 
 genuous and perfect. I laid before her the whole train 
 of my thoughts, nearly in the order, though in different 
 and more copious terms than those, in which I have just 
 explained them to you. I concealed nothing. The im 
 pression which her artless loveliness had made upon me 
 at Malverton ; my motives for estranging myself from 
 her society ; the nature of my present feelings with re 
 gard to her, and my belief of the state of her heart ; 
 the reasonings into which I had entered ; the advan 
 tages of wedlock and its inconveniences ; and, finally, 
 the resolution I had formed of seeking the city, and, 
 perhaps, of crossing the ocean, were minutely detailed. 
 
 She interrupted me not, but changing looks, blushes, 
 flutterings, and sighs, showed her to be deeply and vari 
 ously affected by my discourse. I paused for some ob 
 servation or comment. She seemed conscious of my ex 
 pectation, but had no power to speak. Overpowered, at 
 length, by her emotions, she burst into tears. 
 
 I was at a loss in what manner to construe these symp 
 toms. I waited till her vehemence was somewhat sub 
 sided, and then said, "What think you of my schemes? 
 Your approbation is of some moment : do you approve 
 of them or not?" 
 
 This question excited some little resentment, and she 
 answered, "You have left me nothing to say. Go, and 
 be happy; no matter what becomes of me. I hope I 
 shall be able to take care of myself." 
 
 The tone in which this was said had something in it 
 of upbraiding. "Your happiness," said I, "is too dear 
 to me to leave it in danger. In this house you will not 
 need my protection, but I shall never be so far from you 
 as to be disabled from hearing how you fare, by letter, 
 and of being active for your good. You have some 
 money, which you must husband well. Any rent from 
 your farm cunnot be soon expected ; but what you have
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 79 
 
 got, if you remain with Mr. Curling, will pay your board 
 and all other expenses for two years ; but you must be 
 a good economist. I shall expect," continued I, with a 
 serious smile, "a punctual account of all your sayings 
 and doings. I must know how every minute is employed 
 and every penny is expended, and, if I find you erring, 
 I must tell you so in good round terms." 
 
 These words did not dissipate the sullenness which her 
 looks had betrayed. She still forbore to look at me, 
 and said, "I do not know how I should tell you every 
 thing. You care so little about me that I should only 
 be troublesome. I am old enough to think and act for 
 myself, and shall advise with nobody but myself." 
 
 "That is true," said I. "I shall rejoice to see you 
 independent and free. Consult your own understanding, 
 and act according to its dictates. Nothing more is want 
 ing to make you useful and happy. I am anxious to re 
 turn to the city, but, if you will allow me, will go first 
 to Malverton, see that things are in due order, and that 
 old Caleb is well. From thence, if you please, I will 
 call at your uncle s, and tell him what has happened. 
 He may, otherwise, entertain pretensions and form views 
 erroneous in themselves and injurious to you. He may 
 think himself entitled to manage your estate. He may 
 either suppose a will to have been made, or may actually 
 have heard from your father, or from others, of that 
 which you burnt, and in which he was named executor. 
 His boisterous and sordid temper may prompt him to 
 seize your house and goods, unless seasonably apprized 
 of the truth ; and, when he knows the truth, he may 
 start into rage, which I shall be more fitted to encounter 
 than you. I am told that anger transforms him into a 
 ferocious madman. Shall I call upon him ?" 
 
 She shuddered at the picture which I had drawn of 
 her uncle s character; but this emotion quickly gave 
 place to self-upbraiding for the manner in which she had 
 repelled my proffers of service. She melted once more 
 into tears, and exclaimed, 
 
 "I am not worthy of the pains you take for me. I 
 am unfeeling and ungrateful. Why should I think ill 
 of you for despising me, when I despise myself?"
 
 8O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "You do yourself injustice, my friend. I think I see 
 your most secret thoughts; and these, instead of ex 
 citing anger or contempt, only awaken compassion and 
 tenderness. You love; and must, therefore, conceive 
 my conduct to be perverse and cruel. I counted on 
 your harbouring such thoughts. Time only and reflec 
 tion will enable you to see my motives in their true light. 
 Hereafter you will recollect my words, and find them 
 sufficient to justify my conduct. You will acknowledge 
 the propriety of my engaging in the cares of the world 
 before I sit down in retirement and ease." 
 
 "Ah ! how much you mistake me ! I admire and ap 
 prove of your schemes. What angers and distresses me 
 is, that you think me unworthy to partake of your cares 
 and labours ; that you regard my company as an obstacle 
 and encumbrance; that assistance and counsel must all 
 proceed from you; and that no scene is fit for me, but 
 what you regard as slothful and inglorious. 
 
 " Have I not the same claims to be wise, and active, and 
 courageous, as you ? If I am ignorant and weak, do I not 
 owe it to the same cause that has made you so? and will 
 not the same means which promote your improvement be 
 likewise useful to me ? You desire to obtain knowledge, by 
 travelling and conversing with many persons, and study 
 ing many sciences ; but you desire it for yourself alone. 
 Me you think poor, weak, and contemptible; fit for 
 nothing but to spin and churn. Provided I exist, am 
 screened from the weather, have enough to eat and drink, 
 you are satisfied. As to strengthening my mind and 
 enlarging my knowledge, these things are valuable to 
 you, but on me they are thrown away. 1 deserve not 
 the gift." 
 
 This strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly un 
 expected. I was surprised and disconcerted. In my 
 previous reasonings I had certainly considered her sex 
 as utterly unfitting her for those scenes and pursuits to 
 which I had destined myself. Not a doubt of the 
 validity of my conclusion had insinuated itself; but now 
 my belief was shaken, though it was not subverted. 
 I could not deny that human ignorance was curable by 
 the same means iu one sex as iu the other; thut forti-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 8 1 
 
 tude and skill were of no less value to one than to the 
 other. 
 
 Questionless, my friend was rendered, by her age and 
 inexperience, if not by sex, more helpless and dependent 
 than I; but had I not been prone to overrate the diffi 
 culties which I should encounter? Had I not deemed 
 unjustly of her constancy and force of mind? Marriage 
 would render her property joint, and would not compel 
 me to take up my abode in the woods, to abide forever in 
 one spot, to shackle my curiosity, or limit my excursions. 
 
 But marriage was a contract awful and irrevocable. 
 Was this the woman with whom my reason enjoined me 
 to blend my fate, without the power of dissolution? 
 Would not time unfold qualities in her which I did not 
 at present suspect, and which would evince an incurable 
 diiference in our minds? Would not time lead me to 
 the feet of one who more nearly approached that stand 
 ard of ideal excellence which poets and romancers had 
 exhibited to my view? 
 
 These considerations were powerful and delicate. I 
 knew not in what terms to state them to my companion, 
 so as to preclude the imputation of arrogance or inde 
 corum. It became me, however, to be explicit, and to 
 excite her resentment rather than mislead her judgment. 
 She collected my meaning from a few words, and, in 
 terrupting me, said. 
 
 " How very low is the poor Eliza in your opinion ! 
 We are, indeed, both too young to be married. May I 
 not see you, and talk with you, without being your wife? 
 May I not share your knowledge, relieve your cares> 
 and enjoy your confidence, as a sister might do? May 
 I not accompany you in your journeys and studies, as 
 one friend accompanies another? My property may be 
 yours; you may employ it for your benefit and mine; 
 not because you are my husband, but my friend. You 
 are going to the city. Let me go along with you. Let 
 me live where you live. The house that is large enough 
 to hold you will hold me. The fare that is good enough 
 for you will be luxury to me. Oh ! let it be so, will 
 you? 
 
 " You cannot think how studious, how thoughtful, how 
 (i
 
 82 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 inquisitive, I will be. How tenderly I will nurse you 
 when sick ! it is possible you may be sick, you know, and, 
 no one in the world will be half so watchful and affection 
 ate as I shall be. Will you let me?" 
 
 In saying this, her earnestness gave new pathos to her 
 voice. Insensibly she put her face close to mine, and, 
 transported beyond the usual bounds of reserve by the 
 charms of that picture which her fancy contemplated, 
 she put her lips to my cheek, and repeated, in a melting 
 accent, "Will you let me?" 
 
 You, my friends, who have not seen Eliza Hadwin, 
 cannot conceive what effect this entreaty was adapted to 
 produce in me. She has surely the sweetest voice, the 
 most speaking features, and most delicate symmetry, 
 that ever woman possessed. Her guileless simplicity 
 and tenderness made her more enchanting. To be the 
 object of devotion to a heart so fervent and pure was, 
 surely, no common privilege. Thus did she tender me 
 herself; and was not the gift to be received with eager 
 ness and gratitude ? 
 
 No. I was not so much a stranger to mankind as to 
 acquiesce in this scheme. As my sister or my wife, the 
 world would suffer us to reside under the same roof; to 
 apply to common use the same property; and daily to 
 enjoy the company of each other; but she was not my 
 sister, and marriage would be an act of the grossest 
 indiscretion. I explained to her, in few words, the 
 objections to which her project was liable. 
 
 "Well, then," said she, " let me live in the next house, 
 in the neighbourhood, or, at least, in the same city. Let 
 me be where I may see you once a day, or once a week, 
 or once a month. Shut me not wholly from your so 
 ciety, and the means of becoming, in time, less ignorant 
 and foolish than I now am." 
 
 After a pause, I replied, " I love you too well not to 
 comply witli this request. Perhaps the city will be as 
 suitable a residence as any other for you, as it will, for 
 some time, be most convenient to me. I shall be better 
 able to watch over your welfare, and supply you with the 
 means of improvement, when you are within a small dis 
 tance. At present, you must consent to remain here,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 83 
 
 while I visit your uncle, and afterwards go to the city. 
 I shall look out for you a suitable lodging, and inform 
 you when it is found. If you then continue in the same 
 mind, I will come, and, having gained the approbation 
 of Mr. Curling, will conduct you to town." Here ended 
 our dialogue.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 THOUGH I had consented to this scheme, I was con 
 scious that some hazards attended it. I was afraid of 
 calumny, which might trouble the peace or destroy 
 the reputation of my friend. I was afraid of my own 
 weakness, which might be seduced into an indiscreet 
 marriage by the charms or suffering.? of this bewitching 
 creature. I felt that there was no price too dear to save 
 her from slander. A fair fame is of the highest im 
 portance to a young female, and the loss of it but 
 poorly supplied by the testimony of her own conscience. 
 I had reason for tenfold solicitude on this account, since 
 I was her only protector and friend. Hence, I cherished 
 some hopes that time might change her views, and sug 
 gest less dangerous schemes. Meanwhile, I was to lose 
 no time in visiting Malverton and Philip Hadwin. 
 
 About ten days had elapsed since we had deserted 
 Malverton. These were days of successive storms, and 
 travelling had been rendered inconvenient. The weather 
 was now calm and clear, and, early in the morning that 
 ensued the dialogue which I have just related, I set out 
 on horseback. 
 
 Honest Caleb was found eating his breakfast nearly 
 in the spot where he had been first discovered. He 
 answered my inquiries by saying, that, two days after 
 our departure, several men had come to the house, 
 one of whom was Philip Hadwin. They had interro 
 gated him as to the condition of the farm, and the pur 
 pose of his remaining on it. William lladwin they 
 knew to have been some time dead; but where were the 
 girls, his daughters ? 
 
 Caleb answered that Susy, the eldest, was likewise 
 dead. 
 
 84
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 85 
 
 These tidings excited astonishment. When died she, 
 and how, and where was she buried ? 
 
 It happened two days before, and she was buried, he 
 believed, but could not tell where. 
 
 Not tell where ? By whom, then, was she buried ? 
 
 Really, he could not tell. Some strange man came 
 there just as she was dying. He went to the room, and, 
 when she was dead, took her away, but what he did with 
 the body was more than he could say, but he had a 
 notion that he buried it. The man stayed till the morn 
 ing, and then went off with Lizzy, leaving him to keep 
 house by himself. He had not seen either of them, nor, 
 indeed, a single soul since. 
 
 This was all the information that Caleb could afford 
 the visitants. It was so lame and incredible that they 
 began to charge the man with falsehood, and to threaten 
 him with legal animadversion. Just then Mr. Ellis en 
 tered the house, and, being made acquainted with the 
 subject of discourse, told all that he himself knew. He 
 related the midnight visit which I had paid him, ex 
 plained my former situation in the family, and my dis 
 appearance in September. He stated the advice he had 
 given me to carry Eliza to her uncle s, and my promise 
 to comply with his counsel. The uncle declared he had 
 seen nothing of his niece, and Caleb added, that, when 
 she set out, she took the road that led to town. 
 
 These hints afforded grounds for much conjecture and 
 suspicion. Ellis now mentioned some intelligence that 
 
 he had gathered respecting me in a late journey to . 
 
 It seems I was the son of an honest farmer in that quar 
 ter, who married a tidy girl of a milkmaid that lived 
 with him. My father had detected me in making some 
 atrocious advances to my mother-in-law, and had turned 
 me out of doors. I did not go off, however, without 
 rifiing his drawer of some hundreds of dollars, which he 
 had laid up against a rainy day. I was noted for such 
 pranks, and was hated by all the neighbours for my pride 
 and laziness. It was easy, by comparison of circum 
 stances, for Ellis to ascertain that Hadwin s servant 
 Mervyn was the same against whom such heavy charges 
 were laid.
 
 86 ARTHUR MRRVYff; Off, 
 
 Previously to this journey, he had heard of me from 
 Hadwin, who was loud in praise of my diligence, so 
 briety, and modesty. For his part, he had always been 
 cautious of giving countenance to vagrants that came 
 from nobody knew where, arid worked their way with a 
 plausible tongue. He was not surprised to hear it whis 
 pered that Betsy Haclwin had fallen in love with the 
 youth, and now, no doubt, he had persuaded her to run 
 away with him. The heiress of a fine farm was a prize 
 not to be met with every day. 
 
 Philip broke into rage at this news; swore that if it 
 turned out so, his niece should starve upon the town, 
 and that he would take good care to balk the lad. His 
 brother he well knew had left a will, to which he was 
 executor, and that this will would in good time be forth 
 coming. After much talk and ransacking the house, 
 and swearing at his truant niece, he and his company 
 departed, charging Caleb to keep the house and its con 
 tents for his use. This was all that Caleb s memory 
 had retained of that day s proceedings. 
 
 Curling had lately commented on the character of 
 Philip Hadwin. This man was totally unlike his brother, 
 was a noted brawler and bully, a tyrant to his children, 
 a plague to his neighbours, and kept a rendezvous for 
 drunkards and idlers, at the sign of the Bull s Head, at 
 
 . He was not destitute of parts, and was no less 
 
 dreaded for cunning than malignity. He was covet 
 ous, and never missed an opportunity of overreaching 
 his neighbour. There was no doubt that his niece s 
 property would be embezzled should it ever come into 
 his hands, and any power which he might obtain over 
 her person would be exercised to her destruction. Ilia 
 children were tainted with the dissoluteness of their 
 father, and marriage had not repaired the reputation of 
 his daughters, or cured them of depravity : this was the 
 man whom I now proposed to visit. 
 
 I scarcely need to say that the calumny of Betty 
 Lawrence gave me no uneasiness. My father had no 
 doubt been deceived, as well as my father s neighbours, 
 by the artifices of this woman. I passed among them 
 for a thief and a profligate, but their error had hitherto
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 8/ 
 
 been harmless to me. The time might come which 
 should confute the tale without my efforts. Betty, 
 sooner or later, would drop her mask, and afford the 
 antidote to her own poisons, unless some new incident 
 should occur to make me hasten the catastrophe. 
 
 I arrived at Hadwin s house. I was received with 
 some attention as a guest. I looked, among the pimpled 
 visages that filled the piazza, for that of the landlord, 
 but found him in an inner apartment with two or three 
 more seated round a table. On intimating iny wish to 
 speak with him alone, the others withdrew. 
 
 Hadwin s visage had some traces of resemblance to 
 his brother; but the meek, placid air, pale cheeks, and 
 slender form of the latter were powerfully contrasted 
 with the bloated arrogance, imperious brow, and robust 
 limbs of the former. This man s rage was awakened by 
 a straw ; it impelled him in an instant to oaths and buf 
 ferings, and made his life an eternal brawl. The sooner 
 my interview with such a personage should be at an end, 
 the better. I therefore explained the purpose of my 
 coming as fully and in as few words as possible. 
 
 "Your name, sir, is Philip Had win. Your brother 
 William, of Malverton, died lately and left two daugh 
 ters. The youngest only is now alive, and I come, com 
 missioned from her, to inform you that, as no will of her 
 father s is extant, she is preparing to administer to his 
 estate. As her father s brother, she thought you en 
 titled to this information." 
 
 The change which took place in the countenance of 
 this man, during this address, was remarkable, but not 
 easily described. His cheeks contracted a deeper crim 
 son, his eyes sparkled, and his face assumed an expres 
 sion in which curiosity was mingled with rage. He bent 
 forward, and said, in a hoarse and contemptuous tone, 
 " Pray, is your name Mervyn ?" 
 
 I answered, without hesitation, and as if the question 
 were wholly unimportant, "Yes; my name is Mervyn." 
 
 " God damn it ! You then are the damned rascal" 
 (but permit me to repeat his speech without the oaths 
 with which it was plentifully interlarded. Not three 
 words were uttered without being garnished with a
 
 88 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "God damn it!" "damnation!" "I ll be damned tc 
 hell if" and the like energetic expletives.) "You then 
 are the rascal that robbed Billy s house ; that ran away 
 with the fool his daughter ; persuaded her to burn her 
 father s will, and have the hellish impudence to come into 
 this house ! But I thank you for it. I was going to look 
 for you ; you ve saved me trouble. I ll settle all ac 
 counts with you here. Fair and softly, my good lad ! 
 If I don t bring you to the gallows If I let you escape 
 without such a dressing ! Damned impudence ! Fellow ! 
 I ve been at Malverton. I ve heard of your tricks. So ! 
 finding the will not quite to your mind, knowing that the 
 executor would balk your schemes, you threw the will 
 into the fire; you robbed the house of all the cash, and 
 made off with the girl ! The old fellow saw it all, and 
 will swear to the truth." 
 
 These words created some surprise. I meant not to 
 conceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the 
 will, nor even the measures which his niece had taken or 
 intended to take. What I supposed to be unknown to 
 him appeared to have been communicated by the talk 
 ative Caleb, whose mind was more inquisitive and less 
 sluggish than first appearances had led me to imagine. 
 Instead of moping by the kitchen-fire when Eliza and I 
 were conversing in an upper room, it now appeared that 
 he had reconnoitred our proceedings through some key 
 hole or crevice, and had related what he had seen to 
 Hadwin. 
 
 Hadwin proceeded to exhaust his rage in oaths and 
 menaces. He frequently clenched his fist and thrust it 
 in my face, drew it back as if to render his blow more 
 deadly; ran over the same series of exclamations on my 
 impudence and villany, and talked of the gallows and 
 the whipping-post ; enforced each word by the epithets 
 damnable and hellish; closed each sentence with "and 
 be curst to you !" 
 
 There was but one mode for me to pursue ; all forcible 
 opposition to a man of his strength was absurd. It was 
 my province to make his anger confine itself to words, 
 and patiently to wait till the paroxysm should end or 
 Bubside of itself. To effect this purpose, I kept my seat,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR r?93- 89 
 
 and carefully excluded from my countenance every indi 
 cation of timidity and panic on the one hand, and of 
 scorn and defiance on the other. My look and attitude 
 were those of a man who expected harsh words, but who 
 entertained no suspicion that blows would be inflicted. 
 
 I was indebted for my safety to an inflexible adherence 
 to this medium. To have strayed, for a moment, to either 
 side, would have brought upon me his blows. That he 
 did not instantly resort to violence inspired me with 
 courage, since it depended on myself whether food should 
 be supplied to his passion. Rage must either progress 
 or decline; and, since it was in total want of provoca 
 tion, it could not fail of gradually subsiding. 
 
 My demeanour was calculated to damp the flame, not 
 only by its direct influence, but by diverting his attention 
 from the wrongs which he had received, to the novelty of 
 my behaviour. The disparity in size and strength be 
 tween us was too evident to make him believe that I con 
 fided in my sinews for my defence ; and, since I betrayed 
 neither contempt nor fear, he could not but conclude that 
 I trusted to my own integrity or to his moderation. I 
 seized the first pause in his rhetoric to enforce this senti 
 ment. 
 
 " You are angry, Mr. Hadwin, and are loud in your 
 threats ; but they do not frighten me. They excite no 
 apprehension or alarm, because I know myself able to 
 convince you that I have not injured you. This is an 
 inn, and I am your guest. I am sure I shall find better 
 entertainment than blows. Come," continued I, smiling, 
 " it is possible that I am not so mischievous a wretch as 
 your fancy paints me. I have no claims upon your niece 
 but that of friendship, and she is now in the house of an 
 honest man, Mr. Curling, where she proposes to continue 
 as long as is convenient. 
 
 " It is true that your brother left a will, which his 
 daughter burnt in my presence, because she dreaded the 
 authority which that will gave you, not only over her 
 property, but person. It is true that on leaving the 
 house she took away the money which was now her own, 
 and which was necessary to subsistence. It is true that 
 I bore her company, and have loft her in an honest man s
 
 90 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 keeping. 1 am answerable for nothing more. As to you- 
 I meant not to injure you; I advised not the burning of 
 the will. I was a stranger, till after that event, to your 
 character. I knew neither good nor ill of you. I came 
 to tell you all this, because, as Eliza s uncle, you had a 
 right to the information." 
 
 " So ! you come to tell me that she burnt the will, and 
 is going to administer to what, I beseech you ? To her 
 father s property ? Ay, I warrant you. But take thia 
 along with you : that property is mine ; land, house, 
 stock, every thing. All is safe and snug under cover of 
 a mortgage, to which Billy was kind enough to add a 
 bond. One was sued, and the other entered up, a week 
 ago. So that all is safe under my thumb, and the girl 
 may whistle or starve for me. I shall give myself no 
 concern about the strumpet. You thought to get a prize ; 
 but, damn me, you ve met with your match in me. Phil 
 Haddin s not so easily choused, I promise you. I in 
 tended to give you this news, and a drubbing into the 
 bargain ; but you may go, and make haste. She burnt 
 the will, did she, because I was named in it, and sent 
 you to tell me so ? Good souls ! It was kind of you, 
 and I am bound to be thankful. Take her back news of 
 the mortgage ; and, as for you, leave my house. You 
 may go scot-free this time ; but I pledge my word for a 
 sound beating when you next enter these doors. I ll pay 
 it to you with interest. Leave my house, I say!" 
 
 "A mortgage," said I, in a low voice, aiid affecting 
 not to hear his commands ; " that will be sad news for 
 my friend. Why, sir, you are a fortunate man. Mal- 
 verton is an excellent spot ; well watered and manured ; 
 newly and completely fenced ; not a larger barn in the 
 county; oxen and horses and cows in the best order; I 
 never set eyes on a finer orchard. By my faith, sir, you 
 are a fortunate man. But, pray, what have you for din 
 ner? I am hungry as a wolf. Order me a beef-steak, 
 and some potation or other. The bottle there, it is 
 cider, I take it; pray, push it to this side." Saying 
 this, I stretched out my hand towards the bottle which 
 stood before him. 
 
 I confided in the power of a fearless and sedate man-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?9J. $1 
 
 ner. Methought that, as anger was the food of anger, 
 it must unavoidably subside in a contest with equability. 
 This opinion was intuitive, rather than the product of 
 experience, and perhaps I gave no proof of my sagacity 
 in hazarding my safety on its truth. Hadwin s charac 
 ter made him dreaded and obeyed by all. He had been 
 accustomed to ready and tremulous submission from men 
 far more brawny and robust than I was, and to find his 
 most vehement menaces and gestures totally ineffectual 
 on a being so slender and diminutive at once wound up 
 his rage and excited his astonishment. One motion 
 counteracted and suspended the other. He lifted his 
 hand, but delayed to strike. One blow, applied with his 
 usual dexterity, was sufficient to destroy me. Though 
 seemingly careless, I was watchful of his motions, and 
 prepared to elude the stroke by shrinking or stooping. 
 Meanwhile, I stretched my hand far enough to seize the 
 bottle, and, pouring its contents into a tumbler, put it to 
 my lips : 
 
 " Come, sir, I drink your health, and wish you speedy 
 possession of Malverton. I have some interest with 
 Eliza, and will prevail on her to forbear all opposition 
 and complaint. Why should she complain ? While I 
 live, she shall not be a beggar. No doubt your claim is 
 legal, and therefore ought to be admitted. What the 
 law gave, the law has taken away. Blessed be the dis 
 pensers of law ! Excellent cider ! open another bottle, 
 will you, and, I beseech, hasten dinner, if you would not 
 see me devour the table." 
 
 It was just, perhaps, to conjure up the demon avarice 
 to fight with the demon anger. Reason alone would, in 
 such a contest, be powerless, but, in truth, I spoke with 
 out artifice or disguise. If his claim were legal, opposi 
 tion would be absurd and pernicious. I meant not to 
 rely upon his own assertions, and would not acknowledge 
 the validity of his claim till I had inspected the deed. 
 Having instituted suits, this was now in a public office, 
 and there the inspection should be made. Meanwhile, 
 no reason could be urged why I should part from him in 
 anger, while his kindred to Eliza, and his title to her 
 property, made it useful to secure his favour. It was
 
 92 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 possible to obtain a remission of his claims, even when 
 the law enforced them ; it would be imprudent at least 
 to diminish the chances of remission by fostering his 
 wrath and provoking his enmity. 
 
 " What !" he exclaimed, in a transport of fury, "a n t 
 I master of my own house ? Out, I say !" 
 
 These were harsh terms, but they were not accom 
 panied by gestures and tones so menacing as those which 
 had before been used. It was plain that the tide, which 
 BO lately threatened my destruction, had begun to re 
 cede. This encouraged me to persist. 
 
 "Be not alarmed, my good friend," said I, placidly 
 and smiling. "A man of your bone need not fear a 
 pigmy like me. I shall scarcely be able to dethrone 
 you in your own castle, with an army of hostlers, tap 
 sters, and cooks at your beck. You shall still be master 
 here, provided you use your influence to procure me a 
 dinner." 
 
 His acquiescence in a pacific system was extremely 
 reluctant and gradual. He laid aside one sullen tone 
 and wrathful look after the other; and, at length, con 
 sented not only to supply me with a dinner, but to par 
 take of it with me. Nothing was more a topic of surprise 
 to himself than his forbearance. He knew not how it 
 was. He had never been treated so before. He was 
 not proof against entreaty and submission ; but I had 
 neither supplicated nor submitted. The stuff that I was 
 made of was at once damnably tough and devilishly 
 pliant. When he thought of my impudence, in staying 
 in his house after he had bade me leave it, he was 
 tempted to resume his passion. When he reflected on 
 my courage, in making light of his anger, notwithstand 
 ing his known impetuosity and my personal inferiority, 
 he could not withhold his esteem. But my patience 
 under his rebukes, my unalterable equanimity, and my 
 ready consent to the validity of his claims, soothed and 
 propitiated him. 
 
 An exemption from blows and abuse was all that I 
 could gain from this man. I told him the truth, with 
 regard to my own history, so far as it was connected 
 with the lladwius. I exhibited, in affecting colours,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 93 
 
 the helpless condition of Eliza ; but could extort from 
 him nothing but his consent that, if she chose, she might 
 come and live with him. He would give her victuals and 
 clothes for so much house-work as she was able to do. 
 ]f she chose to live elsewhere, he promised not to molest 
 her, or intermeddle in her concerns. The house and 
 land were his by law, and he would have them. 
 
 It was not my province to revile or expostulate with 
 him. I stated what measures would be adopted by a 
 man who regarded the interest of others more than his 
 own; who was anxious for the welfare of an innocent 
 girl, connected with him so closely by the ties of kindred, 
 and who was destitute of what is called natural friends. 
 If he did not cancel, for her sake, his bond and mort 
 gage, he would, at least, afford her a frugal maintenance. 
 He would extend to her, in all emergencies, his counsel 
 and protection. 
 
 All that, he said, was sheer nonsense. He could not 
 sufficiently wonder at my folly, in proposing to him to 
 make a free gift of a hundred rich acres, to a girl too 
 who scarcely knew her right hand from her left ; whom 
 the first cunning young rogue like myself would chouse 
 out of the whole, and take herself into the bargain. 
 But my folly was even surpassed by my impudence, 
 since, as the friend of this girl, I was merely petitioning 
 on my own account. I had come to him, whom I never 
 saw before, on whom I had no claim, and who, as I well 
 knew, had reason to think me a sharper, and modestly 
 said, " Here s a girl who has no fortune. I am greatly 
 in want of one. Pray, give her such an estate that you 
 have in your possession. If you do, I ll marry her, and 
 take it into my own hands." I might be thankful that 
 he did not answer such a petition with a horse-whipping. 
 But if he did not give her his estate, he might extend to 
 her, forsooth, his counsel and protection. "That I ve 
 offered to do," continued he. "She may come and live 
 in my house, if she will. She may do some of the 
 family work. I ll discharge the chambermaid to make 
 room for her. Lizzy, if I remember right, has a pretty 
 face. She can t have a better market for it than as
 
 94 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 chambermaid to an inn. If she minds her p s and q a 
 she may make up a handsome sum at the year s end." 
 
 I thought it time to break off the conference ; and, 
 my dinner being finished, took my leave, leaving behind 
 me the character of a queer sort of chap. I speeded to 
 the prothonotary s office, which was kept in the village, 
 and quickly ascertained the truth of lladwin s preten 
 sions. There existed a mortgage, with bond and war 
 rant of attorney, to so great an amount as would 
 swallow up every thing at 5lalverton. Furnished with 
 these tidings, I prepared, with a drooping heart, to re 
 turn to Mr. Curling s.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 THIS incident necessarily produced a change in my 
 views with regard to my friend. Her fortune consisted 
 of a few hundreds of dollars, which, frugally adminis 
 tered, might procure decent accommodation in the 
 country. When this was consumed, she must find sub 
 sistence in tending the big wheel or the milk-pail, unless 
 fortune should enable me to place her in a more favour 
 able situation. This state was, in some respects, but 
 little different from that in which she had spent the 
 former part of her life ; but, in her father s house, these 
 employments were dignified by being, in some degree, 
 voluntary, and relieved by frequent intervals of recrea 
 tion and leisure. Now they were likely to prove irksome 
 and servile, in consequence of being performed for hire 
 and imposed by necessity. Equality, parental solici 
 tudes, and sisterly endearments, would be wanting to 
 lighten the yoke. 
 
 These inconveniences, however, were imaginary. This 
 was the school in which fortitude and independence were 
 to be learned. Habit, and the purity of rural manners, 
 would, likewise, create anew those ties which death had 
 dissolved. The affections of parent and sister would be 
 supplied by the fonder and more rational attachments of 
 friendship. These toils were not detrimental to beauty 
 or health. What was to be dreaded from them was their 
 tendency to quench the spirit of liberal curiosity ; to 
 habituate the person to bodily, rather than intellectual, 
 exertions ; to supersede and create indifference or aver 
 sion to the only instruments of rational improvement, 
 the pen and the book. 
 
 This evil, however, was at some distance from Eliza. 
 
 95
 
 g6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR t 
 
 Her present abode was quiet and serene. Here she 
 might enjoy domestic pleasures and opportunities of 
 mental improvement for the coming twelvemonth at 
 least. This period would, perhaps, be sufficient for the 
 formation of studious habits. What schemes should be 
 adopted for this end would be determined by the destiny 
 to which I myself should be reserved. 
 
 My path was already chalked out, arid my fancy now 
 pursued it with uncommon pleasure. To reside in your 
 family ; to study your profession ; to pursue some sub 
 ordinate or casual mode of industry, by which 1 might 
 purchase leisure for medical pursuits, for social recrea 
 tions, and for the study of mankind on your busy and 
 thronged stage, was the scope of my wishes. This des 
 tiny would riot hinder punctual correspondence and oc 
 casional visits to Eliza. Her pen might be called into 
 action, and her mind be awakened by books, and every 
 hour be made to add to her stores of knowledge and 
 enlarge the bounds of her capacity. 
 
 I was spiritless and gloomy when I left ; but re 
 flections on my future lot, and just views of the situation 
 of my friend, insensibly restored my cheerfulness. I 
 arrived at Mr. Curling s in the evening, and hastened to 
 impart to Eliza the issue of my commission. It gave 
 her uneasiness, merely as it frustrated the design, on 
 which she had fondly mused, of residing in the city. 
 She was somewhat consoled by my promises of being 
 her constant correspondent and occasional visitor. 
 
 Next morning I set out on my journey hither, on foot. 
 The way was not long ; the weather, though cold, was 
 wholesome and serene. My spirits were high, and I saw 
 nothing in the world before me but sunshine and pros 
 perity. I was conscious that my happiness depended 
 not on the revolutions of nature or the caprice of man. 
 All without was, indeed, vicissitude and uncertainty; 
 but within my bosom was a centre not to be shaken or 
 removed. My purposes were honest and steadfast. 
 Every sense was the inlet of pleasure, because it was 
 the avenue of knowledge ; and my soul brooded over 
 the world to ideas, and glowed with exultation at the 
 grandeur and beauty of its own creations.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 97 
 
 This felicity was too rapturous to be of long duration. 
 I gradually descended from these heights ; and the re 
 membrance of past incidents, connected with the images 
 of your family, to which I was returning, led my 
 thoughts into a different channel. Welbeck and the un 
 happy girl whom he had betrayed ; Mrs. Villars and 
 Wallace, were recollected anew. The views which I had 
 formed, for determining the fate and affording assistance 
 to Clemenxa, were recalled. My former resolutions with 
 regard to her had been suspended by the uncertainty in 
 which the fate of the Hadwins was, at that time, wrapped. 
 Had it not become necessary wholly to lay aside these 
 resolutions? 
 
 That, indeed, was an irksome conclusion. No wonder 
 that I struggled to repel it; that I fostered the doubt 
 whether money was the only instrument of benefit; 
 whether caution, and fortitude, and knowledge, were not 
 the genuine preservatives from evil. Had I not the 
 means in my hands of dispelling her fatal ignorance of 
 Welbeck and of those with whom she resided ? Was I 
 not authorized, by my previous though slender inter 
 course, to seek her presence? 
 
 Suppose I should enter Mrs. Villars s house, desire to 
 be introduced to the lady, accost her with affectionate 
 simplicity, and tell her the truth ? Why be anxious to 
 smooth the way? why deal in apologies, circuities, and 
 innuendoes? All these are feeble and perverse refine 
 ments, unworthy of an honest purpose and an erect 
 spirit. To believe her inaccessible to my visit was 
 absurd. To wait for the permission of those whose in 
 terest it might be to shut out visitants was cowardice. 
 This Avas an infringement of her liberty which equity 
 and law equally condemned. By what right could she 
 be restrained from intercourse with others? Doors and 
 passages may be between her and me. With a purpose 
 such as mine, no one had a right to close the one or 
 obstruct the other. Away with cowardly reluctances 
 and clownish scruples, and let me hasten this moment to 
 her dwelling. 
 
 Mrs. Villars is the portress of the mansion. She will 
 probably present herself before me, and demand the 
 1
 
 98 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 reason of my visit. What shall I say to her? The 
 truth. To falter, or equivocate, or dissemble to this 
 woman would he wicked. Perhaps her character has 
 been misunderstood and maligned. Can I render her a 
 greater service than to apprize her of the aspersions 
 that have rested on it, and aftbrd her the opportunity of 
 vindication ? Perhaps she is indeed selfish and profligate ; 
 the betrayer of youth and the agent of lasciviousness. 
 Does she not deserve to know the extent of her errors 
 and the ignominy of her trade? Does she not merit the 
 compassion of the good and the rebukes of the wise? 
 To shrink from the task would prove me cowardly and 
 unfirm. Thus far, at least, let my courage extend. 
 
 Alas ! (Jlemenza is unacquainted with my language. 
 My thoughts cannot make themselves apparent but by 
 words, and to my words she will be able to affix no meaning. 
 Yet is not that a hasty decision? The version from the 
 dramas of Zeno which I found in her toilet was probably 
 hers, and proves her to have a speculative knowledge of 
 our tongue. Near half a year has since elapsed, during 
 which she has dwelt with talkers of English, and conse 
 quently could not fail to have acquired it. This conclusion 
 is somewhat dubious, but experiment will give it certainty. 
 
 Hitherto I had strolled along the path at a lingering 
 pace. Time enough, methought, to reach your threshold 
 between sunrise and moonlight, if my way had been 
 three times longer than it was. You were the pleasing 
 phantom that hovered before me and beckoned me 
 forward. What a total revolution had occurred in the 
 course of a few seconds ! for thus long did my reasonings 
 with regard to Clemenza and the Villars require to pass 
 through my understanding, and escape, in half-muttered 
 soliloquy, from my lips. My muscles trembled with 
 eagerness, and I bounded forward with impetuosity. I 
 saw nothing but a vista of catalpaa, leafless, loaded with 
 icicles, and terminating in four chimneys and a painted 
 roof. My fancy outstripped my footsteps, and was busy 
 in picturing faces and rehearsing dialogues. Presently 
 I reached this new object of my pursuit, darted through 
 the avenue, noticed that some windows of the house were 
 unclosed, drew thence a hasty inference that the house
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 99 
 
 was not without inhabitants, and knocked, quickly and 
 loudly, for admission. 
 
 Some one within crept to the door, opened it with 
 seeming caution, and just far enough to allow the face to 
 be seen. It was the timid, pale, and unwashed face of 
 a girl who was readily supposed to be a servant, taken 
 from a cottage, and turned into a bringer of wood and 
 water and a scourer of tubs and trenches. She waited in 
 timorous silence the delivery of my message. Was Mrs. 
 Villars at home? 
 
 "No; she has gone to town." 
 
 Were any of her daughters within? 
 
 She could not tell ; she believed she thought which 
 did I want ? Miss Hetty or Miss Sally ? 
 
 "Let me see Miss Hetty." Saying this, I pushed 
 gently against the door. The girl, half reluctant, yielded 
 way ; I entered the passage, and, putting my hand on 
 the lock of a door that seemed to lead into a parlour, 
 "Is Miss Hetty in this room?" 
 
 No; there was nobody there. 
 
 " Go call her, then. Tell her there is one who wishes 
 to see her on important business. I will wait for her 
 coming in this room." So saying, I opened the door, 
 and entered the apartment, while the girl withdrew to 
 perform my message. 
 
 The parlour was spacious and expensively furnished, 
 but an air of negligence and disorder was everywhere 
 visible. The carpet was wrinkled and unswcpt; a clock 
 on the table, in a glass frame, so streaked and spotted 
 with dust as scarcely to be transparent, and the index 
 motionless, and pointing at four instead of nine ; embers 
 scattered on the marble hearth, and tongs lying on the 
 fender with the handle in the ashes; a harpsichord, un 
 covered, one end loaded with scores, tumbled together in 
 a heap, and the other with volumes of novels and plays, 
 some on their edges, some on their backs, gaping open 
 by the scorching of their covers; rent; blurred; stained; 
 blotted; dog-eared; tables awry; chairs crowding each 
 other; in short, no object but indicated the neglect or 
 the ignorance of domestic neatness and economy. 
 
 My leisure was employed in surveying these objects,
 
 100 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 and in listening for the approach of Miss Hetty. Some 
 minutes elapsed, and no one came. A reason for delay 
 was easily imagined, and I summoned patience to wait. 
 I opened a book ; touched the instrument ; surveyed the 
 vases on the mantel-tree; the figures on the hangings, 
 and the print of Apollo and the Sibyl, taken from Sal- 
 vator, and hung over the chimney. I eyed my own 
 shape and garb in the mirror, and asked how my rustic 
 appearance would be regarded by that supercilious and 
 voluptuous being to whom I was about to present 
 myself. 
 
 Presently the latch of the door was softly moved: it 
 opened, and the simpleton, before described, appeared. 
 She spoke, but her voice was so full of hesitation, and 
 BO near a whisper, that much attention was needed to 
 make out her words: Miss Hetty was not at home; she 
 was gone to town with her mistress, 
 
 This was a tale not to be credited. How was I to 
 act? She persisted in maintaining the truth of it. 
 "Well, then," said I, at length, "tell Miss Sally that I 
 wish to speak with her. She will answer my purpose 
 just as well." 
 
 Miss Sally was not at home neither. She had gone 
 to town too. They would not be back, she did not know 
 when ; not till night, she supposed. It was so indeed ; 
 none of them wasn t at home ; none but she and Nanny 
 in the kitchen : indeed there wasn t. 
 
 " Go tell Nanny to come here ; I will leave my message 
 with her." She withdrew, but Nanny did not receive 
 the summons, or thought proper not to obey it. All was 
 vacant and still. 
 
 My state was singular and critical. It was absurd to 
 prolong it; but to leave the house with my errand un 
 executed would argue imbecility and folly. To ascertain 
 Clemenza s presence in this house, and to gain an inter 
 view, were yet in my power. Had I not boasted of my 
 intrepidity in braving denials and commands when they 
 endeavoured to obstruct my passage to this woman ? But 
 here were no obstacles nor prohibition. Suppose the 
 girl had said truth, that the matron and her daughters 
 were absent, und that Nauny and herself were the only
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. IOI 
 
 guardians of the mansion. So much the better. My 
 design will not be opposed. I have only to mount the 
 stair, and go from one room to another till I find what 
 I seek. 
 
 There was hazard, as well as plausibility, in this 
 scheme. I thought it best once more to endeavour to 
 extort information from the girl, and persuade her to be 
 my guide to whomsoever the house contained. I put 
 my hand to the bell and rung a brisk peal. No one 
 came. I passed into the entry, to the foot of a stair 
 case, and to a back-window. Nobody Avas within hear 
 ing or sight. 
 
 Once more I reflected on the rectitude of my inten 
 tions, on the possibility that the girl s assertions might 
 be true, on the benefits of expedition, and of gaining 
 access to the object of my visit without interruption or 
 delay. To these considerations was added a sort of 
 charm, not easily explained, and by no means justifiable, 
 produced by the very temerity and hazardness accom 
 panying this attempt. I thought, with scornful emotions, 
 on the bars and hindcranccs which pride, arid caprice, 
 and delusive maxims of decorum, raise in the way of 
 human intercourse. I spurned at these semblances and 
 substitutes of honesty, and delighted to shake such fet 
 ters into air and trample such impediments to dust. I 
 wanted to see a human being, in order to promote her 
 happiness. It was doubtful whether she was within 
 twenty paces of the spot where I stood. The doubt 
 was to be solved. How ? By examining the space. I 
 forthwith proceeded to examine it. I reached the second 
 story. I approached a door that was closed. I knocked. 
 After a pause, a soft voice said, "Who is there?" 
 
 The accents were as musical as those of Clemenza, 
 but were in other respects different. I had no topic to 
 discuss with this person. I answered not, yet hesitated 
 to withdraw. Presently the same voice was again 
 heard: "What is it you want? Why don t you 
 answer? Come in!" I complied with the command, 
 and entered the room. 
 
 It was deliberation and foresight that led me hither, 
 and not chance or caprice. Hence, instead of being
 
 IO2 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 disconcerted or vanquished by the objects that I saw, I 
 was tranquil and firm. My curiosity, however, made 
 me a vigilant observer. Two females, arrayed with 
 voluptuous negligence, in a manner adapted to the 
 utmost seclusion, and seated in a careless attitude on a 
 sofa, were now discovered. 
 
 Both darted glances at the door. One, who appeared 
 to be the youngest, no sooner saw me, than she shrieked, 
 and, starting from her seat, betrayed in the looks which 
 she successively cast upon me, on herself, and on the 
 chamber, whose apparatus was in no less confusion than 
 that of the apartment below, her consciousness of the 
 unseasonablcness of this meeting. 
 
 The other shrieked likewise, but in her it seemed to 
 be the token of surprise rather than that of terror. 
 There was, probably, somewhat in my aspect and garb 
 that suggested an apology for this intrusion, as arising 
 from simplicity and mistake. She thought proper, how 
 ever, to assume the air of one offended, and, looking 
 sternly, "How now, fellow," said she, "what is this? 
 Why come you hither?" 
 
 This questioner was of mature age, but had not passed 
 the period of attractiveness and grace. All the beauty 
 that nature had bestowed was still retained, but the por 
 tion had never been great. What she possessed was so 
 modelled and embellished by such a carriage and dress 
 as to give it most power over the senses of the gazer. 
 In proportion, however, as it was intended and adapted 
 to captivate those who know none but physical pleasures, 
 it was qualified to breed distaste and aversion in me. 
 
 I am sensible how much error may have lurked in this 
 decision. I had brought with me the belief of their 
 being unchaste; and seized, perhaps with too much 
 avidity, any appearance that coincided with my prepos 
 sessions. Yet the younger by no means inspired the 
 same disgust; though I had no reason to suppose her 
 more unblemished than the elder. Her modesty seemed 
 unaffected, and was by no means satisfied, like that of 
 the elder, with defeating future curiosity. The con 
 sciousness of what had already been exposed filled her 
 with confusion, and she would have flown away, if her
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 03 
 
 companion had not detained her by some degree of force. 
 " What ails the girl ? There s nothing to be frightened 
 at. Fellow!" she repeated, "what brings you here?" 
 
 I advanced and stood before them. I looked stead 
 fastly, but, I believe, with neither effrontery nor anger, 
 on the one who addressed me. I spoke in a tone serious 
 and emphatical. "I come for the sake of speaking to a 
 woman who formerly resided in this house, and probably 
 resides here still. Her name is Clemenza Lodi. If she 
 be here, I request you to conduct me to her instantly." 
 
 Methought I perceived some inquietude, a less impe 
 rious and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hearing 
 the name of Clemenza. It was momentary, and gave 
 way to peremptory looks. "What is your business with 
 her ? And why did you adopt this mode of inquiry ? A 
 very extraordinary intrusion ! Be good enough to leave 
 the chamber. Any questions proper to be answered 
 will be answered below." 
 
 "I meant not to intrude or offend. It was not an 
 idle or impertinent motive that led me hither. I waited 
 below for some time after soliciting an audience of you 
 through the servant. She assured me you were absent, 
 and laid me under the necessity of searching for Cle 
 menza Lodi myself, and without a guide. I am anxious 
 to withdraw, and request merely to be directed to the 
 room which she occupies." 
 
 "I direct you," replied she, in a more resolute tone, 
 "to quit the room and the house." 
 
 "Impossible, madam," I replied, still looking at her 
 earnestly ; " leave the house without seeing her ! You 
 might as well enjoin me to pull the Andes on my head ! 
 to walk barefoot to Pekin! Impossible!" 
 
 Some solicitude was now mingled with her anger. 
 "This is strange insolence! unaccountable behaviour! 
 begone from my room ! will you compel me to call the 
 gentlemen ?" 
 
 "Be not alarmed," said I, with augmented mildness. 
 There was, indeed, compassion and sorrow at my heart, 
 and these must have somewhat influenced my looks. 
 " Be not alarmed. I came to confer a benefit, not to 
 perpetrate an injury. I came not to censure or ex-
 
 104 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 postulate with you, but merely to counsel and aid a 
 being that needs both; all I want is to see her. In this 
 chamber I sought not you, but her. Only lead me to 
 her, or tell me where she is. I will then rid you of my 
 presence." 
 
 "Will you compel me to call those who will punish 
 this insolence as it deserves?" 
 
 "Dearest madam! I compel you to nothing. I 
 merely supplicate. I would ask you to lead me to these 
 gentlemen, if I did not know that there are none but 
 females in the house. It is you who must receive and 
 comply with my petition. Allow me a moment s inter 
 view with Clemenza Lodi. Compliance will harm you 
 not, but will benefit her. What is your objection ?" 
 
 " This is the strangest proceeding ! the most singular 
 conduct! Is this a place fit to parley with you? I 
 warn you of the consequence of staying a moment 
 longer. Depend upon it, you will sorely repent it." 
 
 " You are obdurate," said I, and turned towards the 
 younger, who listened to this discourse in tremors and 
 panic. I took her hand with an air of humility and 
 reverence. "Here," said I, "there seems to be purity, 
 innocence, and condescension. I took this house to be 
 the temple of voluptuousness. Females I expected to 
 find in it, but such only as traded in licentious pleasures ; 
 specious, perhaps not destitute of talents, beauty, and 
 address, but dissolute and wanton, sensual and avari 
 cious; yet in this countenance and carriage there are 
 tokens of virtue. I am born to be deceived, and the 
 semblance of modesty is readily assumed. Under this 
 veil, perhaps, lurk a tainted heart and depraved appe 
 tites. Is it so?" 
 
 She made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks 
 seemed to evince that my favourable prepossessions were 
 just. I noticed likewise that the alarm of the elder was 
 greatly increased by this address to her companion. The 
 thought suddenly occurred that this girl might be in cir 
 cumstances not unlike those of Clemenza Lodi; that she 
 was not apprized of the character of her associates, and 
 might by this meeting be rescued from similar evils. 
 
 This suspicion filled me with tumultuous feelings.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 179J- IO$ 
 
 Clemenza was for a time forgotten. I paid no attention 
 to the looks or demeanour of the elder, but was wholly 
 occupied in gazing on the younger. My anxiety to 
 know the truth gave pathos and energy to my tones 
 while I spoke : 
 
 "Who, where, what are you? Do you reside in this 
 house ? Are you a sister or daughter in this family, or 
 merely a visitant? Do you know the character, pro 
 fession, and views of your companions? Do you deem 
 them virtuous, or know them to be profligate ? Speak ! 
 tell me, I beseech you !" 
 
 The maiden confusion which had just appeared in the 
 countenance of this person now somewhat abated. She 
 lifted her eyes, and glanced by turns at me and at her 
 who sat by her side. An air of serious astonishment 
 overspread her features, and she seemed anxious for me 
 to proceed. The elder, meanwhile, betrayed the utmost 
 alarm, again upbraided my audacity, commanded me to 
 withdraw, and admonished me of the danger I incurred 
 by lingering. 
 
 I noticed not her interference, but again entreated to 
 know of the younger her true state. She had no time 
 to answer me, supposing her not to want the inclination, 
 for every pause was filled by the clamorous importunities 
 and menaces of the other. I began to perceive that my 
 attempts were useless to this end, but the chief and most 
 estimable purpose was attainable. It was in my power 
 to state the knowledge I possessed, through your means, 
 of Mrs. Villars and her daughters. This information 
 might be superfluous, since she to whom it was given 
 might be one of this licentious family. The contrary, 
 however, was not improbable, and my tidings, therefore, 
 might be of the utmost moment to her safety. 
 
 A resolute and even impetuous manner reduced my in 
 cessant interrupter to silence. What I had to say, I com 
 pressed in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity and 
 candour with the utmost care. I still held the hand that I 
 had taken, and fixed my eyes upon her countenance with 
 a steadfastness that hindered her from lifting her eyes. 
 
 " I know you not ; whether you be dissolute or chaste, 
 J cannot tell. In either case, however, what I am going
 
 106 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to say will be useful. Let me faithfully repent what I 
 have heard. It is mere rumour, and I vouch not for its 
 truth. Rumour as it is, I submit it to your judgment, 
 and hope that it may guide you into paths of innocence 
 and honour. 
 
 "Mrs. Villars and her three daughters are English 
 women, who supported for a time an unblemished reputa 
 tion, but who, at length, were suspected of carrying on 
 the trade of prostitution. This secret could not be con 
 cealed forever. The profligates who frequented their 
 house betrayed them. One of them, who died under 
 their roof, after they had withdrawn from it into the 
 country, disclosed to his kinsman, who attended his 
 death-bed, their genuine character. 
 
 " The dying man likewise related incidents in which I 
 am deeply concerned. I have been connected with one 
 by name Welbeck. In his house I met an unfortunate 
 girl, who was afterwards removed to Mrs. Villars s. Her 
 name was Clemenza Lodi. Residence in this house, under 
 the control of a woman like Mrs. Villars and her daugh 
 ters, must be injurious to her innocence, and from this 
 control I now come to rescue her." 
 
 I turned to the elder, and continued, " By all that 
 is sacred, I adjure you to tell me whether Clemenza Lodi 
 be under this roof! If she be not, whither has she gone ? 
 To know this I came hither, and any difficulty or reluct 
 ance in answering will be useless ; till an answer be ob 
 tained, I will not go hence." 
 
 During this speech, anger had been kindling in the 
 bosom of this woman. It now burst upon me in a tor 
 rent of opprobrious epithets. I was a villain, a calum 
 niator, a thief. I had lurked about the house, till those 
 whose sex and strength enabled them to cope with me 
 had gone. I had entered these doors by fraud. I was a 
 wretch, guilty of the last excesses of insolence and insult. 
 
 To repel these reproaches, or endure them, was equally 
 useless. The satisfaction that I sought was only to be 
 gained by searching the house. I left the room without 
 speaking. Did I act illegally in passing from one story 
 and one room to another? Did 1 really deserve the im 
 putations of rashness and insolence ? My behaviour, I
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. IO/ 
 
 well know, was ambiguous and hazardous, and perhaps 
 wanting in discretion, but my motives were unques 
 tionably pure. I aimed at nothing but the rescue of a 
 human creature from distress and dishonour. 
 
 I pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age ; to 
 the praise of forethought or subtlety. I choose the ob 
 vious path, and pursue it with headlong expedition. Good 
 intentions, unaided by knowledge, will, perhaps, produce 
 more injury than benefit, and therefore knowledge must 
 be gained, but the acquisition is not momentary; is not 
 bestowed unasked and untoiled for. Meanwhile, we must 
 not be inactive because we are ignorant. Our good pur 
 poses must hurry to performance, whether our know 
 ledge be greater or less.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 To explore the house in this manner was so contrary 
 to ordinary rules, that the design was probably wholly 
 unsuspected by the women whom I had just left. My 
 silence, at parting, might have been ascribed by them to 
 the intimidating influence of invectives and threats. 
 Hence I proceeded in my search without interruption. 
 
 Presently I reached a front chamber in the third story. 
 The door was ajar. I entered it on tiptoe. Sitting on 
 a low chair by the fire, I beheld a female figure, dressed 
 in a negligent but not indecent manner. Her face, in 
 the posture in which she sat, was only half seen. Its 
 hues were sickly and pale, and in mournful unison with 
 a feeble and emaciated form. Her eyes were fixed upon 
 a babe that lay stretched upon a pillow at her feet. The 
 child, like its mother, for such she was readily imagined 
 to be, was meagre and cadaverous. Either it was dead, 
 or could not be very distant from death. 
 
 The features of Clemenza were easily recognised, 
 though no contrast could be greater, in habit and shape 
 and complexion, than that which her present bore to her 
 former appearance. All her roses had faded, and her 
 brilliancies vanished. Still, however, there was somewhat 
 fitted to awaken the tenderest emotions. There were 
 tokens of inconsolable distress. 
 
 Her attention was wholly absorbed by the child. She 
 lifted not her eyes till I came close to her and stood 
 before her. When she discovered me, a faint start was 
 perceived. She looked at me for a moment, then, putting 
 one spread hand before her eyes, she stretched out the 
 other towards the door, and waving it in silence, as if to 
 admonish me to depart.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 09 
 
 This motion, however emphatical, I could not obey. 
 I wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what 
 words to claim it. I was silent. In a moment she re 
 moved her hand from her eyes, and looked at me with 
 new eagerness. Her features bespoke emotions which, 
 perhaps, flowed from my likeness to her brother, joined 
 with the memory of my connection with Welbeck. 
 
 My situation was full of embarrassment. I was by 
 no means certain that my language would be understood. 
 I knew not in what light the policy and dissimulation of 
 Welbeck might have taught her to regard me. What 
 proposal, conducive to her comfort and her safety, could 
 I make to her? 
 
 Once more she covered her eyes, and exclaimed, in a 
 feeble voice, "Go away! begone!" 
 
 As if satisfied with this effort, she resumed her atten 
 tion to her child. She stooped and lifted it in her arms, 
 gazing, meanwhile, on its almost lifeless features with 
 intense anxiety. She crushed it to her bosom, and, 
 again looking at me, repeated, "Go away! go away! 
 begone !" 
 
 There was somewhat in the lines of her face, in her 
 tones and gestures, that pierced to my heart. Added to 
 this, was my knowledge of her condition ; her friendless- 
 ness ; her poverty ; the pangs of unrequited love ; and 
 her expiring infant. I felt my utterance choked, and 
 my tears struggling for passage. I turned to the win 
 dow, and endeavoured to regain my tranquillity. 
 
 " What was it," said I, " that brought me hither? The 
 perfidy of Welbeck must surely have long since been dis 
 covered. What can I tell her of the Villars which she 
 does not already know, or of which the knowledge will 
 be useful ? If their treatment has been just, why should 
 I detract from their merit ? If it has been otherwise, 
 their own conduct will have disclosed their genuine cha 
 racter. Though voluptuous themselves, it does not follow 
 that they have laboured to debase this creature. Though 
 wanton, they may not be inhuman. 
 
 " I can propose no change in her condition for the 
 better. Should she be willing to leave this house, whither 
 is it in my power to conduct her? Oh that I were rich
 
 HO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 enough to provide food for the hungry, shelter for the 
 houseless, and raiment for the naked!" 
 
 I was roused from these fruitless reflections by the 
 lady, whom some sudden thought induced to place the 
 child in its bed, and, rising, to come towards me. The 
 utter dejection which her features lately betrayed was 
 now changed for an air of anxious curiosity. " Where," 
 said she, in her broken English, " where is Signor 
 Welbeck ?" 
 
 "Alas!" returned I, "I know not. That question 
 might, I thought, with more propriety be put to you 
 than me." 
 
 "I know where he be ; I fear where he be." 
 
 So saying, the deepest sighs burst from her heart. 
 She turned from me, and, going to the child, took it 
 again into her lap. Its pale and sunken cheek was 
 quickly wet with the mother s tears, which, as she 
 silently hung over it, dropped fast from her eyes. 
 
 This demeanour could not but awaken curiosity, while 
 it gave a new turn to my thoughts. I began to suspect 
 that in the tokens which I saw there was not only dis 
 tress for her child, but concern for the fate of Welbeck. 
 "Know you," said I, "where Mr. Welbeck is? Is he 
 alive ? Is he near ? Is he in calamity ?" 
 
 "I do not know if he be alive. He be sick. He be 
 in prison. They will not let me go to him. And" 
 here her attention and mine was attracted by the infant, 
 whose frame, till now motionless, began to be tremulous. 
 Its features sunk into a more ghastly expression. Its 
 breathings were difficult, and every effort to respire pro 
 duced a convulsion harder than the last. 
 
 The mother easily interpreted these tokens. The 
 same mortal struggle seemed to take place in her fea 
 tures as in those of her child. At length her agony 
 found way in a piercing shriek. The struggle in the 
 infant was past. Hope looked in vain for a new motion 
 in its heart or its eyelids. The lips were closed, and its 
 breath was gone forever ! 
 
 The grief which overwhelmed the unhappy parent was 
 of that outrageous and desperate kind which is wholly 
 incompatible with thinking. A few incoherent motions
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR i?93- HI 
 
 and screams, that rent the soul, were followed by a deep 
 swoon. She sunk upon the floor, pale and lifeless as 
 her babe. 
 
 I need not describe the pangs which such a scene was 
 adapted to produce in me. These were rendered more 
 acute by the helpless and ambiguous situation in which 
 I was placed. I was eager to bestow consolation and 
 succour, but was destitute of all means. I was plunged 
 into uncertainties and doubts. I gazed alternately at 
 the infant and its mother. I sighed. I wept. I even 
 sobbed. I stooped down and took the lifeless hand of 
 the sufferer. I bathed it with my tears, and exclaimed, 
 " Ill-fated woman ! unhappy mother ! what shall I do 
 for thy relief? How shall I blunt the edge of this cala 
 mity, arid rescue thee from new evils?" 
 
 At this moment the door of the apartment was opened, 
 and the younger of the women whom I had seen below 
 entered. Her looks betrayed the deepest consternation 
 and anxiety. Her eyes in a moment were fixed by the 
 decayed form and the sad features of Clemenza. She 
 shuddered at this spectacle, but was silent. She stood 
 in the midst of the floor, fluctuating and bewildered. I 
 dropped the hand that I was holding, and approached her. 
 
 "You have come," said I, "in good season. I know 
 you not, but will believe you to be good. You have a 
 heart, it may be, not free from corruption, but it is still 
 capable of pity for the miseries of others. You have a 
 hand that refuses not its aid to the unhappy. See ; 
 there is an infant dead. There is a mother whom grief 
 has, for a time, deprived of life. She has been oppressed 
 and betrayed ; been robbed of property and reputation 
 but not of innocence. She is worthy of relief. Have 
 you arms to receive her ? Have you sympathy, protec 
 tion, and a home to bestow upon a forlorn, betrayed, 
 and unhappy stranger ? I know not what this house is ; 
 I suspect it to be no better than a brothel. I know not 
 what treatment this woman has received. When her 
 situation and wants are ascertained, will you supply her 
 wants ? Will you rescue her from evils that may attend 
 her continuance here?" 
 
 She was disconcerted and bewildered by this address.
 
 112 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 At length she said, "All that has happened, all that 1 
 have heard and seen, is so unexpected, so strange, that 
 I am amazed and distracted. Your behaviour I cannot 
 comprehend, nor your motive for making this address to 
 me. I cannot answer you, except in one respect. If 
 this woman has suffered injury, I have had no part in it. 
 I knew not of her existence nor her situation till this mo 
 ment ; and whatever protection or assistance she may 
 justly claim, I am both able and willing to bestow. I 
 do not live here, but in the city. I am only an occa 
 sional visitant in this house." 
 
 "What, then !" I exclaimed, with sparkling eyes and 
 a rapturous accent, "you are not profligate ; are a 
 stranger to the manners of this house, and a detester 
 of these manners ? Be not a deceiver, I entreat you. I 
 depend only on your looks and professions, and these 
 may be dissembled." 
 
 These questions, which indeed argued a childish sim 
 plicity, excited her surprise. She looked at me, uncer 
 tain whether I was in earnest or in jest. At length she 
 said, " Your language is so singular, that I am at a loss 
 how to answer it. I shall take no pains to find out its 
 meaning, but leave you to form conjectures at leisure. 
 Who is this woman, and how can I serve her?" After 
 a pause, she continued: "I cannot afford her any im 
 mediate assistance, and shall not stay a moment longer 
 in this house. There" (putting a card in my hand) "is 
 my name and place of abode. If you shall have any 
 proposals to make, respecting this woman, I shall be 
 ready to receive them in my own house." So saying, 
 she withdrew. 
 
 I looked wistfully after her, but could not but assent 
 to her assertion, that her presence here would be more 
 injurious to her than beneficial to Clemenza. She had 
 scarcely gone, when the elder woman entered. There 
 was rage, sullenness, and disappointment in her aspect. 
 These, however, were suspended by the situation in 
 which she discovered the mother and child. It waa 
 plain that all the sentiments of woman were not extin 
 guished in her heart. She summoned the servants and 
 seemed preparing to take such measures as the occasion
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /7?J. 113 
 
 prescribed. I now saw the folly of supposing that these 
 measures would be neglected, and that my presence 
 could not essentially contribute to the benefit of the 
 sufferer. Still, however, I lingered in the room, till the 
 infant was covered with a cloth, and the still senseless 
 parent was conveyed into an adjoining chamber. The 
 woman then, as if she had not seen me before, fixed 
 scowling eyes upon me, and exclaimed, "Thief! villain! 
 why do you stay here (" 
 
 "I mean to go," said I, "but not till I express my 
 gratitude arid pleasure at the sight of your attention to 
 this sufferer. You deem me insolent and perverse, but 
 I am not such ; and hope that the day will come .when I 
 shall convince you of my good intentions." 
 
 "Begone!" interrupted she, in a more angry tone. 
 "Begone this moment, or I will treat you as a thief." 
 She now drew forth her hand from under her gown, 
 and showed a pistol. "You shall see," she continued, 
 "that I will not be insulted with impunity. If you do 
 not vanish, I will shoot you as a robber." 
 
 This woman was far from wanting a force and in 
 trepidity worthy of a different sex. Her gestures and 
 tones were full of energy. They denoted a haughty and 
 indignant spirit. It was plain that she conceived her 
 self deeply injured by my conduct ; and was it abso 
 lutely certain that her anger was without reason ? I 
 had loaded her house with atrocious imputations, and 
 these imputations might be false. I had conceived them 
 upon such evidence as chance had provided ; but this 
 evidence, intricate and dubious as human actions and 
 motives are, might be void of truth. 
 
 "Perhaps," said I, in a sedate tone, "I have injured 
 you; I have mistaken your character. You shall n<t 
 find me less ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this in 
 jury. My error was without malice, and " 
 
 1 had not time to finish the sentence, when this rash 
 and enraged woman thrust the pistol close to my head 
 and fired it. I was wholly unaware that her fury would 
 lead her to this excess. It was a sort of mechanical im 
 pulse that made me raise my hand and attempt to turn
 
 114 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 aside the weapon. I did this deliberately and tranquilly, 
 and without conceiving that any thing more was intended 
 by her movement than to intimidate me. To this pre 
 caution, however, I was indebted for life. The bullet 
 was diverted from my forehead to my left ear, and made 
 a slight wound upon the surface, from which the blood 
 gushed in a stream. 
 
 The loudness of this explosion, and the shock which 
 the ball produced in my brain, sunk me into a mo 
 mentary stupor. I reeled backward, and should have 
 fallen, had not I supported myself against the wall. 
 The sight of my blood instantly restored her reason. 
 Her rage disappeared, and was succeeded by terror and 
 remorse. She clasped her hands, and exclaimed, " Oh ! 
 what ! what have I done ? My frantic passion has de 
 stroyed me." 
 
 I needed no long time to show me the full extent of 
 the injury which I had suffered and the conduct which 
 it became me to adopt. For a moment I was bewildered 
 and alarmed, but presently perceived that this was an 
 incident more productive of good than of evil. It would 
 teach me caution in contending with the passions of an 
 other, and showed me that there is a limit which the 
 impetuosities of anger will sometimes overstep. Instead 
 of reviling my companion, I addressed myself to her 
 thus : 
 
 "Be not frighted. You have done me no injury, and, 
 I hope, will derive instruction from this event. Your 
 rashness had like to have sacrificed the life of one who 
 is your friend, and to ha.ve exposed yourself to infamy 
 and death, or, at least, to the pangs of eternal remorse. 
 Learn from hence to curb your passions, and especially 
 to keep at a distance from every murderous weapon, oil 
 occasions when rage is likely to take place of reason. 
 
 "I repeat that my motives in entering this house were 
 connected with your happiness as well as that of Cle- 
 menza Lodi. If I have erred in supposing you the 
 member of a vile and pernicious trade, that error was 
 worthy of being rectified, but violence and invective tend 
 only to confirm it. I am incapable of any purpose that 
 is not beneficent; but, in the means that I use and in
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 11$ 
 
 the evidence on which I proceed, I am liable to a thou 
 sand mistakes. Point out to me the road by which I can 
 do you good, and I will cheerfully pursue it." 
 
 Finding that her fears had been groundless as to the 
 consequences of her rashness, she renewed, though with 
 less vehemence than before, her imprecations on my in 
 termeddling and audacious folly. I listened till the 
 storm was nearly exhausted, and then, declaring my in 
 tention to revisit the house if the interest of Clemcnza 
 should require it, I resumed my way to the city.
 
 CHAPTER \\.\vi. 
 
 .*" said L as I basted iarvird. -is mj fortaae 
 an alnaaaat in unforeseen ceancaces ? I* e~f 
 
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 perils as lia-T-e tnauneilei.! 21 j aepg? or is inj scun.-? in- 
 
 ieccai for vajiecy iiI ciaJLze :o ZLJ pr^persiiT to look 
 - - - - . _ .. . - . .- -> - 
 
 spirit. I left die 
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 late 0ti ma.T be mat efeitsallT anecovz^d. It 
 wise taJce i^r fnm aer pr^sem *b>ie, aai 
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 ie naj zrmdaaJIj k.ee roaoaanxM* of I^r -lead 
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 Jt^MOZZS OF THE TEA* *?&. 
 
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 e, least, asttertM
 
 Il8 ARTHUR MERVYN; Off, 
 
 ment in repairing the wrongs which thou hast inflicted 
 Let me gain, from the contemplation of thy misery, new 
 motives to sincerity and rectitude." 
 
 While occupied by these reflections, I entered the city. 
 The thoughts which engrossed my mind related to Wei- 
 beck. It is not my custom to defer till to-morrow what 
 can be done to-day. The destiny of man frequently 
 hangs upon the lapse of a minute. "I will stop," said 
 I, "at the prison; and, since the moment of my arrival 
 may not be indifferent, I will go thither with all possible 
 haste." I did not content myself with walking, but, 
 regardless of the comments of passengers, hurried along 
 the way at full speed. 
 
 Having inquired for Welbeck, I was conducted through 
 a dark room, crowded with beds, to a staircase. Never 
 before had I been in a prison. Never had I smelt so 
 noisome an odour, or surveyed faces so begrimed with 
 filth and misery. The walls and floors were alike squalid 
 and detestable. It seemed that in this house existence 
 would be bereaved of all its attractions; and yet those 
 faces, which could be seen through the obscurity that 
 encompassed them, were either void of care or distorted 
 with mirth. 
 
 "This," said I, as I followed my conductor, "is the 
 residence of Welbeck. What contrasts are these to the 
 repose and splendour, pictured walls, glossy hangings, 
 gilded sofas, mirrors that occupied from ceiling to floor, 
 carpets of Tauris, and the spotless and transcendent 
 brilliancy of coverlets and napkins, in thy former dwell 
 ing ! Here brawling and the shuffling of rude feet are 
 eternal. The air is -loaded with the exhalations of dis 
 ease and the fumes of debauchery. Thou art cooped up 
 in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to share thy 
 narrow cell with some stupid ruffian. Formerly, the 
 breezes were courted by thy lofty windows. Aromatic 
 shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. Menials, splendid 
 in apparel, showed their faces with diffidence in thy 
 apartment, trod lightly on thy marble floor, and suffered 
 not the sanctity of silence to be troubled by a whisper. 
 Thy lamp shot its rays through the transparency of ala 
 baster, and thy fragrant lymph flowed from vases of
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 119 
 
 porcelain. Such were formerly the decorations of thy 
 hall, the embellishments of thy existence; hut now 
 alas! " 
 
 We reached a chamber in the second story. My con 
 ductor knocked at the door. No one answered. Re 
 peated knocks were unheard or unnoticed by the person 
 within. At length, lifting a latch, we entered together. 
 
 The prisoner lay upon the bed, with his face turned 
 from the door. I advanced softly, making a sign to the 
 keeper to withdraw. Welbeck was not asleep, but merely 
 buried in reverie. I was unwilling to disturb his musing, 
 and stood with my eyes fixed upon his form. He ap 
 peared unconsious that any one had entered. 
 
 At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture, 
 and perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude. 
 Recollect in what circumstances we had last parted. 
 Welbeck had, no doubt, carried away with him from that 
 interview a firm belief that I should speedily die. His 
 prognostic, however, was fated to be contradicted. 
 
 His first emotions were those of surprise. These gave 
 place to mortification and rage. After eyeing me for 
 some time, he averted his glances, and that effort which 
 is made to dissipate some obstacle to breathing showed 
 me that his sensations were of the most excruciating 
 kind. He laid his head upon the pillow, and sunk into 
 his former musing. He disdained, or was unable, to 
 utter a syllabic of welcome or contempt. 
 
 In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view 
 his countenance, I had observed tokens of a kind very 
 different from those which used to be visible. The 
 gloomy and malignant were more conspicuous. Health 
 had forsaken his cheeks, and taken along with it those 
 flexible parts which formerly enabled him to cover his 
 secret torments and insidious purposes beneath a veil of 
 benevolence and cheerfulness. "Alas!" said I, loud 
 enough for him to hear me, " here is a monument of ruin. 
 Despair and mischievous passions are too deeply rooted 
 in this heart for me to tear them away." 
 
 These expressions did not escape his notice. He 
 turned once more and cast sullen looks upon me. There 
 was somewhat in his eyes that made me shudder. They
 
 120 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 denoted that his reverie was not that of grief, but of 
 madness. I continued, in a less steadfast voice than 
 before : 
 
 " Unhappy Clemenza ! I have performed thy message. 
 I have visited him that is sick and in prison. Thou 
 hadst cause for anguish and terror, even greater cause 
 than thou imaginedst. Would to God that thou wouldst 
 be contented with the report which I shall make ; that 
 thy misguided tenderness would consent to leave him to 
 his destiny, would suffer him to die alone; but that is a 
 forbearance which no eloquence that I possess will in 
 duce thee to practise. Thou must come, and witness for 
 thyself." 
 
 In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects 
 which would be produced on the mind of Welbeck. I 
 was far from intending to instil into him a belief that 
 Clemenza was near at hand, and was preparing to enter 
 his apartment; yet no other images but these would, 
 perhaps, have roused him from his lethargy, and 
 awakened that attention which I wished to awaken. 
 He started up, and gazed fearfully at the door. 
 
 "What!" he cried. "What! Is she here? Ye 
 powers, that have scattered woes in my path, spare me 
 the sight of her! But from this agony I will rescue 
 myself. The moment she appears I will pluck out these 
 eyes and dash them at her feet." 
 
 So saying, he gazed with augmented eagerness upon 
 the door. His hands were lifted to his head, as if ready 
 to execute his frantic purpose. I seized his arm and 
 besought him to lay aside his terror, for that Clemenza 
 was far distant. She had no intention, and besides was 
 unable, to visit him. 
 
 "Then I am respited. I breathe again. No; keep 
 her from a prison. Drag her to the wheel or to the 
 scaffold; mangle her with stripes; torture her with 
 famine ; strangle her child before her face, and cast it 
 to the hungry dogs that are howling at the gate; but 
 keep her from a prison. Never let her enter these 
 doors." There he stopped; his eyes being fixed on the 
 floor, and his thoughts once more buried in reverie. I 
 resumed :
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR tjgj. 121 
 
 "She is occupied with other griefs than those con 
 nected with the fate of Welbcck. She is not unmindful 
 of you; she knows you to be sick and in prison ; and I 
 came to do for you whatever office your condition might 
 require, and I came at her suggestion. She, alas! has 
 full employment for her tears in watering the grave of 
 her child." 
 
 He started. "What ! dead ? Say you that the child 
 is dead?" 
 
 " It is dead. I witnessed its death. I saw it expire 
 in the arms of its mother ; that mother whom I formerly 
 met under your roof blooming and gay, but whom ca 
 lamity has tarnished and withered. I saw her in the 
 raiment of poverty, under an accursed roof; desolate; 
 alone; unsolaced by the countenance or sympathy of 
 human beings; approached only by those who mock at 
 her distress, set snares for her innocence, and push her 
 to infamy. I saw her leaning over the face of her dying 
 babe." 
 
 Welbeck put his hands to his head, and exclaimed, 
 " Curses on thy lips, infernal messenger ! Chant else 
 where thy rueful ditty ! Vanish ! if thou wouldst not 
 feel in thy heart fangs red with blood less guilty than 
 thine." 
 
 Till this moment the uproar in Welbcck s mind ap 
 peared to hinder him from distinctly recognising his 
 visitant. Now it seemed as if the incidents of our last 
 interview suddenly sprung up in his remembrance. 
 
 "What! This is the villain that rifled my cabinet, 
 the maker of my poverty and of all the evils which it 
 has since engendered ! That has led me to a prison ! 
 Execrable fool ! you are the author of the scene that 
 you describe, and of horrors without number and name. 
 To whatever crimes I have been urged since that inter 
 view, and the fit of madness that made you destroy my 
 property, they spring from your act; they flowed from 
 necessity, which, had you held your hand at that fateful 
 moment, would never have existed. 
 
 "How dare you thrust yourself upon my privacy? 
 Why am I not alone ? Fly ! and let my miseries want, 
 at least, the aggravation of beholding their author. My
 
 122 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 eyes loathe the sight of thee ! My heart would suffocate 
 thee with its own bitterness ! Begone !" 
 
 "I know not," I answered, "why innocence should 
 tremble at the ravings of a lunatic; why it should be 
 overwhelmed by unmerited reproaches ! Why it should 
 not deplore the errors of its foe, labour to correct those 
 errors, and " 
 
 "Thank thy fate, youth, that my hands are tied up 
 by my scorn; thank thy fate that no weapon is within 
 reach. Much has passed since I saw thee, and I am a 
 new man. I am no longer inconstant and cowardly. I 
 have no motives but contempt to hinder me from expi 
 ating the wrongs which thou hast done me in thy blood. 
 I disdain to take thy life. Go; and let thy fidelity, at 
 least, to the confidence which I have placed in thee, be 
 inviolate. Thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, 
 if thou wilt, still more. Thou canst betray the secrets that 
 are lodged in thy bosom, and rob me of the comfort of 
 reflecting that my guilt is known but to one among the 
 living." 
 
 This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the 
 past. I had confided this man s tale to you. The se 
 crecy on which he so fondly leaned was at an end. Had 
 I acted culpably or not ? 
 
 But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt, 
 upon the past? The future was within my power, and 
 the road of my duty was too plain to be mistaken. I would 
 disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfully encounter 
 every consequence. I would summon my friend to my 
 aid, and take his counsel in the critical emergency in 
 which I was placed. I ought not to rely upon myself 
 alone in my efforts to benefit this being, when another 
 was so near whose discernment and benevolence, and 
 knowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief, 
 were far superior to mine. 
 
 Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment 
 without speaking ; and, procuring pen and paper, de 
 spatched to you the billet which brought about our 
 meeting.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 MERVYN S auditors allowed no pause in their attention 
 to this story. Having ended, a deep silence took place. 
 The clock which stood upon the mantel had sounded 
 twice the customary larum, but had not been heard by 
 us. It was now struck a third time. It was one. Our 
 guest appeared somewhat startled at this signal, and 
 looked, with a mournful sort of earnestness, at the clock. 
 There was an air of inquietude about him which I had 
 never observed in an equal degree before. 
 
 I was not without much curiosity respecting other in 
 cidents than those which had just been related by him ; 
 but, after so much fatigue as he had undergone, I thought 
 it improper to prolong the conversation. 
 
 "Come," said I, "my friend, let us to bed. This is 
 a drowsy time, and, after so much exercise of mind and 
 body, you cannot but need some repose. Much has hap 
 pened in your absence, which is proper to be known to 
 you ; but our discourse will be best deferred till to 
 morrow. I will come into your chamber by day-dawn, 
 and unfold to you particulars." 
 
 "Nay," said he, "withdraw not on my account. If I 
 go to my chamber, it will not be to sleep, but to meditate, 
 especially after your assurance that something of moment 
 has occurred in my absence. My thoughts, independently 
 of any cause of sorrow or fear, have received an impulse 
 which solitude and darkness will not stop. It is impos 
 sible to know too much for our safety and integrity, or 
 to know it too soon. What has happened ?" 
 
 I did not hesitate to comply with his request, for it 
 was not difficult to conceive that, however tired the limbs 
 might be, the adventures of this day would not be easily 
 
 123
 
 124 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 expelled from the memory at night. I told him the sub 
 stance of the conversation with Mrs. Althorpc. Ho smiled 
 at those parts of the narrative which related to himself; 
 but when his father s depravity and poverty were men 
 tioned, he melted into tears. 
 
 "Poor wretch ! I, that knew thee in thy better days, 
 might have easily divined this consequence. I foresaw 
 thy poverty and degradation in the same hour that I left 
 thy roof. My soul drooped at the prospect, but I said, 
 It cannot be prevented, and this reflection was an anti 
 dote to grief; but, now that thy ruin is complete, it 
 Beems as if some of it were imputable to me, who forsook 
 thee when the succour and counsel of a son were most 
 needed. Thou art ignorant and vicious, but thou art my 
 father still. I see that the sufferings of a better man 
 than thou art would less afflict me than thine. Perhaps 
 it is still in my power to restore thy liberty and good 
 name, and yet that is a fond wish. Thou art past the 
 age when the ignorance and grovelling habits of a human 
 being are susceptible of cure." There he stopped, and, 
 after a gloomy pause, continued : 
 
 I am not surprised or afflicted at the misconceptions 
 of my neighbours with relation to my own character. 
 Men must judge from what they see; they must build 
 their conclusions on their knowledge. I never saw in 
 the rebukes of my neighbours any thing but laudable 
 abhorrence of vice. They were too eager to blame, to 
 collect materials of censure rather than of praise. It 
 was not me whom they hated and despised. It was the 
 phantom that passed under my name, which existed only 
 in their imagination, and which was worthy of all their 
 scorn and all their enmity. 
 
 What I appeared to be in their eyes was as much the 
 object of my own disapprobation as of theirs. Their re 
 proaches only evinced the rectitude of their decisions, as 
 well as of my own. I drew from them new motives to 
 complacency. They fortified my perseverance in the path 
 which I had chosen as best ; they raised me higher in my 
 own esteem ; they heightened the claims of the reproachers 
 themselves to uiy respect and my gratitude.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 125 
 
 They thought me slothful, incurious, destitute of know 
 ledge and of all thirst of knowledge, insolent, and pro 
 fligate. They say that in the treatment of my father I 
 have been ungrateful and inhuman. I have stolen his 
 property, and deserted him in his calamity. Therefore 
 they hate and revile me. It is well ; I love them for 
 these proofs of their discernment and integrity. Their 
 indignation at wrong is the truest test of their virtue. 
 
 It is true that they mistake me, but that arises from 
 the circumstances of our mutual situation. They exa 
 mined what was exposed to their view , they grasped at 
 what was placed within their reach. To decide contrary 
 to appearances, to judge from what they knew not, 
 would prove them to be brutish and not rational, would 
 make their decision of no worth, and render them, in their 
 turn, objects of neglect and contempt. 
 
 It is true that I hated school ; that I sought occasions 
 of absence, and finally, on being struck by the master, 
 determined to enter his presence no more. I loved to leap, 
 to run, to swim, to climb trees and to clamber up rocks, 
 to shroud myself in thickets and stroll among woods, to 
 obey the impulse of the moment, and to prate or be silent, 
 just as my humour prompted me. All this I loved more 
 than to go to and fro in the same path, and at stated 
 hours to look off and on a book, to read just as much 
 and of such a kind, to stand up and be seated, just as 
 another thought proper to direct. I hated to be classed, 
 cribbed, rebuked, and feruled at the pleasure of one who, 
 as it seemed to me, knew no guide in his rewards but 
 caprice, and no prompter in his punishments but passion. 
 
 It is true that I took up the spade and the hoe as 
 rarely, and for as short a time, as possible. I preferred 
 to ramble in the forest and loiter on the hill ; perpetually 
 to change the scene ; to scrutinize the endless variety of 
 objects ; to compare one leaf and pebble with another ; 
 to pursue those trains of thought which their resem 
 blances and differences suggested ; to inquire what it 
 was that gave them this place, structure, and form, 
 were more agreeable employments than ploughing and 
 threshing. 
 
 My father could well afford to hire labour. What my
 
 126 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 age and my constitution enabled me to do could be done 
 by a sturdy boy, in half the time, with half the toil, and 
 with none of the reluctance. The boy was a bond 
 servant, and the cost of his clothing and food was next 
 to nothing. True it is, that my service would have saved 
 him even this expense, but my motives for declining the 
 effort were not hastily weighed or superficially examined. 
 These were my motives. 
 
 My frame was delicate and feeble. Exposure to wet 
 blasts and vertical suns was sure to make me sick. My 
 father was insensible to this consequence ; and no de 
 gree of diligence would please him but that which would 
 destroy my health. My health was dearer to my mother 
 than to me. She was more anxious to exempt me from 
 possible injuries than reason justified ; but anxious she 
 was, and I could not save her from anxiety but by almost 
 wholly abstaining from labour. I thought her peace of 
 mind was of some value, and that, if the inclination of 
 either of my parents must be gratified at the expense 
 of the other, the preference was due to the woman who 
 bore me ; who nursed me in disease ; who watched over 
 my safety with incessant tenderness ; whose life and 
 whose peace were involved in mine. I should have 
 deemed myself brutish and obdurately wicked to have 
 loaded her with fears and cares merely to smooth the 
 brow of a fro ward old man, whose avarice called on me 
 to sacrifice my ease and my health, and who shifted to 
 other shoulders the province of sustaining me when sick, 
 and of mourning for me when dead. 
 
 I likewise believed that it became me to reflect upon 
 the influence of my decision on my own happiness ; and 
 to weigh the profits flowing to my father from my labour, 
 against the benefits of mental exercise, the pleasures of 
 the woods and streams, healthful sensations, and the 
 luxury of musing. The pecuniary profit was petty and 
 contemptible. It obviated no necessity. It purchased 
 no rational enjoyment. It merely provoked, by furnish 
 ing the means of indulgence, an appetite from which my 
 father was not exempt. It cherished the seeds of de 
 pravity in him, and lessened the little stock of happiness 
 belonging to my mother.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR H93- 
 
 I did not detain you long, ray friends, in portraying 
 my parents, and recounting domestic incidents, when I 
 first told you my story. What had no connection with 
 the history of Welbeck and with the part that I have 
 acted upon this stage I thought it proper to omit. My 
 omission was likewise prompted by other reasons. My 
 mind is enervated and feeble, like my body. I cannot 
 look upon the sufferings of those I love without exquisite 
 pain. I cannot steel my heart by the force of reason, 
 and by submission to necessity ; and, therefore, too fre 
 quently employ the cowardly expedient of endeavouring 
 to forget what I cannot remember without agony. 
 
 I told you that my father was sober and industrious by 
 habit ; but habit is not uniform. There were intervals 
 when his plodding and tame spirit gave place to the malice 
 and fury of a demon. Liquors were not sought by him; 
 but he could not withstand entreaty, and a potion that pro 
 duced no effect upon others changed him into a maniac. 
 
 I told you that I had a sister, whom the arts of a vil 
 lain destroyed. Alas ! the work of her destruction was 
 left unfinished by him. The blows and contumelies of a 
 misjudging and implacable parent, who scrupled not to 
 thrust her, with her new-born infant, out of doors ; the 
 curses and taunts of unnatural brothers, left her no alter 
 native but death. But I must not think of this ; I must 
 
 not think of the wrongs which my mother endured in the 
 person of her only and darling daughter. 
 
 My brothers were the copyists of the father, whom 
 they resembled in temper and person. My mother doted 
 on her own image in her daughter and in me. This 
 daughter was ravished from her by self-violence, and her 
 other children by disease. I only remained to appro 
 priate her affections and fulfil her hopes. This alone 
 had furnished a sufficient reason why I should be careful 
 of my health and my life, but my father s character sup 
 plied me with a motive infinitely more cogent. 
 
 It is almost incredible, but nevertheless true, that the 
 only being whose presence and remonstrances had any 
 influence on m y father, at moments when his reason was 
 extinct, was myself. As to my personal strength, it was 
 nothing ; yet my mother s person was rescued from brutal
 
 128 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 * 
 
 violence; he was checked, in the midst of his ferocious 
 career, by a single look or exclamation from me. The 
 fear of my rebukes had even some influence in enabling 
 him to resist temptation. ]f 1 entered the tavern at 
 the moment when he was lifting the glass to his lips, I 
 never weighed the injunctions of decorum, but, snatching 
 the vessel from his hand, I threw it on the ground. I 
 was not deterred by the presence of others; and their 
 censures on my want of filial respect and duty were 
 listened to with unconcern. I chose not to justify my 
 self by expatiating on domestic miseries, and by calling 
 down that pity on my mother which I knew would only 
 have increased her distress. 
 
 The world regarded my deportment as insolent and 
 perverse to a degree of insanity. To deny my father 
 an indulgence which they thought harmless, and which, 
 indeed, was harmless in its influence on other men ; to 
 interfere thus publicly with his social enjoyments, and 
 expose him to mortification and shame, was loudly con 
 demned ; but my duty to ray mother debarred me from 
 eluding this censure on the only terms on which it could 
 have been eluded. Now it has ceased to be necessary 
 to conceal what passed in domestic retirements, and I 
 should willingly confess the truth before any audience. 
 
 At first my father imagined that threats and blows 
 would intimidate his monitor. In this he was mistaken, 
 and the detection of this mistake impressed him with an 
 involuntary reverence for me, which set bounds to those 
 excesses which disdained any other control. Hence I 
 derived new motives for cherishing a life which was 
 useful, in so many ways, to my mother. 
 
 My condition is now changed. I am no longer on 
 that field to which the law, as well as reason, must ac 
 knowledge that I had some right, while there was any 
 in my father. I must hazard my life, if need be, in the 
 pursuit of the means of honest subsistence. I never 
 spared myself while in the service of Mr. Hadwin ; and, 
 at a more inclement season, should probably have in 
 curred some hazard by my diligence. 
 
 These were the motives of my idleness, for my ab 
 staining from the common toils of the farm passed by
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 12$ 
 
 
 
 that name among my neighbours ; though, in truth, my 
 time was far from being wholly unoccupied by manual 
 employments, but these required less exertion of body or 
 mind, or were more connected with intellectual efforts. 
 They were pursued in the seclusion of my chamber or 
 the recesses of a wood. I did not labour to conceal 
 them, but neither was I anxious to attract notice. It 
 was sufficient that the censure of my neighbours was 
 unmerited, to make me regard it with indifference. 
 
 I sought not the society of persons of my own age, not 
 from sullen or unsociable habits, but merely because those 
 around me were totally unlike myself. Their tastes and 
 occupations were incompatible with mine. In my few 
 books, in my pen, in the vegetable and animal existences 
 around me, I found companions who adapted their visits 
 and intercourse to my convenience and caprice, and with 
 whom I was never tired of communing. 
 
 I was not unaware of the opinion which my neighbours 
 had formed of my being improperly connected with Betty 
 Lawrence. I am not sorry that I fell into company with 
 that girl. Her intercourse has instructed me in what some 
 would think impossible to be attained by one who had never 
 haunted the impure recesses of licentiousness in a city. 
 The knowledge which a residence in this town for ten 
 years gave her audacious and inquisitive spirit she im 
 parted to me. Her character, profligate and artful, 
 libidinous and impudent, and made up of the impressions 
 which a city life had produced on her coarse but active 
 mind, was open to my study, and I studied it. 
 
 I scarcely know how to repel the charge of illicit con 
 duct, and to depict the exact species of intercourse subsist 
 ing between us. I always treated her with freedom, and 
 sometimes with gayety. I had no motives to reserve. I 
 was so formed that a creature like her had no power over 
 my senses. That species of temptation adapted to entice 
 me from the true path was widely different from the arti 
 fices of Betty. There was no point at which it was pos 
 sible for her to get possession of rny fancy. I watched 
 her while she practised all her tricks and blandishments, 
 as I regarded a similar deportment in the animal salax 
 ignavumque who inhabits the sty. I made efforts to pur-
 
 130 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 
 
 sue my observations unembarrassed ; but my efforts were 
 made, not to restrain desire, but to suppress disgust. The 
 difficulty lay, not in withholding my caresses, but in for 
 bearing to repulse her with rage. 
 
 Decorum, indeed, was not outraged, and all limits were 
 not overstepped at once. Dubious advances were employed; 
 but, when found unavailing, were displaced by more 
 shameless and direct proceedings. She was too little 
 versed in human nature to see that her last expedient 
 was always worse than the preceding ; and that, in pro 
 portion as she lost sight of decency, she multiplied the 
 obstacles to her success. 
 
 Betty had many enticements in person and air. She 
 was ruddy, smooth, and plump. To these she added 
 I must not say what, for it is strange to what lengths a 
 woman destitute of modesty will sometimes go. But, all 
 her artifices availing her not at all in the contest with 
 my insensibilities, she resorted to extremes which it would 
 serve no good purpose to describe in this audience. They 
 produced not the consequences she wished, but they pro 
 duced another which was by no means displeasing to her. 
 An incident one night occurred, from which a sagacious 
 observer deduced the existence of an intrigue. It was 
 useless to attempt to rectify his mistake by explaining 
 appearances in a manner consistent with my innocence. 
 This mode of explication implied a continence in me 
 which he denied to be possible. The standard of possi 
 bilities, especially in vice and virtue, is fashioned by most 
 men after their own character. A temptation which this 
 judge of human nature knew that he was unable to resist, 
 he sagely concluded to be irresistible by any other man, 
 and quickly established the belief among my neighbours, 
 that the woman who married the father had been prosti 
 tuted to the son. Though I never admitted the truth of 
 this aspersion, I believed it useless to deny, because no 
 one would credit my denial, and because I had no power 
 to disprove it.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 WHAT other inquiries were to be resolved by our 
 young friend, we were now, at this late hour, obliged to 
 postpone till the morrow. I shall pass over the reflec 
 tions which a story like this would naturally suggest, 
 and hasten to our next interview. 
 
 After breakfast next morning, the subject of last night s 
 conversation was renewed. I told him that something 
 had occurred in his absence, in relation to Mrs. Went- 
 worth and her nephew, that had perplexed us not a little. 
 "My information is obtained," continued I, "from Wort- 
 ley ; and it is nothing less than that young Clavering, 
 Mrs. Wentworth s nephew, is, at this time, actually alive." 
 
 Surprise, but none of the embarrassment of guilt, ap 
 peared in his countenance at these tidings. He looked 
 at me as if desirous that I should proceed. 
 
 "It seems," added I, "that a letter was lately received 
 by this lady from the father of Clavering, who is now in 
 Europe. This letter reports that this son was lately met 
 with in Charleston, and relates the means which old Mr. 
 Clavering had used to prevail upon his son to return 
 home; means, of the success of which he entertained 
 well-grounded hopes. What think you?" 
 
 "I can only reject it," said he, after some pause, "as 
 untrue. The father s correspondent may have been de 
 ceived. The father may have been deceived, or the father 
 may conceive it necessary to deceive the aunt, or some 
 other supposition as to the source of the error may be 
 true ; but an error it surely is. Clavering is not alive. 
 I know the chamber where he died, and the withered 
 pine under which he lies buried." 
 
 "If she be deceived," said I, "it will be impossible 
 to rectify her error." 
 
 131
 
 132 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "I hope not. An honest front and a straight story 
 will be sufficient." 
 
 "How do you mean -to act?" 
 
 "Visit her, without doubt, and tell her the truth. My 
 tale will be too circumstantial and consistent to permit 
 her to disbelieve." 
 
 " She will not hearken to you. She is too strongly pre 
 possessed against you to admit you even to a hearing." 
 
 "She cannot help it. Unless she lock her door against 
 me, or stuff her ears with wool, she must hear me. Her 
 prepossessions are reasonable, but are easily removed by 
 telling the truth. Why does she suspect me of artifice ? 
 Because I seemed to be allied to Welbeck, and because 
 I disguised the truth. That she thinks ill of me is not 
 her fault, but my misfortune ; and, happily for me, a 
 misfortune easily removed." 
 
 "Then you will try to see her?" 
 
 "I will see her, and the sooner the better. I will see 
 her to-day ; this morning ; as soon as I have seen Wel 
 beck, whom I shall immediately visit in his prison." 
 
 "There are other embarrassments and dangers of 
 which you are not aware. Welbeck is pursued by many 
 persons whom he has defrauded of large sums. By these 
 persons you are deemed an accomplice in his guilt, and 
 a warrant is already in the hands of officers for arrest 
 ing you wherever you are found." 
 
 "In what way," said Mervyn, sedately, "do they 
 imagine me a partaker of his crime ?" 
 
 "I know not. You lived with him. You fled with 
 him. You aided and connived at his escape." 
 
 "Are these crimes?" 
 
 " I believe not, but they subject you to suspicion." 
 
 "To arrest and to punishment?" 
 
 " To detention for a while, perhaps. But these alone 
 cannot expose you to punishment." 
 
 "I thought so. Then I have nothing to fear." 
 
 "You have imprisonment and obloquy, at least, to 
 dread." 
 
 " True ; but they cannot be avoided but by my exile 
 and skulking out of sight, evils infinitely more formid 
 able. I shall, therefore, not avoid them. The sooner
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 133 
 
 my conduct is subjected to scrutiny, the better. Will 
 you go with me to Wclbeck ?" 
 
 "I will go with you." 
 
 Inquiring for Welbeck of the keeper of the prison, we 
 were informed that he was in his own apartment, very 
 sick. The physician attending the prison had been 
 called, but the prisoner had preserved an obstinate and 
 scornful silence ; and had neither explained his con 
 dition, nor consented to accept any aid. 
 
 We now went alone into his apartment. His sensi 
 bility seemed fast ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was 
 visible in his eyes at the appearance of Mervyn. He 
 seemed likewise to recognise in me his late visitant, and 
 made no objection to my entrance. 
 
 "How are you this morning?" said Arthur, seating 
 himself on the bedside, and taking his hand. The sick 
 man was scarcely able to articulate his reply : " I shall 
 soon be well. I have longed to see you. I want to 
 leave with you a few words." He now cast his languid 
 eyes on me. "You are his friend," he continued. " You 
 know all. You may stay." 
 
 There now succeeded a long pause, during which he 
 closed his eyes, and resigned himself as if to an oblivion 
 of all thought. His pulse under my hand was scarcely 
 perceptible. From this in some minutes he recovered, 
 and, fixing his eyes on Mervyn, resumed, in a broken 
 and feeble accent : 
 
 "Cleinenza! You have seen her. Weeks ago, I left - 
 her in an accursed house ; yet she has not been mis 
 treated. Neglected arid abandoned indeed, but not mis 
 treated. Save her, Mervyn. Comfort her. Awaken 
 charity for her sake. 
 
 "I cannot tell you what has happened. The tale would 
 be too long, too mournful. Yet, in justice to the living, 
 I must tell you something. My woes and my crimes will 
 be buried with me. Some of them, but not all. 
 
 "Ere this, I should l iave been many leagues upon the 
 ocean, had not a newspaper fallen into my hands while on 
 the eve of embarkation. By that I learned that a treasure 
 was buried with the remains of the ill-fated Watson. I 
 was destitute. I was unjust enough to wish to make this
 
 134 ARTHUR MERVYX; OR, 
 
 treasure my own. Prone to think I was forgotten, or num 
 bered with the victims of pestilence, I ventured to return 
 under a careless disguise. I penetrated to the vaults of 
 that deserted dwelling by night. I dug up the bones of 
 my friend, and found the girdle and its valuable contents, 
 according to the accurate description that I had read. 
 
 " I hastened back with my prize to Baltimore, but my 
 evil destiny overtook me at last. I was recognised by 
 emissaries of Jaaaieson, arrested and brought hither, and 
 here shall I consummate my fate and defeat the rage of 
 my creditors by death. But first " 
 
 Here Welbeck stretched out his left hand to Mervyn, 
 and, after some reluctance, showed a roll of lead. 
 
 Receive this," said he. " In the use of it, be guided 
 by your honesty and by the same advertisement that fur 
 nished me the clue by which to recover it. That being 
 secured, the world and I will part forever. Withdraw, 
 for your presence can help me nothing." 
 
 We were unwilling to comply with his injunction, and 
 continued some longer time in his chamber ; but our kind 
 intent availed nothing. He quickly relapsed into in 
 sensibility, from which he recovered not again, but next 
 day expired. Such, in the flower of his age, was the 
 fate of Thomas Welbeck. 
 
 Whatever interest I might feel in accompanying the 
 progress of my young friend, a sudden and unforeseen 
 emergency compelled me again to leave the city. A 
 kinsman, to whom I was bound by many obligations, was 
 suffering a lingering disease, and, imagining, with some 
 reason, his dissolution to be not far distant, he besought 
 my company and my assistance, to soothe, at least, the 
 agonies of his last hour. I was anxious to clear up the 
 mysteries which Arthur s conduct had produced, and to 
 shield him, if possible, from the evils which I feared 
 awaited him. It was impossible, however, to decline the 
 invitation of my kinsman, as his residence was not a 
 day s journey from the city. I was obliged to content 
 myself with occasional information, imparted by Mer- 
 vyn s letters or those of my wife. 
 
 Meanwhile, on leaving the prison, I hasted to inform 
 Mervyn of the true nature of the scene which had just
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?9J. 135 
 
 passed. By this extraordinary occurrence, the property 
 of the Maurices was now in honest hands. Welbeck, 
 stimulated by selfish motives, had done that which any 
 other person would have found encompassed with formid 
 able dangers and difficulties. How this attempt was 
 suggested or executed, he had not informed us, nor waa 
 it desirable to know. It was sufficient that the means 
 of restoring their own to a destitute and meritorious 
 family were now in our possession. 
 
 Having returned home, I unfolded to Mervyn all the 
 particulars respecting Williams and the Maurices which 
 I had lately learned from Wortley. He listened witu 
 deep attention, and, my story being finished, he said, 
 " In this small compass, then, is the patrimony and sub 
 sistence of a numerous family. To restore it to them is the 
 obvious proceeding but how ? Where do they abide?" 
 
 "Williams and Watson s wife live in Baltimore, and 
 the Maurices live near that town. The advertisements 
 alluded to by Wortley, and which are to be found in any 
 newspaper, will inform us ; but, first, are we sure that 
 any or all of these bills are contained in this covering?" 
 
 The lead was now unrolled, and the bills which Wil 
 liams had described were found enclosed. Nothing ap 
 peared to be deficient. Of this, however, we were 
 scarcely qualified to judge. Those that were the pro 
 perty of Williams might not be entire, and what would 
 be the consequence of presenting them to him, if any 
 had been embezzled by Welbeck ? 
 
 This difficulty was obviated by Mervyn, who observed 
 that the advertisement describing these bills would afford 
 us ample information on this head. " Having found out 
 where the Maurices and Mrs. Watson live, nothing re 
 mains but to visit them, and put an end, as far as lies in 
 my power, to their inquietudes." 
 
 " What ! Would you go to Baltimore ?" 
 
 "Certainly. Can any other expedient be proper? 
 How shall I otherwise insure the safe conveyance of 
 these papers ?" 
 
 "You may send them by post." 
 
 "But why not go myself?" 
 
 "I can hardly tell, unless your appearance on such
 
 136 ARTHUR MERVYN, 
 
 an errand may be suspected likely to involve you in em 
 barrassments." 
 
 "What embarrassments? If they receive their own, 
 ought they not to be satisfied?" 
 
 "The inquiry will naturally be made as to the manner 
 of gaining possession of these papers. They were lately 
 in the hands of Watson, but Watson has disappeared. 
 Suspicions are awake respecting the cause of his disap 
 pearance. These suspicions are connected with Welbeck, 
 and Welbeck s connection with you is not unknown." 
 
 " These are evils, but I see not how an ingenious and 
 open conduct is adapted to increase these evils. If they 
 come, I must endure them." 
 
 " I believe your decision is right. No one is so skilful 
 an advocate in a cause, as he whose cause it is. I rely 
 upon your skill and address, and shall leave you to pur 
 sue your own way. I must leave you for a time, but 
 shall expect to be punctually informed of all that passes." 
 With this agreement we parted, and I hastened to per 
 form my intended journey.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 I AM glad, my friend, thy nimble pen has got so far 
 upon its journey. What remains of my story may be 
 despatched in a trice. I have just now some vacant 
 hours, which might possibly be more usefully employed, 
 but not in an easier manner or more pleasant. So, let 
 me carry on thy thread. 
 
 First, let me mention the resolutions I had formed at the 
 time I parted with my friend. I had several objects in 
 view. One was a conference with Mrs. Wentworth; 
 another was an interview with her whom I met with at 
 Villars s. My heart melted when I thought upon the deso 
 late condition of Clemenza, and determined me to direct 
 my first efforts for her relief. For this end I was to 
 visit the female who had given me a direction to her house. 
 The name of this person is Achsa Fielding, and she lived, 
 according to her own direction, at No. 40 Walnut Street. 
 
 I went thither without delay. She was not at home. 
 Having gained information from the servant as to when 
 she might be found, I proceeded to Mrs. Wentworth s. 
 In going thither my mind was deeply occupied in medi 
 tation; and, with my usual carelessness of forms, I 
 entered the house and made my way to the parlour, where 
 an interview had formerly taken place between us. 
 
 Having arrived, I began, though somewhat unseason 
 ably, to reflect upon the topics with which I should intro 
 duce my conversation, and particularly the manner in 
 which I should introduce myself. I had opened doora 
 without warning, and traversed passages without being 
 noticed. This had arisen from my thoughtlessness. 
 There was no one within hearing or sight. What was
 
 138 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 next to be done? Should I not return softly to the 
 outer door, and summon the servant by knocking? 
 
 Preparing to do this, I heard a footstep in the entry 
 which suspended my design. I stood in the middle of 
 the floor, attentive to these movements, when presently 
 the door opened, and there entered the apartment Mrs. 
 Wentworth herself! She came, as it seemed, without 
 expectation of finding any one there. When, therefore, 
 the figure of a man caught her vagrant attention, she 
 started and cast a hasty look towards me. 
 
 "Pray !" (in a peremptory tone,) "how came you here, 
 sir? and what is your business?" 
 
 Neither arrogance, on the one hand, nor humility, upon 
 the other, had any part in modelling my deportment. I 
 came not to deprecate anger, or exult over distress. I 
 answered, therefore, distinctly, firmly, and erectly, 
 
 "I came to see you, madam, and converse with you; 
 but, being busy with other thoughts, I forgot to knock 
 at the door. No evil was intended by my negligence, 
 though propriety has certainly not been observed. Will 
 you pardon this intrusion, and condescend to grant me 
 your attention?" 
 
 "To what? What have you to say to me? I know 
 you only as the accomplice of a villain in an attempt to 
 deceive me. There is nothing to justify your coming 
 hither, and I desire you to leave the house with as little 
 ceremony as you entered it." 
 
 My eyes were lowered at this rebuke, yet I did not obey 
 the command. "Your treatment of me, madam, is such 
 as I appear to you to deserve. Appearances are un 
 favourable to me, but those appearances are false. I 
 have concurred in no plot against your reputation or your 
 fortune. I have told you nothing but the truth. I came 
 hither to promote no selfish or sinister purpose. I have 
 no favour to entreat, and no petition to oflfer, but that 
 you will suft er me to clear up those mistakes which you 
 Lave harboured respecting me. 
 
 "I am poor. I am destitute of fame and of kindred. 
 I have nothing to console me in obscurity and indigence, 
 but the approbation of my own heart and the good opinion 
 of those who know me as I am. The good may be led
 
 MEMOIRS Of THE YEAR 1793. 139 
 
 to despise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn 
 shall not make me unhappy ; but it is my interest and my 
 duty to rectify their error if I can. I regard your charac 
 ter with esteem. You have been mistaken in condemn 
 ing me as a liar and impostor, and I came to remove 
 this mistake. I came, if not to procure your esteem, at 
 least to take away hatred and suspicion. 
 
 " But this is not all my purpose. You are in an error in 
 relation not only to my character, but to the situation of 
 your nephew Clavering. I formerly told you, that I saw 
 him die ; that I assisted at his burial : but my tale was 
 incoherent and imperfect, and you have since received 
 intelligence to which you think proper to trust, and which 
 assures you that he is still living. All I now ask is your 
 attention, while I relate the particulars of my knowledge. 
 
 "Proof of my veracity or innocence may be of no value 
 in your eyes, but the fate of your nephew ought to be 
 known to you. Certainty, on this head, may be of much 
 importance to your happiness, and to the regulation of 
 your future conduct. To hear me patiently can do you 
 no injury, and may benefit you much. Will you permit 
 ine to go on?" 
 
 During this address, little abatement of resentment 
 and scorn was visible in my companion. 
 
 "I will hear you," she replied. "Your invention 
 may amuse if it does not edify. But, I pray you, let 
 your story be short." 
 
 I was obliged to be content with this ungraceful conces 
 sion, and proceeded to begin my narration. I described 
 the situation of my father s dwelling. I mentioned the 
 year, month, day, and hour of her nephew s appearance 
 among us. I expatiated minutely on his form, features, 
 dress, sound of his voice, and repeated his words. His 
 favourite gestures and attitudes were faithfully described. 
 
 I had gone but a little way in my story, when the effects 
 were visible in her demeanour which I expected from it. 
 Her knowledge of the youth, and of the time and manner 
 of his disappearance, made it impossible for me, with so 
 minute a narrative, to impose upon her credulity. Every 
 word, every incident related, attested my truth, by their 
 agreement with what she herself previously knew.
 
 140 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly 
 exchanged for downcast looks, and stealing tears, and sighs 
 difficultly repressed. Meanwhile, I did not pause, hut 
 described the treatment he received from my mother s 
 tenderness, his occupations, the freaks of his insanity, 
 and, finally, the circumstances of his death and funeral. 
 
 Thence I hastened to the circumstances which brought 
 me to the city; which placed me in the service of W el- 
 beck, and obliged me to perform so ambiguous a part in 
 her presence. I left no difficulty to be solved, and no 
 question unanticipated. 
 
 "I have now finished my story," I continued, "and 
 accomplished my design in coming hither. Whether I 
 have vindicated my integrity from your suspicions, I 
 know not. I have done what in me lay to remove your 
 error; and, in that, have done my duty. What more 
 remains? Any inquiries you are pleased to make, I am 
 ready to answer. If there be none to make, I will com 
 ply with your former commands, and leave the house 
 with as little ceremony as I entered it." 
 
 "Your story," she replied, "has been unexpected. I 
 believe it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which 
 past appearances have made me entertain concerning 
 you." 
 
 Here she sunk into mournful silence. " The informa 
 tion," she at length resumed, "which I have received 
 from another quarter respecting that unfortunate youth, 
 astonishes and perplexes me. It is inconsistent with 
 your story, but it must be founded on some mistake, 
 which I am, at present, unable to unravel. Welbeck, 
 whose connection has been so unfortunate to you " 
 
 "Unfortunate! Dearmadam! How unfortunate? It has 
 done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which 
 I live. It has led me to the situation in which I am now 
 placed. It has introduced me to the knowledge of many 
 good people. It has made me the witness and the subject 
 of many acts of beneficence and generosity. My know 
 ledge of Welbeck has been useful to me. It has enabled 
 me to be useful to others. I look back upon that allotment 
 of my destiny which first led me to his door, with grati 
 tude and pleasure.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. l^l 
 
 "Would to heaven," continued I, somewhat changing 
 my tone, "intercourse with Wclbeck had been as harm 
 less to all others as it has been to me ! that no injury tc 
 fortune and fame, and innocence and life, had been in 
 curred by others greater than has fallen upon my head ! 
 There is one being, whose connection with him has not 
 been utterly dissimilar in its origin and circumstances to 
 mine, though the catastrophe has, indeed, been widely 
 and mournfully different. 
 
 " And yet, within this moment, a thought has occurred 
 from which I derive some consolation and some hope. 
 You, dear madam, are rich. These spacious apartments, 
 this plentiful accommodation, are yours. You have 
 enough for your own gratification and convenience, and 
 somewhat to spare. Will you take to your protecting 
 arms, to your hospitable roof, an unhappy girl whom the 
 arts of Welbeck have robbed of fortune, reputation, and 
 honour, who is now languishing in poverty, weeping over 
 the lifeless remains of her babe, surrounded by the agents 
 of vice, and trembling on the verge of infamy?" 
 
 " What can this mean ?" replied the lady. " Of whom 
 
 j i 
 
 do you speak . 
 
 " You shall know her. You shall be apprized of her 
 claims to your compassion. Her story, as far as is 
 known to me, I will faithfully repeat to you. She is a 
 stranger; an Italian; her name is Clemenza Lodi." 
 
 "Clemenza Lodi! Good heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Wentworth; "why, surely it cannot be. And yet is 
 it possible that you are that person?" 
 
 "I do not comprehend you, madam." 
 
 "A friend has related a transaction of a strange sort. 
 It is scarcely an hour since she told it me. The name 
 of Clemenza Lodi was mentioned in it. and a young man 
 of most singular deportment was described. But tell 
 me how you were engaged on Thursday morning." 
 
 "I was coming to this city from a distance. I stopped 
 ten minutes at the house of " 
 
 "Mrs. Villars?" 
 
 " The same. Perhaps you know her and her charac 
 ter. Perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present 
 opinions concerning her. It is there that the unfortu-
 
 142 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 nate Clemenza abides. It is thence that I wish her to 
 be speedily removed." 
 
 "I have heard of you; of your conduct upon that 
 occasion." 
 
 " Of me?" answered I, eagerly. " Do you know that 
 woman ?" So saying, I produced the card which I had 
 received from her, and on which her name was written. 
 
 "I know her well. She is my countrywoman and my 
 friend." 
 
 "Your friend? Then she is good; she is innocent; 
 she is generous. Will she be a sister, a protectress, to 
 Clemenza? Will you exhort her to a deed of charity? 
 Will you be, yourself, an example of beneficence ? Direct 
 me to Miss Fielding, I beseech you. I have called on 
 her already, but in vain, and there is no time to be lost." 
 
 "Why are you so precipitate? What would you do?" 
 
 " Take her away from that house instantly bring her 
 hither place her under your protection give her Mrs. 
 Wentworth for a counsellor a friend a mother. Shall 
 I do this ? Shall I hie thither to-day, this very hour 
 now ? Give me your consent, and she shall be with you 
 before noon." 
 
 "By no means," replied she, with earnestness. "You 
 are too hasty. An affair of so much importance cannot 
 be despatched in a moment. There are many difficulties 
 and doubts to be first removed." 
 
 "Let them be reserved for the future. Withhold not 
 your helping hand till the struggle has disappeared for 
 ever. Think on the gulf that is already gaping to swal 
 low her. This is no time to hesitate and falter. I 
 will tell you her story, but not now ; we will postpone it 
 till to-morrow, and first secure her from impending evils. 
 She shall tell it you herself. In an hour I will bring 
 her hither, and she herself shall recount to you her sor 
 rows. Will you let me ? 
 
 "Your behaviour is extraordinary. I can scarcely toll 
 whether this simplicity be real or affected. One would 
 think that your common sense would show you the impro 
 priety of your request. To admit under my roof a woman 
 notoriously dishonoured, and from an infamous house " 
 
 "My dearest madam! How can you reflect upon the
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 793- 143 
 
 situation without irresistible pity? I see that you are 
 thoroughly aware of her past calamity and her present 
 danger. Do not these urge you to make haste to her 
 relief? Can any lot be more deplorable than hers? Can 
 any state be more perilous? Poverty is not the only evil 
 that oppresses or that threatens her. The scorn of the 
 world, and her own compunction, the death of the fruit of 
 her error and the witness of her shame, are not the worst. 
 She is exposed to the temptations of the profligate; while 
 she remains with Mrs. Villars, her infamy accumulates ; 
 her further debasement is facilitated; her return to 
 reputation and to virtue is obstructed by new bars." 
 
 "How know I that her debasement is not already 
 complete and irremediable ? She is a mother, but not a 
 wife. How came she thus ? Is her being Welbeck s 
 prostitute no proof of her guilt?" 
 
 "Alas! I know not. I believe her not very culpable ; 
 I know her to be unfortunate; to have been robbed and 
 betrayed. You are a stranger to her history. I am 
 myself imperfectly acquainted with it. 
 
 "But let me tell you the little that I know. Perhaps 
 my narrative may cause you to think of her as I do." 
 
 She did not object to this proposal, and I imme 
 diately recounted all that I had gained from my own 
 observations, or from Welbeck himself, respecting this 
 forlorn girl. Having finished my narrative, I proceeded 
 thus : 
 
 "Can you hesitate to employ that power which was 
 given you for good ends, to rescue this sufferer? Take 
 her to your home; to your bosom; to your confidence. 
 Keep aloof those temptations which beset her in her pre 
 sent situation. Restore her to that purity which her deso 
 late condition, her ignorance, her misplaced gratitude and 
 the artifices of a skilful dissembler, have destroyed, if it be 
 destroyed ; for how know we under what circumstances her 
 ruin was accomplished ? With what pretences, or appear 
 ances, or promises, she was won to compliance?" 
 
 "True. I confess my ignorance; but ought not that 
 ignorance to be removed before she makes a part of my 
 family?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! It may be afterwards removed. It cannot be
 
 144 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 removed before. By bringing her hither you shield her, at 
 least, from future and possible evils. Here you can watch 
 her conduct and sift her sentiments conveniently and at 
 leisure. Should she prove worthy of your charity, how 
 justly may you congratulate yourself on your seasonable 
 efforts in her cause ! If she prove unworthy, you may 
 then demean yourself according to her demerits." 
 
 "I must reflect upon it. To-morrow " 
 
 "Let me prevail on you to admit her at once, and 
 without delay. This very moment may be the critical one. 
 To-day we may exert ourselves with success, but to-mor 
 row all our efforts may be fruitless. Why fluctuate, why 
 linger, when so much good may be done, and no evil can 
 possibly be incurred ? It requires but a word from you ; 
 you need not move a finger. Your house is large. You 
 have chambers vacant and convenient. Consent only 
 that your door shall not be barred against her ; that you 
 will treat her with civility: to carry your kindness into 
 effect; to persuade her to attend me hither and to place 
 herself in your care, shall be my province." 
 
 These and many similar entreaties arid reasonings were 
 ineffectual. Her general disposition was kind, but she 
 was unaccustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. To 
 admit the persuasions of such an advocate to so uncom 
 mon a scheme as that of sharing her house with a crea 
 ture thus previously unknown to her, thus loaded with 
 suspicion and with obloquy, was not possible. 
 
 1 at last forbore importunity, and requested her to 
 tell me when I might expect to meet with Mrs. Fielding 
 at her lodgings. Inquiry was made to what end I sought 
 an interview. I made no secret of my purpose. 
 
 "Are you mad, young man?" she exclaimed. "Mrs. 
 Fielding has already been egregiously imprudent. On 
 the faith of an ancient slight acquaintance with Mrs. 
 Villars in Europe, she suffered herself to be decoyed 
 into a visit. Instead of taking warning by numerous 
 tokens of the real character of that woman, in her be 
 haviour and in that of her visitants, she consented to 
 remain there one night. The next morning took place 
 that astonishing interview with you which she has since 
 described to me. She is now warned against the like
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 145 
 
 indiscretion. And, pray, what benevolent scheme would 
 you propose to her?" 
 
 "Has she property? Is she rich?" 
 
 " She is. Unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute 
 mistress of her fortune, and has neither guardian nor 
 parent to control her in the use of it." 
 
 "Has she virtue? Does she know the value of afflu 
 ence and a fair fame? And will not she devote a few 
 dollars to rescue a fellow-creature from indigence and in 
 famy and vice ? Surely she will. She will hazard nothing 
 by the boon. I will be her almoner. I will provide the 
 wretched stranger with food and raiment and dwelling ; I 
 will pay for all, if Mrs. Fielding, from her superfluity, 
 will supply the means. Clemenza shall owe life and 
 honour to your friend, till I am able to supply the need 
 ful sum from my own stock." 
 
 While thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with 
 steadfastness: "I know not what to make of you. 
 Your language and ideas are those of a lunatic. Are 
 you acquainted with Mrs. Fielding?" 
 
 "Yes. I have seen her two days ago, and she has 
 invited me to see her again." 
 
 "And on the strength of this acquaintance you expect 
 to be her almoner? To be the medium of her charity?" 
 
 " I desire to save her trouble; to make charity as light 
 and easy as possible. Twill be better if she perform 
 those offices herself. Twill redound more to the credit 
 of her reason and her virtue. But I solicit her benignity 
 only in the cause of Clemenza. For her only do I wish 
 at present to call forth her generosity and pity." 
 
 "And do you imagine she will intrust her money to one 
 of your age and sex, whom she knows so imperfectly, to 
 administer to the wants of one whom she found in such 
 a house as Mrs. Villars s ? She never will. She mentioned 
 her imprudent engagement to meet you, but she is now 
 warned against the folly of such confidence. 
 
 "You have told me plausible stories of yourself and of 
 this Clemenza. I cannot say that I disbelieve them, but I 
 know the ways of the world too well to bestow implicit faith 
 so easily. You are an extraordinary young man. You 
 may possibly be honest. Such a one as you, with your 
 10
 
 146 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 education and address, may possibly have passed all your 
 life in a hovel; but it is scarcely credible, let me tell 
 you. I believe most of the facts respecting my nephew, 
 because my knowledge of him before his flight would 
 enable me to detect your falsehood ; but there must be 
 other proofs besides an innocent brow and a voluble 
 tongue, to make me give full credit to your pretensions. 
 
 "I have no claim upon Welbeck which can embarrass you. 
 On that score, you are free from any molestation from me 
 or my friends. I have suspected you of being an accom 
 plice in some vile plot, and am now inclined to acquit you ; 
 but that is all that you must expect from me, till your 
 character be established by other means than your own 
 assertions. I am engaged at present, and must therefore 
 request you to put an end to your visit." 
 
 This strain was much unlike the strain which preceded 
 it. I imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners, 
 that her unfavourable prepossessions were removed ; but 
 they seemed to have suddenly regained their pristine 
 force. I was somewhat disconcerted by this unexpected 
 change. I stood for a minute silent and irresolute. 
 
 Just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently 
 entered that very female whom I had met with at Villars s. 
 I caught her figure as I glanced through the window. 
 Mrs. Wentworth darted at me many significant glances, 
 which commanded me to withdraw; but, with this object 
 in view, it was impossible. 
 
 As soon as she entered, her eyes were fixed upon me. 
 Certain recollections naturally occurred at that moment, 
 and made her cheeks glow. Some confusion reigned for 
 a moment, but was quickly dissipated. She did not notice 
 me, but exchanged salutations with her friend. 
 
 All this while I stood near the window, in a situation 
 not a little painful. Certain tremors which I had riot been 
 accustomed to feel, and which seemed to possess a mysti 
 cal relation to the visitant, disabled me at once from taking 
 my leave, or from performing any useful purpose by stay 
 ing. At length, struggling for composure, I approached 
 her, and, showing her the card she had given me, said, 
 
 "Agreeably to this direction, I called an hour ago, at 
 your lodgings. I found you not. I hope you will per-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 147 
 
 rnit me to call once more. When shall I expect to meet 
 you at home?" 
 
 Her eyes were cast on the floor. A kind of indirect 
 attention was fixed on Mrs. Wentworth, serving to inti 
 midate and check her. At length she said, in an irre 
 solute voice, "I shall be at home this evening." 
 
 "And this evening," replied I, "I will call to see you." 
 So saying, I left the house. 
 
 This interval was tedious, but was to be endured with 
 equanimity. I was impatient to be gone to Baltimore, 
 and hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next day. 
 Meanwhile, I was necessarily to perform something with 
 respect to Clemenza. 
 
 After dinner I accompanied Mrs. Stevens to visit Misa 
 Carlton. I was eager to see a woman who could bear 
 adversity in the manner which my friend had described. 
 
 She met us at the door of her apartment. Her 
 seriousness was not abated by her smiles of affability and 
 welcome. "My friend!" whispered I, "how truly lovely 
 is this Miss Carlton ! Are the heart and the intelligence 
 within worthy of these features?" 
 
 "Yes, they are. The account of her employments, 
 of her resignation to the ill fate of the brother whom 
 she loves, proves that they are." 
 
 My eyes were riveted to her countenance and person. 
 I felt uncontrollable eagerness to speak to her, and to gain 
 her good opinion. 
 
 " You must know this young man, my dear Miss Carl- 
 ton," said my friend, looking at me ; " he is my husband s 
 friend, and professes a great desire to be yours. You 
 must not treat him as a mere stranger, for he knows 
 your character and situation already, as well as that of 
 your brother." 
 
 She looked at me with benignity: "I accept his 
 friendship willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavour 
 to convince him that his good opinion is not misplaced." 
 
 There now ensued a conversation somewhat general, in 
 which this young woman showed a mind vigorous from 
 exercise and unembarrassed by care. She affected no 
 concealment of her own condition, of her wants, or her 
 comforts. She laid no stress upon misfortunes, but con-
 
 148 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 trived to deduce some beneficial consequence to herself, 
 and some motive for gratitude to Heaven, from every 
 wayward incident that had befallen her. 
 
 This demeanour emboldened me, at length, to inquire 
 into the cause of her brother s imprisonment, and the 
 nature of his debt. 
 
 She answered frankly and without hesitation : " It is 
 a debt of his father s, for which he made himself respon 
 sible during his father s life. The act was generous but 
 imprudent, as the event has shown ; though, at the time, 
 the unhappy effects could not be foreseen. 
 
 "My father," continued she, "was arrested by his 
 creditor, at a time when the calmness and comforts of his 
 own dwelling were necessary to his health. The creditor 
 was obdurate, and would release him upon no condition 
 but that of receiving a bond from my brother, by which 
 he engaged to pay the debt at several successive times 
 and in small portions. All these instalments were dis 
 charged with great difficulty indeed, but with sufficient 
 punctuality, except the last, to which my brother s earn 
 ings were not adequate." 
 
 "How much is the debt?" 
 
 "Four hundred dollars." 
 
 "And is the state of the creditor such as to make the 
 loss of four hundred dollars of more importance to him 
 than the loss of liberty to your brother?" 
 
 She answered, smiling, " That is a very abstract view of 
 things. On such a question you and I might, perhaps, 
 easily decide in favour of my brother ; but would there not 
 be some danger of deciding partially? His conduct is a 
 proof of his decision, and there is no power to change it." 
 
 "Will not argument change it? Methinks in so plain 
 a case I should be able to convince him. You say he is 
 rich and childless. His annual income is ten times more 
 than this sum. Your brother cannot pay the debt while 
 in prison; whereas, if at liberty, he might slowly and 
 finally discharge it. If his humanity would not yield, 
 his avarice might be brought to acquiesce." 
 
 "But there is another passion which you would find it 
 somewhat harder to subdue, and that is his vengeance. 
 He thinks himself wronged, and imprisons my brother,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 149 
 
 not to enforce payment, but to inflict misery. If you 
 could persuade him that there is no hardship in im 
 prisonment, you would speedily gain the victory; but 
 that could not be attempted consistently with truth. In 
 proportion to my brother s suffering is his gratification." 
 
 "You draw an odious and almost incredible portrait." 
 
 "And yet such a one would serve for the likeness of 
 almost every second man we meet." 
 
 "And is such your opinion of mankind ? Your expe 
 rience must surely have been of a rueful tenor to justify 
 such hard thoughts of the rest of your species." 
 
 " By no means. It has been what those whose situation 
 disables them from looking further than the surface of 
 things would regard as unfortunate; but, if my goods and 
 evils were equitably balanced, the former would be the 
 weightiest. I have found kindness and goodness in great 
 numbers, but have likewise met prejudice and rancor in 
 many. My opinion of Farquhar is not lightly taken up. 
 I saw him yesterday, and the nature of his motives in 
 the treatment of my brother was plain enough." 
 
 Here this topic was succeeded by others, and the con 
 versation ceased not till the hour had arrived on which 
 I had preconcerted to visit Mrs. Fielding. I left my two 
 friends for this purpose. 
 
 I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding s presence without 
 scruple or difficulty. There were two females in her 
 company, and one of the other sex, well-dressed, elderly, 
 and sedate persons. Their discourse turned upon political 
 topics, with which, as yon know, I have but slight acquaint 
 ance. They talked of fleets and armies, of Robespierre 
 and Pitt, of whom I had only a newspaper-knowledge. 
 
 In a short time the women rose, and, huddling on their 
 cloaks, disappeared, in company with the gentleman. 
 Being thus left alone with Mrs. Fielding, some embar 
 rassment was mutually betrayed. With much hesitation, 
 which, however, gradually disappeared, my companion, 
 at length, began the conversation : 
 
 "You met me lately, in a situation, sir, on which I look 
 back with trembling and shame, but not with any self- 
 condemnation. I was led into it without any fault, unlesa 
 a too hasty confidence may be styled a fault. I had known
 
 150 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Mrs. Villars in England, where she lived with an untainted 
 reputation, at least ; and the sight of my countrywoman, 
 in a foreign land, awakened emotions in the indulgence 
 of which I did not imagine there was either any guilt or 
 any danger. She invited me to see her at her house with 
 so much urgency and warmth, and solicited me to take 
 a place immediately in a chaise in which she had come 
 to the city, that I too incautiously complied. 
 
 " You are a stranger to me, and I am unacquainted with 
 your character. What little I have seen of your deport 
 ment, and what little I have lately heard concerning you 
 from Mrs. Wentworth, do not produce unfavourable im 
 pressions ; but the apology I have made was due to my 
 own reputation, and should have been offered to you what 
 ever your character had been." There she stopped. 
 
 "I came not hither," said I, "to receive an apology. 
 Your demeanour, on our first interview, shielded you suffi 
 ciently from any suspicions or surmises that I could form. 
 What you have now mentioned was likewise mentioned by 
 your friend, and was fully believed upon her authority. 
 My purpose, in coming, related not to you, but to another. 
 I desired merely to interest your generosity and justice 
 on behalf of one whose destitute and dangerous condition 
 may lay claim to your compassion and your succour." 
 
 "I comprehend you," said she, with an air of some 
 perplexity. "I know the claims of that person." 
 
 "And will you comply with them?" 
 
 "In what manner can I serve her?" 
 
 "By giving her the means of living." 
 
 "Does she not possess them already?" 
 
 " She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed 
 upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dis 
 honoured and her fortune embezzled." 
 
 "But she still lives. She is not turned into the street. 
 She is not destitute of home." 
 
 "But what a home !" 
 
 "Such as she may choose to remain in." 
 
 "She cannot choose it. She must not choose it. She 
 remains through ignorance, or through the incapacity of 
 leaving it" 
 
 "But how shall she be persuaded to a change ?"
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J- 15 1 
 
 "I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situa 
 tion. I will supply her with a new home." 
 
 " You will persuade her to go with you, and to live at 
 a home of your providing and on your bounty ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Would that change be worthy of a cautious person? 
 Would it benefit her reputation V Would it prove her 
 love of independence?" 
 
 "My purposes are good. I know not why she should 
 suspect them. But I am only anxious to be the instru 
 ment. Let her be indebted to one of her own sex, of 
 unquestionable reputation. Admit her into this house. 
 Invite her to your arms. Cherish and console her as 
 your sister." 
 
 "Before I am convinced that she deserves it? And 
 even then, what regard shall I, young, unmarried, inde 
 pendent, affluent, pay to my own reputation in harbour 
 ing a woman in these circumstances?" 
 
 "But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent 
 and almoner. Only supply her with the means of sub 
 sistence through me." 
 
 "Would you have me act a clandestine part? Hold 
 meetings with one of your sex, and give him money for 
 a purpose which I must hide from the world ? Is it worth 
 while to be a dissembler and impostor? And will not 
 such conduct incur more dangerous surmises and suspi 
 cions than would arise from acting openly and directly? 
 You will forgive me for reminding you, likewise, that it 
 is particularly incumbent upon those in my situation to 
 be circumspect in their intercourse with men and with 
 strangers. This is the second time that I have seen you. 
 My knowledge of you is extremely dubious and imper 
 fect, and such as would make the conduct you prescribe 
 to me, in a high degree, rash and culpable. You must 
 not, therefore, expect me to pursue it." 
 
 These words were delivered with an air of firmness 
 and dignity. I was not insensible to the truth of her 
 representations. "I confess," said I, "what you have 
 said makes me doubt the propriety of my proposal ; yet 
 I would fain be of service to her. Cannot you point out 
 some practicable method?"
 
 152 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 She was silent and thoughtful, and seemed indisposed 
 to answer my question. 
 
 "I had set my heart upon success in this negotiation," 
 continued I, "and could not imagine any obstacle to its 
 success ; but I find my ignorance of the world s ways 
 much greater than I had previously expected. You de 
 fraud yourself of all the happiness redounding from the 
 act of making others happy. You sacrifice substance to 
 show, and are more anxious to prevent unjust aspersions 
 from lighting on yourself, than to rescue a fellow-crea 
 ture from guilt and infamy. 
 
 "You are rich, and abound in all the conveniences 
 and luxuries of life. A small portion of your superfluity 
 would obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than 
 yourself. It is not avarice or aversion to labour that 
 makes you withhold your hand. It is dread of the sneers 
 and surmises of malevolence and ignorance. 
 
 " I will not urge you further at present. Your deter 
 mination to be wise should not be hasty. Think upon 
 the subject calmly and sedately, and form your resolu 
 tion in the course of three days. At the end of that 
 period I will visit you again." So saying, arid without 
 waiting for comment or answer, I withdrew.
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 I MOUNTED the stage-coach at daybreak the next day, 
 in company with a sallow Frenchman from St. Domingo, 
 his fiddle-case, an ape, and two female blacks. The 
 Frenchman, after passing the suburbs, took out his violin 
 and amused himself with humming to his own tweedle- 
 tweedle. The monkey now and then munched an apple, 
 which was given to him from a basket by the blacks, 
 who gazed with stupid wonder, and an exclamatory La! 
 La ! upon the passing scenery, or chattered to each other 
 in a sort of open-mouthed, half-articulate, monotonous, 
 singsong jargon. 
 
 The man looked seldom either on this side or that ; and 
 spoke only to rebuke the frolics of the monkey, with a 
 "Tenez! Dominique! Prenez garde ! Diable noir !" 
 
 As to me, iny thought was busy in a thousand ways. 
 I sometimes gazed at the faces of my four companions, 
 and endeavoured to discern the differences and samenesses 
 between them. I took an exact account of the features, 
 proportions, looks, and gestures of the monkey, the Con 
 golese, and the Creole Gaul. I compared them together, 
 and examined them apart. I looked at them in a thou 
 sand different points of view, and pursued, untired and 
 unsatiated, those trains of reflections which began at each 
 change of tone, feature, and attitude. 
 
 I marked the country as it successively arose before 
 me, and found endless employment in examining the 
 shape and substance of the fence, the barn, and the cot 
 tage, the aspect of earth and of heaven. How great 
 are the pleasures of health and of mental activity ! 
 
 My chief occupation, however, related to the scenes 
 into which I was about to enter. My imaginations were, 
 
 153
 
 154 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 of course, crude and inadequate; and I found an un 
 common gratification in comparing realities, as they suc 
 cessively occurred, with the pictures which my wayward 
 fancy had depicted. 
 
 I will not describe my dreams. My proper task is to 
 relate the truth. Neither shall I dwell upon the images 
 suggested by the condition of the country through which 
 I passed. I will confine myself to mentioning the trans 
 actions connected with the purpose of my journey. 
 
 I reached Baltimore at night. I was not so fatigued 
 but that I could ramble through the town. I intended, 
 at present, merely the gratification of a stranger s cu 
 riosity. My visit to Mrs. Watson and her brother I de 
 signed should take place on the morrow. The evening 
 of my arrival I deemed an unseasonable time. 
 
 While roving about, however, it occurred to me, that 
 it might not be impolitic to find the way to their habita 
 tion even now. My purposes of general curiosity would 
 equally be served whichever way my steps were bent ; 
 and to trace the path to their dwelling would save me the 
 trouble of inquiries and interrogations to-morrow. 
 
 When I looked forward to an interview with the wife 
 of Watson, and to the subject which would be necessarily 
 discussed at that interview, I felt a trembling and mis 
 giving at my heart. "Surely," thought I, "it will be 
 come me to exercise immeasurable circumspection and 
 address; and yet how little are these adapted to the 
 impetuosity and candour of my nature ! 
 
 "How am I to introduce myself? What am I to tell 
 her ? That I was a sort of witness to the murder of her 
 husband ? That I received from the hand of his assassin 
 the letter which I afterwards transmitted to her? and, 
 from the same hands, the bills contained in his girdle? 
 
 " How will she start and look aghast ! What suspi 
 cions will she harbour ? What inquiries shall be made 
 of me ? How shall they be disarmed and eluded, or 
 answered? Deep consideration will be necessary before 
 I trust myself to such an interview. The coming night 
 shall be devoted to reflection upon this subject." 
 
 From these thoughts I proceeded to inquiries for the 
 street mentioned in the advertisement, where Mi*. Wat-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 155 
 
 son was said to reside. The street, and, at length, the 
 habitation, was found. Having reached a station oppo 
 site, I paused and surveyed the mansion. It was a 
 wooden edifice of two stories, humble, but neat. You 
 ascended to the door by several stone steps. Of the two 
 lower windows, the shutters of one were closed, but 
 those of the other were open. Though late in the even 
 ing, there was no appearance of light or fire within. 
 
 Beside the house was a painted fence, through which 
 was a gate leading to the back of the building. Guided 
 by the impulse of the moment, I crossed the street to the 
 gate, and, lifting the latch, entered the paved alley, on 
 one side of which was a paled fence, and on the other 
 the house, looking through two windows into the alley. 
 
 The first window was dark like those in front; but at 
 the second a light was discernible. I approached it, 
 and, looking through, beheld a plain but neat apartment, 
 in which parlour, kitchen, and nursery seemed to be 
 united. A fire burned cheerfully in the chimney, over 
 which was a tea-kettle. On the hearth sat a smiling and 
 playful cherub of a boy, tossing something to a black 
 girl who sat opposite, and whose innocent and regular 
 features wanted only a different hue to make them beau 
 tiful. Near it, in a rocking-chair, with a sleeping babe 
 in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but neat and be 
 coming attire. Her posture permitted half her face to be 
 seen, and saved me from any danger of being observed. 
 
 This countenance was full of sweetness and benig 
 nity, but the sadness that veiled its lustre was profound. 
 Her eyes were now fixed upon the fire and were moist 
 with the tears of remembrance, while she sung, in low 
 and scarcely-audible strains, an artless lullaby. 
 
 This spectacle exercised a strange power over my 
 feelings. While occupied in meditating on the features 
 of the mother, I was unaware of my conspicuous situa 
 tion. The black girl, having occasion to change her 
 situation, in order to reach the ball which was thrown at 
 her, unluckily caught a glance of my figure through the 
 glass. In a tone of half surprise and half terror, she 
 cried out, "Oh! see dare! a man ! 
 
 I was tempted to draw suddenly back, but a second
 
 156 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 thought showed me the impropriety of departing thaa 
 abruptly and leaving behind me some alarm. I felt a 
 sort of necessity for apologizing for my intrusion into 
 these precincts, and hastened to a door that led into the 
 same apartment. I knocked. A voice somewhat con 
 fused bade me enter. It was not till I opened the door 
 and entered the room, that I fully saw in what embar 
 rassments I had incautiously involved myself. 
 
 I could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak, and 
 gave a confused assent to the question, "Have you busi 
 ness with me, sir?" She offered me a chair, and I sat 
 down. She put the child, not yet awakened, into the 
 arms of the black, who kissed it and rocked it in her arms 
 with great satisfaction, and, resuming her seat, looked at 
 me with inquisitiveness mingled with complacency. 
 
 After a moment s pause, I said, " I was directed to 
 this house as the abode of Mr. Ephraim Williams. Can 
 he be seen, madam?" 
 
 " He is not in town at present. If you will leave a 
 message with me, I will punctually deliver it." 
 
 The thought suddenly occurred, whether any more was 
 needful than merely to leave the bills suitably enclosed, 
 as they already were, in a packet. Thus all painful ex 
 planations might be avoided, and I might have reason to 
 congratulate myself on his seasonable absence. Actu 
 ated by these thoughts, I drew forth the packet, and put 
 it into her hand, saying, "I will leave this in your pos 
 session, and must earnestly request you to keep it safe 
 until you can deliver it into his own hands." 
 
 Scarcely had I said this before new suggestions oc 
 curred. Was it right to act in this clandestine and mys 
 terious manner ? Should I leave these persons in un 
 certainty respecting the fate of a husband and a brother ? 
 What perplexities, misunderstandings, and suspenses 
 might not grow out of this uncertainty ? and ought they 
 not to be precluded at any hazard to my own safety or 
 good name? 
 
 These sentiments made me involuntarily stretch forth 
 my hand to retake the packet. This gesture, and other 
 significances in my manners, joined to a trembling con 
 sciousness in herself, filled my companion with all the
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. I $7 
 
 tokens of confusion and fear. She alternately looked at mo 
 and at the paper. Her trepidation increased, and she grew 
 pale. These emotions were counteracted by a strong effort. 
 
 At length she said, falteringly, "I will take good care 
 of them, and will give them to my brother." 
 
 She rose and placed them in a drawer, after which 
 she resumed her seat. 
 
 On this occasion all my wariness forsook me. I can 
 not explain why my perplexity and the trouble of my 
 thoughts were greater upon this than upon similar occa 
 sions. However it be, I was incapable of speaking, and 
 fixed my eyes upon the floor. A sort of electrical sym 
 pathy pervaded my companion, and terror and anguish 
 were strongly manifested in the glances which she some 
 times stole at me. We seemed fully to understand each 
 other without the aid of words. 
 
 This imbecility could not last long. I gradually re 
 covered my composure, and collected my scattered 
 thoughts. I looked at her with seriousness, and stead 
 fastly spoke: "Arc you the wife of Amos Watson?" 
 
 She started: "I am indeed. Why do you ask? Do 
 you know any thing of ?" There her voice failed. 
 
 I replied with quickness, " Yes. I am fully acquainted 
 with his destiny." 
 
 "Good God!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of sur 
 prise, and bending eagerly forward, "my husband is 
 then alive ! This packet is from him. Where is he ? 
 When have you seen him ?" 
 
 " Tis a long time since." 
 
 " But where, where is he now ? Is he well ? Will he 
 return to me?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Merciful Heaven !" (looking upwards and clasping 
 her hands,) "I thank thee at least for his life! But 
 why has he forsaken me? Why will he not return?" 
 
 "For a good reason," said I, with augmented so 
 lemnity, "he will never return to thee. Long ago was 
 he laid in the cold grave." 
 
 She shrieked ; and, at the next moment, sunk in a 
 swoon upon the floor. I was alarmed. The two chil 
 dren shrieked, and ran about the room terrified and un-
 
 158 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 knowing what they did. I was overwhelmed with some 
 what like terror, yet I involuntarily raised the mother 
 in my arms, and cast about for the means of recalling 
 her from this fit. 
 
 Time to effect this had not elapsed, when several per 
 sons, apparently Mrs. Watson s neighbours, and raised 
 by the outcries of the girls, hastily entered the room. 
 They looked at me with mingled surprise and suspi 
 cion ; but my attitude, being not that of an injurer but 
 helper ; my countenance, which showed the pleasure their 
 entrance, at this critical moment, afforded me ; and my 
 words, in which I besought their assistance, and ex 
 plained, in some degree, and briefly, the cause of those 
 appearances, removed their ill thoughts. 
 
 Presently, the unhappy woman, being carried by the 
 new-comers into a bedroom adjoining, recovered her 
 sensibility. I only waited for this. I had done my 
 part. More information would be useless to her, and 
 not to be given by me, at least in the present audience, 
 without embarrassment and peril. I suddenly deter 
 mined to withdraw, and this, the attention of the com 
 pany being otherwise engaged, I did without notice. I 
 returned to my inn, and shut myself up in my chamber. 
 Such was the change which, undesigned, unforeseen, half 
 an hour had wrought in my situation. My cautious pro 
 jects had perished in their conception. That which I 
 had deemed so arduous, to require such circumspect 
 approaches, such well-concerted speeches, was done. 
 
 I had started up before this woman as if from the 
 pores of the ground. I had vanished with the same 
 celerity, but had left her in possession of proofs sufficient 
 that I was neither spectre nor demon. "1 will visit her," 
 said I, "again. I will see her brother, and know the 
 full effect of my disclosure. I will tell them all that I 
 myself know. Ignorance would be no less injurious to 
 them than to myself; but, first, I will see the Maurices.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 NEXT morning I arose betimes, and equipped myself 
 without delay. I had eight or ten miles to walk, so far 
 from the town being the residence of these people ; and 
 I forthwith repaired to their dwelling. The persons 
 whom I desired to see were known to me only by name, 
 and by their place of abode. It was a mother and her 
 three daughters to whom I now carried the means not 
 only of competence but riches ; means which they, no 
 doubt, had long ago despaired of regaining, and which, 
 among all possible messengers, one of my age and guise 
 would be the least suspected of being able to restore. 
 
 I arrived, through intricate ways, at eleven o clock, at 
 the house of Mrs. Maurice. It was a neat dwelling, in 
 a very fanciful and rustic style, in the bosom of a valley, 
 which, when decorated by the verdure and blossoms of 
 the coming season, must possess many charms. At pre 
 sent it was naked and dreary. 
 
 As I approached it, through a long avenue, I observed 
 two female figures, walking arm-in-arm and slowly to and 
 fro, in the path in which I now was. "These," said I, 
 " are daughters of the family. Graceful, well-dressed, 
 fashionable girls they seem at this distance. May they 
 be deserving of the good tidings which I bring !" Seeing 
 them turn towards the house, I mended my pace, that I 
 might overtake them and request their introduction of 
 me to their mother. 
 
 As I more nearly approached, they again turned ; 
 and, perceiving me, they stood as if in expectation of 
 my message. I went up to them. 
 
 A single glance, cast at each, made me suspect that 
 they were not sisters ; but, somewhat to my disappoint 
 ment, there was nothing highly prepossessing in the 
 
 159
 
 l6o ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 countenance of either. They were what is every day 
 met with, though less embellished by brilliant drapery 
 and turban, in markets and streets. An air somewhat 
 haughty, somewhat supercilious, lessened still more their 
 attractions. These detects, however, were nothing to me. 
 
 I inquired, of her that seemed to be the elder of the 
 two, for Mrs. Maurice. 
 
 "She is indisposed," was the cold reply. 
 
 "That is unfortunate. Is it not possible to see her?" 
 
 "No;" with still more gravity. 
 
 I was somewhat at a loss how to proceed. A pause 
 ensued. At length the same lady resumed, " What s your 
 business? You can leave your message with me." 
 
 "With nobody but her. If she be not very indis 
 posed " 
 
 "She is very indisposed," interrupted she, peevishly. 
 " If you cannot leave your message, you may take it 
 back again, for she must not be disturbed." 
 
 This was a singular reception. I was disconcerted 
 and silent. I knew not what to say. "Perhaps," I at 
 last observed, "some other time " 
 
 "No," (with increasing heat,) "no other time. She 
 is more likely to be worse than better. Come, Betsy," 
 said she, taking hold of her companion s arm ; and, 
 hieing into the house, shut the door after her, and dis 
 appeared. I stood, at the bottom of the steps, con 
 founded at such strange and unexpected treatment. I 
 could not withdraw till my purpose was accomplished. 
 After a moment s pause, I stepped to the door, and 
 pulled the bell. A negro came, of a very unpropitious 
 aspect, and, opening the door, looked at me in silence. 
 To my question, Was Mrs. Maurice to be seen ? he made 
 gome answer, in a jargon which I could not understand ; 
 but his words were immediately followed by an unseen 
 person within the house : " Mrs. Maurice can t be seen 
 by anybody. Come in, Cato, and shut the door." This 
 injunction was obeyed by Cato without ceremony. 
 
 Here was a dilemma ! I came with ten thousand 
 pounds in my hands, to bestow freely on these people, 
 and such was the treatment I received. "I must adopt," 
 said I, "a new mode."
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. l6l 
 
 I lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, Cato 
 having disappeared, went into a room, the door of which 
 chanced to be open, on my right hand. I found within 
 the two females whom I had accosted in the portico. I 
 now addressed myself to the younger : " This intrusion, 
 when I have explained the reason of it, will, I hope, be 
 forgiven. I come, madam " 
 
 "Yes," interrupted the other, with a countenance suf 
 fused by indignation, " I know very well whom you come 
 from, and what it is that prompts this insolence ; but 
 your employer shall see that we have not sunk so low as 
 he imagines. Cato ! Bob ! I say." 
 
 "My employer, madam ! I see you labour under some 
 great mistake. I have no employer. I come from a 
 great distance. I come to bring intelligence of the 
 utmost importance to your family. I come to benefit 
 and not to injure you." 
 
 By this time, Bob and Cato, two sturdy blacks, entered 
 the room. "Turn this person," said the imperious lady, 
 regardless of ray explanations, " out of the house. Don t 
 you hear me ?" she continued, observing that they looked 
 one upon the other and hesitated. 
 
 "Surely, madam," said I, "you are precipitate. You 
 are treating like an enemy one who will prove himself 
 your mother s best friend." 
 
 "Will you leave the house?" she exclaimed, quite 
 beside herself with anger. "Villains! why don t you 
 do as 1 bid you ?" 
 
 The blacks looked upon each other, as if waiting for 
 an example. Their habitual deference for every thing 
 white, no doubt, held their hands from what they re 
 garded as a profanation. At last Bob said, in a whining, 
 beseeching tone, "Why, missee, massa buckra wanna go 
 for doo, dan he winna go fo wee." 
 
 The lady now burst into tears of rage. She held out 
 her hand, menacingly. "Will you leave the house?" 
 
 "Not willingly," said I, in a mild tone. "I came too 
 far to return with the business that brought me unper 
 formed. I am persuaded, madam, you mistake my cha 
 racter and my views. I have a message to deliver your 
 mother which deeply concerns her and your happiness, 
 11
 
 1 62 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 if you are her daughter. I merely wished to see her, 
 and leave with her a piece of important news ; news in 
 which her fortune is deeply interested." 
 
 These words had a wonderful effect upon the young 
 lady. Her anger was checked. "Good God!" she ex 
 claimed, "are you Watson?" 
 
 " No ; I am only Watson s representative, and come 
 to do all that Watson could do if he were present." 
 
 She was now importunate to know my business. 
 
 "My business lies with Mrs. Maurice. Advertise 
 ments, which I have seen, direct me to her, and to this 
 house; and to her only shall I deliver my message." 
 
 "Perhaps," said she, with a face of apology, "I have 
 mistaken you. Mrs. Maurice is my mother. She is 
 really indisposed, but I can stand in her place on this 
 occasion." 
 
 " You cannot represent her in this instance. If I can 
 not have access to her now, I must go ; and shall return 
 when you are willing to grant it." 
 
 "Nay," replied she, "she is not, perhaps, so very sick 
 but that I will go, and see if she will admit you." So 
 saying, she left me for three minutes ; and, returning, 
 said her mother wished to see me. 
 
 I followed up-stairs, at her request ; and, entering an 
 ill-furnished chamber, found, seated in an arm-chair, a 
 lady seemingly in years, pale, and visibly infirm. The 
 lines of her countenance were far from laying claim to 
 my reverence. It was too much like the (laughter s. 
 
 She looked at me, at my entrance, with great eagerness, 
 and said, in a sharp tone, " Pray, friend, what is it you want 
 with me? Make haste; tell your story, and begone." 
 
 "My story is a short one, and easily told. Amos 
 Watson was your agent in Jamaica. He sold an estate 
 belonging to you, and received the money." 
 
 "He did," said she, attempting ineffectually to rise 
 from her seat, and her eyes beaming with a significance 
 that shocked me ; " he did, the villain, and purloined the 
 money, to the ruin of me and my daughters. But if there 
 be justice on earth it will overtake him. I trust I shall 
 have the pleasure one day I hope to hear he s hanged. 
 Well, but go on, friend. He did sell it, I tell you."
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 163 
 
 "He sold it for ten thousand pounds," I resumed, 
 " and invested this sum in bills of exchange. Watson is 
 dead. These bills came into my hands. I was lately 
 informed, by the public papers, who were the real 
 owners, and have come from Philadelphia with no 
 other view than to restore them to you. There they 
 are," continued I, placing them in her lap, entire and 
 untouched. 
 
 She seized the papers, and looked at me and at her 
 daughter, by turns, with an air of one suddenly bewil 
 dered. She seemed speechless, and, growing suddenly 
 more ghastly pale, leaned her head back upon the chair. 
 The daughter screamed, and hastened to support the 
 languid parent, who difficultly articulated, " Oh, I am 
 sick ; sick to death. Put me on the bed." 
 
 I was astonished and affrighted at this scene. Some 
 of the domestics, of both colours, entered, and gazed at 
 me with surprise. Involuntarily I withdrew, and re 
 turned to the room below, into which I had first entered, 
 and which I now found deserted. 
 
 I was for some time at a loss to guess at the cause of 
 these appearances. At length it occurred to me, that 
 joy was the source of the sickness that had seized Mrs. 
 Maurice. The abrupt recovery of what had probably 
 been deemed irretrievable would naturally produce this 
 effect upon a mind of a certain texture. 
 
 I was deliberating whether to stay or go, when the 
 daughter entered the room, and, after expressing some 
 surprise at seeing me, whom she supposed to have re 
 tired, told me that her mother wished to see me again 
 before my departure. In this request there was no 
 kindness. All was cold, supercilious, and sullen. I 
 obeyed the summons without speaking. 
 
 I found Mrs. Maurice seated in her arm-chair, much 
 in her former guise. Without desiring me to be seated, 
 or relaxing aught in her asperity of looks and tones, 
 "Pray, friend, how did you come by these papers?" 
 
 "I assure you, madam, they were honestly come by" 
 answered I, sedately and with half a smile ; "but, if the 
 whole is there that was missing, the mode and time in
 
 164 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR t 
 
 which they came to me is matter of concern only to my 
 self. Is there any deficiency ?" 
 
 "I am not sure. I don t know much of these matters. 
 There may be less. I dare say there is. I shall know 
 that soon. I expect a friend of mine every minute who 
 will look them over. I don t doubt you can give a good 
 account of yourself." 
 
 "I doubt not but I can to those who have a right to 
 demand it. In this case, curiosity must be very urgent 
 indeed before I shall consent to gratify it." 
 
 " You must know this is a suspicious case. Watson, 
 to-be-sure, embezzled the money ; to-be-sure, you are his 
 accomplice." 
 
 "Certainly," said I, "my conduct, on this occasion, 
 proves that. What I have brought to you, of my own 
 accord ; what I have restored to you, fully and uncon 
 ditionally, it is plain Watson embezzled, and that I was 
 aiding in the fraud. To restore what was never stolen 
 always betrays the thief. To give what might be kept 
 without suspicion is, without doubt, arrant knavery. To 
 be serious, madam, in coming thus far, for this purpose, 
 I have done enough; and must now bid you farewell." 
 
 "Nay, don t go yet. I have something more to say 
 to you. My friend, I m sure, will be here presently. 
 There he is;" (noticing a peal upon the bell.) "Polly, 
 go down, and see if that s Mr. Somers. If it is, bring 
 him up." The daughter went. 
 
 I walked to the window absorbed in my own reflections. 
 I was disappointed and dejected. The scene before me 
 was the unpleasing reverse of all that my fancy, while 
 coining hither, had foreboded. I expected to find virtuous 
 indigence and sorrow lifted, by my means, to affluence and 
 exultation. I expected to witness the tears of grati 
 tude and the caresses of affection. What had I found ? 
 Nothing but sordiduess, stupidity, and illiberal suspicion. 
 
 The daughter stayed much longer than the mother s pa 
 tience could endure. She knocked against the floor with 
 her heel. A servant came up. "Where s Polly, you slut? 
 It was not you, hussy, that I wanted. It was her." 
 
 " She is talking in the parlour with a gentleman."
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR /79J. 165 
 
 " Mr. Somers, I suppose ; hey, fool ? Run with my 
 compliments to him, wench. Tell him, please walk up." 
 
 "It is not Mr. Somers, ma am." 
 
 "No? Who then, saucebox? What gentleman can 
 have any thing to do with Polly?" 
 I don t know, ma am." 
 
 " Who said you did, impertinence ? Run, and tell her 
 I want her this instant." 
 
 The summons was not delivered, or Polly did not think 
 proper to obey it. Full ten minutes of thoughtful silence 
 on my part, and of muttered vexation and impatience on 
 that of the old lady, elapsed before Polly s entrance. As 
 soon as she appeared, the mother began to complain bit 
 terly of her inattention and neglect ; but Polly, taking no 
 notice of her, addressed herself to me, and told me that 
 a gentleman below wished to see me. I hastened down, 
 and found a stranger, of a plain appearance, in the par 
 lour. His aspect was liberal and ingenuous ; and I quickly 
 collected, from his discourse, that this was the brother-in- 
 law of Watson, and the companion of his last voyage.
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 MY eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected 
 interview, and I willingly confessed my desire to com 
 municate all the knowledge of his brother s destiny 
 which I possessed. He told me, that, returning late to 
 Baltimore, on the last evening, he found his sister in 
 much agitation and distress, which, after a time, she ex 
 plained to him. She likewise put the packets I had left 
 into his hands. 
 
 I leave you to imagine," continued he, "my surprise 
 and curiosity at this discovery. I was, of course, im 
 patient to see the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. 
 This morning, inquiring for one of your appearance at 
 the taverns, I was, at length, informed of your arrival 
 yesterday in the stage ; of your going out alone in the 
 evening ; of your subsequent return ; and of your early 
 departure this morning. Accidentally I lighted on your 
 footsteps ; and, by suitable inquiries on the road, have 
 finally traced you hither. 
 
 " You told my sister her husband was dead. You left 
 with her papers that were probably in his possession at 
 the time of his death. I understand from Miss Maurice 
 that the bills belonging to her mother have just been 
 delivered to her. I presume you have no objection to 
 clear up this mystery." 
 
 "To you I am anxious to unfold every thing. At this 
 moment, or at any time, but the sooner the more agree 
 able to me, I will do it." 
 
 "This," said he, looking around him, "is no place; 
 
 there is an inn, not a hundred yards from this gate, where 
 
 I have left my horse; will you go thither?" I readily 
 
 consented, and, calling for a private apartment, I laid 
 
 166
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 67 
 
 before this man every incident of my life connected "with 
 Welbeck and Watson ; my full, circumstantial, and ex 
 plicit story appeared to remove every doubt which he 
 might have entertained of my integrity. 
 
 In Williams I found a plain, good man, of a temper 
 confiding and affectionate. My narration being finished, 
 he expressed, by unaffected tokens, his wonder and his 
 grief on account of Watson s destiny. To my inquiries, 
 which were made with frankness and fervour, respecting 
 his own and his sister s condition, he said that the situa 
 tion of both was deplorable till the recovery of this pro 
 perty. They had been saved from utter ruin, from beg 
 gary and a jail, only by the generosity and lenity of his 
 creditors, who did not suffer the suspicious circumstances 
 attending Watson s disappearance to outweigh former 
 proofs of his probity. They had never relinquished the 
 hopes of receiving some tidings of their kinsman. 
 
 I related what had just passed in the house of Mrs. 
 Maurice, and requested to know from him the history 
 and character of this family. 
 
 "They have treated you," he answered, "exactly as 
 any one who knew them would have predicted. The 
 mother is narrow, ignorant, bigoted, and avaricious. The 
 eldest daughter, whom you saw, resembles the old lady 
 in many things. Age, indeed, may render the similitude 
 complete. At present, pride and ill-humour are her 
 chief characteristics. 
 
 " The youngest daughter has nothing in mind or person 
 in common with her family. Where they are irascible, she 
 is patient ; where they are imperious, she is humble ; where 
 they are covetous, she is liberal ; where they are ignorant 
 and indolent, she is studious and skilful. It is rare, indeed, 
 to find a young lady more amiable than Miss Fanny Mau 
 rice, or who has had more crosses and afflictions to sustain. 
 
 " The eldest daughter always extorted the supply of 
 her wants, from her parents, by threats and importunities; 
 but the younger could never be prevailed upon to employ 
 the same means, and, hence, she suffered iiiconveniei ces 
 which, to any other girl, born to an equal rank, wo ild 
 have been, to the last degree, humiliating and vexatious. 
 To her they only afforded new opportunities, for the dis-
 
 1 68 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 play of her most shining virtues, fortitude and charity. 
 No instance of their sordidness or tyranny ever stole a 
 murmur from her. For what they had given, existence 
 and a virtuous education, she said they were entitled to 
 gratitude. What they withheld was their own, in the 
 use of which they were not accountable to her. She was 
 not ashamed to owe her subsistence to her own industry, 
 and was only held by the pride of her family in this 
 instance their pride was equal to their avarice from 
 seeking out some lucrative kind of employment. Since 
 the shock which their fortune sustained by Watson s dis 
 appearance, she has been permitted to pursue this plan, 
 and she now teaches music in Baltimore for a living. No 
 one, however, in the highest rank, can be more generally 
 respected and caressed than she is." 
 
 "But will not the recovery of this money make a 
 favourable change in her condition?" 
 
 " I can hardly tell ; but I am inclined to think it will 
 not. It will not change her mother s character. Her 
 pride may be awakened anew, and she may oblige Miss 
 Fanny to relinquish her new profession, and that will be 
 a change to be deplored." 
 
 "What good has been done, then, by restoring this 
 money?" 
 
 " If pleasure be good, you must have conferred a great 
 deal on the Maurices; upon the mother and two of the 
 daughters, at least, the only pleasure, indeed, which 
 their natures can receive. It is less than if you had 
 raised them from absolute indigence, which has not been 
 the case, since they had wherewithal to live upon besides 
 their Jamaica property. But how?" continued Williams, 
 suddenly recollecting himself; "have you claimed the 
 reward promised to him who should restore these bills?" 
 
 "What reward?" 
 
 "No less than a thousand dollars. It was publicly 
 promised under the hands of Mrs. Maurice and of Hem- 
 mings, her husband s executor." 
 
 "Really," said I, "that circumstance escaped my 
 attention, and I wonder that it did ; but is it too late to 
 repair the evil ?" 
 
 "Then you have no scruple to accept the reward?"
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 169 
 
 " Certainly not. Could you suspect me of so strange 
 a punctilio as that?" 
 
 "Yes; but I know not why. The story you have 
 just finished taught me to expect some unreasonable re 
 finement upon that head. To be hired, to be bribed, to 
 do our duty is supposed by some to be degrading." 
 
 " This is no such bribe to me. I should have acted 
 just as I have done, had no recompense been pro 
 mised. In truth, this has been my conduct, for I never 
 once thought of the reward; but, now that you remind 
 me of it, I would gladly see it bestowed. To fulfil 
 their engagements, in this respect, is no more than 
 justice in the Maurices. To one in my condition the 
 money will be highly useful. If these people were poor, or 
 generous and worthy, or if I myself were already rich, I 
 might less repine at their withholding it ; but, things being 
 as they are with them and with me, it would, I think, be 
 gross injustice in them to withhold, and in me to refuse." 
 
 "That injustice," said Williams, "will, on their part, 
 I fear, be committed. Tis pity you first applied to Mrs. 
 Maurice. Nothing can be expected from her avarice, 
 unless it be wrested from her by a lawsuit." 
 
 "That is a force which I shall never apply." 
 
 " Had you gone first to Hemmings, you might, I think, 
 have looked for payment. He is not a mean man. A 
 thousand dollars, he must know, is not much to give for 
 forty thousand. Perhaps, indeed, it may not yet be too 
 late. I am well known to him, and, if you please, will 
 attend you to him in the evening, and state your claim." 
 
 I thankfully accepted this offer, and went with him 
 accordingly. I found that Hemmings ttad been with 
 Mrs. Maurice in the course of the day ; had received from 
 her intelligence of this transaction, and had entertained 
 the expectation of a visit from me for this very purpose. 
 
 While Williams explained to him the nature of my 
 claim, he scanned me with great intentness. His austere 
 and inflexible brow afforded me little room to hope for 
 success, and this hopelessness was confirmed by his silence 
 and perplexity when Williams had made an end. 
 
 "To-be-sure," said he, after some pause, "the contract 
 was explicit. To-be-sure, the conditions on Mr. Mer-
 
 I/O ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 vyn s side have been performed. Certain it is, the bills 
 are entire and complete, but Mrs. Maurice will not con 
 sent to do her part, and Mrs. Maurice, to whom the papers 
 were presented, is the person by whom, according to the 
 terms of the contract, the reward must be paid." 
 
 "But Mrs. Maurice, you know, sir, may be legally 
 compelled to pay," said Williams. 
 
 "Perhaps she may; but I tell you plainly, that she 
 never will do the thing without compulsion. Legal pro 
 cess, however, in this case, will have other inconveniences 
 besides delay. Some curiosity will naturally be excited, 
 as to the history of these papers. Watson disappeared 
 a twelvemonth ago. Who can avoid asking, Where have 
 these papers been deposited all this while, and how came 
 this person in possession of them?" 
 
 "That kind of curiosity," said I, "is natural and 
 laudable, and gladly would I gratify it. Disclosure or 
 concealment in that case, however, would nowise affect 
 my present claim. Whether a bond, legally executed, 
 shall be paid, does not depend upon determining whether 
 the payer is fondest of boiled mutton or roast beef. 
 Truth, in the first case, has no connection with truth in 
 the second. So far from eluding this curiosity, so far from 
 studying concealment, I am anxious to publish the truth." 
 
 "You are right, to-be-sure," said Ilemmings. "Cu 
 riosity is a natural, but only an incidental, consequence 
 in this case. I have no reason for desiring that it should 
 be an unpleasant consequence to you." 
 
 "Well, sir," said Williams, "you think that Arthur 
 Mervyn has no remedy in this case but the law?" 
 
 " Mrs. Maurice, to-be-sure, will never pay but on com 
 pulsion. Mervyn should have known his own interest 
 better. While his left hand was stretched out to give, 
 his right should have been held forth to receive. As it 
 is, he must be contented with the aid of law. Any attorney 
 will prosecute on condition of receiving half the sum 
 when recovered." 
 
 We now rose to take our leave, when Ilemmings, de 
 siring us to pause a moment, said, "To-be-sure, in the 
 utmost strictness of the terms of our promise, the reward 
 was to be paid by the person who received the papers;
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. I? I 
 
 but it must be owned that your claim, at any rate, ia 
 equitable. I have money of the deceased Mr. Maurice 
 in my hands. These very bills are now in my possession. 
 I will therefore pay you your due, and take the conse 
 quences of an act of justice on myself. I was prepared 
 for you. Sign that receipt, and there is a check for the 
 amount."
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THIS unexpected and agreeable decision was accompa 
 nied by an invitation to supper, at which we were treated 
 by our host with much affability and kindness. Finding 
 me the author of Williams s good fortune as well as Mrs. 
 Maurice s, and being assured by the former of his entire 
 conviction of the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside 
 all reserve and distance with regard to me. He inquired 
 into my prospects and wishes, and professed his willing 
 ness to serve me. 
 
 I dealt with equal unreserve and frankness. "I am 
 poor," said I. "Money for my very expenses hither I 
 have borrowed from a friend, to whom I am, in other 
 respects, much indebted, and whom I expect to com 
 pensate only by gratitude and future services. 
 
 "In coming hither, I expected only an increase of my 
 debts; to sink still deeper into poverty; but happily the 
 issue has made me rich. This hour has given me com 
 petence, at least." 
 
 "What! call you a thousand dollars competence?" 
 
 "More than competence. I call it an abundance. My 
 own ingenuity, while I enjoy health, will enable me to 
 live. This I regard as a fund, first to pay my debts, 
 and next to supply deficiencies occasioned by untoward 
 accidents or ill health, during the ensuing three or four 
 years at least." 
 
 We parted with this new acquaintance at a late hour, and 
 I accepted Williams s invitation to pass the time I should 
 spend at Baltimore, under his sister s roof. There were 
 several motives for prolonging this stay. What I had 
 heard of Miss Fanny Maurice excited strong wishes to 
 be personally acquainted with her. This young lady 
 172
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1/3 
 
 was affectionately attached to Mrs. Watson, by whose 
 means my wishes were easily accomplished. 
 
 I never was in habits of reserve, even with those whom 
 I had no reason to esteem. With those who claimed my 
 admiration and affection, it was impossible to be incom 
 municative. Before the end of my second interview, 
 both these women were mistresses of every momentous 
 incident of my life, and of the whole chain of my feel 
 ings and opinions, in relation to every subject, and par 
 ticularly in relation to themselves. Every topic discon 
 nected with these is comparatively lifeless and inert. 
 
 I found it easy to win their attention, and to render 
 them communicative in their turn. As full disclosures 
 as I had made without condition or request, my inquiries 
 and example easily obtained from Mrs. Watson and Miss 
 Maurice. The former related every event of her youth, 
 and the circumstances leading to her marriage. She 
 depicted the character of her husband, and the whole 
 train of suspenses and inquietudes occasioned by his dis 
 appearance. The latter did not hide from me her opi 
 nions upon any important subject, and made me thoroughly 
 acquainted with her actual situation. 
 
 This intercourse was strangely fascinating. My heart 
 was buoyed up by a kind of intoxication. I now found 
 myself exalted to my genial element, and began to taste 
 the delights of existence. In the intercourse of ingenu 
 ous and sympathetic minds, I found a pleasure which I 
 had not previously conceived. 
 
 The time flew swiftly away, and a fortnight passed 
 almost before I was aware that a day had gone by. I 
 did not forget the friends whom I had left behind, but 
 maintained a punctual correspondence with Stevens, to 
 whom I imparted all occurrences. 
 
 The recovery of my friend s kinsman allowed him in 
 a few days to return home. His first object was the con 
 solation and relief of Carlton, whom, with much diffi 
 culty, he persuaded to take advantage of the laws in 
 favour of insolvent debtors. Carlton s only debt was 
 owing to his uncle, and, by rendering up every species 
 of property, except his clothes and the implements of 
 his trade, he obtained a full discharge. In conjunction
 
 1/4 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 with his sister, he once more assumed the pen, and, being 
 no longer burdened with debts he was unable to discharge, 
 he resumed, together with his pen, his cheerfulness. 
 Their mutual industry was sufficient for their decent and 
 moderate subsistence. 
 
 The chief reason for my hasty return was my anxiety 
 respecting Clemenza Lodi. This reason was removed by 
 the activity and benevolence of my friend. He paid this 
 unfortunate stranger a visit at Mrs. Villars s. Access was 
 easily obtained, and he found her sunk into the deepest 
 melancholy. The recent loss of her child, the death of 
 Welbeck, of which she was soon apprized, her total de 
 pendence upon those with whom she was placed, who, how 
 ever, had always treated her without barbarity or inde 
 corum, were the calamities that weighed down her spirits. 
 
 My friend easily engaged her confidence and gratitude, 
 and prevailed upon her to take refuge under his own roof. 
 Mrs. Wentworth s scruples, as well as those of Mrs. Field 
 ing, were removed by his arguments and entreaties, and 
 they consented to take upon themselves, and divide between 
 them, the care of her subsistence and happiness. They 
 condescended to express much curiosity respecting me, 
 and some interest in my welfare, and promised to receive 
 me, on my return, on the footing of a friend. 
 
 With some reluctance, I at length bade my new friends 
 farewell, and returned to Philadelphia. Nothing re 
 mained, before I should enter on my projected scheme 
 of study and employment, under the guidance of Stevens, 
 but to examine the situation of Eliza Hadwin with my 
 own eyes, and, if possible, to extricate my father from 
 his unfortunate situation. 
 
 My father s state had given me the deepest concern. I 
 figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal appe 
 tites, reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, 
 and condemned to that society which must foster all his 
 depraved propensities. I revolved various schemes for 
 his relief. A few hundreds would take hirn from prison; 
 but how should he be afterwards disposed of? How 
 should he be cured of his indolent habits? How should 
 he be screened from the contagion of vicious society? 
 Hy what means, consistently with my own wants and
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 175 
 
 the claims of others, should I secure to him an accept 
 able subsistence? 
 
 Exhortation and example were vain. Nothing but re 
 straint would keep him at a distance from the haunts of 
 brawling and debauchery. The want of money would 
 be no obstacle to prodigality and waste. Credit would 
 be resorted to as long as it would answer his demand. 
 When that failed, he would once more be thrown into a 
 prison ; the same means to extricate him would have to 
 be repeated, and money be thus put into the pockets of 
 the most worthless of mankind, the agents of drunken 
 ness and blasphemy, without any permanent advantage 
 to my father, the principal object of my charity. 
 
 Though unable to fix on any plausible mode of pro 
 ceeding, I determined, at least, to discover his present 
 condition. Perhaps something might suggest itself, upon 
 the spot, suited to my purpose. Without delay I pro 
 ceeded to the village of Newtown, and, alighting at the 
 door of the prison, inquired for my father. 
 
 "Sawny Mervyn you want, I suppose," said the 
 keeper. " Poor fellow ! He came into limbo in a crazy 
 condition, and has been a burden on my hands ever since. 
 After lingering along for some time, he was at last kind 
 enough to give us the slip. It is just a week since he 
 drank his last pint and died." 
 
 I was greatly shocked at this intelligence. It was some 
 time before my reason came to my aid, and showed me 
 that this was an event, on the whole, and on a disinte 
 rested and dispassionate view, not unfortunate. The 
 keeper knew not my relation to the deceased, and readily 
 recounted the behaviour of the prisoner and the circum 
 stances of his last hours. 
 
 I shall not repeat the narrative. It is useless to keep 
 alive the sad remembrance. He was now beyond the 
 reach of my charity or pity ; and, since reflection could 
 answer no beneficial end to him, it was my duty to divert 
 my thoughts into different channels, and live henceforth 
 for my own happiness and that of those who were within 
 the sphere of my influence. 
 
 I was now alone in the world, so far as the total want 
 of kindred creates solitude. Not one of my blood, nor
 
 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 even of my name, was to be found in this quarter of the 
 world. Of my mother s kindred I knew nothing. So 
 far as friendship or service might be claimed from them, 
 to me they had no existence. I was destitute of all 
 those benefits which flow from kindred, in relation tc 
 protection, advice, or property. My inheritance was 
 nothing. Not a single relic or trinket in my possession 
 constituted a memorial of my family. The scenes of 
 my childish and juvenile days were dreary and desolate. 
 The fields which I was wont to traverse, the room in 
 which I was born, retained no traces of the past. They 
 were the property and residence of strangers, who knew 
 nothing of the former tenants, and who, as I was now 
 told, had hastened to new-model and transform every 
 thing within arid without the habitation. 
 
 These images filled me with melancholy, which, how 
 ever, disappeared in proportion as I approached the abode 
 of my beloved girl. Absence had endeared the image of 
 my Bess I loved to call her so to my soul. I could not 
 think of her without a melting softness at my heart, and 
 tears in which pain and pleasure were unaccountably min 
 gled. As I approached Curling s house, I strained my 
 sight, in hopes of distinguishing her form through the 
 evening dusk. 
 
 I had told her of my purpose, by letter. She ex 
 pected my approach at this hour, and was stationed, with 
 a heart throbbing with impatience, at the roadside, near 
 the gate. As soon as I alighted, she rushed into my 
 arms. 
 
 I found my sweet friend less blithesome and contented 
 than I wished. Her situation, in spite of the parental 
 and sisterly regards which she received from the Cur 
 lings, was mournful and dreary to her imagination. 
 Rural business was irksome, and insufficient to fill up 
 her time. Her life was tiresome, and uniform, and 
 heavy. 
 
 I ventured to blame her discontent, and pointed out 
 the advantages of her situation. "Whence," said I, 
 "can these dissatisfactions and repinings arise?" 
 
 "I cannot tell," said she; "I don t know how it is 
 with me. I am always sorrowful and thoughtful. Per-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 177 
 
 haps I think too much of my poor father and of Susan ; 
 and yet that can t be it, neither, for I think of them but 
 seldom; not half as much as I ought, perhaps. I think 
 of nobody almost but you. Instead of minding my 
 business, or chatting and laughing with Peggy Curling, 
 I love to get by myself, to read, over and over, your 
 letters, or to think how you are employed just then, and 
 how happy I should be if I were in Fanny Maurice s 
 place. 
 
 "But it is all over now; this visit rewards me for 
 every thing. I wonder how I could ever be sullen or 
 niopeful. I will behave better, indeed I will, and be 
 always, as now, a most happy girl." 
 
 The greater part of three days was spent in the so 
 ciety of my friend, in listening to her relation of all 
 that had happened during my absence, and in com 
 municating, in my turn, every incident which had be 
 fallen myself. After this I once more returned to the 
 city. 
 
 12
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 I NOW set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I 
 began with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career 
 of medical study. I bespoke the counsels and instruc 
 tions of my friend; attended him on his professional 
 visits, and acted, in all practicable cases, as his substitute. 
 I found this application of time more pleasurable than I 
 had imagined. My mind gladly expanded itself, as it 
 were, for the reception of new ideas. My curiosity 
 grew more eager in proportion as it was supplied with 
 food, and every day added strength to the assurance 
 that I was no insignificant and worthless being ; that I 
 
 . 
 
 was destined to be something in this scene of existence, 
 and might some time lay claim to the gratitude and 
 homage of my fellow men. 
 
 I was far from being, however, monopolized by these 
 pursuits. I was formed on purpose for the gratification 
 of social intercourse. To love and to be loved ; to ex 
 change hearts and mingle sentiments with all the vir 
 tuous and amiable whom my good fortune had placed 
 within the circuit of my knowledge, I always esteemed 
 my highest enjoyment and my chief duty. 
 
 Carlton and his sister, Mrs. Wentworth, and Achsa 
 Fielding, were my most valuable associates beyond my 
 own family. With all these my correspondence was 
 frequent and unreserved, but chiefly with the latter. 
 This lady had dignity and independence, a generous and 
 enlightened spirit, beyond what her education had taught 
 ine to expect. She was circumspect and cautious in her 
 deportment, and was not prompt to make advances, or 
 accept them. She withheld her esteem and confidence 
 until she had full proof of their being deserved. 
 
 I am not sure that her treatment of me was fully con 
 formable to her rules. My manners, indeed, as she once 
 178
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793- 1 79 
 
 told me, she had never met with in another. Ordinary 
 rules were so totally overlooked in my behaviour, that it 
 seemed impossible for any one who knew me to adhere 
 to them. No option was left but to admit my claims to 
 friendship and confidence instantly, or to reject them 
 altogether. 
 
 I Avas not conscious of this singularity. The internal 
 and undiscovered character of another weighed nothing 
 with me in the question whether they should be treated 
 with frankness or reserve. I felt no scruple on any oc 
 casion to disclose every feeling and every event. Any 
 one who could listen found me willing to talk. Every 
 talker found me willing to listen. Every one had my 
 sympathy and kindness, without claiming it; but I 
 claimed the kindness and sympathy of every one. 
 
 Achsa Fielding s countenance bespoke, I thought, a 
 mind worthy to be known and to be loved. The first 
 moment I engaged her attention, I told her so. I re 
 lated the little story of my family, spread out before her 
 all my reasonings and determinations, my notions of 
 right and wrong, my fears and wishes. All this was 
 done with sincerity and fervour, with gestures, actions, 
 and looks, in which I felt as if my whole soul was visible. 
 Her superior age, sedateness, and prudence, gave my 
 deportment a filial freedom and affection, and I was fond 
 of calling her "mamma." 
 
 I particularly dwelt upon the history of my dear 
 country-girl ; painted her form and countenance ; re 
 counted our dialogues, and related all my schemes for 
 making her wise, and good, and happy. On these occa 
 sions my friend would listen to me with the mutest at 
 tention. I showed her the letters I received, and offered 
 her for her perusal those which I wrote in answer, before 
 they were sealed and sent. 
 
 On these occasions she would look by turns on my 
 face and away from me. A varying hue would play 
 upon her cheek, and her eyes were fuller than was com 
 mon, of meaning. 
 
 14 Such-and-such," I once said, "are my notions; now, 
 what do you think?" 
 
 "Think!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside,
 
 ISO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 she answered; "that you are the most strange of 
 human creatures." 
 
 " But tell me," I resumed, following and searching her 
 averted eyes; "am I right? would you do thus? Can 
 you help me to improve my girl? I wish you knew the 
 bewitching little creature. How would that heart over 
 flow with affection and with gratitude towards you ! She 
 should be your daughter. No you are too nearly of 
 an age for that. A sister ; her elder sister, you should 
 be. That, when there is no other relation, includes them 
 all. Fond sisters you would be, and I the fond brother 
 of you both." 
 
 My eyes glistened as I spoke. In truth, I am in that 
 respect a mere woman. My friend was more powerfully 
 moved. After a momentary struggle she burst into tears. 
 
 "Good heaven!" said I, " what ails you? Are you 
 not well ?" 
 
 Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from 
 which she quickly recovered: "It was folly to be thus 
 affected. Something ailed me, I believe, but it is past. 
 But, come, you want some lines of finishing the descrip 
 tion of the Boa in La Cepide." 
 
 " True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor 
 Franks is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. 
 We ll read till then." 
 
 Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement 
 passed my time ; not without some hues, occasionally, 
 of a darker tint. My heart was now and then detected 
 in sighing. This occurred when my thoughts glanced 
 at the poor Eliza, and measured, as it were, the interval 
 between us. "We are too too far apart," thought I. 
 
 The best solace on these occasions was the company 
 of Mrs. Fielding ; her music, her discourse, or some 
 book which she set me to rehearsing to her. One even 
 ing, when preparing to pay her a visit, I received the 
 following letter from my Bess : 
 
 To A. Mervyn. 
 
 CURLING s, May 6, 1794. 
 
 Where does this letter you promised me stay all this 
 while ? Indeed, Arthur, you torment me more than I
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. l8l 
 
 deserve, and more than I could ever find it in my heart 
 to do you. You treat me cruelly. I must say so, though 
 I offend you. I must write, though you do not deserve 
 that I should, and though I fear I am in a humour not 
 very fit for writing. I had better go to my chamber and 
 weep ; weep at your unkindness, I was going to say ; 
 but, perhaps, it is only forgetfulness ; and yet what can 
 be more unkind than forgetfulness ? I am sure I have 
 never forgotten you. Sleep itself, which wraps all other 
 images in forgetfulness, only brings you nearer, and 
 makes me see you more distinctly. 
 
 But where can this letter stay ? Oh ! that hush ! 
 foolish girl ! If a word of that kind escape thy lips, 
 Arthur will be angry with thee ; and then, indeed, thou 
 mightest weep in earnest. Then thou wouldfet have 
 some cause for thy tears. More than once already has 
 he almost broken thy heart with his reproaches. Sore 
 and weak as it now is, any new reproaches would as 
 suredly break it quite. 
 
 I will be content. I will be as good a housewife and 
 dairywoman, stir about as briskly, and sing as merrily, 
 as Peggy Curling. Why not ? 1 am as young, as inno 
 cent, and enjoy as good health. Alas ! she has reason 
 to be merry. She has father, mother, brothers ; but I 
 have none. And he that was all these, and more than 
 all these, to me, has -forgotten me. 
 
 But, perhaps, it is some accident that hinders. Per 
 haps Oliver left the market earlier than he used to do ; 
 or you mistook the house ; or perhaps some poor crea 
 ture was sick, was taken suddenly ill, and you were busy 
 in chafing his clay-cold limbs ; it fell to you to wipe the 
 clammy drops from his brow. Such things often hap 
 pen (don t they, Arthur ?) to people of your trade, and 
 some such thing has happened now ; and that was the 
 reason you did not write. 
 
 And if so, shall I repine at your silence ? Oh no ! 
 At such a time the poor Bess might easily be, and ought 
 to be, forgotten. She would not deserve your love if she 
 could repine at a silence brought about this way. 
 
 And oh ! may it be so ! May there be nothing worse 
 than this ! If the sick mail see, Arthur, how my hand
 
 1 82 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 trembles. Can you read this scrawl ? What is always 
 bad, my fears make worse than ever. 
 
 I must not think that. And yet, if it be so, if my 
 friend himself be sick, what will become of me ? Of me, 
 that ought to cherish you and comfort you ; that ought 
 to be your nurse. Endure for you your sickness, when 
 she cannot remove it. 
 
 Oh ! that 1 will speak out Oh that this strange 
 
 scruple had never possessed you ! Why should I not be 
 with you ? Who can love you and serve you as well as 
 I ? In sickness and health, I will console and assist 
 you. Why will you deprive yourself of such a com 
 forter and such an aid as I would be to you ? 
 
 Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this 
 dreary spot, where, indeed, as long as I am thus alone, 
 I can enjoy no comfort. Let me come to you. I will 
 put up with any thing for the sake of seeing you, though 
 it be but once a day. Any garret or cellar in the dirtiest 
 lane or darkest alley will be good enough for me. I will 
 think it a palace, so that I can but see you now aud 
 then. 
 
 Do not refuse do not argue with me, so fond you 
 always are of arguing ! My heart is set upon your com 
 pliance. And yet, dearly as I prize your company, I 
 would not ask it, if I thought there was any thing im 
 proper. You say there is, and you talk about it in a 
 way that I do not understand. For my sake, you tell 
 me, you refuse ; but let me entreat you to comply for 
 my sake. 
 
 Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. You 
 write me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them ; 
 but my soul droops when I call to mind your voice aud 
 your looks, and think how long a time must pass before 
 I see you and hear you again. I have no spirit to think 
 upon the words and paper before me. My eye and my 
 thought wander far away. 
 
 I bethink me how many questions I might ask you ; 
 how many doubts you might clear up if you were but 
 within hearing. If you were but close to me ; but I 
 cannot ask them here. I am too poor a creature at the 
 pen, and, somehow or another, it always happens, 1 can
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1 8? 
 
 only write about myself or about you. By the time I 
 have said all this, I have tired my fingers, and when I 
 set about telling you how this poem and that story have 
 affected me, I am at a loss for words ; I am bewildered 
 and bemazed, as it were. 
 
 It is not so when we talk to one another. With your 
 arm about me, and your sweet face close to mine, I can 
 prattle forever. Then my heart overflows at my lips. 
 After hours thus spent, it seems as if there were a thou 
 sand things still to be said. Then I can tell you what 
 the book has told me. I can repeat scores of verses by 
 heart, though I heard them only once read ; but it is 
 because you have read them to me. 
 
 Then there is nobody here to answer my questions. 
 They never look into books. They hate books. They 
 think it waste of time to read. Even Peggy, who you 
 say has naturally a strong mind, wonders what I can 
 find to amuse myself in a book. In her playful mood, 
 she is always teasing me to lay it aside. 
 
 I do not mind her, for I like to read ; but, if I did 
 not like it before, I could not help doing so ever since 
 you told me that nobody could gain your love who was 
 not fond of books. And yet, though I like it on that 
 account more than I did, I don t read somehow so ear 
 nestly and understand so well as I used to do when my 
 mind was all at ease, always frolicsome, and ever upon 
 tiptoe, as I may say. 
 
 How strangely (have you not observed it?) I am 
 altered of late ! I, that was ever light of heart, the 
 very soul of gayety, brimfull of glee, am now demure as 
 our old tabby and not half as wise. Tabby had wit 
 enough to keep her paws ont of the coals, whereas poor 
 I have but no matter what. It will never come to 
 pass, I see that. So many reasons for every thing ! 
 Such looking forward ! Arthur, are not men sometimes 
 too wise to be happy ? 
 
 I am now so grave. Not one smile can Peggy some 
 times get from me, though she tries for it the whole day. 
 But I know how it comes. Strange, indeed, if, losing 
 father and sister, and thrown upon the wide world, 
 penniless and friendless too, now that you forget me, I
 
 184 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 should continue to smile. No. I never shall smile again. 
 At least, while I stay here, I never shall, I believe. 
 
 If a certain somebody suffer me to live with him, 
 near him, I mean, perhaps the sight of him as he 
 enters the door, perhaps the sound of his voice, asking, 
 "Where is my Bess?" might produce a smile. Such a 
 one as the very thought produces now, yet not, I hope, 
 so transient, and so quickly followed by a tear. Women 
 are born, they say, to trouble, and tears are given them 
 for their relief. Tis all very true. 
 
 Let it be as I wish, will you ? If Oliver bring not 
 back good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or 
 thy letter still refuses my request, I don t know what 
 may happen. Consent, if you love your poor girl. 
 
 E. H.
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE reading of tin s letter, though it made me mourn 
 ful, did not hinder me from paying the visit I intended. 
 My friend noticed my discomposure. 
 
 " What, Arthur ! thou art quite the penseroso to-night. 
 Come, let me cheer thee with a song. Thou shalt have 
 thy favourite ditty." She stepped to the instrument, and, 
 with more than airy lightness, touched and sung: 
 
 "Now knit hands and beat the ground 
 In a light, fantastic round, 
 Till the telltale sun descry 
 Our conceal d solemnity." 
 
 Her music, though blithsome and aerial, was not suf 
 ficient for the end. My cheerfulness would not return 
 even at her bidding. She again noticed my sedateness, 
 and inquired into the cause. 
 
 "This girl of mine," said I, "has infected me with 
 her own sadness. There is a letter I have just received." 
 She took it and began to read. 
 
 Meanwhile, I placed myself before her, and fixed my 
 eyes steadfastly upon her features. There is no book in 
 which I read with more pleasure than the face of woman. 
 That is generally more full of meaning, and of better 
 meaning too, than the hard and inflexible lineaments of 
 man ; and this woman s face has no parallel. 
 
 She read it with visible emotion. Having gone 
 through it, she did not lift her eye from the paper, but 
 continued silent, as if buried in thought. After some 
 time, (for I would not interrupt the pause,) she addressed 
 me thus : 
 
 " This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you." 
 
 " As much as I am that she should be so." My friend s 
 countenance betrayed some perplexity. As soon as I 
 
 185
 
 1 86 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 perceived it, I said, "Why arc you thus grave?" Some 
 little confusion appeared, as if she would not have her 
 gravity discovered. " There again," said I, " new tokens 
 in your face, my good mamma, of something which you 
 will not mention. Yet, sooth to say, this is not your 
 first perplexity. I have noticed it hef orc, and wondered. 
 It happens only when my Bess is introduced. Some 
 thing in relation to her it must be, but what I cannot 
 imagine. Why does her name, particularly, make you 
 thoughtful, disturbed, dejected? There now but I must 
 know the reason. You don t agree with me in my notions 
 of this girl, I fear, and you will not disclose your thoughts." 
 
 By this time, she had gained her usual composure, and, 
 without noticing my comments on her looks, said, " Since 
 you are both of one mind, why does she not leave the 
 country?" 
 
 " That cannot be, I believe. Mrs. Stevens says it 
 would be disreputable. I am no proficient in etiquette, 
 and must, therefore, in affairs of this kind, be guided by 
 those who are. But would to heaven I were truly her 
 father or brother! Then all difficulties would be done 
 away." 
 
 "Can you seriously wish that?" 
 
 "Why, no. I believe it would be more rational to 
 wish that the world would suffer me to act the fatherly 
 or brotherly part, without the relationship." 
 
 "And is that the only part you wish to act towards 
 this girl?" 
 
 "Certainly, the only part." 
 
 " You surprise me. Have you not confessed your love 
 for her?" 
 
 " I do love her. There is nothing upon earth more 
 dear to me than my Bess." 
 
 " But love is of different kinds. She was loved by 
 her father " 
 
 " Less than by me. lie was a good man, but not of 
 lively feelings. Besides, he had another daughter, .and 
 they shared his love between them ; but she has no sister 
 to share mt/ love. Calamity, too, has endeared her to 
 me ; I am all her consolation, dependence, and hope, and 
 nothing, surely, can induce me to abandon her."
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 187 
 
 "Her reliance upon you for happiness," replied my 
 friend, with a sigh, "is plain enough." 
 
 " It is ; but why that sigh ? And vet I understand it. 
 
 v v 
 
 It remonstrates with me on my incapacity for her support. 
 I know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down. 1 have 
 youth, health, and spirits, and ought not to despair of 
 living for my own benefit and hers ; but you sigh again, 
 and it is impossible to keep my courage when you sigh. 
 Do tell me what you mean by it." 
 
 " You partly guessed the cause. She trusts to you for 
 happiness, but I somewhat suspect she trusts in vain." 
 
 " In vain ! I beseech you, tell me why you think so." 
 
 " You say you love her : why then not make her your 
 wife ? 
 
 " My wife ! Surely her extreme youth, and my desti 
 tute condition, will account for that." 
 
 " She is fifteen ; the age of delicate fervour, of inarti 
 ficial love, and suitable enough for marriage. As to your 
 condition, you may live more easily together than apart. 
 She has no false taste or perverse desires to gratify. She 
 has been trained in simple modes and habits. ^Besides, 
 that objection can be removed another way. But are 
 these all your objections?" 
 
 " Her youth I object to, merely in connection with her 
 mind. She is too little improved to be my wife. She 
 wants that solidity of mind, that maturity of intelligence 
 which ten years more may possibly give her, but which 
 she cannot have at this age." 
 
 " You are a very prudential youth : then you are will 
 ing to wait ten years for a wife ?" 
 
 ki Does that follow ? Because mv Bess will not be 
 qualified for wedlock in less time, does it follow that I 
 must wait for her?" 
 
 " I spoke on the supposition that you loved her." 
 
 "And that is true ; but love is satisfied with study 
 ing her happiness as her father or brother. Some 
 years hence, perhaps in half a year, (for this passion, 
 called wedded or marriaffe-*riktng love, is of sudden 
 growth,) my mind may change and nothing may con 
 tent me but to have Bess for my wife. Yet I do not 
 expect it."
 
 1 88 ARTHUR MERVYN ; OK, 
 
 " Then you are determined against marriage with this 
 girl ?" 
 
 " Of course ; until that love comes which I feel not 
 now ; but which, no doubt, will come, when Bess has had 
 the benefit of five or eight years more, unless previously 
 excited by another." 
 
 "All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore sup 
 posed that you actually loved (I mean with the marriage- 
 seeking passion) your Bess." 
 
 " I believe I once did ; but it happened at a time when 
 marriage was improper; in the life of her father and 
 sister, and when I had never known in what female ex 
 cellence consisted. Since that time my happier lot has 
 cast me among women so far above Eliza Hadwin, so 
 far above, and so widely different from any thing which 
 time is likely to make her, that, I own, nothing appears 
 more unlikely than that I shall ever love her." 
 
 "Are you not a little capricious in that respect, my 
 good friend? You have praised your Bess as rich in 
 natural endowments; as having an artless purity and 
 rectitude of mind, which somewhat supersedes the use 
 of formal education ; as being full of sweetness and ten 
 derness, and in her person a very angel of loveliness." 
 
 "All that is true. I never saw features and shape so 
 delicately beautiful ; I never knew so young a mind so 
 quick-sighted and so firm ; but, nevertheless, she is not 
 the creature whom I would call my wife. My bosom- 
 slave ; counsellor ; friend ; the mother ; the pattern ; the 
 tutoress of my children, must be a different creature." 
 
 " But what are the attributes of this desirable which 
 Bess wants?" 
 
 " Every thing she wants. Age, capacity, acquire 
 ments, person, features, hair, complexion, all, all are 
 different from this girl s." 
 
 "And pray of what kind may they be?" 
 
 " I cannot portray them in words but yes, I can : The 
 creature whom I shall worship: it sounds oddly, but, 1 
 verily believe, the sentiment which I shall feel for my 
 wife will be more akin to worship than any thing else. I 
 shall never love but such a creature as I now image to 
 myself, and tuch a creature will deserve, or almost de-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?9J. 189 
 
 serve, worship. But this creature, I was going to say, 
 must be the exact counterpart, my good mamma of 
 yourself." 
 
 This was said very earnestly, and with eyes and manner 
 that fully expressed my earnestness; perhaps my ex 
 pressions were unwittingly strong and emphatic, for she 
 started and blushed, but the cause of her discomposure, 
 whatever it was, was quickly removed, and she said, 
 
 "Poor Bess! This will be sad news to thee!" 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" said I; "of what moment can my 
 opinions be to her :" 
 
 ."Strange questioner that thou art. Thou knowest 
 that her gentle heart is touched with love. See how it 
 shows itself in the tender and inimitable strain of this 
 epistle. Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch you ?" 
 
 "It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet 
 girl ; but my love is, in some inconceivable way, different 
 from the passion which that other creature will produce. 
 She is no stranger to my thoughts. I will impart every 
 thought over and over to her. I question not but I shall 
 make her happy without forfeiting my own." 
 
 "Would marriage with her be a forfeiture of your 
 happiness?" 
 
 "Not absolutely or forever, I believe. I love her 
 company. Her absence for a long time is irksome. I 
 cannot express the delight with which I see and hear 
 her. To mark her features, beaming with vivacity ; 
 playful in her pleasures ; to hold her in my arms, and 
 listen to her prattle, ahvays musically voluble, always 
 sweetly tender, or artlessly intelligent and this you 
 will say is the dearest privilege of marriage ; and so it 
 is; and dearly should I prize it; and yet, I fear my 
 heart would droop as often as that other image should 
 occur to my fancy. For then, you know, it would occur 
 as something never to be possessed by me. 
 
 "Now, this image might, indeed, seldom occur. The 
 intervals, at least, would be serene. It would be my in 
 terest to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and 
 my endeavours to this end would, no doubt, have some 
 effect. Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would
 
 IQO ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 be lessened by contemplating, at the same time, the 
 happiness of my beloved girl. 
 
 "I should likewise have to remember, that to continue 
 unmarried would not necessarily secure me the possession 
 of the oilier good " 
 
 "But these reflections, my friend," (broke she in upon 
 me,) "are of as much force to induce you to marry, aa 
 to reconcile you to a marriage already contracted." 
 
 "Perhaps they are. Assuredly, I have not a hope 
 that the fancied excellence will ever be mine. Such 
 happiness is not the lot of humanity, and is, least of all, 
 within my reach." 
 
 "Your diffidence," replied my friend, in a timorous 
 accent, " has not many examples ; but your character, 
 without doubt, is all your own, possessing all and dis 
 claiming all, is, in few words, your picture." 
 
 " I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever 
 shall be happy to that degree which I have imagined ? 
 Think you I shall ever meet with an exact copy of 
 yourself?" 
 
 "Unfortunate you will be, if you do not meet with 
 many better. Your Bess, in personals, is, beyond mea 
 sure, my superior, and in mind, allowing for difference 
 in years, quite as much so." 
 
 "But that," returned I, with quickness and fervour, 
 "is not the object. The very counterpart of you I 
 want; neither worse nor better, nor different in any 
 thing. Just such form, such features, such hues. Just 
 that melting voice, and, above all, the same habits of 
 thinking and conversing. In thought, word, and deed ; 
 gesture, look, and form, that rare and precious crea 
 ture whom I shall love must be your resemblance. 
 Your " 
 
 "Have done with these comparisons," interrupted she, 
 in some hurry, "and let us return to the country -girl, 
 thy Bess. 
 
 "You once, my friend, wished me to treat this girl of 
 yours as my sister. Do you know what the duties of a 
 sister are?" 
 
 "They imply no more kindness or affection than
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 19! 
 
 you already feel towards my Bess. Are you not her 
 sister?" 
 
 "I ought to have been so. I ought to have been 
 proud of the relation you ascribe to me, but I have not 
 performed any of its duties. I blush to think upon the 
 coldness and perverseness of my heart. With such 
 means as I possess, of giving happiness to others, I have 
 been thoughtless and inactive to a strange degree ; per 
 haps, however, it is not yet too late. Are you still 
 willing to invest me with all the rights of an elder sister 
 over this girl? And will she consent, think you?" 
 
 . " Certainly she will ; she has." 
 
 " Then the first act of sistership will be to take her 
 from the country ; from persons on whose kindness she 
 has no natural claim, whose manners and characters are 
 unlike her own, and with whom no improvement can be 
 expected, and bring her back to her sister s house and 
 bosom, to provide for her subsistence and education, and 
 watch over her happiness. 
 
 "I will not be a nominal sister. I will not be a sister 
 by halves. All the rights of that relation I will have, 
 or none. As for you, you have claims upon her on which 
 I must be permitted to judge, as becomes the elder sister, 
 who, by the loss of all other relations, must occupy the 
 place, possess the rights, and fulfil the duties, of father, 
 mother, and brother. 
 
 " She has now arrived at an age when longer to re 
 main in a cold and churlish soil will stunt her growth 
 and wither her blossoms. We must hasten to trans 
 plant her to a genial element and a garden well en 
 closed. Having so long neglected this charming plant, 
 it becomes me henceforth to take her wholly to myself. 
 
 "And now, for it is no longer in her or your power to 
 take back the gift, since she is fully mine, I will charge 
 you with the otifice of conducting her hither. I grant it 
 you as a favour. Will you go ?" 
 
 "Go ! I will fly !" I exclaimed, in an ecstasy of joy, 
 "on pinions swifter than the wind. Not the lingering 
 of an instant will I bear. Look ! one, two, three 
 thirty minutes after nine. I will reach Curling s gate 
 by the morn s dawn. I will put my girl into a chaise,
 
 IQ2 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 and by noon she shall throw herself into the arms of her 
 sister. But first, shall I not, in some way, manifest my 
 gratitude ?" 
 
 My senses were bewildered, and I knew not what I 
 did. I intended to kneel, as to my mother or my deity; 
 but, instead of that, 1 clasped her in my arms, and kissed 
 her lips fervently. I stayed not to discover the effects 
 of this insanity, but left the room and the house, and, 
 calling for a moment at Stevens s, left word with the 
 servant, my friend being gone abroad, that I should not 
 return till the morrow. 
 
 Never was a lighter heart, a gayety more overflowing 
 and more buoyant, than mine. All cold from a bois 
 terous night, at a chilly season, all weariness from a 
 rugged and miry road, were charmed away. I might 
 have ridden ; but I could not brook delay, even the 
 delay of inquiring for and equipping a horse. I might 
 thus have saved myself fatigue, arid have lost no time ; 
 but my mind was in too great a tumult for deliberation 
 and forecast. I saw nothing but the image of my girl, 
 whom my tidings would render happy. 
 
 The way was longer than my fond imagination had 
 foreseen. I did not reach Curling s till an hour after 
 sunrise. The distance was full thirty-five miles. As I 
 hastened up the green lane leading to the house, I spied 
 my Bess passing through a covered way, between the 
 dwelling and kitchen. I caught her eye. She stopped 
 and held up her hands, and then ran into my arms. 
 
 " What means my girl ? Why this catching of the 
 breath ? Why this sobbing ? Look at me, my love. It 
 is Arthur, he who has treated you with forgetfulness, 
 neglect, and cruelty." 
 
 " Oh, do not," she replied, hiding her face with her 
 hand. "One sjngle reproach, added to my own, will 
 kill me. That foolish, wicked letter I could tear my 
 fingers for writing it." 
 
 "But," said I, "I will kiss them;" and put them to 
 my lips. " They have told me the wishes of my girl. 
 They have enabled me to gratify her wishes. I have 
 come to carry thee this very moment to town." 
 
 " Lord bless me, Arthur," said she, lost in a sweet con-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 193 
 
 fusion, and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more 
 
 deeply, " indeed, I did not mean 1 meant only 1 
 
 will stay here 1 would rather stay " 
 
 " It grieves me to hear that," said I, with earnestness ; 
 " I thought I was studying our mutual happiness." 
 
 " It grieves you ? Don t say so. I would not grieve 
 you for the world ; but, indeed, indeed, it is too soon. 
 Such a girl as I am not yet fit to live in your city." 
 Again she hid her glowing face in my bosom. 
 
 " Sweet consciousness ! Heavenly innocence !" thought 
 I; " may Achsa s conjectures prove false! You have 
 mistaken my design, for I do not intend to carry you to 
 town with such a view as you have hinted ; but merely 
 to place you with a beloved friend, with Achsa Fielding, 
 of whom already you know so much, where we shall 
 enjoy each other s company without restraint or inter 
 mission." 
 
 I then proceeded to disclose to her the plan suggested 
 by my friend, and to explain all the consequences that 
 would flow from it. I need not say that she assented to 
 the scheme. She was all rapture and gratitude. Pre 
 parations for departure were easily and speedily made. 
 I hired a chaise of a neighbouring farmer, and, accord 
 ing to my promise, by noon the same day, delivered the 
 timid and bashful girl into the arms of her new sister. 
 
 She was received with the utmost tenderness, not only 
 by Mrs. Fielding, but by all ray friends. Her affectionate 
 heart was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into 
 the bosom of a mother. She was reinspired with con 
 fidence. Her want of experience was supplied by the 
 gentlest admonitions and instructions. In every plan 
 for her improvement suggested by her new mamma, (for 
 she never called her by any other name,) she engaged 
 with docility and eagerness ; and her behaviour and her 
 progress exceeded the most sanguine hopes that I had 
 formed as to the softness of her temper and the acute- 
 ness of her genius. 
 
 Those graces which a polished education, and inter 
 course with the better classes of society, are adapted to 
 give, my girl possessed, in some degree, by a native and 
 intuitive refinement and sagacity of mind. All that was 
 13
 
 194 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 to be obtained from actual observation and instruction 
 was obtained without difficulty ; and in a short time no 
 thing but the affectionate simplicity and unperverted feel 
 ings of the country-girl bespoke the original condition. 
 
 "What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy 
 pen of late. Come, I must know the fruit of all this 
 toil and all this meditation. I am determined to scrape 
 acquaintance with Ilaller and Linnaeus. I will begin 
 this very day. All one s friends, you know, should be 
 ours. Love has made many a patient, and let me see if 
 it cannot, in my case, make a physician. But, first, 
 what is all this writing about?" 
 
 " Mrs. Wentworth lias put me upon a strange task, 
 not disagreeable, however, but such as I should, perhaps, 
 have declined, had not the absence of my Bess, and her 
 mamma, made the time hang somewhat heavy. I have, 
 oftener than once, and far more circumstantially than 
 now, told her my adventures, but she is not satisfied. 
 She wants a written narrative, for some purpose which 
 she tells me she will disclose to me hereafter. 
 
 " Luckily, my friend Stevens has saved me more than 
 half the trouble. He has done me the favour to compile 
 much of my history with his own hand. I cannot ima 
 gine what could prompt him to so wearisome an under 
 taking ; but he says that adventures and a destiny so 
 singular as mine ought not to be abandoned to forget- 
 fulness like any vulgar and every-day existence. Be 
 sides, when he wrote it, he suspected that it might be 
 necessary to the safety of my reputation and my life, 
 from the consequences of my connection with Welbeck. 
 Time has annihilated that danger. All enmities and all 
 suspicions are buried with that ill-fated wretch. Wortley 
 has been won by my behaviour, and confides in my in 
 tegrity now as much as he formerly suspected it. I am 
 glad, however, that the task was performed. It has 
 saved me a world of writing. I had only to take up the 
 broken thread, and bring it down to the period of my 
 present happiness ; and this was done, just as you tripped 
 along the entry this morning. 
 
 " To bed, my friend ; it is late, and this delicate frame 
 is not half so able to encounter fatigue as a youth spent
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 195 
 
 in the hay-field and the dairy might have been expected 
 to be." 
 
 " I will, but let me take these sheets along with me. I 
 will read them, that I am determined, before I sleep, 
 and watch if you have told the whole truth." 
 
 " Do so, if you please ; but remember one thing. Mrs. 
 Wentworth requested me to write not as if it were de 
 signed for her perusal, but for those who have no pre 
 vious knowledge of her or of me. Twas an odd request. 
 I cannot imagine what she means by it, but she never 
 acts without good reason, and I have done so. And 
 now, withdraw, my dear, and farewell."
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 MOVE on, my quill ! wait not for my guidance. Re 
 animated with thy master s spirit, all airy light ! A 
 heyday rapture ! A mounting impulse sways him : lifts 
 him from the earth. 
 
 I must, cost what it will, rein in this upward-pulling, 
 forward-going what shall I call it? But there are 
 times, and now is one of them, when words are poor. 
 
 It will not do down this hill, up that steep ; through 
 this thicket, over that hedge I have laboured to fatigue 
 myself: to reconcile me to repose ; to lolling on a sofa ; 
 to poring over a book, to any thing that might win for 
 my heart a respite from these throbs ; to deceive me into 
 a few tolerable moments of forgetfulness. 
 
 Let me see ; they tell me this is Monday night. Only 
 three days yet to come ! If thus restless to-day ; if my 
 heart thus bounds till its mansion scarcely can hold it, 
 what must be my state to-morrow ! What next day ! 
 What as the hour hastens on ; as the sun descends ; as 
 my hand touches hers in sign of wedded unity, of love 
 without interval ; of concord without end ! 
 
 I must quell these tumults. They will disable me 
 else. They will wear out all my strength. They will 
 drain away life itself. But who could have thought ! 
 So soon ! Not three months since I first set eyes upon 
 her. Not three weeks since our plighted love, and only 
 three days to terminate suspense and give me all. 
 
 I must compel myself to quiet; to sleep. I must 
 find some refuge from anticipations so excruciating. All 
 extremes are agonies. A joy like this is too big for this 
 narrow tenement. I must thrust it forth ; I must bar 
 and bolt it out for a time, or these frail walls will burst 
 196
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 197 
 
 asunder. The pen is a pacifier. It checks the mind s 
 career ; it circumscribes her wanderings. It traces out 
 and compels us to adhere to one path. It ever was my 
 friend. Often it has blunted my vexations ; hushed my 
 stormy passions ; turned my peevishness to soothing ; 
 my fierce revenge to heart-dissolving pity. 
 
 Perhaps it will befriend me now. It may temper my 
 impetuous wishes ; lull my intoxication ; and render my 
 happiness supportable ; and, indeed, it has produced 
 partly this effect already. My blood, within the few 
 minutes thus employed, flows with less destructive ra 
 pidity. My thoughts range themselves in less disorder. 
 And, now that the conquest is effected, what shall I say ? 
 I must continue at the pen, or shall immediately relapse. 
 
 What shall I say ? Let me look back upon the steps 
 that led me hither. Let me recount the preliminaries. 
 I cannot do better. 
 
 And first as to Achsa Fielding, to describe this 
 woman. 
 
 To recount, in brief, so much of her history as has 
 come to my knowledge will best account for that zeal, 
 almost to idolatry, with which she has, ever since I 
 thoroughly knew her, been regarded by me. 
 
 Never saw I one to whom the term lovely more truly 
 belonged. And yet in stature she is too low ; in com 
 plexion dark and almost sallow ; and her eyes, though 
 black and of piercing lustre, have a cast which I cannot 
 well explain. It lessens without destroying their lustre 
 and their force to charm ; but all personal defects are 
 outweighed by her heart and her intellect. There is the 
 secret of her power to entrance the soul of the listener 
 and beholder. It is not only when she sings that her 
 utterance is musical. It is not only when the occasion 
 is urgent and the topic momentous that her eloquence is 
 rich and flowing. They are always so. 
 
 I had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her 
 frequent visitant, long before I was acquainted with her 
 past life. I had casually picked up some intelligence, 
 from others, or from her own remarks. I knew very 
 soon that she was English by birth, and had been only a 
 year and a half in America ; that she had scarcely passed
 
 198 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 her twenty-fifth year, and was still embellished with all 
 the graces of youth ; that she had been a wife ; but was 
 uninformed whether the knot had been untied by death 
 or divorce ; that she possessed considerable, and even 
 splendid, fortune ; but the exact amount, and all besides 
 these particulars, were unknown to me till some time 
 after our acquaintance was begun. 
 
 One evening she had been talking very earnestly on 
 the influence annexed, in Great Britain, to birth, and 
 had given me some examples of this influence. Mean 
 while my eyes were fixed steadfastly on hers. The pe 
 culiarity in their expression never before affected me so 
 strongly. A vague resemblance to something seen else 
 where, on the same day, occurred, and occasioned me to 
 exclaim, suddenly, in a pause of her discourse, 
 
 "As I live, my good mamma, those eyes of yours 
 have told me a secret. I almost think they spoke to 
 me ; and I am not less amazed at the strangeness than 
 at the distinctness of their story." 
 
 "And, pr ythee, what have they said?" 
 
 " Perhaps I was mistaken. I might have been de 
 ceived by a fancied voice, or have confounded one word 
 with another near akin to it; but let me die if I did not 
 think they said that you were -a Jew." 
 
 At this sound, her features were instantly veiled with 
 the deepest sorrow and confusion. She put her hand to 
 her eyes, the tears started, and she sobbed. My surprise 
 at this effect of my words was equal to my contrition. 1 
 besought her to pardon me for having thus unknowingly 
 alarmed and grieved her. 
 
 After she had regained some composure, she said, "You 
 have not offended, Arthur. Your surmise was just and 
 natural, and could not always have escaped you. Con 
 nected with that word are many sources of anguish, 
 which time has not, and never will, dry up; and the less 
 1 think of past events the less will my peace be disturbed. 
 I was desirous that you should know nothing of me but 
 what you see; nothing but the present and the future, 
 merely that no allusions might occur in our conversation 
 which will call up sorrows and regrets that will avail 
 nothing.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAK /7?J. 199 
 
 "I now perceive the folly of endeavouring to keep you 
 in ignorance, and shall therefore, once for all, inform 
 you of what has befallen me, that your inquiries and 
 suggestions may be made and fully satisfied at once, and 
 your curiosity have no motive for calling back my thoughts 
 to what I ardently desire to bury in oblivion. 
 
 "My father was indeed a Jew, arid one of the most 
 opulent of his nation in London, a Portuguese by birth, 
 but came to London when a boy. He had few of the 
 moral or external qualities of Jews ; for I suppose there 
 is some justice in the obloquy that follows them so closely. 
 He was frugal without meanness, and cautious in his 
 dealings, without extortion. I need not fear to say this, 
 for it was the general voice. 
 
 " Me, an only child, and, of course, the darling of my 
 parents, they trained up in the most liberal manner. My 
 education was purely English. I learned the same things 
 and of the same masters with my neighbours. Except 
 frequenting their church and repeating their creed, and 
 partaking of the same food, I saw no difference between 
 them and me. Hence I grew more indifferent, perhaps, 
 than was proper, to the distinctions of religion. They 
 were never enforced upon me. No pains were taken to 
 fill me with scruples and antipathies. They never stood, 
 as I may say, upon the threshold. They were often 
 thought upon, but were vague and easily eluded or for 
 gotten. 
 
 " Hence it was that my heart too readily admitted im 
 pressions that more zeal and more parental caution would 
 have saved me from. They could scarcely be avoided, 
 as my society was wholly English, and my youth, my 
 education, and my father s wealth made me an object of 
 much attention. And the same causes that lulled to 
 sleep my own watchfulness had the same effect upon that 
 of others. To regret or to praise this remissncss is now 
 too late. Certain it is, that my destiny, and not a happy 
 destiny, was fixed by it. 
 
 "The fruit of this remissness was a passion for one 
 who fully returned it. Almost as young as I, who was 
 only sixteen ; he knew as little as myself what obstacles 
 the difference of our births was likely to raise between
 
 200 ARTHUR MERVY.V; OR, 
 
 us. His father, Sir Ralph Fielding, a man nobly born, 
 high in office, splendidly allied, could not be expected to 
 consent to the marriage of his eldest son, in such green 
 youth, to the daughter of an alien, a Portuguese, a Jew; 
 but these impediments were not seen by my ignorance, 
 and were overlooked by the youth s passion. 
 
 "But, strange to tell, what common prudence would 
 have so confidently predicted did not happen. Sir Ralph 
 had a numerous family, likely to be still more so; had 
 but slender patrimony ; the income of his offices nearly 
 made up his all. The young man was headstrong, im 
 petuous, and would probably disregard the inclinations 
 of his family. Yet the father would not consent but on 
 one condition, that of my admission to the English 
 Church. 
 
 No very strenuous opposition to these terms could be 
 expected from me. At so thoughtless an age, with an 
 education so unfavourable to religious impressions; 
 swayed, likewise, by the strongest of human passions; 
 made somewhat impatient, by the company I kept, of 
 the disrepute and scorn to which the Jewish nation are 
 everywhere condemned, I ceuld not be expected to be 
 yery averse to the scheme. 
 
 My fears as to what my father s decision would be 
 were soon at an end. He loved his child too well to 
 thwart her wishes in so essential a point. Finding in 
 me no scruples, no unwillingness, he thought it absurd to 
 be scrupulous for me. My own heart having abjured 
 my religion, it was absurd to make any difficulty about 
 a formal renunciation. These were his avowed reasons 
 for concurrence, but time showed that he had probably 
 other reasons, founded, indeed, in his regard for my 
 happiness, but such as, if they had been known, would 
 probably have strengthened into invincible the reluctance 
 of my lover s family. 
 
 No marriage was ever attended with happier presages. 
 The numerous relations of my husband admitted me with 
 the utmost cordiality among them. My father s tender 
 ness was unabated by this change, and those humiliations 
 to which I had before been exposed were now no more; 
 and every tie was strengthened, at the end of a year, by
 
 MEMOIRS Of THE YEAR /79J. 2OI 
 
 the feelings of a mother. I had need, indeed, to know 
 a season of happiness, that I might be fitted to endure 
 the sad reverses that succeeded. One after the other 
 my disasters came, each one more heavy than the last, 
 and in such swift succession that they hardly left me 
 time to breathe. 
 
 "I had scarcely left my chamber, I had scarcely re 
 covered my usual health, and was able to press with true 
 fervour the new and precious gift to my bosom, when 
 melancholy tidings came. I was in the country, at the 
 seat of my father-in-law, when the messenger arrived. 
 
 "A shocking tale it was ! and told abruptly, with every 
 unpitying aggravation. I hinted to you once my father s 
 death. The kind of death oh ! my friend ! It was 
 horrible. He was then a placid, venerable old man ; 
 though many symptoms of disquiet had long before been 
 discovered by my mother s watchful tenderness. Yet 
 none could suspect him capable of such a deed; for none, 
 so carefully had he conducted his affairs, suspected the 
 havoc that mischance had made of his property. 
 
 " I, that had so much reason to love my father. I will 
 leave you to imagine how I was affected by a catastrophe 
 so dreadful, so unlooked-for. Much less could I suspect 
 the cause of his despair ; yet he had foreseen his ruin 
 before my marriage ; had resolved to defer it for his 
 daughter s and his wife s sake, as long as possible, but 
 had still determined not to survive the day that should 
 reduce him to indigence. The desperate act was thus 
 preconcerted thus deliberate. 
 
 " The true state of his affairs was laid open by his death. 
 The failure of great mercantile houses at Frankfort and 
 Liege was the cause of his disasters. 
 
 "Thus were my prospects shut in. That wealth 
 which, no doubt, furnished the chief inducement with 
 my husband s family to concur in his choice, was now 
 suddenly exchanged for poverty. 
 
 "Bred up, as I had been, in pomp and luxury; con 
 scious that my wealth was my chief security from the 
 contempt of the proud and bigoted, and my chief title 
 to the station to which I had been raised, and which I 
 the more delighted in because it enabled me to confer so
 
 
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 204 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 this fatal intercourse, not indifferent to his wife and 
 child ! Yet so it was ! 
 
 "I saw his discontents; his struggles; I heard him 
 curse this woman, and the more deeply for my attempts, 
 unconscious as I was of her machinations, to reconcile 
 them to each other, to do away what seemed a causeless 
 indignation, or antipathy against her. How little I sus 
 pected the nature of the conflict in his heart, between a 
 new passion and the claims of pride ; of conscience and 
 of humanity ; the claims of a child and a wife ; a wife, 
 already in affliction, and placing all that yet remained 
 of happiness, in the firmness of his virtue ; in the con 
 tinuance of his love ; a wife, at the very hour of his 
 meditated flight, full of terrors at the near approach of 
 an event whose agonies demand a double share of a hus 
 band s supporting, encouraging love 
 
 " Good Heaven ! For what evils are some of thy 
 creatures reserved ! Resignation to thy decree, in the 
 last and most cruel distress, was, indeed, a hard task. 
 
 " He was gone. Some unavoidable engagement call 
 ing him to Hamburg was pleaded. Yet to leave me at 
 such an hour! I dared not upbraid, nor object. The 
 tale was so specious ! The fortunes of a friend depended 
 on his punctual journey. The falsehood of his story too 
 soon made itself known. He was gone, in company with 
 his detested paramour ! 
 
 " Yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was 
 not so with others. A creditor, who had his bond for 
 three thousand pounds, pursued and arrested him at 
 Harwich. He was thrown into prison, but his com 
 panion let me, at least, say that in her praise would 
 not desert him. She took lodging near the place of his 
 confinement, and saw him daily. That, had she not 
 done it, and had my personal condition allowed, should 
 have been my province. 
 
 "Indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis with 
 me. I did not weep that the second fruit of this unhappy 
 union saw not the light. I wept only that this hour of 
 agony was not, to its unfortunate mother, the last. 
 
 "I felt not anger; I had nothing but compassion for 
 Fielding. Gladly would I have recalled him to my arms
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 
 
 and to virtue ; I wrote, adjuring him, by all our past 
 joys, to return ; vowing only gratitude for his new affec 
 tion, and claiming only the recompense of seeing him 
 restored to his family ; to liberty ; to reputation. 
 
 " But, alas ! Fielding had a good but a proud heart. 
 He looked upon his error with remorse, with self-detesta 
 tion, and with the fatal belief that it could not be re 
 trieved ; shame made him withstand all my reasonings 
 and persuasions, and, in the hurry of his feelings, he 
 made solemn vows that he would, in the moment of re 
 stored liberty, abjure his country and his family forever. 
 He bore indignantly the yoke of his new attachment, but 
 he strove in vain to shake it off. Her behaviour, always 
 yielding, doting, supplicative, preserved him in her fet 
 ters. Though upbraided, spurned, and banished from 
 his presence, she would not leave him, but, by new 
 efforts and new artifices, soothed, appeased, and won 
 again and kept his tenderness. 
 
 " What my entreaties were unable to effect, his father 
 could not hope to accomplish. He offered to take him 
 from prison ; the creditor offered to cancel the bond, if 
 he would return to me ; but this condition he refused. 
 All his kindred, and one who had been his bosom-friend 
 from childhood, joined in beseeching his compliance with 
 these conditions ; but his pride, his dread of my merited 
 reproaches, the merits and dissuasions of his new com 
 panion, whose sacrifices for his sake had not been small, 
 were obstacles which nothing could subdue. 
 
 " Far, indeed, was I from imposing these conditions. I 
 waited only till, by certain arrangements, I could gather 
 enough to pay his debts, to enable him to execute his 
 vow : empty would have been my claims to his affection, 
 if I could have suffered, with the means of his deliver 
 ance in my hands, my husband to remain a moment in 
 prison. 
 
 " The remains of my father s vast fortune was a jointure 
 of a thousand pounds a year, settled on my mother, and, 
 after her death, on me. My mother s helpless condition 
 put this revenue into my disposal. By this means was I 
 enabled, without the knowledge of my father-in-law or 
 my husband, to purchase the debt, and dismiss him from
 
 206 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 prison. He set out instantly, in company with his para- 
 mour, to France. 
 
 "When somewhat recovered from the shock of this 
 calamity, I took up my abode with my mother. What 
 she had was enough, as you perhaps will think, for 
 plentiful subsistence ; but to us, with habits of a dif 
 ferent kind, it was little better than poverty. That 
 reflection, my father s memory, my mother s deplorable 
 state, which every year grew worse, and the late mis 
 fortune, were the chief companions of my thoughts. 
 
 " The dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by 
 his mother s afflictions, was some consolation in my soli 
 tude. To his instruction and to my mother s wants all 
 my hours were devoted. I was sometimes not without 
 the hope of better days. Full as my mind was of Field 
 ing s merits, convinced by former proofs of his ardent 
 and generous spirit, I trusted that time and reflection 
 would destroy that spell by which he was now bound. 
 
 " For some time, the progress of these reflections was 
 not known. In leaving England, Fielding dropped all 
 correspondence and connection with his native country. 
 He parted with the woman at Rouen, leaving no trace 
 behind him by which she might follow him, as she wished 
 to do. She never returned to England, but died a 
 twelvemonth afterwards in Switzerland. 
 
 "As to me, I had only to muse day and night upon 
 the possible destiny of this beloved fugitive. His in 
 censed father cared not for him. He had cast him out 
 of his paternal affections, ceased to make inquiries re 
 specting him, and even wished never to hear of him 
 again. My boy succeeded to my husband s place in his 
 grandfather s affections, and in the hopes and views of 
 the family ; and his mother wanted nothing which their 
 compassionate and respectful love could bestow. 
 
 " Three long and tedious years passed away, and no 
 tidings were received. Whether he were living or dead, 
 nobody could tell. At length, an English traveller, 
 going out of the customary road from Italy, met with 
 Fielding, in a town in the Venaissin. His manners, 
 habits, and language, had become French. He seemed 
 unwilling to be recognised by an old acquaintance, but,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2O/ 
 
 not being able to avoid this, and becoming gradually 
 familiar, he informed the traveller of many particulars 
 in his present situation. It appeared that he had made 
 himself useful to a neighbouring seigneur, in whose 
 chateau he had long lived on the footing of a brother. 
 France he had resolved to make his future country, and, 
 among other changes for that end, he had laid aside his 
 English name, and taken that of his patron, which was 
 Perrin. He had endeavoured to compensate himself 
 for all other privations, by devoting himself to rural 
 amusements and to study. 
 
 "He carefully shunned all inquiries respecting me; 
 but, when my name was mentioned by his friend, who 
 knew well all that had happened, and my general wel 
 fare, together with that of his son, asserted, he showed 
 deep sensibility, and even consented that I should be 
 made acquainted with his situation. 
 
 "I cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on 
 me. My hopes of bringing him back to me were sud 
 denly revived. I wrote him a letter, in which I poured 
 forth my whole heart ; but his answer contained avowals 
 of all his former resolutions, to which time had only 
 made his adherence more easy. A second and third let 
 ter were written, and an offer made to follow him to his 
 retreat and share his exile ; but all my efforts availed 
 nothing. He solemnly and repeatedly renounced all the 
 claims of a husband over me, and absolved me from 
 every obligation as a wife. 
 
 " His part in this correspondence was performed with 
 out harshness or contempt. A strange mixture there 
 was of pathos and indifference ; of tenderness and reso 
 lution. Hence I continually derived hope, which time, 
 however, brought no nearer to certainty. 
 
 " At the opening of the Revolution, the name of Per 
 rin appeared among the deputies to the constituent as 
 sembly for the district in which he resided. He had 
 thus succeeded in gaining all the rights of a French 
 citizen ; and the hopes of his return became almost ex 
 tinct ; but that, and every other hope respecting him, has 
 since been totally extinguished by his marriage with
 
 208 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Marguerite d Almont, a young lady of great merit and 
 fortune, and a native of Avignon. 
 
 "A long period of suspense was now at an end, and 
 left me in a state almost as full of anguish as that which 
 our first separation produced. My sorrows were increased 
 by my mother s death, and, this incident freeing me from 
 those restraints upon my motions which before existed, I 
 determined to come to America. 
 
 "My son was now eight years old, and, his grand 
 father claiming the province of his instruction, I was 
 persuaded to part with him, that he might be sent to a 
 distant school. Thus was another tie removed, and, in 
 spite of the well-meant importunities of my friends, I 
 persisted in my scheme of crossing the ocean." 
 
 I could not help, at this part of her narration, ex 
 pressing my surprise that any motives were strong enough 
 to recommend this scheme. 
 
 "It was certainly a freak of despair. A few months 
 would, perhaps, have allayed the fresh grief, and recon 
 ciled me to my situation ; but I would not pause or de 
 liberate. My scheme was opposed by my friends with 
 great earnestness. During my voyage, affrighted by 
 the dangers which surrounded me, and to which I was 
 wholly unused, I heartily repented of my resolution ; 
 but now, methinks, I have reason to rejoice at my per 
 severance. I have come into a scene and society so new, 
 I have had so many claims made upon my ingenuity 
 and fortitude, that my mind has been diverted in some 
 degree from former sorrows. There are even times when 
 I wholly forget them, and catch myself indulging in 
 cheerful reveries. 
 
 "I have often reflected with surprise on the nature of 
 my own mind. It is eight years since my father s vio 
 lent death. How few of my hours since that period 
 have been blessed with serenity ! How many nights and 
 days, in hateful and lingering succession, have been 
 bathed in tears and tormented with regrets! That I am 
 still alive, with so many causes of death, and with such 
 a slow-consuming malady, is surely to be wondered at. 
 
 "I believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in 
 grief, are solitude and idleness. The same eternally-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2OQ 
 
 occurring round of objects feeds his disease, and the 
 effects of mere vacancy and uniformity are sometimes 
 mistaken for those of grief. Yes, I am glad I came to 
 America. My relations are importunate for my return, 
 and till lately I had some thoughts of it; but I think 
 now I shall stay where I am for the rest of my days. 
 
 " Since I arrived, I am become more of a student than 
 I used to be. I always loved literature, but never, till 
 of late, had I a mind enough at ease to read with ad 
 vantage. I now find pleasure in the occupation which I 
 never expected to find. 
 
 " You see in what manner I live. The letters which 
 I brought secured me a flattering reception from the best 
 people in your country; but scenes of gay resort had 
 nothing to attract me, and I quickly withdrew to that 
 seclusion in which you now find me. Here, always at 
 leisure, and mistress of every laudable means of gratifi 
 cation, I am not without the belief of serene days yet 
 to come." 
 
 I now ventured to inquire what were her latest tidings 
 of her husband. 
 
 "At the opening of the Revolution, I told you, he 
 became a champion of the people. By his zeal and his 
 efforts he acquired such importance as to be deputed to 
 the National Assembly. In this post he was the ad 
 herent of violent measures, till the subversion of mon 
 archy; and then, when too late for his safety, he 
 checked his career." 
 
 "And what has since become of him?" 
 
 She sighed deeply. "You were yesterday reading a 
 list of the proscribed under Robespierre. I checked 
 you. I had good reason. But this subject grows too 
 painful; let us change it." 
 
 Some time after, I ventured to renew this topic ; and 
 discovered that Fielding, under his new name of Perrin 
 d Ahnont, was among the outlawed deputies of last 
 year,* and had been slain in resisting the officers sent to 
 arrest him. My friend had been informed that his wife, 
 Marguerite d Almont, whom she had reason to believe a 
 
 * 1793. 
 14
 
 210 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 woman of great merit, had eluded persecution, and taken 
 refuge in some part of America. She had made va 
 rious attempts, but in vain, to find out her retreat. 
 "Ah!" said I, "you must commission me to find her. 
 I will hunt her through the continent from Penobscot to 
 Savannah. I will not leave a nook unsearched."
 
 CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 NONE will be surprised that, to a woman thus unfor 
 tunate and thus deserving, my heart willingly rendered 
 up all its sympathies ; that, as I partook of all her 
 grief, I hailed, with equal delight, those omens of felicity 
 which now, at length, seemed to play in her fancy. 
 
 I saw her often, as often as my engagements would 
 permit, and oftener than I allowed myself to visit any 
 other. In this I was partly selfish. So much enter 
 tainment, so much of the best instruction, did her con 
 versation afford me, that I never had enough of it. 
 
 Her experience had been so much larger than mine, 
 and so wholly different, and she possessed such unbounded 
 facility of recounting all she had seen and felt, and ab 
 solute sincerity and unreserve in this respect were so 
 fully established between us, that I can imagine nothing 
 equally instructive and delightful with her conversation. 
 
 Books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness 
 of information at one time and their impertinent lo 
 quacity at another. Besides, all they choose to give 
 they give at once ; they allow no questions, offer no fur 
 ther explanations, and bend not to the caprices of our 
 curiosity. They talk to us behind a screen. Their 
 tone is lifeless and monotonous. They charm not our 
 attention by mute significances of gesture and looks. 
 They spread no light upon their meaning by cadences 
 and emphasis and pause. 
 
 How different was Mrs. Fielding s discourse ! So ver 
 satile; so bending to the changes of the occasion; so 
 obsequious to my curiosity, and so abundant in that very 
 knowledge in which I was most deficient, and on which 
 I set the most value, the knowledge of the human heart ; 
 
 211
 
 212 ARTHUR MERVYN; OK, 
 
 of society as it existed in another world, more abundant 
 in the varieties of customs and characters, than I had 
 ever had the power to witness. 
 
 Partly selfish I have said my motives were, but not 
 so, as long as I saw that my friend derived pleasure, in 
 her turn, from my company. Not that I could add 
 directly to her knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion 
 of heart, that ease of utterance and flow of ideas which 
 always were occasioned by my approach, were sources 
 of true pleasure of which she had been long deprived, 
 and for which her privation had given her a higher relish 
 than ever. 
 
 She lived in great affluence and independence, but made 
 use of her privileges of fortune chiefly to secure to her 
 self the command of her own time. She had been long 
 ago tired and disgusted with the dull and fulsome uni 
 formity and parade of the play-house and ballroom. 
 Formal visits were endured as mortifications arid penances, 
 by which the delights of privacy and friendly intercourse 
 were by contrast increased. Music she loved, but never 
 sought it in places of public resort, or from the skill of 
 mercenary performers; and books were not the least of 
 her pleasures. 
 
 As to me, I was wax in her hand. Without design 
 and without effort, I was always of that form she wished 
 me to assume. My own happiness became a secondary 
 passion, and her gratification the great end of my being. 
 When with her, I thought not of myself. I had scarcely 
 a separate or independent existence, since my senses 
 were occupied by her, and my mind was full of those 
 ideas which her discourse communicated. To meditate 
 on her looks and words, and to pursue the means sug 
 gested by my own thoughts, or by her, conducive, in any 
 way, to her good, was all my business. 
 
 "What a fate," said I, at the conclusion of one of our 
 interviews, "has been yours! But, thank Hea-ven, the 
 storm has disappeared before the age of sensibility has 
 gone past, and without drying up every source of happi 
 ness. You are still young ; all your powers unimpaired ; 
 rich in the compassion and esteem of the world ; wholly 
 independent of the claims and caprices of others ; amply
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?<?j. 213 
 
 supplied with that means of usefulness, called money; 
 wise in that experience which only adversity can give. 
 Past evils and sufferings, if incurred and endured with 
 out guilt, if called to view without remorse, make up the 
 materials of present joy. They cheer our most dreary 
 hours with the widespread accents of well done, and 
 they heighten our pleasures into somewhat of celestial 
 brilliancy, by furnishing a deep, a ruefully-deep, contrast. 
 
 " From this moment, I will cease to weep for you. I 
 will call you the happiest of women. I will share with 
 you your happiness by witnessing it ; but that shall not 
 content me. I must some way contribute to it. Tell 
 me how I shall serve you. What can I do to make you 
 happier? Poor am I in every thing but zeal, but still I 
 may do something. What pray tell me, what can I 
 do ?" 
 
 She looked at me with sweet and solemn significance. 
 What it was exactly I could not divine, yet I was strangely 
 affected by it. It was but a glance, instantly withdrawn. 
 She made me no answer. 
 
 "You must not be silent; you must tell me what I 
 can do for you. Hitherto I have done nothing. All 
 the service is on your side. Your conversation has been 
 my study, a delightful study, but the profit has only been 
 mine. Tell me how I can be grateful: my voice and 
 manner, I believe, seldom belie my feelings." At this 
 time, I had almost done what a second thought made me 
 suspect to be unauthorized. Yet I cannot tell why. 
 My heart had nothing in it but reverence and admiration. 
 Was she not the substitute of my lost mamma? Would 
 I not have clasped that beloved shade? Yet the two 
 beings were not just the same, or I should not, as now, 
 have checked myself, and only pressed her hand to my 
 lips. 
 
 "Tell me," repeated I, "what can I do to serve you? 
 I read to you a little now, and you are pleased with my 
 reading. I copy for you when you want the time. I 
 guide the reins for you when you choose to ride. Humble 
 offices, indeed, though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like 
 me can do for you ; but I can be still more assiduous. I
 
 214 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 can read several hours in the day, instead of one. I can 
 write ten times as much as now. 
 
 "Are you not my lost mamma come back again ? And 
 yet, not exactly her, I think. Something different; 
 something better, I believe, if that be possible. At any 
 rate, methinks I would be wholly yours. I shall be im 
 patient and uneasy till every act, every thought, every 
 minute, someway does you good. 
 
 "How!" said I, (her eye, still averted, seemed to hold 
 back the tear with difficulty, and she made a motion as 
 if to rise,) " have I grieved you ? Have I been importu 
 nate? Forgive me if I have offended you." 
 
 Her eyes now overflowed without restraint. She arti 
 culated, with difficulty, " Tears are too prompt with me 
 of late ; but they did not upbraid you. Pain has often 
 caused them to flow, but now it is pleasure." 
 
 "What a heart must yours be!" I resumed. "When 
 susceptible of such pleasures, what pangs must formerly 
 have rent it! But you are not displeased, you say, with 
 my importunate zeal. You will accept me as your own 
 in every thing. Direct me; prescribe to me. There 
 must be something in which I can be of still more use to 
 you; some way in which I can be wholly yours " 
 
 "Wholly mine! 1 she repeated, in a smothered voice, 
 and rising. " Leave me, Arthur. It is too late for you 
 to be here. It was wrong to stay so late." 
 
 " I have been wrong ; but how too late ? I entered 
 but this moment. It is twilight still; is it not?" 
 
 " No : it is almost twelve. You have been here a long 
 four hours; short ones I would rather say, but indeed 
 you must go." 
 
 "What made me so thoughtless of the time? But I 
 will go, yet not till you forgive me." I approached her 
 with a confidence and for a purpose at which, upon re 
 flection, I am not a little surprised ; but the being called 
 Mervyn is not the same in her company and in that of 
 another. What is the difference, and whence comes it? 
 Her words and looks engross me. My mind wants room 
 for any other object. But why inquire whence the differ 
 ence ? The superiority of her merits and attractions to 
 all those whom I knew would surely account for my
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 215 
 
 fervour. Indifference, if I felt it, would be the only 
 just occasion of wonder. 
 
 The hour was, indeed, too late, and I hastened home. 
 Stevens was waiting my return with some anxiety. I 
 apologized for my delay, and recounted to him what had 
 just passed. He listened with more than usual interest. 
 When I had finished, 
 
 "Mervyn," said he, "you seem not be aware of your 
 present situation. From what you now tell me, and from 
 what you have formerly told me, one thing seems very 
 plain to me." 
 
 "Pr ythee, what is it?" 
 
 "Eliza Hadwin: do you wish could you bear to 
 see her the wife of another?" 
 
 "Five years hence I will answer you. Then my 
 answer may be, No; I wish her only to be mine. Till 
 then, I wish her only to be my. pupil, my ward, my 
 sister." 
 
 "But these are remote considerations; they are bars 
 to marriage, but not to love. Would it not molest and 
 disquiet you to observe in her a passion for another?" 
 
 " It would, but only on her own account ; not on mine. 
 At a suitable age it is very likely I may love her, because 
 it is likely, if she holds on in her present career, she 
 will then be worthy; but at present, though I would die 
 to insure her happiness, I have no wish to insure it by 
 marriage with her." 
 
 "Is there no other whom you love?" 
 
 "No. There is one worthier than all others; one 
 whom I wish the woman who shall be my wife to resemble 
 in all things." 
 
 "And who is this model?" 
 
 "You know I can only mean Achsa Fielding." 
 
 "If you love her likeness, why not love herself?" 
 
 I felt my heart leap. "What a thought is that! 
 Love her I do as I love my God ; as I love virtue. To 
 love her in another sense would brand me for a lunatic." 
 
 " To love her as a woman, then, appears to you an act 
 of folly." 
 
 "In me it would be worse than folly. T would be 
 frenzy."
 
 2l6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Why? Really, my friend, you astonish me. Nay, 
 you startle me for a question like that implies a doubt 
 m you whether I have not actually harboured the 
 thought." 
 
 "No," said he, smiling, "presumptuous though you 
 be, you have not, to-be-sure, reached so high a pitch. 
 But still, though I think you innocent of so heinous an 
 offence, there is no harm in asking why you might not 
 love her, and even seek her for a wife." 
 
 Achsa Fielding wy wife! Good Heaven! The very 
 sound threw my soul into unconquerable tumults. "Take 
 care, my friend," continued I, in beseeching accents, 
 "you may do me more injury than you conceive, by even 
 starting such a thought." 
 
 "True," said he, " as long as such obstacles exist to 
 your success ; so many incurable objections : for instance, 
 she is six years older than you." 
 
 "That is an advantage. Her age is what it ought 
 to be." 
 
 "But she has been a wife and mother already." 
 
 "That is likewise an advantage. She has wisdom, 
 because she has experience. Her sensibilities are 
 stronger, because they have been exercised and chas 
 tened. Her first marriage was unfortunate. The purer 
 is the felicity she will taste in a second ! If her second 
 choice be propitious, the greater her tenderness and 
 gratitude." 
 
 "But she is a foreigner; independent of control, and 
 rich." 
 
 "All which are blessings to herself, and to him for 
 whom her hand is reserved; especially if, like me, he is 
 indigent." 
 
 "But then she is unsightly as a night-hag, tawny as 
 a Moor, the eye of a gipsy, low in stature, contemptibly 
 diminutive, scarcely bulk enough to cast a shadow as 
 she walks, less luxuriance than a charred log, fewer 
 elasticities than a sheet pebble." 
 
 "Hush! hush! blasphemer!" (and I put my hand 
 before his mouth) " have I not told you that in mind,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 793. 2 1/ 
 
 person, and condition, she is the type after which my 
 enamoured fancy has modelled my wife ?" 
 
 " Oh ho ! Then the objection does not lie with you. 
 It lies with her, it seems. She can find nothing in you 
 to esteem ! And, pray, for what faults do you think she 
 would reject you ?" 
 
 "I cannot tell. That she can ever balance for a mo 
 ment, on such a question, is incredible. Me ! me ! That 
 Achsa Fielding should think of me !" 
 
 " Incredible, indeed ! You, who are loathsome in 
 your person, an idiot in your understanding, a villain in 
 your morals ! deformed ! withered ! vain, stupid, and 
 malignant. That such a one should choose you for an 
 idol !" 
 
 "Pray, my friend," said I, anxiously, "jest not. 
 What mean you by a hint of this kind ?" 
 
 "I will not jest, then, but will soberly inquire, what 
 faults are they which make this lady s choice of you so 
 incredible ? You are younger than she, though no one, 
 who merely observed your manners and heard you talk, 
 would take you to be under thirty. You are poor: are 
 these impediments ?" 
 
 " I should think not. I have heard her reason with 
 admirable eloquence against the vain distinctions of pro 
 perty and nation and rank. They were once of moment 
 in her eyes; but the sufferings, humiliations, and reflec 
 tions of years have cured her of the folly. Her nation 
 has suffered too much by the inhuman antipathies of 
 religious and political faction; she, herself, has felt so 
 often the contumelies of the rich, the high-born, and the 
 bigoted, that " 
 
 "Pr ythee, then, what dost imagine her objections 
 to be?" 
 
 "Why I don t know. The thought was so aspiring; 
 to call her my wife was a height of bliss the very far- 
 off view of which made my head dizzy." 
 
 " A height, however, to attain which you suppose only 
 her consent, her love, to be necessary?" 
 
 "Without doubt, her love is indispensable." 
 
 "Sit down, Arthur, and let us no longer treat this 
 matter lightly. I clearly see the importance of this
 
 2l8 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 moment to this lady s happiness and yours. It is plain 
 that you love this woman. How could you help it ? A 
 brilliant skin is not hers ; nor elegant proportions ; nor 
 majestic stature: yet no creature had ever more power 
 to bewitch. Her manners have grace and dignity that 
 flow from exquisite feelings, delicate taste, and the 
 quickest and keenest penetration. She has the wisdom 
 of men and of books. Her sympathies are enforced by 
 reason, and her chanties regulated by knowledge. She 
 has a woman s age, fortune more than you wish, and a 
 spotless fame. How could you fail to love her ? 
 
 "You, who are her chosen friend, who partake her 
 pleasures and share her employments, on whom she 
 almost exclusively bestows her society and confidence, 
 and to whom she thus affords the strongest of all indi 
 rect proofs of impassioned esteem, how could you, 
 with all that firmness of love, joined with all that dis 
 cernment of her excellence, how could you escape the 
 enchantment ? 
 
 "You have not thought of marriage. You have not 
 suspected your love. From the purity of your mind, 
 from the idolatry with which this woman has inspired 
 you, you have imagined no delight beyond that of en 
 joying her society as you now do, and have never fos 
 tered a hope beyond this privilege. 
 
 "How quickly would this tranquillity vanish, and the 
 true state of your heart be evinced, if a rival should 
 enter the scene and be entertained with preference ! then 
 would the seal be removed, the spell be broken, and you 
 would awaken to terror and to anguish. 
 
 " Of this, however, there is no danger. Your passion 
 is not felt by you alone. From her treatment of you, 
 your diffidence disables you from seeing, but nothing 
 can be clearer to me than that she loves you." 
 
 I started on my feet. A flush of scorching heat 
 flowed to every part of my frame. My temples began 
 to throb like my heart. I was half delirious, and my 
 delirium was strangely compounded of fear and hope, of 
 delight and of terror. 
 
 "What have you done, my friend? You have over-
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2\g 
 
 turned my peace of mind. Till now the image of this 
 woman has been followed by complacency and sober 
 rapture; but your words have dashed the scene with 
 dismay and confusion. You have raised up wishes, and 
 dreams, and doubts, which possess me in spite of my 
 reason, in spite of a thousand proofs. 
 
 "Good God! You say she loves, loves me! me, 
 a boy in age ; bred in clownish ignorance ; scarcely 
 ushered into the world ; more than childishly unlearned 
 and raw; a barndoor simpleton; a plough-tail, kitchen- 
 hearth, turnip-hoeing novice! She, thus splendidly 
 endowed; thus allied to nobles; thus gifted with arts, 
 and adorned with graces ; that she should choose me, me 
 for the partner of her fortune ; her affections ; and her 
 life! It cannot be. Yet, if it were; if your guesses 
 should prove Oaf! madman! To indulge so fatal a 
 chimera ! So rash a dream ! 
 
 "My friend! my friend! I feel that you have done 
 me an irreparable injury. I can never more look her in 
 the face. I can never more frequent her society. These 
 new thoughts will beset and torment me. My disquiet 
 will chain up my tongue. That overflowing gratitude; 
 that innocent joy, unconscious of offence, and knowing 
 no restraint, which have hitherto been my titles to her 
 favour, will fly from my features and manners. I shall 
 be anxious, vacant, and unhappy in her presence. I 
 shall dread to look at her, or to open my lips, lest my 
 mad and unhallowed ambition should betray itself." 
 
 "Well," replied Stevens, "this scene is quite new. I 
 could almost find it in my heart to pity you. I did not 
 expect this ; and yet, from my knowledge of your cha 
 racter, I ought, perhaps, to have foreseen it. This is a 
 necessary part of the drama. A joyous certainty, on 
 these occasions, must always be preceded by suspenses 
 and doubts, and the close will be joyous in proportion as 
 the preludes are excruciating. Go to bed, my good 
 friend, and think of this. Time and a few more inter 
 views with Mrs. Fielding will, I doubt not, set all to 
 rights."
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 I WENT to my chamber, but what different sensations 
 did I carry into it from those with which I had left it a 
 few hours before ! I stretched myself on the mattress 
 and put out the light ; but the swarm of new images that 
 rushed on my mind set me again instantly in motion. 
 All was rapid, vague, and undefined, wearying and dis 
 tracting my attention. I was roused as by a divine 
 voice, that said, " Sleep no more ! Mervyn shall sleep 
 no more." 
 
 What chiefly occupied me was a nameless sort of ter 
 ror. What shall I compare it to ? Methinks, that one 
 falling from a tree overhanging a torrent, plunged into 
 the whirling eddy, and gasping and struggling while he 
 sinks to rise no more, would feel just as I did then. 
 Nay, some such image actually possessed me. Such was 
 one of my reveries, in which suddenly I stretched my 
 hand, and caught the arm of a chair. This act called 
 me back to reason, or rather gave my soul opportunity 
 to roam into a new track equally wild. 
 
 Was it the abruptness of this vision that thus con 
 founded me ? was it a latent error in my moral constitu 
 tion, which this new conjuncture drew forth into in 
 fluence ? These were all the tokens of a mind lost to 
 itself; bewildered; unhinged; plunged into a drear 
 insanity. 
 
 Nothing less could have prompted so fantastically; 
 for, midnight as it was, my chamber s solitude was not 
 to be supported. After a few turns across the floor, I 
 left the room, and the house. I walked without design 
 and in a hurried pace. I posted straight to the house 
 220
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 221 
 
 of Mrs. Fielding. I lifted the latch, but the door did 
 not open. It was, no doubt, locked. 
 
 " How comes this ?" said I, and looked around me. 
 The hour and occasion were unthought of. Habituated 
 to this path, I had taken it spontaneously. "How 
 comes this?" repeated I. "Locked upon me! but I 
 will summon them, I warrant me," and rung the bell, 
 not timidly or slightly, but with violence. Some one 
 hastened from above. I saw the glimmer of a candle 
 through the keyhole. 
 
 "Strange." thought I; "a candle at noonday!" 
 The door was opened, and my poor Bess, robed in a 
 careless and hasty manner, appeared. She started at 
 sight of me, but merely because she did not, in a mo 
 ment, recognise me. " Ah ! Arthur, is it you ? Come 
 in. My mamma has wanted you these two hours. I was 
 just going to despatch Philip to tell you to come." 
 
 "Lead me to her," said I. 
 
 She led the way into the parlour. "Wait a moment 
 here; I will tell her you are come;" and she tripped 
 away. 
 
 Preiently a step was heard. The door opened again, 
 and then entered a man. He was tall, elegant, sedate 
 to a degree of sadness ; something in his dress and aspect 
 that bespoke the foreigner, the Frenchman. 
 
 "What," said he, mildly, "is your business with my 
 wife ? She cannot see you instantly, and has sent me 
 to receive your commands." 
 
 "Your wife! I want Mrs. Fielding." 
 
 " True ; and Mrs. Fielding is my wife. Thank Heaven, 
 I have come in time to discover her, and claim her as 
 such." 
 
 I started back. I shuddered. My joints slackened, 
 and I stretched my hand to catch something by which I 
 might be saved from sinking on the floor. Meanwhile, 
 Fielding changed his countenance into rage and fury. 
 He called me villain ! bade me avaunt ! and drew a 
 shining steel from his bosom, with which he stabbed me 
 to the heart. I sunk upon the floor, and all, for a time, 
 was darkness and oblivion ! At length, I returned as 
 it were to life. I opened my eyes. The mists disap-
 
 222 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 peared, and I found myself stretched upon the bed in 
 my own chamber. I remembered the fatal blow I had 
 received. I put my hand upon my breast ; the spot 
 where the dagger entered. There were no traces of a 
 wound. All was perfect and entire. Some miracle had 
 made me whole. 
 
 I raised myself up. I re-examined my body. All 
 around me was hushed, till a voice from the pavement 
 below proclaimed that it was "past three o clock." 
 
 "What!" said I; "has all this miserable pageantry, 
 this midnight wandering, and this ominous interview, 
 been no more than a dream?" 
 
 It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this 
 scene, and to show the thorough perturbation of my 
 mind during this night, intelligence gained some days 
 after from Eliza. She said, that about two o clock, on 
 this night, she was roused by a violent ringing of the 
 bell. She was startled by so unseasonable a summons. 
 She slept in a chamber adjoining Mrs. Fielding s, and 
 hesitated whether she should alarm her friend ; but, 
 the summons not being repeated, she had determined to 
 forbear. 
 
 Added to this, was the report of Mrs. Stevens, who, 
 on the same night, about half an hour after I and her 
 husband had retired, imagined that she heard the street 
 door opened and shut ; but, this being followed by no 
 other consequence, she supposed herself mistaken. I 
 have little doubt that, in my feverish and troubled sleep, 
 I actually went forth, posted to the house of Mrs. Field 
 ing, rung for admission, and shortly after returned to 
 my own apartment. 
 
 This confusion of mind was somewhat allayed by the 
 return of light. It gave way to more uniform but not 
 less rueful and despondent perceptions. The image of 
 Achsa filled my fancy, but it was the harbinger of 
 nothing but humiliation and sorrow. To outroot the 
 conviction of my own unworthiness, to persuade myself 
 that I was regarded with the tenderness that Stevens 
 had ascribed to her, that the discovery of my thoughts 
 would not excite her anger and grief, I felt to be iin 
 possible.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 22$ 
 
 In this state of mind, I could not see her. To declare 
 my feelings would produce indignation and anguish ; to 
 hide them from her scrutiny was not in my power ; yet, 
 what would she think of my estranging myself from her 
 society ? What expedient could I honestly adopt to 
 justify my absence, and what employments could I sub 
 stitute for those precious hours hitherto devoted to her ? 
 
 "This afternoon," thought I, "she has been invited 
 to spend at Stedman s country-house on Schuylkill. 
 She consented to go, and I was to accompany her. I 
 am fit only for solitude. My behaviour, in her presence, 
 will be enigmatical, capricious, and morose. I must not 
 go : yet what will she think of my failure ? Not to go 
 will be injurious and suspicious." 
 
 I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived. I 
 stood at my chamber-window, torn by a variety of pur 
 poses, and swayed alternately by repugnant arguments. 
 I several times went to the door of my apartment, and 
 put my foot upon the first step of the staircase, but as 
 often paused, reconsidered, and returned to my room. 
 
 In these fluctuations the hour passed No messenger 
 arrived from Mrs. Fielding, inquiring into the cause of 
 my delay. Was she offended at my negligence ? Was 
 she sick and disabled from going, or had she changed 
 her mind ? I now remembered her parting words at our 
 last interview. Were they not susceptible of two con 
 structions ? She said my visit was too long, and bade 
 me begone. Did she suspect my presumption, and is 
 she determined thus to punish me ? 
 
 This terror added anew to all my former anxieties. 
 It was impossible to rest in this suspense. I would go 
 to her ; I would lay before her all the anguish of my 
 heart ; I would not spare myself. She shall not reproach 
 me more severely than I will reproach myself. I will 
 hear my sentence from her own lips, and promise un 
 limited submission to the doom of separation and exile 
 which she will pronounce. 
 
 I -went forth to her house. The drawing-room and 
 summer-house were empty. I summoned Philip the foot 
 man : his mistress was gone to Mr. Stedman s. 
 
 "How? To Stedman s? In whose company?"
 
 ::_: ARTHUR MERVYX ; OX, 
 
 Stedman and her brother called for her in the 
 carriage, and persuaded her to go with them." 
 
 Now my heart sunk, indeed ! Miss Stedman s brothfr! 
 A youth, forward, gallant, and gay ! Flushed with pros 
 perity, and just returned from Europe, with all the con 
 fidence of age, and all the ornaments of education ! She 
 has gone with him, though pre-engaged to me ! Poor 
 Arthur, how art thou despised ! 
 
 This information only heightened my impatience. I 
 went away, but returned in the evening. I waited till 
 eleven, but she came not back. I cannot justly paint 
 the interval that passed till next morning. It was void 
 of steep. On leaving her house, I wandered into the 
 fields. Every moment increased my impatience. " She 
 will probably spend the morrow at Stedman s," said I, 
 " and possibly the next day. Why should I wait for her 
 return ? Why not seek her there, and rid myself at 
 once of this agonizing suspense ? Why not go thither 
 now? This night, wherever I spend it, will be unac 
 quainted with repose. I will go ; it is already near 
 twelve, and the distance is more than eight miles. I 
 will hover near the house till morning, and then, as 
 early as possible, demand an interview." 
 
 I was well acquainted with Stedman s villa, having 
 formerly been there with Mrs. Fielding. I quickly en 
 tered its precincts, I went close to the house ; looked 
 mournfully at every window. At one of them a light 
 was to be seen, and I took various stations to discover, 
 if possible, the persons within. Methought once I caught 
 a glimpse of a female, whom my fancy easily imagined 
 to be Achsa. I sat down upon the lawn, some hundred 
 feet from the house, and opposite the window whence the 
 light proceeded. I watched it, till at length some one 
 came to the window, lifted it, and, leaning on her arms, 
 continued to look out. 
 
 The preceding day had been a very sultry one : the 
 night, as usual after such a day and the fall of a violent 
 shower, was delightfully serene and plea.*ant. Where I 
 stood was enlightened by the moon. Whether she saw 
 me or not, I could hardly tell, or whether she distinguished 
 any thing but a human figure.
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR f?9J. 22$ 
 
 Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and 
 punctilio, I immediately drew near the house. I quickly 
 perceived that her attention was fixed. Neither of us 
 spoke, till I had placed myself directly under her; I 
 then opened my lips, without knowing in what manner 
 to address her. She spoke first, and in a startled and 
 anxious voice: 
 
 "Who is that?" 
 
 "Arthur Mervyn; he that was two days ago your 
 friend^" 
 
 44 Mervyn ! What is it that brings you here at this 
 hour? What is the matter? What has happened? Is 
 anybody sick?" 
 
 "All is safe ; all are in good health.** 
 
 "What then do you come hither for at such an hour?" 
 
 " 1 meant not to disturb you ; I meant not to be seen." 
 
 44 Good heavens ! How you frighten me ! What can 
 be the reason of so strange " 
 
 " Be not alarmed. I meant to hover near the house 
 till morning, that I might see you as early as possible." 
 
 44 For what purpose?" 
 
 " I will tell you when we meet, and let that be at five 
 o clock; the sun will then be risen; in the cedar-grove 
 under the bank; till when, farewell." 
 
 Having said this, I prevented all expostulation, by 
 turning the angle of the house, and hastening towards 
 the shore of the river. I roved about the grove that I 
 have mentioned. In one part of it is a rustic seat and 
 table, shrouded by trees and shrubs, and an intervening 
 eminence, from the view of those in the house. This I 
 designed to be the closing scene of my destiny. 
 
 Presently I left this spot, and wandered upward through 
 embarrassed and obscure paths, starting forward or check 
 ing my pace, according as my wayward meditations 
 governed me. Shall I describe my thoughts ? Impossible ! 
 It was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing 
 less than madness could lead into such devious tracks, 
 drag me down to so hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, 
 and drag me down so suddenly ; lay waste, as at a sig 
 nal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in a 
 moment to a scene of confusion and horror. 
 15
 
 226 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I 
 design ? I cannot tell ; my glooms were to retire with 
 the night. The point to which every tumultuous feeling 
 was linked was the coming interview with Achsa. That 
 was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here 
 was the sealing and ratification of my doom. 
 
 I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled 
 upward till I reached the edge of a considerable preci 
 pice; I laid me down at my length upon the rock, whose 
 cold and hard surface I pressed with my bared and 
 throbbing breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my 
 eyes upon the water and wept plentifully ; but why ? 
 
 May this be my heart s last beat, if I can tell 
 why? 
 
 I had wandered so far from Stedman s, that, when 
 roused by the light, I had some miles to walk before I 
 could reach the place of meeting. Achsa was already 
 there. I slid down the rock above, and appeared before 
 her. Well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt 
 appearance. 
 
 I placed myself, without uttering a word, upon a seat 
 opposite to her, the table between, and, crossing my 
 arms upon the table, leaned my head upon them, while 
 my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon 
 hers. I seemed to have lost the power and the inclination 
 to speak. 
 
 She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity ; after 
 examining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in 
 terrified sorrow. "For God s sake! what does all this 
 mean? Why am I called to this place? What tidings, 
 what fearful tidings, do you bring?" 
 
 I did not change my posture or speak. "What," she 
 resumed, "could inspire all this woe? Keep me not in 
 this suspense, Arthur ; these looks and this silence shock 
 and afflict me too much." 
 
 "Afflict you?" said I, at last; "I come to tell you 
 
 what, now that I am here, I cannot tell " There I 
 
 stopped. 
 
 " Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very un 
 happy such a change from yesterday!" 
 
 "Yes! From yesterday; all then was a joyous calm,
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 22? 
 
 and now all is but then I knew not my infamy, my 
 guilt " 
 
 "What words are these, and from you, Arthur? Guilt 
 is to you impossible. If purity is to be found on earth, 
 it is lodged in your heart. What have you done ?" 
 
 " I have dared how little you expect the extent of 
 my daring ! That such as I should look upwards with 
 this ambition." 
 
 I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, 
 looked earnestly in her face : " I come only to beseech 
 your pardon. To tell you my crime, and then disappear 
 forever ; but first let me see if there be any omen of 
 forgiveness. Your looks they are kind; heavenly; 
 compassionate still. I will trust them, I believe; and 
 yet" (letting go her hands, and turning away) "this 
 offence is beyond the reach even of your mercy." 
 
 " How beyond measure these words and this deport 
 ment distress me ! Let me know the worst ; I cannot 
 bear to be thus perplexed." 
 
 "Why," said I, turning quickly round and again 
 taking her hands, " that Mervyn, whom you have honoured 
 and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards, 
 has been " 
 
 "What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his 
 virtue, I am sure. What else has he been?" 
 
 "This Mervyn has imagined, has dared will you 
 forgive him?" 
 
 "Forgive you what? Why don t you speak? Keep 
 not my soul in this suspense." 
 
 "He has dared But do not think that I am he. 
 Continue to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, 
 
 the vengeance of those eyes, as for one that is absent. 
 
 Why, what you weep, then, at last. That is a pro 
 pitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our 
 judge, then should the suppliant approach. Now, in 
 confidence of pardon, I will tell you; this Mervyn, not 
 content with all you have hitherto granted him, has 
 dared to love you ; nay, to think of you as of his wife !" 
 
 Her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her 
 hands, she covered her face with them. 
 
 "I see my fate," said I, in a tone of despair. "Too
 
 228 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 well did I predict the effect of this confession ; but I will 
 go and unforgiven." 
 
 She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was 
 withdrawn from her cheek, and stretched towards me. 
 She looked at me. 
 
 "Arthur! I do forgive thee." With what accents 
 was this uttered ! With what looks ! The cheek that 
 was before pale with terror was now crimsoned over by a 
 different emotion, and delight swam in her eye. 
 
 Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears, 
 made me tremble while I took the offered hand. 
 
 "Surely," faltered I, "I am not I cannot be so 
 blessed." 
 
 There was no need of words. The hand that I held 
 was sufficiently eloquent. She was still silent. 
 
 "Surely," said I, "my senses deceive me. A bliss 
 like this cannot be reserved for me. Tell me once more 
 set my doubting heart at rest." 
 
 She now gave herself to my arms: "I have not 
 words Let your own heart tell you, you have made 
 your Achsa " 
 
 At this moment, a voice from without (it was Miss 
 Stedman s) called, " Mrs. Fielding ! where are you?" 
 
 My friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me 
 begone. "You must not be seen by this giddy girl. 
 Come hither this evening, as if by my appointment, and 
 I will return with you." She left me in a kind of trance. 
 I was immovable. My reverie was too delicious; but 
 let me not attempt the picture. If I can convey no 
 image of my state previous to this interview, my subse 
 quent feelings are still more beyond the reach of my 
 powers to describe. 
 
 Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened 
 away, evading paths which might expose me to observa 
 tion. I speedily made my friends partake of my joy, 
 and passed the day in a state of solemn but confused 
 rapture. I did not accurately portray the various parts 
 of my felicity. The whole rushed upon my HOU! at once. 
 My conceptions were too rapid and too comprehensive to 
 be distinct. 
 
 I went to Stedman s in the evening. I found in the
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 2 29 
 
 accents and looks of my Achsa new assurances that all 
 which had lately passed was more than a dream. She 
 made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner than ordi 
 nary, and was accompanied to the city by her friend. 
 We dropped Mrs. Fielding at her own house, and thither, 
 after accompanying Miss Stedman to her own home, I 
 returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience. 
 
 Now could I repeat every word of every conversation 
 that has since taken place between us ; but why should 
 I do that on paper ? Indeed, it could not be done. All 
 is of equal value, and all could not be comprised but in 
 many volumes. There needs nothing more deeply to 
 imprint it on my memory ; and, while thus reviewing 
 the past, I should be iniquitously neglecting the present. 
 What is given to the pen would be taken from her ; and 
 that, indeed, would be but no need of saying what it 
 would be, since it is impossible. 
 
 I merely write to allay these tumults which our neces 
 sary separation produces ; to aid me in calling up a little 
 patience till the time arrives when our persons, like our 
 minds, shall be united forever. That time may nothing 
 happen to prevent but nothing can happen. But why 
 this ominous misgiving just now ? My love has infected 
 me with these unworthy terrors, for she has them too. 
 
 This morning I was relating my dream to her. She 
 started, and grew pale. A sad silence ensued the cheer 
 fulness that had reigned before: "Why thus dejected, 
 my friend?" 
 
 " I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would 
 to God it had never occurred to you !" 
 
 "Why, surely, you place no confidence in dreams?" 
 
 " I know not where to place confidence ; not in my 
 present promises of joy," and she wept. I endeavoured 
 to soothe or console her. Why, I asked, did she weep ? 
 
 "My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so 
 heavy ; the hopes which were blasted were so like my 
 present ones, that the dread of a like result will intrude 
 upon my thoughts. And now your dream ! Indeed, I 
 know not what to do. I believe I ought still to retract 
 ought, at least, to postpone an act so irrevocable." 
 
 Now was I obliged again to go over my catalogue of
 
 230 ARTHUR MERVYN. 
 
 arguments to induce her to confirm her propitious reso 
 lution to be mine within the week. I, at last, succeeded, 
 even in restoring her serenity, and beguiling her fears 
 by dwelling on our future happiness. 
 
 Our. household, while we stayed in America, in a 
 year or two we hie to Europe, should be thus com 
 posed. Fidelity, and skill, and pure morals, should be 
 sought out, and enticed, by generous recompenses, into 
 our domestic service. Duties which should be light and 
 regular. Such and such should be our amusements and 
 employments abroad and at home : and would not this 
 be true happiness ? 
 
 "Oh yes if it may be so." 
 
 " It shall be so ; but this is but the humble outline of 
 the scene ; something is still to be added to complete 
 our felicity." 
 
 "What more can be added?" 
 
 " What more ? Can Achsa ask what more ? She 
 who has not been only a wife " 
 
 But why am I indulging this pen-prattle ? The hour 
 she fixed for my return to her is come, and now take 
 thyself away, quill. Lie there, snug in thy leathern 
 case, till I call for thee, and that will not be very soon. 
 I believe I will abjure thy company till all is settled 
 with my love. Yes ; I will abjure thee ; so let this be 
 thy last office, till Mervyn has been made the happiest 
 of men. 
 
 THE END.
 
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