QJatneU Hmueraita Eihtarg 
 
 LIBRARY OF 
 
 LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE 
 
 A. B.. A.M. .COLUMBIAN COLLEGE.* 71 .■73 
 WASHINGTON. D. C. 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MRS. MARY A. WYNNE 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN H. WYNNE 
 
 CORNELL '98 
 1922 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1134.A7 1890 
 
 Arthur Mervyn :or. Memoirs of the year 1 
 
 3 1924 022 013 159 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92402201 31 59 
 
ARTHUR MERVYN 
 
 OR 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
 
 " Fielding, Richardson and Scott occupied pedestals. In a niche was deposited 
 the bust of our countryman, the author of 'Arthur Mervyn,' " — Nathaniel 
 Hawthorne. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 LOVELL, GESTEFELD & COMPANY 
 125 East 23D Street 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 The evils of pestilence by which this city has lately been 
 aiHicted 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 peri- 
 odical visitations of this calamity, the change in manners and 
 population which they will produce, will be, in the highest 
 degree, memorable. They have already supplied new and 
 copious materials for reflection to the physician and the 
 political economist. They have not been less fertile of in- 
 struction to the moral observer, to whom they have furnished 
 new displays of the influence of human passions and motives. 
 
 Amid 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 reflections, 
 and to weave into an humble narrative such incidents as ap- 
 peared to him most instructive and remarkable among those 
 which came within the sphere of his own observation. It is 
 everyone's duty to profit by all opportunities of inculcating 
 on mankind the lessons of justice and humanity. The in- 
 fluences of hope and fear, the trials of fortitude and constancy, 
 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 colors, 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 disinterest- 
 edness and intrepidity confers on virtue the notoriety and 
 homage that are due to it, and rouses in the spectators the 
 spirit of salutary emulation. 
 
b PREFACE. 
 
 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 MERYYN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I WAS resident in this city durinpf the year 1793. Many 
 motives contributed to detain me, though departure 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 narrative of some incidents with which 
 my situation made me acquainted. 
 
 Eeturning one evening, somewhat later than usual, to my 
 own house, my attention was attracted, just as I entered the 
 porch, by the figure of a man reclining against the wall at a 
 few paces distant. My sight was imperfectly assisted by a 
 far-off lamp ; but the posture in which he sat, the hour, and 
 the place, immediately suggested 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 manner this 
 person should be treated. My family consisted of my wife 
 and a young child. Our servant-maid had been seized, three 
 days before, by the reigning malady, and, at her own request, 
 
8 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 had been conveyed to the hospital. We ourselves enjoyed 
 good health, and were hopeful 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 infection, for my office required me to go daily 
 into the midst of them ; nor in filling the house with the ex- 
 halations of gunpowder, vinegar, or tar. They consisted in 
 cleanliness, 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 occurred 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 harbor him, we must not forget that there was a hospital to 
 which he would, perhaps, consent to be carried, and where 
 he would be accommodated in the best manner the times 
 would admit. 
 
 "Naj'," 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 returned 
 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, unspoiled by luxuiy and 
 uninured to misfortune. I scarcely ever beheld an object 
 which laid so powerful and sudden a claim to my affection 
 and succor. 
 
 " You are sick," said I, in as cheerful a tone as I could as- 
 sume. " Cold bricks and night airs are comfortless attend- 
 ants for one in your condition. Eise, I pray you, and come 
 into the house. We will try to supply you with accommo- 
 dations 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 9 
 
 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 receive all the 
 kindness that is in our power to bestow. Pluck up courage 
 and I will answer for your recovery, j)rovided you submit to 
 directions, and do as we would have you. Eise, 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 re- 
 turn ? " 
 
 There was something in the style of this remark that 
 heightened my prepossession in his favor, and made me pur- 
 sue 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 recompense, we will 
 look to that." 
 
 It was with considerable difficulty that he was persuaded to 
 accept our invitation. He was conducted to a chamber, and, 
 the criticalness of his case requiring unusual 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 perfect 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 burdensome to one not used 
 to the performance, and luxuriously educated. The addition 
 of a sick man was likely 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 
 prescribed, were attended with many noxious and disgustful 
 circumstances. My fortune would not allow me to hire assis- 
 tance. 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 neighbors 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 myself, to such immi- 
 nent hazard, for the sake of one, too, who most probably was 
 worthless, and whose disease had doubtless been, by negli- 
 gence or mistreatment, rendered incurable. 
 
10 ARTHUR MEIIVTN; OR, 
 
 I did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. I was aware 
 of all the inconveniences and perils to which I thus spontane- 
 ously 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 dangerous 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 appro- 
 bation. All objections on the score of my fiiends were re- 
 moved by her own willingness and even solicitude to under- 
 take the province. I had more confidence than others in the 
 vincibilitj' of this disease, and in the success of those measures 
 which we had used for our defence against it. But, whatever 
 were the evUs to accrue to us, we were sure of one thing, 
 namely, that the consciousness of having neglected this un- 
 fortunate person would be a source of more unhappiness than 
 could possibly redound from the attendance and care that he 
 would claim. 
 
 The more we saw of him, indeed, the more did we congrat- 
 ulate ourselves on our proceeding. His torments were acute 
 and tedious ; but, in the midst even of delirium, his heart 
 seemed to overflow with gratitude, and to be actuated by no 
 wish but to alleviate our toil and our danger. He made pro- 
 digious exertions to perform necessary offices for himself. 
 He suppressed his feelings and struggled to maintain a cheer- 
 ful tone and countenance, that he might prevent that anxiety 
 which the sight of his sufferings produced in us. He was 
 perpetually 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 in- 
 formation, 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 remembrances. 
 His features were characterized by pathetic seriousness, and 
 his deportment by a gravity very unusual at his age. Ac- 
 cording 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 Ai'thur Mervyn. He 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 11 
 
 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 labor. 
 He yyas unqualified, by his education, for any liberal profes- 
 sion. His poverty was likewise an insuperable impediment. 
 He could afford to spend no time in the acquisition of a trade. 
 He must labor, not for future emolument, but for immediate 
 subsistence. The only pursuit which his present circum- 
 stances would allow him to adopt was that whicli, he was in- 
 clined to believe, was likewise the most eligible. Without 
 doubt his experience was slender, and it seemed absurd to 
 pronounce concerning that of which he had no direct knowl- 
 edge ; but so it was, he could not outroot from his mind the 
 persuasion that to plough, to sow, and to reap, were employ- 
 ments 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 mercan- 
 tile or public office. 
 
 To this he objected, that experience had shown him unfit 
 for the life of a penman. This had been his chief occupa- 
 tion for a little while, and he found it wholly incompatible 
 with his health. He must not sacrifice the end for the means. 
 Starving was a disease preferable to consumption. Besides, 
 he labored 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. 
 
12 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 ob- 
 serving and thinking for himself. He wanted business which 
 would suffer at least nine-tenths of his attention to go free. 
 If it afforded agreeable employment to that part of his at- 
 tention which it applied to its ovra use, so much the better ; 
 but, if it did not, he should not repine. He should be con- 
 tent with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as nice are 
 to one. He had tried the trade of a copyist, and in circum- 
 stances more favorable 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, hberty, and pleasure. 
 
 The pestilence, if it maj' so be called, was now declining. 
 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 aiTival, with a 
 friendly expedition, to my house, when he overtook Mervyn 
 going in the same direction. 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 fre- 
 quently mentioned 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 himself to the youth with a re- 
 quest that he would walk home with him. This invitation, 
 delivered in a tone which left it doubtful whether a compli- 
 ment or menace were meant, augmented Mervyn's confusion. 
 He complied without speaking, and they went out together ; 
 my wife and I were left to comment upon the scene. 
 
MEMOma OF THE TEAR 1793. 13 
 
 It could not fail to excite uneasiness. They were evidently 
 no strangers to each other. The indignation that flashed 
 from the eyes of Wortley, and the trembling consciousness of 
 Mervyn, were unwelcome tokens. The former was my dear- 
 est friend, and venerable for his discernment 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 unworthiuess would produce. 
 
 _ In a half hour Mervyn returned. His embarrassment had 
 given place to dejection. He was always serious, but his 
 features were now overcast by the deepest gloom. The anxi- 
 ety 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 your- 
 self into some dilemma out of which we may help you to es- 
 cape. Has anything of an unpleasant nature passed between 
 you and Wortley ? " 
 
 The youth did not readily answer. He seemed at a loss 
 for a suitable reply. At length he said that something dis- 
 agreeable 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 
 which, 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 in- 
 juriously than otherwise ; yet it was endeavored to be wrested 
 from him by the^heaviest menaces. There he paused. 
 
 We were natarally inquisitive as to the scope of these men- 
 aces ; but Mervyn entreated us to forbear any further dis- 
 cussion of this topic. He foresaw the difficulties to which 
 his silence would subject him. One of its most fearful con- 
 sequences would be the loss ofs^ur 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 mis- 
 hap 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 
 promise, be should not multiply his perils instead of lessening 
 their number. A difficult part had been assigned to him, 
 by much too difficult for one young, improvident, and inex- 
 perienced as he was. 
 
14 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 Sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. Perhaps, after hav- 
 ing had an opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude 
 to adopt it ; meanwhile he entreated permission to retire to 
 his chamber. He was unable to exclude from his mind ideas 
 which yet could, with no propriety, at least at present, be 
 made the theme of conversation. 
 
 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 mystery. What- 
 ever 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 is my confidence in his integ- 
 rity that I will not promise my esteem to one who has irre- 
 coverably lost that of Wortley. I am not acquainted with 
 your motives to concealment, 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 in- 
 quiries with as much eagerness as they were made. 
 
 " Tou know," said he, " my disastrous connection with 
 Thomas Welbeck. You recollect his sudden disappearance 
 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 j'outh 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 suffi- 
 ciently indicated his knowledge of transactions between Wel- 
 beck and me. I questioned him as to the fate of that man. 
 To own the truth, I expected some well-digested lie ; but he 
 merely said that he had promised secrecy on that subject, and 
 must therefore be excused from giving me anj' information. 
 I asked him if he knew that his master, or accomplice, or what- 
 ever was his relation to him, absconded in my debt ? He 
 answered that he knew it well ; but still pleaded a promise 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 accesses of my 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 15 
 
 passioB ; I even went so far as to strike him. He bore my in- 
 sults 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 
 endeavored to wind the truth from him by artifice. I prom- 
 ised him a part of the debt if he would enable me to recover 
 the whole. I offered him a considerable reward 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-compli- 
 ance." 
 
 Such was my friend's account of this interview. His sus- 
 picions were unquestionably plausible ; but I was disposed to 
 put a more favorable construction on Mervyn's behavior. I 
 recollected the desolate and penniless condition in which I 
 found him, and the uniform complacency and rectitude of his 
 deportment for the period during which we had witnessed it. 
 These ideas had considerable 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 advocates 
 of this youth. She would vouch, she said, before any tribunal, 
 for his innocence ; but she willingly concurred with me in al- 
 lowing 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 were willling to engage, in 
 our turn, for the observance of secrecy, so far that no detri- 
 ment should accrue from this disclosure to himself or his 
 friend. 
 
 Next morning at breakfast, our guest appeared with 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 diminished 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 Welbeck. I have 
 been informed by others that his character, 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 tli"e night of his departure you are known to 
 have accompanied him across the river, and this, it seems. 
 
16 ABTHUB MEBVYN; OB, 
 
 ia the first of your reappearance on the stage. Welbeck's con- 
 duct was disLonest. 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 prom- 
 ise of secrecy. Know you not that to assist or connive at the 
 escape of this man was wrong ? To have promised to favor 
 his concealment and impunity by silence was only an aggra- 
 vation of this wrong. That, however, is past. Your youth, 
 and circumstances, hitherto unexplained, may apologize for 
 that misconduct ; 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 to it." 
 
 "I have spent most of last night," said the youth, " in re- 
 flecting on this subject. I had come to a resolution, 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 consid- 
 erations of the highest importance would persuade me to 
 break my promise. No injury will accrue from my disclosure 
 to Welbeok. If there should, dishonest as he was, that would 
 be a sufficient reason for my silence. "Wortley will not, 
 in any degree, be benefited by any communication that I can 
 make. Whether I grant or withhold iufonnation, my con- 
 duct will have influence only on my own happiness, and that 
 influence will justify me in granting it. 
 
 " I received your protection when I was friendless and for- 
 lorn. You have a right to know whom it is that you pro- 
 tected. My own fate is connected with the fate of Welbeck, 
 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, un- 
 just, may yet be a good man ; but I have no desire to make 
 him one of my auditors. You, sir, may, if j-ou think proper, 
 relate to him afterward 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 affection, and con- 
 sidered his candor, in this respect, as an unerring test of his 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 17 
 
 rectitude. She was prepared to hear and to forgive the errors 
 of inexperience and precipitation. I did not fully participate 
 in her satisfaction, but was nevertheless most zealously dis- 
 posed to listen to his narrative. 
 
 My engao-enients obliged me to postpone this rehearsal till 
 late in the evening. Collected then round a cheerful hearth, 
 exempt from all likelihood of interruption from without, and 
 our babe's unpractised senses shut up in the sweetest and pro- 
 fouudest sleep, Mervyn, after a pause of recollection, began. 
 
 CHAPTEK n. 
 
 Mt 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 
 fatalHo all of them but me^J 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 after- 
 ward 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 labor, for that necessity 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 attendance 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 thought- 
 lessness 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 flagrant acts of 
 contempt or rebellion. Perhaps her deportment was inevit- 
 ably calculated to instil into me a froward and refractory 
 spirit. My faults, however, were speedily followed by re- 
 pentance, 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. 
 
18 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 
 bis wife. Under this guidance he prospered ; but when that 
 was withdrawn, his affairs soon began to betray marks of un- 
 skilfuluess and negligence. My understanding, perhaps, 
 qualified me to counsel and assist my father, but I was whol- 
 ly unaccustomed to the task of superintendence. Besides, 
 gentleness and fortitude 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 neighborhood in search of employ- 
 ment. She was hired in our family as milkmaid 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 con- 
 sist. She possessed superabundant health and good humor, 
 and was quite a supportable companion in the hayfield or the 
 barnyard. 
 
 On the death of my mother she was exalted to a some- 
 what 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 measures. For this 
 province she seemed not unqualified, and, as long as my 
 father was pleased with her management, I had nothing to 
 object. 
 
 The state of things continued, without material variation, 
 for several months. There were appearances in my father's 
 deportment to Betty which excited my reflections, but not 
 my fears. The deference which was occasionally paid to 
 the advice or the claims of this girl was accounted for by 
 that feebleness of mind which degraded my father, in what- 
 ever scene he should be placed, to be the tool of others. I 
 had no conception that her claims extended beyond a tem- 
 porary or superficial gratification. 
 
 At length, however, a visible change look place in her man- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 19 
 
 ner. 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 ral- 
 lied her on these tokens of a sweetheart, and amused myself 
 with expatiating to her on the qualifications of her lover. A 
 clownish fellow was frequently her visitant. His attentions 
 did not appear to be discouraged. He therefore was readily 
 supposed to be the man. When pointed out as the favorite, 
 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 sufficient confuta- 
 tion of them. 
 
 I frequently spoke of Betty, her newly-acquired dignity, 
 and of the probable cause of her change of manner, to my 
 father. When this theme was started, a certain coldness and 
 reserve overspread his features. He dealt in monosyllables, 
 and either labored to change the subject or made some excuse 
 for leaving me. This behavior, though it occasioned sur- 
 prise, was never very deeply reflected on. My father was old, 
 and the mournful 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 sum- 
 mons to the wedding. 
 
 One afternoon this girl dressed herself in the gayest man- 
 ner and seemed making preparations for some momentous 
 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, 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 milkmaid, who sat on 
 a bench, in all the primness of expectation, 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 attendant. She listened to me with an 
 air in which embarrassment was mingled sometimes with ex- 
 ultation and sometimes with malice. I left her at length, and 
 
20 ABTMUB MEIiVYN; OB, 
 
 returned to the house not till a late hour. As soon as I en- 
 tered, my father presented Betty to uie as his wife, a,nd de- 
 sired 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 sus- 
 pected this event, I might have fortified my father's weak- 
 ness and enabled him to shun the gulf to which he was tend- 
 ing ; 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 pro- 
 vision ; but I was the only child of my father, and had reason- 
 ably hoped to succeed to his patrimony. On this hope I had 
 built a thousand agreeable visions. I had meditated innume- 
 rable projects which the possession of this estate would en- 
 able me to execute. I had no wish beyond the trade of agri- 
 culture, and beyond the opulence which a hundred acres 
 would give. 
 
 These visions were now at an end. No doubt her own in- 
 terest would be, to this woman, the supreme law, and this 
 would be considered as irreconcilably hostile to mine. My 
 father would easily be moulded to her purpose, and that act 
 easily extorted from him which should reduce me to beggary. 
 She had a gross and perverse taste. She had a numerous 
 kiudred, indigent and hungry. On these his substance would 
 speedily be lavished. Me she hated, because she was conscious 
 of having injured me, because she knew that I held her in 
 contempt, and because I had detected her in an illicit inter- 
 course with the son of a neighbor. 
 
 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 21 
 
 I was fully impressed with tbe necessity of removal, but 
 I knew not wLitber 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 offspring. Tilling the earth was 
 my only profession, and, to profit by my skill in it, it would 
 be necessary to become a day-laborer in the service of stran- 
 gers ; but this was a destiny to which I, who had so long en- 
 joyed the pleasures of independence and command, could not 
 suddenly reconcile myself. It occurred to me that the city 
 might afford me an asylum. A short day's journey would V 
 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, compatible with a town life, but 
 that of the pen. This, indeed, had ever been a favorite 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 transcribe 
 what others had written, or to give form to my own concep- 
 tions. 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 de- 
 portment, in a short time, grew sullen and austere. Direc- 
 tions were given in a magisterial tone, and any remissness in 
 the execution of his orders was rebuked with an air of au- 
 thority. At length these rebukes were followed by certain in- 
 timations 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 livelihood ; that it was a shame for me to 
 spend my youth in idleness ; that what he had gained was by 
 his own labor ; and I must be indebted for my living to the 
 same source. 
 
 These hints were easily understood. At first, they excited 
 indignation and grief. I knew the source whence they sprung, 
 and was merely alale to suppress the utterance of my feelings 
 in her presence. My looks, however, were abundantly signifi- 
 cant, and my company became hourly more insupportable. 
 Abstracted from these considerations, my father's remon- 
 
22 ARTHUR MEBVYN; OR, 
 
 stranees were not destitute of weight. He 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 reasonably consult his own choice. He 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 occupations 
 besides that of the plough. Among these none had fewer 
 disadvantages than that of carpenter or cabinetmaker. I had 
 no knowledge of this art ; but neither custom, nor law, nor 
 the impenetrableness of the mystei-y, 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, jjerhaps, consent to bear 
 the cost of my maintenance. Nobody could live upon less 
 than I was willing to. 
 
 I mentioned these ideas to my father ; but he merely com- 
 mended my intentions without offering to assist me in the 
 execution of them. He had full employment, he said, for aU 
 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 en- 
 titled 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 hence- 
 forth 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 follow 
 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 in- 
 dispensable, 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 ap- 
 prentice myself to some mechanical trade. I did not over- 
 look the evils of constraint 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 for- 
 feiting my liberty. 
 
MEMOIRS OV THE YEAR 1793. 23 
 
 I determined to commence my journey the next morning. 
 No -wonder the prospect for 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 precon- 
 ception 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 ex- 
 pected to derive gratification. Discords and evil smells, un- 
 savory food, unwholesome labor, 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. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 I BOSE 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 incessant applica- 
 tion, gotten the whole of them by rote. They had ceased, 
 therefore, to be of any further use. I left them, without re- 
 luctance, 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 desiDondency and apprehension in- 
 cident to my state, my heels were light and my heart joyous. 
 "Now," said I, "lam 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, re- 
 sources are still left to me. I will resume my post in the 
 cornfield and threshing-floor, to which I shall always have ac- 
 cess, and where I shall always be happy." 
 
24 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I had proceeded some miles on my journey, -when I began 
 to feel the inroads of hunger. I might have stopped at any 
 farmhouse, and have breakfasted for nothing. It was pru- 
 dent 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 tavern, when any farmer was will- 
 ing to bestow them for nothing. My resolution was 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 dis- 
 dained to animadvert on these defects, naturally supposing 
 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 contempt a scrupulous maker of bar- 
 gains. He received the money with a complaisant obeisance. 
 "Eight," 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 my- 
 self 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 purchasing 
 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 landlord 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 anything, sir?" 
 " Certainly. I drank the milk which was furnished." "But 
 any liquors, sir?" "No." 
 
 He deliberated a moment, and then, assuming an air of 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 25 
 
 disinterestedness, "'Tis our custom to charge dinner 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 de- 
 bating with myself on what was to be done, I concluded that 
 compliance was best, and, leaving the money at the bar, re- 
 sumed my way. 
 
 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 
 vay negligence on this occasion. 
 
 What was now to be done? To return to my paternal 
 mansion was impossible. To relinquish my design of enter- 
 ing 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 way, when 
 I found I had passed the Schuylkill at the upper bridge. I 
 ■was now within the precincts of the city, and night was hasten- 
 ing. It behooved me to come to a speedy decision. 
 
 Suddenly I recollected that I had not paid the customary 
 toll at the bridge ; neither had I money wherewith to pay it. 
 A demand of payment would have suddenly arrested my prog- 
 ress ; 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 returning I should only double my debt. "Let 
 it stand," said I, " where it does. All that honor enjoiiis is to 
 pay when I am able." 
 
 I adhered to the crossways till I reached Market Street. 
 Night had fallen, and a triple row of lamps presented a 
 spectacle enchanting and new. My personal 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. 
 
26 ARTHUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 I proceeded witli more cautious steps, but was still absorbed 
 in attention to passing objects. I reached the market-house, 
 and, entering it, indulged myself in new delight and new 
 wonder. 
 
 I need not remark that our ideas of magnificence and splen- 
 dor 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 "pen- 
 dent 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 seat- 
 ing myself on a stall. No wonder some fatigue was felt by 
 me, accustomed as I was to strenuous exertions, since, ex- 
 clusive 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 con- 
 dition. 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 in- 
 convenience to which I was immediately 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 ofiicej-s 
 of police. It was no crime to be without a home ; but how 
 should I supply my piresent cravings and the cravings of to- 
 morrow ? 
 
 At length it occurred to me that one of our country neigh- 
 bors was probably at this time in the city. He kept a store 
 as well as cultivated a farm. He was a plain and well-mean- 
 ing man, and, should I be so fortunate as to meet him, his 
 superior knowledge of the city might be of essential benefit 
 to me in my present forlorn circumstances. His generosity 
 might likewise induce him to lend me so much as would pur- 
 chase one meal. I had formed the resolution to leave the city 
 the 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 con- 
 versation 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 27 
 
 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 probability. I resolved to lose not a mo- 
 ment 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 wardrobe ; 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 think- 
 ing 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 would scarcely be en- 
 dured 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 bespoke 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. He 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 the sake of exercise. He was totally careless of 
 his person 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 be- 
 fore his dissolution, presented it to me, and charged me to 
 preserve it in remembrance of him. My mother loved the 
 
28 ABTHUB MERVTN; OB, 
 
 youth because he was amiable and unfortunate, and chiefly 
 because she fancied a very powerful resemblance between 
 his countenance and mine. I was too youug to build affec- 
 tion on any rational foundation. I loved him, for whatever 
 reason, with an ardor unusual at my age, and which this por- 
 trait 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 leath- 
 ern case, which, for greater security, was deposited 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 vaiu 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 neigh- 
 bor. I was informed that Capper was now in town ; that he 
 had lodged on the last night at this house ; that he had ex- 
 pected 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, was the gentleman ? The landlord had no knowl- 
 edge of him ; he knew neither his place of abode nor his 
 name. Was 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 recollection 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 name- 
 less emotions, on the days of my infancy. I called up the 
 image of my mother. I reflected on tlie infatuation of my 
 surviving parent, and the usurpation of the detestable 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 whistling, or 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 29 
 
 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 someone 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 countenance 
 bespoke some portion of discernment. I described to him the 
 man whom I sought. " I am in search of the same man my- 
 self," 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 gentleman." 
 
 I was highly gratified by this information, and thanked my 
 informant with some degree of warmth. My gratitude he did 
 not notice, but continued : "lu order to beguile expectation, 
 I have ordered supper ; will you do me the favor to partake 
 with me, unless indeed you have supped already ? " I was 
 obliged, somewhat awkwardly, to decline his invitation, con- 
 scious as I was that the means of payment were not in my 
 power. He continued, 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 frankness and good- 
 humor. My reserve gradually diminished, and I ventured to 
 inform him, in general terms, of my former condition and pre- 
 sent views. He listened to my details with seeming attention, 
 and commented on them with some judiciousness. His state- 
 ments, 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 solicitude. 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 ray vivacity was greatly damped by this intelli- 
 gence. 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 invitation ; he therefore should of course be charged 
 
30 ARTHUn MEBVYK; OB, 
 
 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 wonder. 
 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 knovp whence my ideas of 
 human nature were derived. They certainly were not the ofl- 
 spring of my own feelings. These would have taught me that 
 interest and duty were blended in every act of generosity. 
 
 I did not come into the world without my scruples and sus- 
 jDicions. I was more apt to impute kindnesses to sinister and 
 hidden than to obvious and laudable motives. 
 
 I paused to reflect upon the possible designs of this person. 
 What end could be served by this behavior ? I was no sub- 
 ject of violence or fraud. I had neither trinket nor coin to 
 stimulate the treachery of others. What was oflfered was 
 merely lodging for the night. Was this an act of such tran- 
 scendent disinterestedness as to be incredible ? My garb was 
 meaner than that of my companion, but my intellectual accom- 
 plishments 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 
 eadowments. That my merits should be discovered, even 
 on such slender intercoui-se, 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 remarked my hesi- 
 tation, but ascribed it to a wrong cause. "Come," said he, 
 " I can guess your objections and can obviate them. You ai-e 
 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 famUy, so that 
 we can defer your introduction to them till to-moiTOW. We 
 may go to our chamber without being seen by any but ser- 
 vants." 
 
 I had not been aware of this cu-cumstance. My reluctance 
 flowed from a different cause, but now that the inconveniences 
 of ceremony were mentioned, they appeared to me of consid- 
 erable weiglit. 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 31 
 
 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 parlor, where some of the family yn&y still be." 
 
 My conipajiioii was as talkative as ever, but said nothing 
 from which I could gather any knowledge of the number, 
 character, and condition of his family. 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 We arrived at a brick wall, through which we passed by a 
 gate into an extensive court or yard. The darkness would 
 allow me to see nothing but outlines. Compared with the 
 pigmy dimensions of my father's wooden hovel, the buildings 
 liefore me were of gigantic loftiness. The horses were here 
 far more magnificently accommodated than I had been. By a 
 large door we entered an elevated hall. " Stay here," said lae, 
 "just while I fetch a light." 
 
 He returned, bearing a candle, before I had time to ponder 
 ou 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 acci- 
 dent, the candle was extinguished. "Curse upon my care- 
 lessness!" said he. "I must go down again and light the 
 candle. I will return in a twinkling. Meanwhile you may 
 undress yourself and go to bed." He went out, and as I 
 afterward recollected, locked the door behind him. 
 
 I was not indisposed to follow his advice, but my curiosity 
 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 floor was covered 
 with a carpet, the walls with brilliant hangings ; the bed and 
 windows were shrouded by curtains of a rich texture and 
 
32 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 glossy hues. Hitherto I had merely 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 ap- 
 pear ! 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 inattentive 
 to the progress of time. Methought my companion was re- 
 markably 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. I 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 his chamber vcould 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 dqubt I had 
 been the victim of malicious artifice. Inclination, however, 
 conjured up opposite sentiments, and my fears began to sub- 
 side. What motive, I asked, could induce a human being to 
 inflict wanton injury? I could not account for his delay ; but 
 how numberless were the contingencies that might occa- 
 sion it ! 
 
 I was somewhat comforted by these reflections, but the 
 consolation they afforded was short-lived. I was listening 
 with the utmost eagerness to catch the sound of a foot, when 
 a noice 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 33 
 
 Presently the same noise was again heard, and now I per- 
 ceived that it came from the bed. It was accompanied with 
 a motion like someone 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 jestf ul or 
 a wicked one ? 
 
 There was no need to deliberate. There were no means of 
 concealment or escape. The person would sometime awakea 
 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 situation ? 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 un- 
 knowingly 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 mj' 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. I pictured to rny- 
 seli their entrance and my own detection. I could imagine 
 no consequence that was not disastrous and horrible, and 
 from which I would not at any price escape. I again ex- 
 amined the door and found that exit by this avenue was im- 
 possible. There were other doors in this room. Any prac- 
 ticable expedient in this extremity was to be pursued. One 
 of these was bolted. I unfastened it and found a consider- 
 able space within. Should I immure myself in this closet ? 
 I saw no benefit that would finally result from it. I dis- 
 covered 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 
 
34 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 footsteps was heard in the CDtry. Was it my companion or a 
 stranger ? If it was the latter, I had not yet naustered courage 
 sufficieut 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. Someone immediately after un- 
 locked the chamber door. He was unattended with a light. 
 The footsteps, as they moved along the carpet, could scarcely 
 be heard. 
 
 . I waited imi^atiently for some token by which I might be 
 governed. I put my ear to the keyhole, and at lengih 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 
 mayest find a mother where I have found a wife ! " There he 
 stopped. He appeared to kiss the babe, and, presently re- 
 tiruig, locked the door after him. 
 
 These words were capable of no consistent meaning. They 
 seived, at least, to assure me that I had been treacherously 
 dealt with. This chamber, it was manifest, did not belong 
 to mj' companion. I p)ut wp 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 un- 
 known recess ! lurking like a robber ! 
 
 My meditations were disturbed by new sounds. The 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 
 jjermit me the sight of them. I bent my ear, and this im- 
 parted some more authentic information. 
 
 Tbe man, as I judged by the voice, was the same who had 
 just departed. Bustling of silk denoted his companion 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 appella- 
 tions. "How can it be helped?" said he. "It is time to 
 resume your courage. Your duty to yourself and to me 
 requires you to subdue this unreasonable grief." 
 
 Pie spoke frequently in this strain, but all he said seemed 
 to have little influence in pacifying the lady. At lengtn, 
 however, her sobs began to lessen in vehemence and "fre- 
 quency. He exhorted her to seek for some repose. Appar- 
 ently she prepared to comply, and conversation was, for a 
 few minutes, intermitted. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 35 
 
 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 withdraw- 
 ing myself from view I had lost the privilege of an upright 
 deportment. Yet the thought of spending the night iu 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 f.dtering of 
 resolution. V/hen one attempt failed, I recurred ouce more 
 to such reflections as were adapted to renew my purjsose. 
 
 I preconcerted the address which I should use. I resolved 
 to be perfectly explicit ; to withhold no particular of my ad- 
 ventures from the moment of my arrival. My description 
 must necessarily suit some person within their knowledge. 
 All I should waut was liberty to depart ; but if this were not 
 allowed, I might at least hope to escajse any ill treatment, and 
 to be confronted with my betrayer. In that case I did not 
 fear to make him the attester of my innocence. 
 
 Influenced by these considerations, I once more touched 
 the lock. At that moment the lady shrieked and exclaimetl, 
 " Good God ! What is here?" An interesting conversation 
 ensued. The object that excited her astonishment was the 
 child. I collected from what passed that the discovery was 
 wholly unexpected by her. Her husband acted as if equally 
 unaware of this event. He joined in all her exclamations of 
 wonder and all her wild conjectures. When these were some- 
 what exhausted, he artfully insijiuated the projoriety of be- 
 stowing 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 pro- 
 posal, but at length was persuaded to take the babe to her 
 bosom and give it nourishment. 
 
 This incident had diverted my mind from its favorite 
 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 tiie maternal protection of his wife. It \vould 
 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, 
 
36 ARTIIUn MEnVTK ; OB, 
 
 the knowledge of tliis truth may convert her love into hatred. 
 I reflected with amazement on the slightness 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 repose. 
 To issue from the closet now would be imminently danger- 
 ous. My councils were again at a stand and my designs 
 frustrated. Meanwhile the persons did not drop their dis- 
 course, and I thought myself justified in listening. Many 
 facts of the most secret and momentous nature were alluded 
 to. Some illusions 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 
 circumstances, 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 con- 
 versation it will be necessary to repeat. 
 
 A large company had assembled that evening at their house. 
 They criticised the character and manners of several. At last 
 the husband said, " "What think you of the nabob ? Es- 
 pecially when he talked about riches ? How artfully he en- 
 courages the notion of his poverty ! Yet not a soul beheves 
 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 concealing 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 deposits, 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 i\xe nothing." 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 37 
 
 " But will he not suspect yoti of some hand in it ? " 
 
 " How can he ? Will I not appear to lose as well as him- 
 self ? Tom is my brother, but who can be supposed to 
 answer for a brother's integrity ? But he cannot suspect 
 either of us. Nothing less than a miracle can bring 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 in- 
 tended to be practised? Amid their wariness and subtlety, 
 how little are they aware that their conversation has been 
 overheard ! By means as inscrutable as those which con- 
 ducted 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 impos- 
 sible. 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 in- 
 evitably 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 posi- 
 tion, my head struck against some things which depended 
 from the ceiling of the closet. They were implements of 
 some kind which rattled against each other in consequence of 
 this unlucky blow. I was fearful least 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 husband, awaked his companion, who ex- 
 claimed, " What is the matter? " 
 
 " Something, I believe," replied he, " in the closet. If I 
 was not dreaming, I heard the pistols strike against each 
 other as if someone was taking them down." 
 
38 ARTHUR 3IERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 j^resently 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 hold- 
 ing. 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 slow- 
 ness ; 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. IMy 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 in- 
 evitable. My apprehensions, rather than my caution, 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 inquiries, 
 her husband said that someone, 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 ]iocket. 
 
 My courage was completely annihilated by this piece of 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 39 
 
 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 situation, not by my own wickedness, but 
 the wickedness of others. 
 
 I was deeply impressed with the ambiguousness which 
 would necessarily rest ujion my motives, and the scrutinj' 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 es- 
 cape. I had carefully attended to the circumstances of their 
 entrance. Possibly the act of locking had been unnoticed ; 
 but was it not likewise possible 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. 
 
 I passed through and explored my way to the staircase. I 
 descended till I reached the bottom. I could not recollect 
 with accuracy the position of the door leading 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 re- 
 moved. I knew not where it was deposited. I thought I 
 had reached the threshold of liberty, but here was an impedi- 
 ment that threatened to be insurmountable. 
 
 But if doors could not be passed, windows might be un- 
 barred. . I remembered that my companion hnd 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 admit- 
 ted me into a room which I carefully explored till I reached a 
 window. I will not dwell on my eflbrts to unbar this en- 
 trance. Suffice it to say that, after much exertion and fre- 
 quent mistakes, I at length found my way into the yard, and 
 thence passed into the court. 
 
40 ABTIIUU MERVYK; OB, 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 Now I was once more on public gro-und. By so many anx- 
 ious efforts had I disengaged myself from the perilous pre- 
 cincts of private property. As luauy 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 escaped with the loss of an es- 
 sential 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 statement 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 thipk, would suggest no more ambiguous or elaborate 
 expedient. He might likewise have predetermined to interfere 
 if my safety had been really endangered. 
 
 On the morrow the two doors of the chamber and the win- 
 dow below would be found unclosed. They will suspect a de- 
 sign 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 helij smiling at 
 the picture which my fancy drew of their anxiety and wonder. 
 These thoughts, however, gave place to more momentous con- 
 siderations. 
 
 I could not imagine to myself a more perfect example of 
 indigence than I now exhibited. There was no being 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 remonstrated against a barefoot pilgrim- 
 age, but to tbis necessity now reconciled me. I threw my 
 stockings between the bars of a stable window, belonging, as 
 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 employment, 
 could only be obtained by the use of means, but what'means 
 
MEMOIRS OF TSE TEAM 1793. 41 
 
 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 thousand 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 stead- 
 ily to one course, I should some time reach the fields. This 
 street, as I afterward found, tended to the Schuylkill, and soon 
 extricated me from houses. I could not cross this river with- 
 out 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 
 thousand 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, un- 
 inhabited and unpaved. Presently I reached a pavement, 
 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 charming green, which I saw ap- 
 pended to a house of the loftiest and most stately order. It 
 seemed like a recent erection, had all the gloss of novelty, 
 and exhibited, to my unpractised 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 me- 
 nials. 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 
 separated ! This fair inheritance had fallen to one who, per- 
 haps, would only abuse it to the purposes of luxury, while I, v 
 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 reflection. 
 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 
 
42 AETUUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 my early prepossessions ; but at tlie distance at wliich 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 heartless 
 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 quames. The beauty of the 
 poplars, the coolness exhaled from the dew-besprent brick.s, 
 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 steiD and began to meditate. 
 
 By some transition it occurred to me that the supply of my 
 most urgent wants might be found in some inhabitant of this 
 house. I needed at present a few cents ; and what were a few 
 cents to the tenant of a mansion like this? I had an invinci- 
 ble aversion to the calling of a beggar, but I regarded with 
 still more antipathy the vocation of a thief ; to this alterna- 
 tive, however, I was now reduced. I must either steal or 
 beg, unless, indeed, assistance could be procured under the 
 notion of a loan. Would a stranger refuse to lend the pit- 
 tance 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 ap- 
 plication, would be preposterous. I should be in more dan- 
 ger of provoking his anger than exciting his benevolence. 
 This request might, surely, with more jJropriety be preferred 
 to a passenger. I should probablj' meet several before I 
 arrived at the Schuylkill. 
 
 A servant just then appeared at the door with bucket and 
 brush. This obliged me, much sooner than I intended, to 
 decamp. With some reluctance I rose and p]-oceeded. This 
 house occupied the corner of the street, and I now turned 
 this corner toward the countrj'. A person, some distance 
 before me, was apjDroaching in an opjDosite 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 demeanor." 
 
 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 x^aces. He seemed 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAS J793. 43 
 
 busy in reflection ; and, bad not my figure cauglit his eye, or 
 bad be merely bestowed a 2:)assing glance upon me, I sbould 
 not bave been sutficiently courageous to bave 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, be checked 
 bis pace. This behavior decided mine, and be stopped on 
 perceiving tokens of a desire to address him. I spoke, but 
 my accents and air sufficiently denoted my embarrassments: 
 
 "I am going to solicit a favor 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 repaj' the moment I am able to 
 do it. I am going to the country, but have not wherewith to 
 pay my passage over the Schuylkill, 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 without some faltering, but 
 with great earnestness. I laid pairticular stress upon my in- 
 tention to refund the money. He listened with a most in- 
 quisitive 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 bave you come ? " 
 
 "I came yesterday from the country with a view to earn 
 my bread in some way, but bave changed my plan and pro- 
 pose now to return." 
 
 " Why have you changed it ? In what way are you capable 
 of earning your bread ? " 
 
 "I hardly know," said I. "1 can, as yet, manage no tool, 
 that can be" managed in the city, but the pen. My habits 
 bave, in some small degree, qualified me for a writer. I 
 •would willingly accept employment of that kind." 
 
 He fixed bis eyes upon the eartli, and was silent for some 
 minutes. At length, recovering himself, be 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 invi- 
 tation. My companion said no more, his air bespeaking him 
 to be absorbed by bis own thoughts, till be reached bis house, 
 
44 ABTHUli MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 which proved to be that at the door of which I had been 
 seated. We entered a parlor 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 description 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 very great attention upon this 
 art. Implements were brought, and I sat down to the task. 
 By some inexplicable connection a Une in Shakespeare occurred 
 to me, and I wrote — 
 
 ' ' My poverty, but not my will, consents. " 
 
 The sentiment conveyed in this Une powerfully affected 
 him, but in a way which I could not then comprehend. I 
 collected from subsequent events that the inference was not 
 unfavorable to my understanding or my morals. He ques- 
 tioned 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 reflection 
 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 agree- 
 able or healthful. My life had hitherto been active. My 
 constitution was predisiDosed to diseases of the lungs, and 
 the change might be hurtful. I was willing, 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 lai-ge wooden vessels and a 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 45 
 
 pump. "There," said he, "you may wash yourself; and, 
 when that is done, I will conduct you to your chamber and 
 your wardrobe." 
 
 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 
 everything your nakedness requires. When dressed, j'ou 
 may descend to breakfast." With these words he left me. 
 
 The clothes were all in the French style, as I afterward, 
 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 ax&s/ 
 wonderfully influenced by dress. Check shirt, buttoned at 
 the neck, an awkward fustian coat, check trousers 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 recognize any lineaments of my own. I walked to 
 the window. "Fifty minutes ago," said I, "I was travers- 
 ing 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 his 
 true name) at the breakfast-table. A superb equipage of 
 silver and china was before him. He was startled at my 
 
46 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 entrance. The change in my dress seemed for a momer 
 to have deceived him. His eje was frequently fixed xqyo: 
 me with unusual steadfastness. At these times there \va 
 inquietude and wonder in his features. 
 
 I had now an opportvmity of examining my host. Ther 
 was nicetj' but no ornament in his dress. His form was c 
 the middle height, spare, but vigorous and graceful. His fac 
 was cast, I thought, in a foreign mould. His forehead re 
 ceded beyond the usual degree in visages which I had seer 
 His eyes large and prominent, but imparting no marks c 
 benignity and habitual joy. The rest of his face forcibl}' sug 
 gested the idea of a convex edge. His whole figure impresse( 
 me with emotions of veneration and awe. A gravity tha 
 almost amounted to sadness invariably attended him when Wi 
 were alone together. 
 
 He whispered the servant that waited, who immediatel; 
 retired. He then said, turning to me, "A lady will ente 
 presently, whom you are to treat with the respect due to m; 
 daughter. You must not notice any emotion she may betra; 
 at the sight of you, nor expect her to converse with you ; fo 
 she does not understand your language." He had scarcel; 
 spoken wlien she entered. I was seized with certain misgiv 
 ings and flutterings which a clownish education may accouu 
 for. I so far conquered my timidity, however, as to snatch ; 
 look at her. I was not born to execute her portrait. Perhap 
 the turban that wreathed her head, the biilliant texture an( 
 inimitable folds of her drapery, and nymph-lite port, mor 
 than the essential attributes of her person, gave splendor h 
 the celestial vision. Perhaps it was her sno\\y hues, and th 
 cast rather than the iDosition of her features, that were s 
 prolific of enchantment ; or perhaps the wonder originatei 
 only in my own ignorance. 
 
 She did not immediately notice me. "When she did sh 
 almost shrieked with surprise. She held up her hands, and 
 gazing upon me, uttered various exclamations which I couli 
 not understand. I could only remark that her accents wer 
 thrillingly musical. Her perturbations refused to be stilleci 
 It was with difiiculty that she withdrew her regards from mc 
 Much conversation passed between her and Welbeck, but 
 could comprehend no part of it. I was at liberty to animad 
 vert on the visible part of their intercourse. I diverted som 
 part of my attention from my own embarrassments, and tixei 
 it on their looks. 
 
 In this ai-t, as in most others, I was an unpractised simple 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 47 
 
 ton. 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 additional 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 situation 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 pianoforte. 
 
 Here again I must be silent. I was not wholly destitute 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 spontaneous inspirations. Meanwhile Wel- 
 beck 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 carni- 
 vals ; but he whose 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 partake in this audience. I know that my emo- 
 tions are in danger of being regarded as ludicrous by those 
 who cannot 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 behavior, and that 
 the cause of her surprise and distress on seeing me would be 
 
48 AUTIIUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 explained ; but Welbeck 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 ac- 
 company him upstairs. There was neither cheerfulness nor 
 mildness in his address, but neither was there anything dom- 
 ineering or arrogant. 
 
 We entered an apartment on the same floor -with my cham- 
 ber, but separated from it by a spacious entry. It was sup- 
 plied with bursas, cabinets, and bookcases. " This," said he, 
 " is your room and mine ; but we must enter it and leave it 
 together. I mean not to act 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 accurately 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 there- 
 fore defer entering on our business. Meanwhile you may 
 amuse yourself in what manner you please. Consider this 
 house as your home and make j'ourself familiar with it. Stay 
 within or go out, be busy or be idle, as your fancy shall prompt, 
 only you will conform 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." 
 
 I obeyed this mandate with some awkwarkness and hesita- 
 tion. I went into my own chamber not displeased with an 
 opportunity of loneliness. I threw myself on a chair and re- 
 signed 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, therefore, 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 floatin"' or 
 transferable wealth. The rent of houses and lands was the 
 only species of property which was, as yet, perfectly intelligi- 
 ble. My previous ideas led me to regard Welbeck as the pro- 
 prietor of this dwelling and of numerous houses and farms. 
 By the same cause I was fain to suppose him enriched by in- 
 heritance, and that his life had been uniform. 
 
 I next adverted to his social condition. This mansion ap- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAS. 1793. 49 
 
 peared 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 relation ; but her guise, her feat- 
 ures, and her accents were foreign. Her lauguage I sus- 
 pected strongly to be that of Italy. How should he be the 
 father of an Italian ? But were there not some foreign linea- 
 ments in his countenance ? 
 
 This idea seemed to open a new world to my view. I had 
 gained, from my books, confused ideas of European govern- 
 ments and manners. I knew that the present was a period 
 of revolution and hostility. Might not these be illustrious 
 fugitives from Providence or the Milanese? Their portable 
 ■wealth, which may reasonably be supposed to be great, they 
 have transported hither. Thus may be explained the sorrow 
 that veils their countenance. The loss of estates and honors ; 
 the untimely death of kindred, and perhaps of his wife, may 
 furnish eternal food for regrets. Welbeck's utterance, though 
 rapid and distant, partook, as I conceived, in some very slight 
 degree of a foreign idiom. 
 
 Such was the dream that haunted my undisciplined and 
 unenlightened imagination. The more I revolved it, the more 
 plausible it seemed. On due supposition every appearance 
 that I had witnessed was easily solved — unless it were their 
 treatment of me. This, at first, was a source of hopeless per- 
 plexity. 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 
 discoverd a remarkable resemblance between me and one who 
 stood in the relation of sou 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 appro- 
 priated to another. 
 
 I had hitherto been unable to guess at the reason why all 
 this liindness had been lavished on me. Will not this con- 
 jecture sufficiently account for it? No wonder that this re- 
 semblance was enhanced by assuming his dress. 
 
 Taking all circumstances into view, these ideas were not, 
 perhaps, destitute of probability. Appearances naturally 
 suo-o-eated them to me. They were, also, powerfully enforced 
 bv^iiiolination. They threw me into transports of wonder 
 aiid hope. When I dwelt upon the incidents of my past life, 
 and traced the chain of events, from the death of my mother 
 
50 ARTHUR MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 to the present moment, I almost acquiesced in the notion that 
 some beneficent and ruling genius bad prepared my path for 
 me. Events ■which, when foreseen, would most ardently 
 have been deprecated, and when they happened were accounted 
 in the highest degree luckless, were now seen to be propi- 
 tious. Hence I referred the infatuation of despair, and the 
 folly of precipitate conclusions. 
 
 But what was the fate reserved forme? Perhaps Welbeck 
 would adopt me for his own son. Wealth has ever been 
 capriciously distributed. The mere physical relation 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 j^roved. But if the cause 
 be trivial and fallacious, 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 raj virtues and eradicate aU 
 my defects ? I see that the abilities of this man are venerable. 
 Perhaps he will not lightly or hastily decide in my favor. He 
 will be governed by the proofs that I shall give of discern- 
 ment and integrity. I had always been exempt from temptv 
 tion, and was therefore undepraved ; but this view of things 
 had a wonderful tendency to invigorate my virtuous resolu- 
 tions. 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 heaven. j\Iy 
 resemblance to her brother had forcibly affected 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 impedi- 
 ments and establish familiarity, and this intercourse might 
 foster love and terminate in — viarriage ! 
 
 These images were of a nature too glowing and expansive 
 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 sit- 
 uation. 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, at- 
 tentively examining the objects that successively presented 
 themselves. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 51 
 
 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 compreheud 
 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 foot inquiries in the 
 neighborhood. I looked around for a suitable medium of in- 
 telligence. 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, bi-eeches knee unbuttoned, 
 stockings ungartered, shoes slipshod and unbuckled, and a 
 face unwashed, gazing stujjidly from hollowed 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 neighbor. To him, 
 therefore, I resolved to apply. I went up to him, and, point- 
 ing 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 ? " 
 
 " 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, how- 
 ever, 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 fam- 
 ily?" 
 
 " No, he does not live alone. He has a neice 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." 
 
52 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 " 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 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 questions, 
 and I left him with little essential addition to the knowledge 
 I ah'eady possessed. 
 
 CHAPTEE Vn. 
 
 Aftee viewing various parts of the citj', intruding into 
 churches, and diving iuto alleys, I returned. The rest of the 
 day I spent chiefly in my chamber, reflecting on my new con- 
 dition, surveying my apartment, its presses and closets, and 
 conjecturing the causes of appearances. 
 
 At dinner and supper I was alone. Venturing to inquire 
 of the servant where his master and mistress were, I was an- 
 swered that they were engaged. I did not question him as to 
 the nature of their engagement, though it was a fertile soui'ce 
 of curiosity. 
 
 Next morning, at breakfast, I again met Welbeck and the 
 lady. The incidents were nearly those of the preceding 
 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 frank- 
 ness. 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 anything, but 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 53 
 
 merely dealt in generals. I had acquired notions of propriety 
 on this head, perhaps somewhat fastidious. Minute details, 
 respecting our own concerns, are apt to weary all but the 
 narrator himself. I said thus much, and the truth of my re- 
 mark was eagerly assented to. 
 
 With some marks of hesitation and after various prelimina- 
 ries, my companion hinted that my own interest, as well as 
 his, enjoined upon me silence, to all but himself, on the sub- 
 ject 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 com- 
 munication with others he requested me to speak rather of 
 otbers than of myself. This request, he said, might appear 
 singular to me, but he had his reasons for making it, which it 
 "was 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 exigence 
 would occur, making disclosure my duty. The employment 
 was productive of pain more than of pleasure, and the curi- 
 osity that would uselessly seek a knowledge of my past life 
 was no less impertinent than the loquacity that would use- 
 lessly communicate that knowledge. I readily promised, 
 therefore, to adliere to his advice. 
 
 This assurance afforded him evident satisfaction; yet it did 
 not seem to amount to quite as much as he wished. He re- 
 peated, in stronger terms, the necessity there was for caution. 
 He was far from suspecting me to possess an impertinent and 
 talking 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 per- 
 suasion that the interests of my friend and myself would be 
 materially 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 confide in appear- 
 ances ; 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 promise compliance with his 
 wishes. Nay, I went further than this ; I desired to be ac- 
 curately informed as to what it was proper to conceal. He 
 answered that my silence might extend to everything an- 
 terior to my arrival in the city and my being incorporated 
 
54 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 with his family. Here our conversation ended, and I retired 
 to ruminate on what liad 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 inquietudes, 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 requested 
 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. Excuse me for imposing this ser- 
 vice 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 remembered the 
 directions that were given, but construed them in a manner 
 different, perhaps, from Welbeck's expectations 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, insomuch 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 re- 
 gard to my convenience. It was incumbent on me, there- 
 fore, to take some pains to deliver the script into her own 
 hands. 
 
 I arrived at the house and knocked. A female servant ap- 
 peared. " Her mistress was upstairs ; she would tell her if I 
 wished to see her," and meanwhile invited me to enter the par- 
 lor. I did so, and the girl retired to inform her mistress that 
 someone waited for her. I ought to mention that my de- 
 parture from the directions which I had received was, in some 
 degree, owing to an inquistive temper ; I was eager after 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 55 
 
 knowledge, and was disposed to profit by every opporttinity 
 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 habi- 
 tation, and the person to whom I should immediately be in- 
 troduced. Was it a casual suggestion, or was there au actual 
 resemblance between the strokes of the pencil which exe- 
 cuted this portrait and that of Clavering ? However that be, 
 the sight of this picture revived the memory of my friend 
 and called up a fugitive 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 examin- 
 ing. She fixed scrutinizing and powerful eyes upon me. 
 She looked at the superscription of the letter which I pre- 
 sented, and immediately resumed her examination of me. I 
 was somewhat abashed by the closeness of her observation, 
 and gave tokens of this state of mind which did not pass unob- 
 served. They seemed instantly to remind her that she be- 
 haved with too little regard to civility. She recovered herself 
 and began to peruse the letter. Having done this, her atten- 
 tion was once more fixed upon me. She was evidently desir- 
 ous 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 prepared 
 to take my leave, when she spoke, though not without consid- 
 erable 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 piide 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 acquiescence. 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 
 
56 ARTHUR MERrTK; OB, 
 
 ■well-known packet. It was that which enclosed the portrait 
 of Olaveriiig ! 
 
 I unfolded and examined it with eagerness. By what 
 miracle came it thither? It was found, together with my 
 bundle, two nights before. I had despaired of ever seeing it 
 again, and yet here was the same portrait enclosed in the self- 
 same 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 desciibed. 
 
 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 ac- 
 quaint 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 friendship 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 wiU 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 re- 
 placed the picture on the mantel. She entered, and, pre- 
 senting me a letter, desired me to deliver it to Mr. Welbeck. 
 I had no pretext for deferring my departure, but was un- 
 willing to go without obtaining possession of the portrait. An 
 interval of silence and irresolution succeeded. I cast signifi- 
 cant glances at the spot where it lay, and and at length mus- 
 tered up my strength of mind, and pointing to the paper — 
 "Madam," said I, " there is something which I recognize to be 
 mine. I know not how it came into your possession, but so 
 lately as the day before yesterday it was 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 executed 
 by himself. He gave it to me with his own hands ; and, tiU 
 the moment I unfortunately lost it, it was my dear and per- 
 petual companion." 
 
 " Good heaven ! " she exclaimed, with increasing vehemence ; 
 " where did you meet with him ? What has become of him ? 
 Is he dead or alive ? " 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 57 
 
 These appearances sufficiently showed me that Clavering and 
 this lady were connected by some ties of tenderness. I an- 
 swered 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 resume the 
 conversation. She then inquired, "When and where was it 
 that he died ? How did you lose this portrait ? 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, strolling through the market, found it and 
 brought it to their mistress, who, recognizing the portrait, sent 
 it to me. To whom did that bundle belong ? Was it yours ? " 
 
 These questions reminded me of the painful predicament 
 in which I now stood. I had promised Welbeck to conceal 
 from everyone 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 my true condition ; but I was wholly 
 unused to equivocation. 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 impart. 
 Yet, to forget the compact which I had so lately made, and 
 an adherence to which might possibly be in the highest de- 
 gree beneficial to me and to Welbeck, I was willing to ad- 
 here to it, provided falsehood could be avoided. 
 
 These thoughts rendered me silent. The pain of mj' em- 
 barrassment 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, whatever 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 wiUingly resign it ; but this is 
 all that I can now disclose. I am placed in circumstances 
 which render it improper to say more." 
 
58 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 These words were uttered not vei-y 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. 
 Prom 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 immeasurable fond- 
 ness and indulgence. He had sought permission 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 exer- 
 cised anxious and unwearied diligence in endeavoring to 
 trace his footsteps. All their efforts had failed. One motive 
 for their returning 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. Went- 
 worth'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 dis- 
 missed me in anger. 
 
 CHAPTEE Vin. 
 
 This extraordinaiy interview was now past. Pleasure as 
 well as pain attended my reflections on it. I adhered to the 
 promise I had improvidently given to Welbeck, but had ex- 
 cited displeasure, and perhaps suspicion, in the lady. Slie 
 would find it hard to account for my silence. She would 
 probably impute it to perverseness, or imagine it to flow from 
 some incident connected with the death of Clavering, calcu- 
 lated 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 her- 
 self 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 ex- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YE4-R 1793. 59 
 
 plain 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, surprise, 
 minified 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 without an apparent 
 effort, and he said that all was well ; the affair was of no 
 moment. 
 
 After a pause of preparation I entreated his attention to 
 something which I had to relate. I then detailed the history 
 of Oiavering and of my late embarrassments. As I went on, 
 his countenance betokened increasing solicitude. His emotion 
 was particularly strong when I cailie to the interrogatories 
 of Mrs. Wentworth in relation 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 observ- 
 ing 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 perplexity 
 on 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 discourse ended, for the pres- 
 ent, by his desiring me to persist 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 ; meauwile 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 surely 
 meant not to mislead her by fallacious representations. Some 
 inquietude now crept into my thoughts. I began to form 
 conjectures as to the nature of the scheme to which my sup- 
 pression of the truth was to be thus made subservient. It 
 
60 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 foreboding that the event would prove my new situa- 
 tion to be far less fortunate than I had, at first, fondly be- 
 lieved. The question now occurred, with painful repetition, 
 who and what was Welbeck ? What was his relation to this 
 foreign lady ? What was the service for which I was to be 
 employed ? 
 
 I could not be contented without a solution of these mys- 
 teries. Why should I not lay my soul open before my new 
 friend ? Considering my situation, would he regard my fears 
 and my surmises as criminal ? I felt that they originated in 
 laudable habits and views. My peace of mind depended on 
 the favorable verdict which conscience should pass on my 
 proceedings. I saw the emptiness 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. 
 
 Admid these reflections the dinner hour arrived. The lady 
 and Welbeck were present. A new train of sentiments now 
 occupied my mind. I regarded them both with inquisitive 
 eyes. I cannot well account for the revolution which had 
 taken place in my mind. Perhaps it was a proof of the ca- 
 priciousness 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 inherit- 
 ing this splendor 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 transported 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 disbur- 
 den it I knew not. At length, with some difficulty, I ex- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 61 
 
 pressed 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 obscur- 
 ity ? How did I purpose to dispose of myself? Had some 
 new friend sprung up more able or more willing 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-laborer ; 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 fi-oni my new plan, and to enumerate the bene- 
 fits which he was willing to confer, penetrated my heart with 
 gratitude. I could not but acknowledge that leisure and 
 literature, copious and elegant accommodation, were valuable 
 for their own sake ; that all the delights of sensation and re- 
 finements 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 de- 
 termined to adojjt a different deportment. I could not pre- 
 vail upon myself to unfold the true cause of my dejection, 
 and permitted him therefore to ascribe it to a kind of home- 
 sickness, to inexperience, and to that ignorance which, on 
 being ushered into a new scene, is opjjressed with a sensa- 
 tion of forlornness. He remarked that these chimeras would 
 vanish before the influence of time, and company, and oc- 
 cupation. On the next week he would furnish me with 
 employment ; meanwhile he would introduce me into com- 
 pany, 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 abandon 
 my present situation. When and how this purpose was to be 
 effected I knew not. That was to be the theme of future de- 
 liberation. 
 
 Evening having arrived, Welbeck proposed to me to ac- 
 company him on a visit to one of his friends. I cheerfully 
 accepted the invitation, and went with him to your friend 
 Mr. Wortley's. A numerous party was assembled, chiefly of 
 the female sex. I was introduced by Welbeck by the title of 
 a young friend of hig. Notwithstanding my embarrassment. 
 
62 ABTHUB MERVYN; OR, 
 
 I did not fail to attend to -what passed on this occasion. I 
 remarked that the utmost deference was paid to my com- 
 panion, on whom his entrance into this company appeared to 
 operate hke magic. His eyes sj)arkled ; his features expanded 
 into a benign serenity, and his wonted reserve gave phice to 
 a torrent-hke and overflowing elocution. 
 
 I marked this change in his deportment with the utmost 
 astonishment. So great was it that I could hardly persuade 
 myself that it was the same person. A mind thus susceptible 
 of new impressions must be, I conceived, of a wonderful text- 
 ure. Nothing was further from my expectations than that 
 this vivacity was mere dissimulation and would take its leave 
 of him when he left the companj' ; yet this I found to be the 
 case. The door was no sooner closed after him than his ac- 
 customed 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 re- 
 tired to my chamber, not so much from the desire of repose as 
 in order to enjoy and pursue my own reflections without in- 
 terruption. 
 
 The condition of my mind was considerably remote from 
 happiness. I was placed in a scene tliat furnished fuel to my 
 curiosity. This passion is a source of pleasure, provided its 
 gratifioation be practicable. I had no reason, in my present 
 circumstances, to despair of knowledge ; yet suspicion and 
 anxiety beset me. I thought upon the delay and toil which 
 the removal of my ignorance ^vould cost, and reaped only 
 pain and fear from the reflection. 
 
 The air was remarkably sultrj'. Lifted sashes and lofty 
 ceilings were insufficient to attemper it. The perturbation 
 of my thoughts affected my body, and the heat which op- 
 pressed me was aggravated, by my restlessness, almost into 
 fever. Some hours went thus painfully past, when I recol- 
 lected that the bath, erected in the court below, contained 
 a sufficient antidote to the scorching influence of the atmos- 
 phere. 
 
 I rose and descended the stairs softly, that I might not 
 alarm Welbeck and the lady, who occupied the two rooms on 
 the second floor. I jjroceeded to the bath, and, filling the 
 reservoir with water, speedily dissipated the heat that incom- 
 jnoded me. Of all species of sensual gratification, that was 
 the most delicious ; and I continued 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 
 
MEM0IB8 OF THE YEAH 1793. 63 
 
 saw the propriety of returninp; to my chamber. I returned 
 ■U'itli 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 jarogress. 
 
 I had reached the carpeted staircase, and was slowly ascend- 
 ing, when I heard, within the chamber that was occupied by 
 the lady, a noise, as of someone moving. Though not con- 
 scious of having acted improperly, yet I felt reluctance to be 
 seen. There was no reason to suppose that this sound was 
 connected with the detection of me in this situation ; yet I 
 acted as if this reason existed, and made haste to pass the 
 door and gain the second flight of steps. 
 
 I was unable to accomplish my design, when the chamber 
 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 electri- 
 cal rapidity, to my heart. My tongue faltered while I made 
 some answer. I said I had been seeking relief from the 
 heat of the weather in the bath. He heard my explanation 
 in silence ; and, after a moment's pause, passed into his own 
 room and shut himself in. I hastened to my chamber. 
 
 A different observer might have found in these circum- 
 stances no food for his suspicion or his wonder. To me, how- 
 ever, 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 be 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 without a crime. On seeing me, me- 
 thought his features indicated 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 rela- 
 tionship 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 
 
64 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 systematic observation of this man's deportment. I felt as if 
 the state of my mind could not but be evident to liim, 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 features nothing but 
 his wonted gravity. He appeared occupied with thoughts 
 that had no relation to last night's adventure. This encour- 
 aged me, and I gradually recovered my composure. Their 
 inattention to me allowed me occasionally to throw scrutiniz- 
 ing and comparing glances at the face of each. 
 
 The relationship of parent and child is commonly discov- 
 ered 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 contrarity. That 
 kindred subsisted between them was possible, notwithstand- 
 ing this dissimilitude ; but this circumstance contributed to 
 envenom my suspicions. 
 
 Breakfast being finished, Welbeck cast an eye of invitation 
 to the pianoforte. The lady rose to comply with 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 pas- 
 sions to truly explain the emotion which now throbbed in my 
 veins. I had been a stranger to Mhat is called love. From 
 subsequent reflection, I have contracted a suspicion that the 
 sentiment with which I regarded this lady was not untinctru-ed 
 from this source, and that hence arose the turbulence of my 
 feelings on observing what I construed into marks of preg- 
 nancy. The evidence afforded 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 per- 
 verse ; yet that opinion, perhaps, is the fruit of my ignorance. 
 It may by no means be uncommon for men to fashion their 
 couclasions in opposition to evidence and probability, and so 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 65 
 
 as to feed their malice and subvert their happiness. Thus it 
 ■was, iu an eminent degree, in my case. The simple fact was 
 connected, in my mind, with a train of the most hateful con- 
 sequences. The depravity of Welbeck was inferred from it. 
 The charms of this angelic woman were tarnished and with- 
 ered. 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 stupendous of all crimes ? These ideas 
 were necessarily transient. Conclusions more conformable to 
 appearances succeeded. Tliis lady might have been lately 
 reduced to widowhood. The recent loss of a beloved com- 
 panion 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 labored 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 indisposition, and vent- 
 ured 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 acquiesced iu this representation, 
 and found in it nothing inconsistent with a supposition re- 
 specting the cause of appearances favorable 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 entered 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 
 
66 AUTEUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 Avitliin. I stood still at the door ; bnt was near enough to 
 overbear what would pass between them. 
 
 The letter was laid upon the desk, and presently he that sat 
 at it, lifted his eyes and glanced at the superscription. 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 recollec- 
 tions. 
 
 "Lo !" said he, carelessly, "this from the Nabob!" 
 
 An incident so slight as this was sufficient to open a 
 spacious scene of meditation. This little word, half whis- 
 pered in a thoughtless mood, was a key to unlock an exten- 
 sive 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 someone been 
 denoted in the chamber dialogue of which I had been an 
 unsuspected auditor. The man who pretended poverty, and 
 yet gave proot.s 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, sec- 
 ondly, because he was imagined to have acquired this opulence 
 by other than honest methods. Instead of forthwith return- 
 ing 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 my 
 patron. No new light was thrown upon his character, unless 
 something were deducible from the charge vaguely made, that 
 his wealth was the fruit of illicit practices. He 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 con- 
 cealed from Welbeck my adventures at Thetford's house. 
 These it was now necessary to disclose, and to mention the 
 recent occurrence. My deductions, in consequence of my 
 ignorance, might be erroneous ; but of their truth his knowl- 
 edge of his own affairs would enable him to judge. It was 
 possible that Thetford and he whose chamber conversation I 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YMAR 1793. G7 
 
 had overheard were different persons. I endeavored in vain 
 to ascertain their identity by a comparison of their voices. 
 The words lately heard, my remembrance did not enable me 
 certainly 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 proceed- 
 ing. The information that I possessed it was my duty to 
 communicate as espeditiouslj' as possible. I was resolved to 
 employ the first opportunity that offered for this end. 
 
 My meditations had been ardentlj- pursued, and, when I 
 recalled my attention, I found myself bewildered among fields 
 and fences. It was late before I extricated myself from un- 
 known paths and reached home. 
 
 I entered the parlor, but Welbeck was not there. A table, 
 with tea-equipage for one person, was set ; from which I in- 
 ferred 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 ray friend. Wholly unac- 
 quainted as I was with the nature of his contracts with Thet- 
 ford, 1 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. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Welbeck did not return, though hour succeeded hour till 
 the clock struck ten. I inquired of the servants, who in- 
 formed me that their master was not accustomed to stay out 
 so late. I seated myself at a table, in a parlor, 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 pro- 
 found, and each minute added to my sum of impatience and 
 anxiety. 
 
68 AUTUUIi MERVTK ; OR, 
 
 To relieve myself from the heat of the weather, which was 
 agfvravated by the condition of my thoughts, as well as to be- 
 guile this tormenting interval, it occurred to me to betake 
 myself to the bath. I left the candle where it stood, and im- 
 agined 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 refreshment, 
 I prepared to return to my post. The parlor was still unoc- 
 cupied, but this was not all ; the candle I had left upon the 
 table was gone. This was an inexplicable circumstance. On 
 my promise to wait for their master, the servants had retired 
 to bed. No signal of anyone's entrance had been given. The 
 street door was looked, 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 suffi- 
 ciently acquainted with the house to find the way, especially 
 immersed in darkness, to their chamber. One measure, how- 
 ever, it was evidently proper to take, 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 embroiled. 
 I saw no avenue to escape from them but that which led me 
 to the bosom of nature aud 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 apprise my patron of the treachery 
 of Thetford. For this end I was anxious to obtain an inter- 
 view ; 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 knowl- 
 edge ? Thus I might, likewise, acquaint him with my mo- 
 tives for thus abruptly and unseasonably deserting his ser- 
 vice. 
 
 To the execution of this scheme pen and paper were neces- 
 sary. 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 per- 
 formed ; 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 din-uise 
 in awakening curiosity is well known. My mind fastened 
 
MEMOIliS OF THE YEAR 1793. 69 
 
 upon the idea of this room with an unusual degree of iutense- 
 ness. 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 ac- 
 cessibleness was likewise possible. I meant not the commis- 
 sion 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. Mean- 
 while I was not unmindful of the sudden disappearance of the 
 candle. This 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 pre- 
 pared 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 doue 
 by entering it. My curiosity w-as strong, but it pictured to 
 itself no precise 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 apartment 
 was supplied with the usual furniture. I bent my steiDS tow- 
 ard a table over which a min-or was suspended. My glances, 
 which roved with swiftness from one object to another, shortly 
 lighted on a minature portrait that hung near. I scrutinized 
 it with eagerness. It was impossible to overlook its resem- 
 blance to my own visage. This was so great that for a moment 
 I imagine'dmyself 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, ap- 
 parently, been much used, lay upon the toilet. I opened it, 
 
70 AltTHUIi MERVTX ; OR, 
 
 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 
 enoTigh 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 determine ; but 
 there could be no doubt, from its loudness, 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 chamber ; and, 
 prompted by some unknown instigation, has inflicted on him- 
 self death ! " Tliis idea had a tendency to palsy my limbs 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 demanded 
 entrance in a low voice ; I jjut my eye and my ear to the key- 
 hole and the crevices ; nothing could be heard or seen. It 
 was unavoidable to conclude that no one was within ; yet the 
 effluvia of gunjDOwder was perceptible. 
 
 Perhaps the room above had been the scene of this catastro- 
 phe. 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 succeeded 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 71 
 
 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 feet before him, on the floor. 
 A second glance was 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 himself. 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 bis 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 flj' from the scene ; but I could not be long 
 insensible to the exigencies of the moment. I saw that af- 
 fairs must not be suffered to remain in their present situa^ 
 tion. The insensibility or despair of Welbeck required con- 
 solation and succor. How to communicate my thoughts, or 
 oifer my assistance, I knew not. What led to tliis murderous 
 catastrophe ; who it was whose breathless corpse was before, 
 me ; what concern 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 tlie first time, to recognize 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 not 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 worthless and miser- 
 able scene shall last no longer. I will at once get rid of life 
 and all its humiliations." 
 
 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. 
 
72 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 " Mervyn," said he, " yon comprehend not this scene. 
 Your youth and inexperience make you a stranger to a 
 deceitful and flagitious world. You kuow 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 promise ; 
 but I was now confused, embarrassed, ardently inquisitive as 
 to the nature of this scene, and unapprised of the motives 
 that might afterward 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 in- 
 culcate shall inspire j'ou 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 uni- 
 form. One tissue of iniquity and foUy has been my life ; 
 while my thoughts have been familiar with enlightened and 
 disinterested principles. Scorn and destation I have heaped 
 upon myself. Yesterday is remembered 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 
 of Liverpool) without any means of support but such as labor 
 should afford me. Whatever could generate pride, and the 
 love of independence, was my portion. Whatever can incite 
 to diligence was the growth of my condition ; yet my indo- 
 lence was a cureless disease, and there were no arts too 
 sordid for me to practice. 
 
 " 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 73 
 
 for myself ; but he empowered me to pursue any liberal or 
 mechanical profession wbich might suit my taste. I was in- 
 sensible to every generous motive. I labored to forget my 
 dependent and disgraceful condition, because the remem- 
 brance was a source of anguish, without being able to inspire 
 me with a steady resolution to change it. 
 
 " I contracted an acquaintance with a woman who was un- 
 chaste, perverse, and malignant. Me, however, she found it 
 no difficult task to deceive. My uncle remonstrated agaiLst 
 the union. He took infinite pains to unveil my error, and to 
 convince me that wedlock was improper lor 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 affectionate expostu- 
 lation, cancelled all that debt of gratitude which I owed to 
 him. I rewarded him for all his kindness by invective and 
 disdain and hastened to complete my ill-omened marriage. 
 I had deceived the woman's father by assertions of possess- 
 ing secret resources. To gratify my passion, I descended 
 to dissimulation and falsehood. He admitted me into his 
 family as the husband 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 jjenalty of my rash- 
 ness and my indolence. 
 
 " Temptation would have moulded me into any villainous 
 shape. My virtuous theories and comprehensive 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 benevolence. I 
 was treated like their son and brother. I was hospitably en- 
 tertained until I should be able to select some path of lucra- 
 tive industry. Such was my incurable depravity, that I made 
 no haste to select my pursuit. An interval of inoccupation 
 succeeded, which I applied to the worst purposes. 
 
 " My friend had a sister, who was married, but during the 
 absence of her husband resided vpith her family. Hence 
 
74 AUTIIUR MERrTN; OR, 
 
 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 adora- 
 tion. Her affection for him, and her general principles, ap- 
 peared to be confirmed beyond the power to be shaken. I 
 sought her intercourse without illicit views ; I delighted in 
 the effusions of her candor 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 mo- 
 mentary 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 prac- 
 tising deceit both upon myself and her. 
 
 " I reflect with astonishment and horror on the steps which 
 led to her degradation and to my calamity. In the high 
 career of passion all consequences were overlooked. She was 
 the dujie of the most audacious sophistry and the grossest de- 
 lusion. I was the slave of sensual impulses and voluntary 
 blindness. The effect may be easily conceived. Not till 
 symptoms of pregnancy began to appear were our eyes 
 opened to the ruin which impended 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 phanton of ingrati- 
 tude. To complete my despair, this unfoi-tunate lady was 
 apprised of my marriage with another woman, a circum- 
 stance which I had anxiously concealed from her. She fled 
 from her father's house at a time when her husband 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 wi-etched " existence. I 
 abruptly retired from the scene, and, repairing to the port, 
 embarked in the first vessel which appeared. The ship 
 chanced to belong to Wilmington, in Delaware, and here 1 
 sought out an obscure and cheap abode. 
 
 " I possessed no means of subsistence. T was unknown to 
 my neighbors, and desired to remain luiknown. I was un- 
 qualified for manual labor by all the habits of my life ; but 
 there was no choice between penury and diligence, between 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAS 1793. 75 
 
 honest labor and criminal inactivitj'. I mused incessantly on 
 the forlornness of my condition. Hour after hour passed, and 
 the horrors of want began to encompass 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 sophis- 
 tries, and reconciled myself at length to a scheme oi forgery ! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Having ascertained my purpose, it was requisite to search 
 out the means by which I might effect it. These were not 
 clearly or readily suggested. The more I contemplated my 
 project, the more numerous and arduous its difficulties ap- 
 peared. I had no associates in my undertaking. A due 
 regard to my safety, and the unextinguished sense of honor, 
 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 that 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 circumspec- 
 tion would enable me to arrive, by means of counterfeit bills, 
 to the pinnacle of affluence and honor. My error was detected 
 by a closer scrutiny, and I finally saw nothing in this path 
 but enormous perils and insurmountable impediments. 
 
 " Yet what alternative was offered me ? To maintain my- 
 self by the labor of my hands, to jDerform any toilsome or 
 prescribed task, was incompatible with my nature. My 
 habits debarred me from country occupations. My pride re- 
 garded 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 resem- 
 bled mine, who would have found in it anything but incite- 
 ments to industry and invention. A thousand methods of 
 subsistence, honest but laboriou.s, were at my command, but 
 to these I entertained an irreconcilable aversion. Ease and 
 
76 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 gi-ew 
 the clouds which hung over futuiity. Anguish 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-upbraiding and to shun the persecutions 
 of my fortune was possible 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 surviv- 
 ors, induced me to postpone this catastrophe till the next 
 morning. 
 
 "My purpose being formed, I found my heart lightened of 
 its usual weight. By you it wUl 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 un- 
 exampled incident, and foreboded me no good. I was strongly 
 persuaded that my visitanthad been led hither not by friendly 
 but hostile jDurisoses. This persuasion was confirmed by the 
 description of the stranger's guise and demeanor given by 
 my landlord. My fears instantly recognized the image of 
 Watson, the man \>j whom I had been so eminently benefited, 
 and whose kindness I had compensated by the ruin of his 
 sister and the confusion of his familj'. 
 
 "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 an hour. My papers were collected with a 
 tremulous hand, and consigned to the flames. I then bade 
 my landlord to inform all visitants that I should not return till 
 the next day, and once more hastened toward the river. 
 
 "My way led past the inn where one of the stages from 
 Baltimore was accustomed to stop. I was not unaware that 
 Watson had i:)ossibIy 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 77 
 
 liim as I passed did not fail to occur. This was to be eluded 
 by deviating from the main street. 
 
 " Scarcelj' had I turned a corner for this purpose when I 
 was accosted by a yonng man whom I knew to be an inhabi- 
 tant of the town, but with whom I had hitherto had no inter- 
 course but wliat consisted in a transient salutation. He apol- 
 ogized for the liberty of addressing me, and at the same time 
 inquired it I understood the French language. 
 
 "Being answered in the affirmative, he proceeded to tell 
 me that in the stag-e just arrived had come a passenger, a 
 youth who appeared to be French, who was wholly unac- 
 quainted with our language, and who had been seized with a 
 violent disease. 
 
 " My informant had felt compassion for the forlorn condi- 
 tion 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. He was by no means willing to sustfdn 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 his dress betokened the press- 
 ure of many wants. 
 
 "My compassion for this stranger was powerfully awakened. 
 I was in possession of a suitable aj)artment, for which I had no 
 power to pay the rent that was accruing ; but my inability in 
 this respect was unknown, and I might enjoy my lodgings un- 
 molested 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 be visi- 
 bly 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 yellow or malignant fever, and the physician 
 who was called speedily pronounced his case desperate. 
 
 "It was my duty to warn hiin of the death that was hasten- 
 ing, and to promise the fulfilment of any of his wishes not 
 inconsistent with my present situation. He received my 
 
78 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 intelligence with fortitude, and appeared anxious to com- 
 municate some information respecting Ms own state. His 
 pangs and his weakness scarcely allowed him to be intelligi- 
 ble. Prom his feeble efforts and broken narrative I collected 
 thus much concerning his family and fortune. 
 
 "His father's name was Vinceutio Lodi. From a merchant 
 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 
 Viucentio was, at length, informed by his father, that, being 
 weary of his present mode of existence, he had determined 
 to sell his property and transport himself to the United 
 States. The sou 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, nevertlieless, included this slave in the sale that he 
 had made of his estate. Actuated by revenge, 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 
 price was now presented to young Viucentio 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 Continent indispensable. 
 
 " Lodi had a daughter, whom, a few weeks previous to bis 
 death, he had intrusted to an American captain for whom he 
 had contracted a friendship. The vessel was bound to Phila- 
 delphia ; but the conduct she was to pursue, and the abode 
 she was to select, on her arj-ival, were known only to the 
 father, whose untimely death involved the sou in considera- 
 ble uncertainty with regard to his sister's fate. His anxiety 
 on this account induced him to seize the first conveyance 
 that oifered. 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF TUB TBAB 1793. 79 
 
 sister, wbose youtli and poverty, and ignorance of the lan- 
 guage and manners of the country might expose lier to 
 innumerable liardsbips. At tbe same time lie put a j^oeket- 
 Look and small volume into my liand, indicating, by bis 
 countenance and gestures, bis desire that I would deliver 
 tbem to bis sister. 
 
 " His obsequies being decently performed, I bad leisure 
 to reflect upon the change in my condition which this inci- 
 dent had produced. In the pocketbook wei'e 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 Visconti, 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 im- 
 pelled me to the brink of suicide, and which was the source, 
 though not of all, yet of tbe larger portion, of my anguish, 
 was now removed. What claims to honor or to ease were 
 consequent on riches were, by an extraordinary fortune, now 
 conferred upon me. 
 
 "Such, for a time, were my new-born but transitory rapt- 
 ures. I forgot that this money was not mine, that it bad 
 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 put- 
 ting 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 bis property. 
 During bis 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 punish- 
 meut, 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 inferences 
 and vague conjecture rather than of explicit and unerring 
 declarations. Besides, if tbe lady were found, would not 
 prudence dictate tbe reservation of her fortune to be ad- 
 ministered by me for her benefit? Of this her age and edu- 
 cation had disqualified herself. It was sufficient for the main- 
 
80 ARTHUR MEBVYN; OR, 
 
 tenance of both. She would regard me as her benefactor and 
 protector. By supplying all her wants and watching over 
 her safety without apprising 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 seduced 
 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 instituted the most diligent 
 search after the young lady. For a time my exertions were 
 fruitless. 
 
 " Meanwhile, the possessor of this house thought proper 
 to embark with his family for Europe. The sum which he 
 demanded for his furniture, though enormous, was precipi- 
 tately 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 Wel- 
 beck was a i^ersonage of opulence and rank. My birth and 
 previous adventures it was proper to conceal. The facility 
 with which mankind are misled in their estimate of charac- 
 ters, their proneness to multiply inferences and conjectures, 
 will not be readily conceived by one destitute of my experience. 
 My sudden appearance on the stage, my stately reserve, my 
 splendid habitation, 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 cuixent 
 respecting me, were adapted to gratify my ruling passion. 
 
 " I did not remit my diligence to discover tlie 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 protectorless and in- 
 digent, and my seasonable interference snatched her from 
 impending and less supportable ills. 
 
 " I could safely unfold all that I knew of her brother's his- 
 tory, except the legacy which he had left. I ascribed the 
 diligence with which I had sought her to his death-bed in- 
 junctions, 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 understanding 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 81 
 
 than of the sensibilities of this woman, she is one whom no 
 one could refrain from loving, though placed in situations far 
 less favorable to the generation of that sentiment than mine. 
 In habits of domestic and incessant intercourse, in the per- 
 petual contemplation of features animated by groundless 
 gratitude and ineffable sympathies, it could not be expected 
 that either she or I should escape enchantment. 
 
 "The poison was too sweet not to be swallowed with avid- 
 ity by me. Too late I remembered that I was already en- 
 slaved by inextricable obligations. It was easy to have hidden 
 this impediment from the eyes of my com.panion, 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 between 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. 
 
 "Meanwhele 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 regard due to my beloved and helpless 
 companion, would render more irksome than ever. Some 
 scheme to rescue me from his fate was indispensable ; but my 
 aversion to labor, to any pursuit the end of which was mere- 
 ly gain, and which would require application and attention, 
 continued 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 proposed seemed liable to 
 no possibility of miscarriage. A ship was to be purchased, 
 supplied with a suitable cargo, and despatched to a port in 
 tbe West Indies. Loss from storms and enemies was to be 
 precluded by insurance. Every hazard was to be enume- 
 rated, 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 
 
82 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 ■wrecked, tbe insurers would have bound themselves to make 
 ample, speedy, and certain indemDification. Thetford's 
 brother, a wary and experienced trader, was to be the super- 
 cargo. 
 
 " All my money was laid out upon this scheme. Scarcely 
 enough was reserved to supply domestic and personal wants. 
 Large debts were likewise incurred. Our caution had, as we 
 conceived, annihilated every chance of failure. Too much 
 could not be expended on a project so infallible ; and the ves- 
 sel, amply fitted and freighted, departed on her voyage. 
 
 " An interval not devoid of suspense and anxiety succeeded. 
 My mercantile experience made me distrust the clearness of 
 my own discernment, and I could not but remember that my 
 utter and irretrievable destruction was connected with the 
 failure of my scheme. Time added to my distrust and ap- 
 prehensions. 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 with- 
 held. 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 foimer, and the cancelling of 
 the latter, I had relied upon the expeditious return or the 
 demonstrated loss of the vessel. 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 in- 
 tercourse had been sanctified by wedlock, would have been 
 regarded with delight. As it was, no symptoms were equally 
 to be deplored. Consequences, as long as they were involved 
 in uncertainty, were extenuated or overlooked ; but now, 
 when tljey became apparent and inevitable, were fertile of 
 distress and upraiding. 
 
 "Indefinable fears, and a desire to monopolize all the med- 
 itations and aiiections of this being, had induced me to per- 
 petuate her ignorance of any but her native language, and 
 debar her from all intercourse with the world. My friends 
 were of course inquisitive respecting her character, advent- 
 ures, and particularly her relation to me. The consciousness 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 83 
 
 liow much the truth redounded to my dishonor made me 
 solicitous to lead conjecture astray. 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 effectually 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 ineffectual, 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 personal condition of 
 Clemenza should be disclosed, by the feelings of a father. 
 
 " Meanwhile it was an obvious expedient to remove the 
 imhappy lady to a distance from impertinent observers. A 
 raral retreat, lonely and sequestered, was easily procured, 
 and hither she consented to repair. This arrangement being 
 concerted, I had leisure to reflect upon the evils wliich every 
 hour brought nearer, and which threatened to exterminate 
 me. 
 
 "My inquietudes forbade me to sleep, and I was accustomed 
 to rise before day and seek some respite in the fields. Re- 
 turning from one of these unseasonable rambles, I chanced 
 to meet you. Your resemblance to the deceased Lodi, in 
 person and visage, is remarkable. When you first met my 
 ej'e, this similitude startled ine. Your subsequent appeal to 
 my compassion was clothed in such terms as formed a power- 
 ful contrast with your dress, and prepossessed me greatly in 
 favor of your education and capacity. 
 
 " lu my present hopeless condition, every incident, however 
 trivial, was attentively considered, with a view to extract from 
 it some means of escaping from my difficulties. My love for 
 tlie Italian girl, in spite of all my efforts to keep it alive, had 
 beguu to languish. Marriage was impossible, and had now, 
 in some degree, ceased to be desirable. We are apt to judge 
 of others by ourselves. The passion I now found m5'self dis- 
 posed to ascribe chiefly to fortuitous circumstances ; to the 
 impulse of gratitude, and the exclusion of comjDetitors ; and 
 believed that your resemblance to her brother, your age and 
 personal accomplishments, might, after a certain time, and in 
 consequence of suitable contrivances on my part, give a new 
 direction to her feelings. To gain your concurrence, I relied 
 on your simplicity, your gratitude, and your susceptibility to 
 the charms of this betwitching creature. 
 
 " I contemplated, likewise, another end. Mrs. Wentworth 
 
84 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 is rich. A youth who was once her favorite, 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 Hfe 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 cata- 
 logue of my errors by expatiating upon them. Suffice it to 
 say that the peculiar circumstances of your introduction 
 to me led me to reflections 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 confiiin 
 her in the belief that her nephew was dead. To this con- 
 summation it was indispensable to lead you by slow degrees 
 and circuitous paths. Meanwhile, a profound silence, with 
 regard to j'our genuine history, was to be observed ; and to 
 this forbearance your consent was obtained with more readi- 
 ness 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 manuscript ; a 
 slight inspection, however, was sufficient to prove that the 
 work was profound and eloquent. My ambition has panted, 
 with equal avidity, after the reputation of literature and 
 opulence. To claim the authorship of this work was too 
 harmless and specious a stratagem not to be readily sug- 
 gested. I meant to translate it into English, and to enlarge 
 it by enterinising incidents 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 aman- 
 uensis would be necessary. 
 
 " You will perceive that all these projects depended 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 destruc- 
 tion of all on board. In this case, the insurance was not for- 
 feited, but payment could not be obtained within a year. 
 Meanwhile, the premium and other debts must be immediately 
 discharged, and this was beyond my power. I was to live in 
 a manner that would not beHe my pretensions ; yet my cof- 
 fers 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 85 
 
 become altogether insupportable. Some hours ago I was 
 summoued by Thetford to his house. The messenger in- 
 formed me that tidings had been received of my ship. In 
 answer to my eager interrogations, he could give no other 
 information than that she had been captured by the British. 
 He 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 demand of my insurers. 
 The payment of other debts might be postponed for a month, 
 and luy situation be the same as before the adoption of this 
 successless scheme. Hope and joy were reinstated in my 
 bosom, and I hastened to Thetford's counting-house. 
 
 " He received me with an air of gloomy dissatisfaction. I 
 accounted for his sadness by supposing him averse to com- 
 municate information which was less favorable 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 contain- 
 ing the oiBcial documents 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 carrj' with them 
 no articles which the laws of war decree to be contraband, 
 obtained a passage in the vessel. She was speedily encoun- 
 tered by a privateer, by whom every receptacle was ransacked. 
 In a chest, belonging to the Frenchmen, and which they had 
 affirmed to contain nothing but their clothes, were found two 
 sabres and other accoutrements of an officer of cavalry. 
 Under this pretence, the vessel was captured and condemned, 
 and this was a cause of forfeiture which had not been pro- 
 vided 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 lieart was endeavored to be masked by looks of indiffer- 
 ence. I pretended to have been previously informed by the 
 messenger not only of the capture, but of the cause that led 
 to it, and forbore to expatiate 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 im- 
 patience for an opportunity to leave him. 
 
86 AlirUUR MEMVYK; OR, 
 
 " For want of other topics, I asked by whom this informa- 
 tion 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 sui-prise, and been very earnest 
 ill his inquiries respecting my situation. Having obtained 
 what knowledge Thetford was able to communicate, the cai> 
 tain had departed, avowing a former acquaintance with me, 
 and declaring his attention of paying me a visit. 
 
 " These words operated on my frame like lightning. All 
 within me was tumult and terror, and I rushed precipitately 
 out of the house. I went forward with unequal steps, and at 
 random. Some instinct led me into the fields, and I was not 
 apprised of the direction of my steps, till, looking up, I found 
 myself upon the shore of the Schuykill. 
 
 " Thus was I, a second time, overborn by hopeless and in- 
 curable evils. An interval of motley feelings, of specious ar- 
 tifice 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 fever- 
 ish 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 bad 
 degraded and destroyed. What but fiery indignation and un- 
 appeasable vengeance could lead him into my presence ? 
 With what heart could I listen to his invectives ? 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 detesta- 
 tion of injustice, and the whirlwind passions that ingratitude 
 and villainy like mine were qualified to awaken iu 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 locks and 
 voice of malediction and upbraiding, from which my coward- 
 ice 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 under- 
 taking ; but whither could I fly, where I should not be pur- 
 sued by the phantous of remorse, by the dread of hourly de- 
 tection, by the necessities of hunger and thirst ? In what 
 
MEMOIIiS OF THE YEAR 1793. 87 
 
 scene sliould I be exempt from servitude and drudgery ? 
 Was my existence embellished with enjoymeuts that would 
 justify my holding it, encumbered with hardships and im- 
 mersed 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 Glemenza 
 was remembered. What provision could I make against the 
 evils that threatened her ? Should I leave her utterly for- 
 lorn and friendless ? Mrs. Wentworth's temper was forgiv- 
 ing and compassionate. Adversity had taught her to partic- 
 ipate and her wealth enabled her to relieve distress. Who 
 was there by whom such powerful claims to succor and 
 protection 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 ob- 
 ject? 
 
 "These thoughts made me suspend my steps. I deter- 
 mined to seek my habitation once more, and, having written 
 and deposited this letter, to return to the execution of my 
 fatal purpose. I had scarcely reached my own door, when 
 someone approached along the pavement. The form at first 
 was undistinguishable, but by coming at length within the 
 illumination of a lamp it was perfectly recognized. 
 
 " 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 in- 
 trepidity. His demeanor was that of a man who struggles 
 with his rage. His accents were hurried and scarcely articu- 
 late. 'I have ten words to say to you,' said he ; 'lead into 
 the house, and to some i^rivate room. My business ^vith you 
 will be despatched in a breath.' 
 
 "I made no answer, but led the way into my house, and to 
 ni}' 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 clenclied hand against 
 the table with violence. His motion was of that tempestuous 
 kind as to overwhelm 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 impatiently 
 demanded by my vengeance, arrived. Welbeck ! 'W ould 
 
88 AIITHUR MERYYN; OR, 
 
 that my first words could strike thee dead ! Tliey will so, if 
 tliou bast 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 long ab- 
 sence, a tedious navigation, and vicissitudes of hardships. He 
 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 despatched himself. This is the instru- 
 ment 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 daugh- 
 ter — the death of his son. Oh, 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 Uke thee, 
 my brother ! My friend ! 
 
 " ' No. For this hour was I reserved ; to avenge your wrongs 
 and mine in the blood of this uugrnteful villain. 
 
 "'There,' continued he, producing a second pistol, and 
 tendering it to me — -'there is thy defence. Take we ojjposite 
 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 ofiice 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 expiation. When the gust of indigna- 
 tion is past, the remembrance of your deed will only add to 
 your sum of misery ; yet I do not love you well enough to 
 wish that you would forbear. I desire to die, and to die by 
 another's hand rather than my own." 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 89 
 
 " 'Coward? ' exclaimed Watson, with augmented vehemence, 
 'you know me too well to believe me capable of assassination. 
 Vile subterfuge ! Contemptible plea ! Take the pistol and 
 defend yourself. You want not the power or the will ; but, 
 knowing that I spuru at murder, j'ou think your safety will 
 be found in passiveness. Your refusal will avail you little. 
 Your fame, if not your life, is at my mercj'. If you falter now 
 I will allow you to live, but only till I have stabbed your repu- 
 tation.' 
 
 "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 j-our conditions.' 
 
 " We took opposite sides of the table. ' Are you ready ? ' 
 he cried. ' Fire ! ' 
 
 " Both triggers were drawn at the same instant. Both pis- 
 tols 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 in- 
 terval between us. I escaped, but my blind and random shot 
 took place in his heart. 
 
 " There is the fruit of this disastrous meeting. The cata- 
 logue 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. Welbeck's measure of transgressions 
 is now full, and his own hand must execute the justice that is 
 due to him." 
 
 CHAPTEE Xn. 
 
 SncH was Welbeck's tale, listened to by me with an eager- 
 ness 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 dis- 
 closed where my rash and inexperienced 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 un- ■ 
 fledged fancy had not hitherto soared to this pitch. All was 
 
90 ARTHUR MERVTK; OR, 
 
 astounding by its novelty, or terrific by its liorror. The very 
 scene of these offences partook, to my rustic apprehension, of 
 fairy splendor and magical abruptness. My understanding 
 was bemazed, 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 witnessed. 
 I have meditated to benefit as well as to injure you ; but 
 I do not desire that your demeanor should conform to any 
 other standard than justice. You have promised, and to 
 that promise I trust. 
 
 " II you choose to fly from this scene, to withdraw your- 
 self from what you may conceive to be a theatre of guilt 
 or peril, the avenues are open ; retire unmolested and iu 
 silence. If you have a manlike spirit, if you are grateful for 
 the benefits bestowed upon you, if your discernment enables 
 you to see that compliance with my request will entangle you 
 iu no guilt and betray you into no danger, stay, and aid me 
 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 untimely 
 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 res- 
 cue 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 con- 
 form implicitlj' 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 thousand 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 iu the carpet, and then, lifting one 
 end, cast at me a look which indicated his expectations that I 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 91 
 
 ■would aid him in lifting this ghastly burden. During this 
 process, tlie silence was unbroken. 
 
 I knew not whither he intended to convey the corpse. He 
 had talked of burial, but no receptacle had been provided. 
 How far safety might depend upon his conduct in this par- 
 ticular, 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 downstairs. Having 
 reached the first floor, he unbolted a door whicli led into the 
 cellar. The stairs and passage were illuminated by lamps 
 that hung from the ceiling and were accustomed to burn dur- 
 ing the night. Now, however, we were entering darksome 
 and murky recesses. 
 
 "Keturu," said he, in atone 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 "Welbeck had taken this opportunity 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 resolution it inspired was to 
 follow the example of the fugitive 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. Welbeck 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 disen- 
 gaged from its covering. Its closed eyes and sunken muscles 
 were rendered in a tenfold degree ghastly and rueful by the 
 feeble light which the candle shed upon it. 
 
 This object did not escape the attention of Welbeck. He 
 leaned against the wall, and, folding his arms, resigned him- 
 self to reverie. He gazed upon the countenance of Watson, 
 but his looks denoted his attention to be elsewhere em- 
 ployed. 
 
 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 
 
92 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 its palpable dark scarcely penetrated by the rays of a solitary 
 candle, added to the sileuce which was deep and universal, 
 produced au impression on my fancy which no time wiU ob- 
 literate. 
 
 Perhaps my imagination was distempered by terror. The 
 incident which I am going to relate may appear to have exist- 
 ed 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 countenance of Watson, my attention 
 was arrested by a convulsive 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 ajspearance vanished. 
 
 I started from my place and was on the point of uttering 
 some involuntary exclamation. At the same moment "Wel- 
 beck 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 aud ceilings, and, gradually van- 
 ishing, gave place to unrespited gloom. This proceeding 
 was so unexpected and abrupt, that I had no time to remon- 
 strate against it. Before I retrieved the power of reflection, 
 the light liad disappeared and the footsteps were no longer 
 to be heard. 
 
 1 was not, on ordinary occasions, destitute of equanimity ; 
 but perhaps the imagination of man is naturally abhorrent 
 of death, until tutored into indifference by habit. Every cir- 
 cumstance combined to fill me with shuddering and panic. 
 For a while I was enabled to endure my situation by the ex- 
 ertions of my reason. 
 
 That the lifeless remains of a human being are powerless to 
 injure or benefit, I was thorougly 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 return- 
 ing footsteps of Welbeck, and hoped that every new moment 
 would terminate my solitude. 
 
 No signal of his coming was afforded. At length it oc- 
 curred to me that Welbeck had gone with no intention to re- 
 turn ; that his malice had seduced me hither to encounter the 
 consequences of his deed. He had fled and barred every door 
 behind him. The suspicion may well be supposed to" over- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 93 
 
 power my courage, and to call forth desperate efforts for my 
 deliverauce. 
 
 I extended my bands and went forward. I had been too 
 little attentive to the situation and direction of these vaults 
 and passages to go forward with undeviating accuracy. My 
 fears likewise tended to confuse my perceptions and bewilder 
 my steps. Notwithstanding the danger of encountering ob- 
 structions, I rushed toward 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 and cau- 
 tion. I had lost all distinct notions of my way. My motions 
 were at random. All my labor 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 imped- 
 iment. 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 apprehensions fulfilled. 
 Welbeck had left me to sustain the charge of murder ; to ob- 
 viate suspicion the most atrocious and plausible that the course 
 of human events is capable of producing. 
 
 Here I must remain till the morrow, till someone can be 
 made to overhear my calls and come to my deliverance. What 
 effects will my appearance produce on the spectator? Ter- 
 rified 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, pre- 
 vious to this disclosure, I should change my blood-stained 
 garments and withdraw into the country, shall I not be pur- 
 sued by the most vehement suspicions, and, perhaps, hunted 
 to my obscurest retreat by the ministers of justice? I am 
 innocent ; but my tale, however circumstantial or fa'ue, will 
 scarcely suffice for my vindication. My flight will be con- 
 strued into a proof of incontestable guilt. 
 
 While harassed by these thoughts my attention was at- 
 
94 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 tractecl by a faint gleam cast upon tlie bottom of the stair- 
 case. It grew stronger, hovered for a moment in my sight, 
 iiud then disappeared. That it proceeded from a lamp or 
 caudle, borne by someone along the passages, was no untena- 
 ble opinion, but was far less probable than that the effulgence 
 was meteorous. I confided in the latter supposition and for- 
 tilied 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 tlie tangible obscurity to which it suc- 
 ceeded rendered it conspicuous as an electrical flash. For a 
 while I ej-ed it without moving from my place and in mo- 
 mentary expectation of its disappearance. 
 
 Eemarking its stability, the propriety of eemtinizing 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 aiDpearauce, I was willing to behave 
 some connection between that cause and the means of my de- 
 liverance. 
 
 I had scarcely formed the resolution of descending the 
 stair, when my hope was extinguished by the recollection 
 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 perceived 
 every part of the long-drawn passage illuminated. I threw a 
 glance forward to the quarter whence the rays seemed to 
 proceed, and beheld, at a considerable distance, 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 tipon my apprehension. I 
 now perceived that the darkness had misled me to a differ- 
 ent staircase from that which I had originally descended. It 
 was apparent that Welbeck intended me no evil, but had 
 really gone in search of the instrument which he had men- 
 tioned. 
 
 This discovery overwhelmed me with coutritiou and shame, 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 95 
 
 though it freed me from the terrors of imprisonment and ac- 
 cusation. To return to the cell which I had left, and where 
 Welbeck was employed in his disastrous office, ivas the expe- 
 dient which regard to my own safety unavoidably suggested. 
 
 Welbeck paused at my approach, and betrayed a momen- 
 tary consternation at the sight of my ensanguined visage. 
 The blood, by some inexplicable process of nature, perhaps 
 by the counteracting influeiice of fear, had quickly ceased to 
 flow. Whether the cause of my evasion, and of my flux of 
 blood, was guessed, or whether hia attention was withdrawn, 
 by more momentous objects, from my condition, he pro- 
 ceeded in his task in silence. 
 
 A shallow bed and a slight covering of clay were provided 
 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 be- 
 fore him. An intensity and fixedness of features were con- 
 spicuous that led me to suspect the subversion of his reason. 
 
 Having finished the task, he threw aside his imjjlement. 
 He then put into my hand a pocketbook, 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 jDrincipal door and went forth. I was 
 driven, hj a sort of mechanical impulse, in his footsteps. I 
 followed him 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 de- 
 scribed. 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 present schemes might endanger 
 hira or myself. I had acted long enough a servile and me- 
 chanical part, and been guided by blind and foreign im- 
 pulses. 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 indisput- 
 able tokens. I know merely that it was the termination of 
 one of the principal streets. Here Welbeck selected a boat 
 and prepared to enter it. For a moment I hesitated to com- 
 
96 ABTHUB MERVTN; OR, 
 
 ply with his apparent invitation. I stammered out an inter- 
 rogation : " Why is this? Why should we cross the river? 
 What service can I do for you ? I ought to know the pui'pose 
 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 ? Mei-ely cross the river with me, for I cannot navi- 
 gate a boat by myself. Is there anything arduous or myste- 
 rious 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 ex- 
 ample, 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 pei-plexity by this discovery. 
 "It will be impossible," said he, in a tone of panic and 
 vexatiou, "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 double 
 purpose of oar and rudder. I took my station at the stern, 
 and quickly extricated the boat from its neighbors 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, therefore, 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 considerable degree 
 unnoticed. I cast my eyes occasionallj' at the scene which I 
 had left. Its novelty, joined with the incidents of my condi- 
 tion, threw me into a state of suspense and wonder which 
 frequently slackened my hand and left the vessel to be driven 
 by the downward current. Lights were sjDaringly seen, and 
 these were j)erpetually fluctuating, as masts, yards, and hulls 
 were interposed, and passed before them. In proportion as 
 we receded from the shore, the clamors seemed to multiply, 
 and the suggestion that the city was involved in confusion 
 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 97 
 
 From this state of magnificent and awful feeling I was sud- 
 denly 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 overboard. 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 sur- 
 face 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 bis succor. 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 anjtbing to be distinctly seen. There 
 was no cry for help. The noise was like that of one vigor- 
 ously struggling for a moment, and then sinking to the bot- 
 tom. 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 conjecture whither the current, if 
 suffered to control my vehicle, would finally transport me. 
 
 The disappearance" of lights and buildings, and the diminu- 
 tion 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 pocketbook 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 recovered firm 
 ground, and threw myself on the turf to repair my wasted 
 strength, and to reflect on the measures which my future wel- 
 fare enjoined me to pursue. 
 
 What condition was ever paralled to mine? The transac- 
 tions of the last three days resembled the monstrous creations 
 of delirium. They were painted with vivid hues on my mem- 
 
98 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 ory ; but so rapid and incongruous were these transitions 
 tlmt I almost denied belief to their reality. They exercised a 
 bewildering and stupefying influence on my mind, from which 
 the meditations of an hour were scarcely sufficient to relieve 
 me. Gradually 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. All that 
 was left was the furniture of his house, to which Mrs. Went- 
 worth would lay claim, in discharge of the unpaid rent. 
 What now was the destin}' that awaited the lost and friendless 
 Mademoiselle Lodi ? Where was she concealed ? "Welbeck 
 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 van- 
 i-shed from the face of the earth. His fate and the place of his 
 interment would probably be suspected and ascertained. 
 Was I sure to escape from the consequences of this deed ? 
 Watson had relatives and friends. What influence on their 
 state and hajjpiness his untimely and mysterious fate would 
 IDOssess, it was obvious to inquire. This idea led me to the 
 recollection of his pocketbook. Some papers might be there 
 explanatory 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 di- 
 rected mj' steps, and here I paused to examine the contents 
 of the pocketbook. 
 
 I found three bank-notes, each of fifty dollars, enclosed in 
 a piece of blank paper. Besides these were three letters, ap- 
 parently 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 consider- 
 ably necessitous, and surrounded by wants which their pro- 
 longed separation had increased. 
 
 The fourth letter was open, and seemed to have been very 
 
MEMOinS OF TUB YEAR 1793. 99 
 
 lately written. It was directed to Mrs. Mary Watson. He 
 informed her in it of his arrival at Philadelphia from St. 
 Domingo, of the loss of his ship and cargo, and of his inten- 
 tion 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, lo relieve 
 her more pressing wants. The letter was signed, and folded, 
 and superscribed, 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 pocketbook. I hesitated some time whether I 
 should add anything to the information which the letter con- 
 tained, 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 consequence of 
 the disappearance of Welbeck, and my known connection 
 with the fugitive, it was impossible to foresee. My fears 
 readily suggested innumerable embarrassments and incon- 
 veniences which would flow from this source. Besides, on 
 what pretence should I remain ? To whom could I apply for 
 protection or employment? All avenues, even to subsistence, 
 were shut against me. The country was my sole asylum. 
 Here, in exchange for my labor, 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 detested 
 city before the rising of the sun. 
 
 Meanwhile I was chilled alid 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, probably, the servants had not been alarmed ; 
 that the 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 de- 
 termined to do. 
 
100 ARTUUU MERVYK; OB, 
 
 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 anyone having been disturbed. 
 I procured a light in the kitchen, and hied softly and with 
 dubious footsteps to ruy chamber. There I disrobed, and 
 resumed by check shirt, and trousers, and fustian coat. This 
 change being accomplished, 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 rea- 
 soning loosely on the subject of property. 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 pajnnent of his 
 rent ; but there was one thing which I felt an irresistible de- 
 sire, 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 lan- 
 guage 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 tremu- 
 lous sensations, 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 ma- 
 hogany shelves and screened by doors of glass. I ran swiftly 
 over their names, and was at length so fortunate as to light 
 ujjon the book of which I was in search. I immediately se- 
 cured it, and, leaving the candle extinguished on a table in 
 the parlor, I once more issued forth into the street. Yrilh 
 light steps and palpitating heart I turned my face toward the 
 country. My necessitous condition I believed would justify 
 me in passing without payment the Schuylkill bridge, and the 
 eastern sky began to brighten with the da\Yn 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE YEAR 1793. 101 
 
 whicli I have gatliered 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 Xm. 
 
 Mbevyn's pause allowed his auditors to reflect on the par- 
 ticulars of his narration, and to compare them with the 
 facts with a knowledge of which their own observation had 
 supplied them. My profession introduced me to the friend- 
 ship of Mrs. Wentworth, by whom, after the disappearance of 
 Welbeck, many circumstances respecting him had been men- 
 tioned. She particularly dwelt upon the deportment and ap- 
 pearance 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 pessession of the 
 truth respecting the destiny of Clavering. A kinsman of his 
 had arrived from Portugal, by whom this intelligence had 
 been brought. He dexterously eluded her entreaties to be 
 furnished with minuter information, or to introduce this kins- 
 man 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 solici- 
 tations. On the day subsequent to the catastrophe related 
 by Mervyn, she sent a messenger to Welbeck, with a request 
 to see him. Gabriel, the black servant, informed the mes- 
 senger that his master had gone into the country for a 
 week. At the end of the week a messenger was again de- 
 spatched with the same errand. He called and knocked, but 
 no one answered his signals. He exammed the entrance by 
 the kitchen, but every avenue was closed. It appeared that 
 the house was wholly deserted. 
 
 These appearances natui'ally gave birth to curiosity and 
 suspicion. The house was repeatedly examined, but the sol- 
 itude and silence within continued the same. The creditors 
 
102 ARTHUR MERYTN; OB, 
 
 of Welbeck were alarmed by these appearances, and their 
 claims to the property remaining in the house were pre- 
 cluded by jMi'S, Weutworth, 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 port- 
 able, particularly linen and plate, was removed. The re- 
 mainder was distrained, but the tumults of pestilence suc- 
 ceeded 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 conject- 
 ures on the causes of this desertion. An explanation was af- 
 forded us by the narrative of this youth. It is probable that 
 the servants, finding their master's absence continued, had 
 piillaged the house and tied. 
 
 Meanwhile, though our curiosity with regard to Welbeck 
 was appeased, it was obvious to inquire by what series of in- 
 ducements and events Mervj'n 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 con- 
 sented to take ujJ the thread of his story and bring it down 
 to the point that was desired. For this puipose the ensuing 
 evening was selected. Having, at an early hour, shut our- 
 selves up from all intruders and visitors, he continued as fol- 
 lows : 
 
 I have mentioned that, by sunrise, I had gained the dis- 
 tance of many miles from the city. M_v purpose was to stop 
 at the first farmhouse and seek employment as a day-laborer. 
 The first person whom I observed was a man of placid mien 
 and plain garb. Habitual benevolence was apparent amid 
 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 wishes. 
 He listened to my tale with complacency, inquired 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 behavior of this good man filled me with gratitude 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAM 1793. 103 
 
 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 regards and the tender- 
 ness of friendship. 
 
 These emotions were confirmed and heiglitened by every 
 object that presented itself under this roof. The family con- 
 sisted of Mrs. HadvFin, two simple and affectionate girls, his 
 daughters, and servants. The manners of this family, quiet, 
 artless, and cordial, the occupations alloted me, the land by 
 which the dwelling was surrounded, its pure airs, romantic 
 walks, and exhaustless fertility, constituted a powerful con- 
 trast to the scenes which I had left behind, and were conge- 
 nial with every dictate of my understanding and every senti- 
 ment that glowed in my heart. 
 
 My youth, mental cultivation, and circumspect deportment 
 entitled me to deference and confidence. Each hour con- 
 firmed me in the good opinion of Mr. Hadwin, and in the 
 affections of his daughters. In the mind of my emj)loyer, 
 the simplicity of the husbandman and the devotion of the 
 Quaker were blended with humanity and intelligence. The 
 sisters, Susan and Eliza, were unacquainted 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 
 unimproved. 
 
 The sedateness of the elder formed an amusing contrast 
 with the laughing eye and untamable vivacity of the younger; 
 but they smiled and they wept in unison. They thought and 
 acted in different but not discordant keys. On all momen- 
 tous 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 roman tic and untutore d^jHsposition like mine may be 
 supposed hable to strong iinpressions from perpetual converse V 
 with persons of their age and sex. The elder was soon dis- 
 covered 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, 
 
,/ 104 AUTHUIi MERVTN; OR, 
 
 and nigbt only called up phantoms more vivid and equally- 
 enchanting. 
 
 The memorable incidents which had lately happened scarcely 
 counterpoised my new sensations or diverted my contempla- 
 tions from the present. My views were gradually led to rest 
 upon futurity, and in that I quickly found cause of circum- 
 spection and dread. My present labors 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. Had win's 
 possessions were adequate to his own frugal maintenance, but, 
 divided between his children, would be too scanty for either. 
 Besides, this division could only take place at his death, and 
 that was an event whose speedy occurence was neither desir- 
 able 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 communion. I had been 
 trained in an opposite creed, and imagined it impossible that 
 I should ever become a proselyte to Quakerism. It only re- 
 mained for me to feign conversion, or to root out the opinions 
 of my friend and win her consent to a secret marriage. 
 Whether hypocrisy was eligible was no subject of dehbera- 
 tion. If the possession of all that ambition can conceive were 
 added to the transports of union with Eliza Hadwin, and of- 
 fered as the price of dissimulation, it would have been in- 
 stantly rejected. My external goods were not abundant nor 
 numerous, 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 in- 
 exhaustible wealth, were contemptible and frivolous. 
 
 The conquest of Eliza's errors was easy ; but to introduce 
 discord and sorrow into this family was an act of the utmost in- 
 gratitude and profligacy. It was only requisite for my under- 
 standing clearly to discern, to be convinced of the insupera- 
 bility of this obstacle. It was manifest, therefore, that the point 
 toward which my wishes tended Avas placed beyond my reach. 
 
 To foster my passion was to foster a disease destructive 
 either of my integrity or my existence. It was indispensable 
 to fix my thoughts upon a different object, and to debar my- 
 self 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 difii- 
 cvilt, tasks. The latter was the least practicable. I had to 
 contend with eyes which alternately wondered at and up- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 105 
 
 braided 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 myself and 
 my companions. Now my new motives made me eager to 
 discover some means of controlling and beguiling 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 language of 
 Italy possessed a strong affinity with the modern. My knowl- 
 edge of the former was my only means of gaining the latter. 
 I had no grammar or vocabulary to explain how far the mean- 
 ings and inflections of Tuscan 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 dar- 
 ling purpose, human ingenuity and patience are able to sur- 
 mount ; how much may be done by strenuous and solitary 
 efforts ; how the mind, unassisted, may draw forth the princi- 
 ples of inflection and arrangement ; may profit by remote, 
 analogous, and latent similitudes, would be forcibly illus- 
 trated by my example ; but the theme, however attractive, 
 must, for the present, be omitted. 
 
 My progress was slow ; but the perception of hourly im- 
 provement afforded me unspeakable pleasure. Having ar- 
 rived near the last pages, I was able to pursue, with little inter- 
 ruption, the thread of an eloquent narration. Tlie triumph 
 of a leader of outlaws over the popular enthusiasm of the 
 Milanese and the claims of neighboring potentates was about 
 to be depicted. The Gondottiero Sforza had taken refuge 
 from his enemies iu a tomb, accidentally discovered amid 
 the ruins of a Roman fortress in the Apennines. He 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 rufiians that folUowed his 
 standard, provided he fell not into the hands of the enemies 
 who were now iu search of him. 
 
106 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 My tumultuous curiosity was suddenly cLecked by tte fol- 
 lowiug leaves being glued together at tlie edges. To dissever 
 them without injury to the written spaces was by no means 
 easy. I proceeded to the task, not without precipitation. 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 encountered, 
 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 shadowy resemblance to 
 the images with which my imagination was previously occu- 
 cupied. I opened, and beheld — a hank-nole ! 
 
 To the first transports of surprise, the conjectui'e 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 postions ; read and reread the name of each sum, 
 and the signature ; added them together, and repeated to my- 
 self — " Tiuenty thousand dollars! They ai'e mine, and by 
 such means ! " 
 
 This sum would Lave redeemed the fallen fortunes of Wel- 
 beck. The dying Lodi was unable to communicate all the 
 contents of this inestimable volume. He had divided his treas- 
 ure, with a view to its greater safety, between this volume 
 and his pocket-book. Death hasted upon him too sud- 
 denly to allow him to explain his precautions. Welbeck had 
 placed the book in his collection, 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 ulifolding this treas- 
 ure to his view, would have eifectually I'escued him. 
 
 But was this event to be regretted? This sum, like the 
 former, would probably have been expended in the same per- 
 nicious prodigality. His career would have continued some 
 time longer ; but his inveterate habits would have finally con- 
 ducted 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 possession. My fort- 
 une had been thus unexpectedly and wondrously propitious. 
 How was I to profit by her favor ? Would not this sum enable 
 me to gather round me all the instruments of pleasure? 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 107/ 
 
 Equipage, and palace, and a multitude of servants ; polislied ^; 
 mirrors, splendid hangings, banquets, and flatterers, were'; 
 equally abhorrent to my taste and my principles. The accu- 
 mulation of knowledge, and the diii'usion of happiness, 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 monej' ? By retain- 
 ing 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. In- 
 deed, 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 ^ 
 contending 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 un- 
 happy. My occupations are salutary and meritorious ; 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 ex- 
 hibited 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 bad lately entered, 
 from the family and service of my friend and benefactor 
 Had win ? , 
 
 My thoughts were called away from pursuing these inqui- i 
 ries by a rumor, 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 coun- 
 try. The numbers of the sick multiplied beyond all exam- 
 ple ; even in the pest-affected cities of the Levant. The mal- 
 ady was malignant and unsparing. 
 
 The usual occupations and amusements of life were at an 
 end. Terror had exterminated all the sentiments of nature. 
 Wives were deserted by husbands, and children by parents. 
 
108 ARTHUR MEBVTN ; OR, 
 
 ^ome liad shut themselves in their houses, and debarred 
 \/ themselves from all communication with the rest of mankind. 
 The consternation of others had destroyed their understand- 
 ing, and their misguided steps hurried them into the midst 
 of the danger which they had previously labored to shun. 
 Men were seized by this disease in the streets ; passengers 
 i fled from them ; entrance into their own dwellings was de- 
 \ nied 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 remove the life- 
 less bodies. Their remains, suffered to decay by piecemeal, 
 filled the air with deadly exhalations, 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. Me- 
 thought it was confuted by its own extravagance. The enor- 
 / mity and variety of such an evil made it unworthy to be 
 / believed. I expected that every new day would detect the 
 \( absurdity and fallacy of such representations. Every new day, 
 however, added to the number of witnessess and the consist- 
 ency of the tale, till, at length, it was not possible to with- 
 hold my faith. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 This rumor 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 tinct- 
 ure 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 personate the witnesses and suflferers of this ca- 
 lamity. This employment was not enjoined upon me by neces- 
 sity, but was ardently pursued, and must therefore have been 
 recommended by some nameless charm. 
 
 Others were very differently affected. As often as the tale 
 was embellished with new incidents or enforced by new testi- 
 mony, the hearer grew pale, his breath was stifled by inquie- 
 tudes, his blood was chilled, and his stomach was bereaved of 
 its usual energies. A temporary indisposition was produced 
 in many. Some were haunted by a melancholy, bordering 
 upon madness, and some in consequence of sleepless panics, 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 109 
 
 for -which no cause could be assigned, and for which no 
 opiates could be found, were attacked h-^ 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, abundant 
 reason for her terror. The j'outh 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 mer- 
 cantile adventures in which he had successfully engaged, be- 
 gan to flatter himself with being able, in no long time, to sup- 
 port a family. Meanwhile, a tender and constant correspond- 
 ence was maintained between him and his beloved Susan. 
 This girl was a soft entliusiast, in whose bosom devotion and 
 love glowed with an ardor tlmt has seldom been exceeded. 
 
 The first tidings of the yellow fever was heard by her with 
 unspeakable perturbatiou. "Wallace was interrogated, 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 withraw 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 favor 
 of his present employer, who had used the most powerful 
 arguments to detain him, but declared that, when his situ- 
 ation should become, in the least degree, perilous, he would 
 slight every consideration of gratitude and interest, and fly 
 to Malverlon. Meanwhile, he promised to communicate 
 tidings of his safety by every opportunity. 
 
 Belding, Mr. Hadwin 's next neighbor, though not unin- 
 fected by the general panic, persisted to visit the city daily 
 with his market-cart. He set out by sunrise, and usually re- 
 turned 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 re- 
 ceived and read in a transport of eagerness. For a while 
 her emotion subsided, but returned with augmented vehe- 
 mence at noon on the ensuing day. 
 
110 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 These agitations were too vehement for a feeble constitution 
 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 when the danger should 
 be imminent. When Belding returned, and instead of being 
 accompanied by Wallace, merely brought a letter from him, 
 the unhappy Susan wovild 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 would be fatally injurious to the health of 
 his mistress. 
 
 Mr. Had win had hitherto been passive. He conceived that 
 the entreaties and remonstrances of his daughter were more 
 likely to influence the conduct of Wallace than any represen- 
 tations which he could make. Now, however, he wrote the 
 contumacious Wallace a letter, in which he laid his com- 
 mands upon him to return in company with Belding, and 
 declared that by a longer delay the youth would forfeit his 
 favor. 
 
 The malady had, at this time, made considerable progress. 
 Beijing's interest at length yielded to his fears, and this was 
 the last journey which he proposed to make. Hence our im- 
 patience for the return of Wallace was augmented ; since, if 
 this opportunity were lost, no suitable conveyance might again 
 be offered him. 
 
 Belding set out, as usual, at the dawn of day. The cus- 
 tomary interval between his departure and return was sjDent 
 by Susan iu a tumult of hopes and fears. As noon approached, 
 her suspense arose to a pitch of wildness and agony. She 
 could scarcely be restrained from running along the road, 
 many miles, toward 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 appsiired in 
 sight. Belding was without a companion. 
 
 This confirmation of her fears overwhelmed the unhappy 
 Susan. She sunk into a fit, from which, for a long time, her 
 recovery was hopeless. This was succeeded by paroxysms of 
 of a furious insanity, in which she attempted to snatch any 
 pointed implement which lay within her reach, with a view to 
 destroy herself. These being carefully removed, or forcibly 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. HI 
 
 wrested from her, she resigned herself to sobs and exclama- 
 tions. 
 
 Having interrogated Belding, he informed us that he occu- 
 j)ied his usual post in the market-place ; that heretofore Wal- 
 lace had duly sought him out, and exchanged letters ; but 
 that, on this morning, the young man had not made his ap- 
 pearance, though Belding had been induced, bj' 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 he had placed himself was con- 
 nected with him by no considerations 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 dissolve the strongest ties that bind human beings to — 
 gether. 
 
 I was personally a stranger to this youth. I had seen his 
 letters, and they bespoke, not, indeed, any great refinement 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 consanguinity to Sir. Hadwin, 
 and his place in the affections of Susan.' His welfare was es- , 
 sential to the happiness of those whose happiness had be- 
 come essential to mine. I witnessed the outrages of despair 
 in the daughter, 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 W^allace be as-v 
 certained ? 
 
 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 for- 
 midable symptoms, negligence and solitude would render it 
 fatal. 
 
 Wallace might, perhaps, experience this pest in its most 
 lenient degree ; but the desertion of all mankind, the want 
 not only of medicines but of food, would irrevocably seal his 
 doom. My imagination was incessantly pursued by the image 
 of this j'outh perishing alone and in obscurity, calling on the 
 name of distant friends, or invoking ineffectually the succor of 
 those who were near. 
 
112 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 Hitherto distress had been contemplated at a distance, and 
 through the medium of a fancy dehghting to be startled by 
 the wonderful, or transported by sublimity. Now the calam- 
 ity had entered my own doors, imaginary evils were sup- 
 planted by real, and my heart was the seat of commisseration 
 and horror. 
 
 I found myself unfit for recreation or employment. I 
 shrouded myself in the gloom of the neighboring forest, or 
 lost myself in the maze of rocks and dells. I endeavored, 
 in vaiu, 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 Had wins re-established? Wallace is friendless and 
 succorless; but cannot I supply 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 &till re- 
 tain 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 1 How am- 
 ply will their impatience and their sorrow be compensated 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 ^sroportioned to the duration of my stay in 
 this seat of infection. The death or the flight of Wallace may 
 absolve me from the necessity of siDending oue night in the 
 city. The rustics who daily frequent the market are, as ex- 
 perience proves, exempt from this disease ; in consequence, 
 perhaps, of limiting their continuance in the city to a few 
 hours. May I not, in this respect, conform to their example, 
 and enjoy a similar exemption ? 
 
 / My stay, however, may be longer than the day. I may be 
 condemned to share in the common destiny. What then ? 
 Life is dependent on a thousand contingencies, not to be 
 computed or foreseen. The seeds of an early and lingering 
 death are sown in my 'constitution. 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 innumer- 
 able casualties ; but if these be shunned, we are unalter- 
 
MEMOinS OF THE YEAR 1793. 113 
 
 / '■-- - 
 
 ably fated to perish by consumption. Why, then, should I 
 
 scruple to lay down my life in the cause of virtue and human- 
 ity ? It is better to die in the consciousness of having of- 
 fered 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 sura 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 my- 
 self with imputations of perverseness and temeritj'. 
 
 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 un- 
 truth ; 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 therefore 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 of his 
 abode, and a description of his person. Satisfaction on this 
 head was easily obtained from Mr. Hadwinw, ho was prevent- 
 ed from suspecting the motives of my curiosity, by my ques- 
 tions being put in a manner apparently 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 merchant. 
 Was 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 recol- 
 lected the extraordinary means by which I had gained access 
 to the house and bedchamber of this gentleman. 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 confidential connection between Thetford 
 and my guide. Wallace was a member of the family. Could 
 it be he by whom I was betrayed ? 
 
114 ARTHUR MEBVYN; OB, 
 
 Suitable questions easily obtained from Hadwin a descrip- 
 tion of the person and carriage of his nejshew. Every cir- 
 cumstance evinced the identity of their persons. Wallace, 
 then, vsfas the engaging and sisrightly youth whom I had en- 
 countered at Lesher's, and who, for jjurposes not hitherto 
 discoverable, had led me into a situation so romantic and 
 perilous. 
 
 I was far from suspecting that these purposes were crim- 
 intil. It was easy to infer that his conduct proceeded from 
 juvenile wantonness and a love of sport. My resolution was 
 unaltered by this disclosure, and, having obtained all the in- 
 formation which I needed, I secretly began my journey. 
 
 My reflections, on the way, were suiSiciently employed in 
 tracing the consequences of my project ; in computing the 
 inconveniences and dangers to which I was preparing to sub- 
 ject 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 pru'sue in every emer- 
 gency. 
 
 Connected as these views were with the family and chai-ac- 
 ter of Thetford, I could not but sometimes advert to those 
 incidents which formerly happened. The mercantile alliance 
 between him and Welbeck was remembered ; the allusions 
 which were made to the condition of the latter in the cham- 
 ber conversation of which I was an unsuspected auditor ; and 
 the relation which these allusions might possess with subse- 
 quent occurrences. Walbecli'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 ex- 
 plained ? 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 knowl- 
 edge 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 Thet- 
 ford has maintained ? To myself it will not be unprofitable. 
 It is a lesson on the principles of human nature ; on the de- 
 lusiveness of appearances ; on the perviousness of fraud, and 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 115 
 
 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 Clemenza Lodi 
 and the money which chance had thrown into my possession. 
 Time had only confirmed my purpose to restore these bills to the 
 rightful proprietor, and heightened my impatience to discover 
 her retreat. I reflected, that the means of doing this was 
 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. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 appar- 
 ent. Everj' 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 emi- 
 gration 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 theii- state. Few had secured to themselves an asjlum ; 
 some were without the means of paying for victuals or lodg- 
 ing for the coming night ; others, who were not thus desti- 
 tute, 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, at- 
 tended 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 pur- 
 chase the means of retiring from this theatre of disasters, 
 though uncertain and hopeless of accommodation in the 
 neighboring districts. 
 
 Between these and the fugitives whom curiosity had led to 
 the road, dialogues frequently took place, to which I was 
 
116 ABTUUB MERVTN; OR, 
 
 suffered to listen. From every mouth the tale of sorrow was 
 repeated with new aggravations. Pictures of their own dis- 
 tress, or of that of their neighbors, were exhibited in all the 
 hues which imagination can annex to pestilence and poverty. 
 
 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 crejjt to 
 my heart, which more vehement exertions were necessary to 
 subdue or control ; but I harbored not a momentary doubt 
 that the course which I had taken was prescribed by duty. 
 There was no difficulty or reluctance 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 frequent 
 pauses to listen to the narratives of travellers contributed 
 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 nothiug but a dreary solitude. 
 
 The market-place and each side of this magnificent ave- 
 nue, were illuminated, as before, by lamps ; but between the 
 verge of the 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 cist 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 pavement I was traversing, and 
 showed that their tenants had not fled, but were secluded or 
 :lisabled. 
 
 These tokens were new, and awakened all my panics. 
 Death seemed to hover over this scene, and I dreaded that 
 the floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 117 
 
 I had scarcely overcome these tremors, when I approached a 
 Louse the door of which was opened, and before which stood 
 a vehicle, which I presently recognized to be a hearse. 
 
 The driver was seated on it. I stood stiU 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. 
 Tlieir features were marked by ferocious indiiference 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 
 liim, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. 
 I \\onder 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 ! " con- 
 tinued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few 
 paces distant, and listening to their discourse ; " what's want- 
 ed ? Anybody dead ? " 
 
 I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. My 
 joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. I 
 was asliamed of my own infirmity ; and, by vigorous efforts of 
 my reason, regained some degree of comj)osure. The evening 
 had now advanced, and it behooved me to procure accommo- 
 dation at some of the inns. 
 
 These were easily distinguished by their signs, but many 
 were without inhabitants. At length I lighted upon one, the 
 hall of which was open and the windows lifted. After knock- 
 ing 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 they could receive no one. 
 I inquired, in vain, for any otlier tavern at which strangers 
 might be accommodated. She knew of none such, and left 
 me, on someone's calling to her from above, in the midst of 
 
118 ARTHUR MERVTK; OR, 
 
 TD.y 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 peevishness, 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 win- 
 dow 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 con- 
 scious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the habitations of 
 men ; but I was destitute of associate or fiiend. I Lad 
 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 condi- 
 tion 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 dilligence, 
 I might hope to regain before the morning hght. 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 of my 
 proceeding. I called up the images of Susan Hadwin, and 
 of Wallace. I reviewed the motives which had led me io the 
 undertaking of this journey. Time had, by no means, dimin- 
 ished their force. I had, indeed, nearly arrived at the ac- 
 complishment of what I had intended. A few steps would 
 carry me to Thetford's habitation. This might be the critical 
 moment when succor was most needed and would be most 
 efiicacious. 
 
 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 circmstances might arise which would absolve me from 
 the obligation of remaining an hour longer in the city. All 
 for which I came might be performed ; the destiny of Wal- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 119 
 
 lace be ascertained ; and I be once more safe within tbe pre- 
 cincts of Malverton before tbe return of day. 
 
 I immediately directed my steps toward tbe habitation of 
 Tbetford. Carriages bearing the dead were frequently dis- 
 covered. A few passengers likewise occui'red, whose hasty 
 and perturbed steps denoted their participation in the com- 
 mon distress. The house of which I was in quest quickly ap- 
 peared. Light from an upper window indicated that it was 
 still inhabited. 
 
 I paused a moment to reflect in what manner it became me 
 to proceed. To ascertain the existence and condition of Wal- 
 lace 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 enter- 
 ing, be unawares and uselessly endangered. Most of the neigh- 
 boring houses were apparently deserted. In some there were 
 various tokens of people beiug 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 bell. I dis- 
 tinctly 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 j^erceptible. 
 
 I ruminated on the causes that might hinder my summons 
 from being obeyed. I figured to myself nothing but the 
 hel23lessness of disease, or the insensibility of death. These 
 images only urged me to persist in endeavoring to obtain ad- 
 mission. Without weighing the consequences of my act, I in- 
 voluntarily 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 ex- 
 tent, 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 
 
120 AUTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 unaffected. Taking the candle in my band, I opened a door 
 tbat was near. It led into a spacious parlor, furnished with 
 profusion and splendor. I walked to and fro, gazing at the 
 objects which presented themselves, and, involved in per- 
 Ijlexity, I knocked with my heel louder than ever, but no 
 less ineffectually. 
 
 Notwithstanding the lights which I had seen, it was possi- 
 ble that the house was uninhabited. This I was resolved to 
 ascertain, by proceeding to the chamber which I had ob- 
 served, from without, to be illuminated. This chamber, as 
 far as the comparison of circumstances would pemiit 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 vapor, infectious and deadly, assailed my 
 senses. It resembled nothing of which I had ever before 
 / been sensible. Many odors had been met with, even since 
 I my arrival in the city, less supportable than this. I seemed 
 I not so much to smell as to taste the element that now en- 
 compassed me. I felt as if I had inhaled a poisonous and 
 i subtle fluid, whose power instantly bereft my stomach of all 
 ■ vigor. Some fatal influence appeared to seize upon my vi- 
 tals, and the work of corrosion and decomposition to be bus- 
 ily 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 attended to my own 
 sensations without mental discomposure. That I had imbibed 
 this disease was not to be questioned. So far the chances in 
 my favor were annihilated. The lot of sickness was drawn. 
 
 Whether my case would be lenient or malignant, whether I 
 should recover or perish, was to be left to the decision of the 
 future. This incident, instead of appalling 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 execute, without faltering, the duties 
 that my circumstances might create. My state was no longer 
 hazardous, and my destiny would be totally influenced by 
 my future conduct. 
 
 The pang with which I was first seized, and the momentary 
 inclination to vomit, which it produced, presently subsided. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 121 
 
 My wbolesome 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 
 timorously across the floor. This ceased, and was succeeded 
 by sounds of diiferent but inexplicable import. 
 
 Having entered the apartment, I saw a candle on the hearth. 
 A table was covered with vials and other apparatus of a sick- 
 chamber. A bed stood on one side, the curtain of which was 
 dropped at the foot so as to conceal anyone within. I fixed 
 my eyes upon this object. There were sufficient tokens that 
 someone lay upon the bed. Breath, drawn at long intervals; 
 mutterings scarcely audible ; and a tremulous motion in the 
 bedstead, were fearful and intelligible indications. 
 
 If my heart faltered, it must not be supposed that my 
 trepidations arose from any selfish considerations. Wallace 
 only, the object of my search, was present to my fancy. Per- 
 vaded 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 ; observant 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 appeared, that this being was struggling with the agonies 
 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 completion of 
 this "tragedy. Wallace was the first of the family on whom 
 the pestilence had seized. Thetford had fled from his habi- 
 tation. 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 supposition 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 forebodings, 
 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 and thrust my head within the curtain. 
 
122 ARTHUR MERVYK; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 The features of one whom I had seen so transiently as 
 Wallace may be imagined to be not easily recognized, espec- 
 ially when those features were tremulous and deathful. 
 Here, however, the differences were too conspicuous to mis- 
 lead 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 individual ; .but surely the be- 
 ing that was stretched before me, and who was hastening to 
 his last breath, was precious 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 vapor, noisome and contagious, hovered over him. The 
 flutterings of his pulse had ceased. His existence was about 
 to close amid convulsion and pangs. 
 
 I withdrew my gaze from this object, and waited 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 accejjt 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 re- 
 flections, if I had been suffered to reflect. A moment scarcely 
 elapsed, when some appearance in the mirror, 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 gro- 
 tesquely misproportioneJ, brawny as Hercules, and habited 
 in livery, composed, as it were, the jjarts of one view. 
 
 To perceive, to fear, and to confront this apparition were 
 blended into one sentiment. I turned toward him with the 
 swiftness of lightning ; but my speed was useless to my safety. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 123 
 
 A blow upon my temple was succeeded by an utter obliviou 
 of thought and of feeling. I sank 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 gi- 
 gantic fig-ures who stooped to lift me from the earth. Their 
 purpose, methought, was to cast me into this abyss. Mj 
 terrors were unspeakable, 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 and confusion 
 presently vanished, so as to allow me to stand unsupported 
 and to move. I once more gazed at my attendants, and rec- 
 ognized 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 
 ufion my situation, one entered the appartment whose habit 
 and mien tended to encourage me. The stranger was char- 
 acterized by an aspect full of composure 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 profession with whose benevolent doctrines the 
 example of Hadwin had rendered me familiar. 
 
 On observing me on my feet, he betrayed marks of 
 
124 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 affoi'd. These men will convey 
 thee to the hospital at Bush Hill. 
 
 The mention of that contagious and abhorred receptacle 
 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 compassionate 
 air : " I fear thou dost deceive thyself or me. The neces- 
 sity of going to the hospital is much to be regretted, 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 state is 
 sorrowful. But how camest thou hither?" continued he, 
 looking around him ; " and whence comest 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 betraj'ed some impatience, and inquired of 
 the last comer, whom they called Mr. Estwick, what they were 
 to do. He turned to me and asked if I were wiUiug 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 hesita- 
 tion he dismissed the men, who, lifting the empty coffin on 
 their shoulders, disappeared. 
 
 He now invited me to descend into the pai-lor, "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 as 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. ( 125__ 
 
 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 procure a coffin. He probably 
 chose that ojDportunity to rifle his master's trunk, that stood 
 upon tlie table. Thy unseasonable entrance interrupted him, 
 and he designed, bj' the blow which he gave thee, to secure 
 his retreat before the arrival of a hearse. I know the man, 
 and the apparation 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 per- 
 ished. Not one was suffered to escape." 
 
 This intelligence was fatal to my hopes. It required some 
 efforts to subdue my rising emotions. Coniijassiou 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^Jwd provecLcoi>-.S:; 
 tagious, and the jiixi3a5^"^few3fBdr::^My"E[sTace to hide^his-own 
 
 "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 deplorable fate, is 
 sufficient to melt the most obdurate heart. I suspect that 
 thou wast united to some one of this family by ties of tender- 
 ness like those which led the unfortunate Maravegli hither." 
 
 This suggestion was attended, in relation to myself, witli 
 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 person, and particulary 
 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 Walpole and her children 
 enjoyed in him a husband and a father." 
 
 The name of Walpole, to which I was a stranger, suggested 
 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." 
 
126 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 whether he had 
 any knowledge of his present condition. 
 
 They had removed to No. — , in Market Street. Concern- 
 ing their state he knew nothing. His acquaintance with Thet- 
 ford was imperfect. Whether he had left the city or had re- 
 mained, 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 in- 
 formed me, it was by his interposition that I was hindered 
 from being enclosed alive in a coiSn. He was dubious of my 
 true condition, and peremptorily commanded 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 de- 
 sign," 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 roaming 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 qualified 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 remon- 
 strances ; but where should a chamber and bed be sought ? 
 It was not likely that a new at^;empt to procure accommoda- 
 tion 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. W^hat thou wilt do I know not. 
 This house has no one to defend it It was purchased and 
 furnished by the last possessor ; but the whole family, in- 
 cluding mistress, children, and servants, were cut off in a 
 single week. Perhaps no one in America can claim the 
 property. Meanwhile, plunderers ai-e numerous and active. 
 A house thus totally deserted, and replenished with valuable 
 furniture, will, I fear, become their prey. To-night nothing 
 
MEMOIRS OF TRE TEAR 1793. 127 
 
 can be done toward 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 niayest find some repose upon this 
 carpet. It is, at least, better than the harder pavement and 
 the o])en air." 
 
 This proposal, after some hesitation, I embraced. He ■svas 
 preparing to leave me, proniising, if life were spared to him, 
 to return early in the morning. My curiosity respecting the 
 person whose dying agonies I had witnessed 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 practise 
 of virtue. He came hither as an enlightened observer ; and, 
 after traversing the countrj', conversing ■with all the men in it 
 eminent for their talents or their office, and collecting a fund 
 of observations whose solidity and justice have seldom been 
 parallelled, he embarked, three months ago, for Europe. 
 
 "Previously to his departure he formed a tender connec- 
 tion with the eldest daughter of this family. The mother and 
 her children had recently arrived from England. So many 
 faultless women, both mentally and personally 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 expedition to his native country, and, 
 after the settlement of his affairs, to hasten back to America 
 and ratify his contract with Fanny Walpole. 
 
 " The ship in which he embarked had scarcely gone t^vventy 
 leagues to sea before she was disabled by a storm and obliged 
 to return to port. He posted to New York, to gain a passage 
 in a packet shortly to sail. Meanwhile this malady prevailed 
 among us. Mary Walpole 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 imprac- 
 ticable. Her death added to the helplessness and distraciion 
 of the family. They were successively seized and destroyed 
 by the same pest. 
 
 " Maravegli was apprised of their danger. He allowed the 
 packet to depart without him, and hastened to rescue the 
 
128 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 Walpoles from the perils which encompassed them. He ar- 
 rived in this city time enough to witness the interment 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 experienced 
 no inclination to sleep. I lay down for a moment, but my 
 comfortless sensations and restless contemplations would not 
 permit me to rest. Before I entered this house, I was tor- 
 mented with hunger ; but my craving had given place to in- 
 quietude 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 hoiTors of 
 which it was productive. I compared the experience 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 resolu- 
 tion to avoid those seats 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 assiduous attendance 
 and powerful prescriptions might remove would, by negli- 
 gence and solitude, be rendered fatal ; but from whom could 
 I expect medical or friendly treatment ? 
 
 I liad indeed a roof over m}' head. I should not perish in 
 the public way ; but what was my ground for hoping to con- 
 tinue 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 loneliness 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 
 my bosom a gleam of cheerfulness. Contrary to my expecta- 
 tions, my feelings were not more distempered, notwithstand- 
 ing my want of sleep, than on the last evening. This was a 
 token that my state was far from being so desperate as I sus- 
 pected. It was possible, I thought, that this was the worst 
 indisposition to which I was liable. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 129 
 
 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, likewise, was 
 sick, and this was the cause of his delay. This man's kind- 
 ness 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 hu- 
 manity might enjoin ; but he had not afforded me any infor- 
 mation on that head. 
 
 CHAPTEK XVn. 
 
 It was now incumbent on me to seek the habitation of 
 Thetford. To leave this house accessible to every passenger 
 appeared to be imprudent. I had no key by which I might 
 lock the princi^jal 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 sjDa- 
 cious 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 peo2:)le ; yet, judging by the universal desola- 
 tion, it seemed as if the solitude were nearly absolute. 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 was my con- 
 sternation 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 familj', 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 de- 
 ceive. There was little room for hope ; but certainty was 
 wanting, and might, perhaps, be obtained by entering the 
 
130 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 house. In some of the upper rooms a wretched being might 
 be immured by whom the information, so earnestly desired, 
 might be imi^arted, and to whom my presence might bring 
 relief not only from pestilence but fanjine. For a moment I 
 forgot my own necessitous condition and leiiected not that 
 abstinence had already undermined my strength. 
 
 I proceeded to knock at the door. That my signal was un- 
 noticed produced no surprise. The door was unlocked, and I 
 opened it. 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 distnnce. 
 
 It now occurred to me that the information which I sought 
 might possibly be gained from one of Thetford's neighbors. 
 This person was aged, but seemed to have lost neither cheer- 
 fulness nor vigor. 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. " Tou seem," said he, " to be 
 in search of someone. 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 destinj' of "Wallace I was 
 unwilling to put direct questions. I shuddered, while I 
 longed to know the truth. 
 
 " Why," said I, falteringlj-, " did he not seasonably with- 
 draw from the city ? Surely he had the means of purchasing 
 an asylum in the country." 
 
 "I can scarcely tell you," he answered. "Some infatua- 
 tion appeared to have seized him. No one was more timor- 
 ous ; but he seemed to think himself safe as long as he avoided 
 contact with infected persons. He was likewise, I believe, 
 detained by a regard to his interest. 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. He in- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 17D3. 131 
 
 tended ultimately to withdraw ; but his escape to-day gave 
 him new courage to encounter the perils of to-morrow. He 
 deferred 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 retired in 
 sufficient season." 
 
 "Yes," said he; "his father left the house at an early pe- 
 riod. One or two of the servants likewise forsook him. One 
 girl, more faithful and heroic than the rest, resisted the re- 
 monstrances of her parents and friends, and resolved to ad- 
 here to him in every fortune. She was anxious that tlie family 
 should fly from danger, and would willingly have fled iu their 
 company, but while they stayed it was her immovable reso- 
 lution 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 disease was pestilential. 
 It was, probably, a slight indisposition, which, in a few days, 
 would have vanished of itself, or have readily yielded to suita- 
 ble treatment. 
 
 " Thetford was transfixed with terror. Instead of summon- 
 ing a physician to ascertain the nature of her symptoms, he 
 called a negro and his cart of Bush Hill. In vain the neigh- 
 bors 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 
 succor, and relieve him and his family from the danger and 
 trouble of nursing her. 
 
 "The man was lunatic with apprehension. He rejected her 
 entreaties, though urged in a matter that would liave sub- 
 dued a heart of flint. The girl was innocent 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 resigned 
 herself to despair. In going to the hospital she believed her- 
 self led to certain death and to the sufferance of every evil 
 which the known inhumanity of its attendants could inflict. 
 Tbis state of mind, added to exposure to a noon-day 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. 
 
132 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 " This proceeding was sufficiently iniquitous, yet it was not 
 tlie worst act of tbis man. The rank and education of the 
 young woman might be some apology for negligence ; 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 indigna- 
 tion 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 — was " 
 
 " His name was Wallace. I see that you have some inter- 
 est in his fate. He was one whom I loved. I would have 
 given half my fortune to procure him accommodation under 
 some hospitable roof. His attack was violent ; but, stiU, his 
 recover}-, if he had been suitably attended, was possible. That 
 he should survive removal to the hospital and the treatment 
 he must receive when there was not to be hoped. 
 
 " The conduct of Thetford 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 supplications. His attention was 
 incapable of straying from one object. To influence him by 
 words was equivalent to reasoning with the deaf. 
 
 "Perhaps the wretch was more to be pitied than hated. 
 The victims of his implacable caution could scarcely have en- 
 dured agonies greater than those which his pusillanimity in- 
 flicted on himself. Whatever be the amouut of his guilt, the 
 retribution has been adequate. He witnessed the death of 
 his wife and child, and last night was the close of his own ex- 
 istence. The sole attendant was a black woman, whom, by 
 frequent visits, I endeavored with little, success to make dil- 
 igent 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 teU them all 
 the truth would be needlessly to exasperate her sorrow. Time, 
 aided by the tenderness 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 ex- 
 plained to my companion, in general terms, my reasons for 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. ; 133 ^ 
 
 visiting the city, and my curiosity respecting Tbetford. He 
 inquired into the particulars of my journej', and the time of 
 my arrival. When informed that I had come in the preced- 
 ing evening and had passed the subsequent hours without 
 sleep or food he expressed astonishment and compassion. 
 
 " Your undertaking," said he, " has certainly been hazard- 
 ous. 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 coun- 
 try, but you must first take some repose and some victuals. 
 If you pass the Schuylkill before nightfall it will be suificient." 
 
 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. 
 
 " True," antrwered my 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," con- 
 tinued 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, pre- 
 pares 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 disembarrassed 
 and benevolent. My temper is alive to social impulses, and 
 I accepted his invitation, not so much because I wished to 
 eat or to sleep, but because I felt reluctance 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 com- 
 mented on the state of the city like one whose reading had 
 been extensive and experience large. He combatted an opin- , 
 ion which I had casually formed respecting the originof this V' 
 epidemic, and imputed it, not to infected substances import- '•. 
 ed from the East or West, but to a morbid constitution of the i 
 atmosphere, owing wholly or in part to filthy streets, airless ! 
 habitations, and squalid persons. 
 
 As I talked with this man the sense of danger was obliter- 
 ated, I felt confidence revive in my heart and energy revisit 
 
134 ARTHUR MJmrrN; OR, 
 
 my stomach. Tliougli far from my wonted liealth,-my sensa- 
 tion grew less comfortless, and I found myself to stand in no 
 need of repose. 
 
 Breakfast being finished, my friend pleaded his daily en- 
 gagements as reasons for leaving me. He counselled me to 
 strive for some repose, but I was conscious of incapacity to 
 sleep. I was desirous of escaping, as soon as possible, from 
 this tainted atmosphere, and reflected whether anything re- 
 mained to be done respecting Wallace. 
 
 It now occurred to me that this youth must have left some 
 clothes and papers and, perhaps, books. The property 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 unpro- 
 tected. It was liable to be ransacked and pillaged by those 
 desjDerate ruffians of whom many were said to be hunting for 
 spoil, even at a time like this. If tliese should overlook this 
 dwelling, Thetford's unknown successor or heir might ap- 
 propriate the whole. Numberless accidents might happen to 
 occasion the destraction or embezzlement of what belonged to 
 Wallace, which might be prevented by the conduct wiiich I 
 should now pursue. 
 
 Immersed in these perplexities I remained bewildered and 
 motiouless. I was at length roused by someone knocking at 
 tlie door. Austin obeyed the signal, and instantly returned, 
 leading in — 3Ir. Hadwin ! 
 
 I know not whether this unlooked-for interview excited on 
 my part most grief or surprise. The motive of his coming was 
 easily divined. His journey was on two accounts superfluous. 
 He whom he sought was dead. The dutj- 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 con- 
 ceived, but my wretched policy had led me into this clan- 
 destine path. Secrecy may seldom be a crime. A virtuous 
 intention may produce it ; but surely it is always erroneous 
 and pernicious. 
 
 My friend's astonishment at the sight of me was not in- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR ]793. 135 
 
 ferior to my own. The causes which led to this unexpected 
 interview were mutually explained. To soothe the agonies of 
 his child he consented to approach the city and endeavor to 
 procure intelligence of Wallace. When he left his house 
 he intended to stop iu the environs and hire some emissary, 
 whom an ample reward might tempt to enter the city and 
 procure the information which was needed. 
 
 No one could be prevailed upon to execute so dangerous a 
 service. Averse to return without performing his commis- 
 sion he concluded to examine for himself. Thetford's re- 
 moval 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 incurred 
 by entering the city. Perhaps my knowledge of the inex- 
 pressible importance of his life to the happiness of his daugh- 
 ters 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 unnecessary. Neither Wallace nor my- 
 self were capable of being benefited by his presence. 
 
 I mentioned the death of his nephew as a reason for hasten- 
 ing his departure. I urged him in the most vehement terms 
 to remount his horse and to fly ; I endeavored to preclude 
 all inquiries respecting myself or Wallace, promising to fol- 
 low him immediately and answer all his questions at Malver- 
 ton. 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 pres- 
 ent 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 Had- 
 win, 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 motives were benevolent, 
 and that I had endeavored 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 expedi- 
 
136 ARTHUR MERVYK; OR, 
 
 tion which my uneasiness of brain and stomach would al- 
 low ? I conceived that to leave anything undone, with re- 
 gard 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 unacquainted 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 pres- 
 ent unforeseen. 
 
 Actuated by these considerations I once more entered 
 Thetford's habitation. I regretted that I had not procured 
 the counsel or attendance of my new friend, but some en- 
 gagements, the nature of which he did not explain, occasioned 
 him to leave me as soon as breakfast was finished. 
 
 CHAPTER XVffl. ' 
 
 I WANDERED ovcr this deserted mansion, in a considerable 
 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 
 j /someone had recentlj"- 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 re- 
 finement of temerity, or of heroism. Nothing, indeed, more 
 perplexes me than a review of my own conduct. Not, in- 
 deed, that death is an object alwaj'S 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 familiarity. Nurses and physicians soon- 
 est 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 influence 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 137 
 
 I passed from one room to another. A portmanteau, 
 marked with the initials of Wallace's name, at length attract- 
 ed my notice. From this circumstance I inferred that this 
 apartment had been occupied by him. The 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 tlie only one that bore marks of Wallace's ownership. 
 This I lifted in my arms with a view to remove it to Medli- 
 cote's house. 
 
 At that moment methought I heard a footstep slowly and 
 lingeringly ascending the stair. I was disconcerted at this in- 
 cident. 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 ap- 
 proached, 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 
 loaded with another's property, be interpreted ? Did he 
 enter the house after me, or was he the tenant of some chamber 
 hitherto uuvisited, whom my entrance had awakened from 
 his trance and called from his couch ? 
 
 In the confusion of mj' mind I still held my burden up- 
 lifted. To have placed it on the floor and encountered this 
 visitant, without this equivocal token about me, was the obvi- 
 ous 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 apparition 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, constituted the image which I now beheld. My 
 belief of somewhat perternatural in this appearance was con- 
 firmed by recollection of the resemblances between these' 
 features and those of one who was dead. In this shape and 
 visage, shadowy and death-like as they were, the lineaments 
 of Wallace, of him who had misled my rustic simplicity on 
 my first visit to this city, and whose death I had conceived to 
 be incontestably ascertained, were forcibly recognized. 
 
 This I'ecognition, which at first alarmed my superstition, 
 speedily led to more rational inferences. Wallace had been 
 dragged to the hospital. Nothing was less to be suspected 
 
138 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 than that he would retuna 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 imagination 
 connected with it, filled me with the liveliest joy. I thought 
 not of his ignorance of the causes of my satisfaction, 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 arti- 
 fices would excite in him ; I thought only of the happiness 
 which his recovery would confer upon his uncle and hia 
 cousins. 
 
 I advanced toward him with an air of congratulation, and 
 offered him my hand. He shrunk back, and exclaimed, in a 
 feeble voice, "Who are you? What business have you 
 hero?" 
 
 " I am the friend of W^allace, if he will allow me to be so. 
 I am a messenger from your uncle and cousins at Malvertoa. 
 I came to know the cause of your silence, and to afibrd you 
 any assistance in my power." 
 
 He continued to regard nie with an air of suspicion and 
 doubt. These I endeavored to remove by explaining the 
 motives that led me hither. It was with difficulty that he 
 seemed to credit my representations. When thoroughly con- 
 vinced of the truth of my assertions, he inquired with great 
 anxiety and tenderness concerning his relations, and ex- 
 pressed his hope that they were ignorant of what had befallen 
 him. 
 
 I could not encourage his hopes. I regretted my own pre- 
 cipitation 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 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 attentions could be found disengaged from his own con- 
 cerns. Those who were able or willing to leave the city had 
 sufficient motives for departure, in relation to themselves. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 139 
 
 If vehicle or horse were procurtible for money, onght it not 
 be secured for the use of Wallace himself, whose health re- 
 quired the easiest and speediest conveyance from this theatre 
 of death? 
 
 IMy 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 Malverton was the measure which prudence obvious- 
 ly 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 involuntary steps conducted him. 
 
 He listened to my representations and counsels, and ac- 
 knowledged their propriety. He put himself under my pro- 
 ^tection and guidance, and 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 im- 
 mediately 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 his jour- 
 ney. 
 
 The morning had now advanced. The rays of a sultry sun 
 had a sickening and enfeebling influence beyond any which I 
 had ever experienced. The drought of unusual duration had 
 bereft the air and the earth of every particle of moisture. 
 The element wljich I breathed ajDpeared to have stagnated 
 into noxiousness and putrefaction. I was astonished at ob- 
 serving the enormous diminution of my strength. My brows 
 were heavy, my intellects benumbed, my sinews enfeebled, 
 and my sensations 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 summoned up all my reso- 
 lution, 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^ 
 
140 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 efforts ; that the external frame will seldom languish, while 
 actuated by an unconquerable souh 
 
 I fought against my dreary feelings, which pulled me to the 
 earth. I quickened my pace, raised my drooping eyelids, and 
 hummed a cheerful and favorite air. For all that I accom- 
 plished during this day, I believe myself indebted to the 
 strenuousness and ardor of my resolutions. 
 
 I went from one tavern to another. One was deserted, in 
 another the peo2:>le were sick, and their attendants refused to 
 hearken to my inquiries or offers ; at a third, their horses 
 were engaged. I was determined 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 avaiioe 
 and fear, the fluctuation of my hopes and my incessant dis- 
 appointments, would be useless. Having exhausted aU my 
 expedients ineffectuallj', I was compelled to turn my weary 
 steps once more to Medlicote's lodgings. 
 
 My meditations were deeply engaged by the present cir- 
 cumstances of my situation. Since the means which were 
 first suggested were impracticable, I endeavored to investi- 
 gate others. Wallace's debility made it impossible for him 
 to perform this journey on foot ; but would not his strength 
 and his resolution suffice to carry him beyond the SchuylkiU ? 
 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 pi'oject, however, had 
 been mischievous, to review it with regret was only to pro- 
 long and to multiply its mischiefs. I trusted that time and 
 strength would not be wanting to the execution of this new 
 design. 
 
 On entering Medlicote's house, my looks, which, in spite 
 of my languor, were sprightly and confident, flattered Wal- 
 lace with the belief that my exertions had succeeded. When 
 acquainted with their failure, he sunk as quickly into hope- 
 lessness. 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 strengOi. All his powers were 
 exhausted by his walk from Bush Hill. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAH 1793. 141 
 
 I endeavored, by arguments and railleries, to revive bis 
 courage. The pure air of tbe country would exhilarate liini 
 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 Tlietford and his family. The in- 
 telligence which Medlicote Jiad enabled me to afford him 
 was heard with more satisfaction than regret. The ingrati- 
 tude 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 Tliet- 
 ford 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 neighborhood was free from 
 disease, and as long as I forbore any communication with the 
 sick ; yet I should have withdrawn to Malverton, merely to 
 gratify my friends, if Thetford had not used tbe most power- 
 ful arguments to detain me. He labored 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 prepared for our recep- 
 tion. When we go, you shall accompany 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 improbable than that any of us should be sick ; but, 
 if this should happen to you, I plight my honor that you 
 shall be carefully and faithfully attended.' 
 
142 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 "These assurances were solemn and generous. To malse 
 Susan Hadwin my wife was the scope of all my wishes and 
 labors. By staying-, I should hasten this desirable event, 
 and incur little hazard. By going, I should alienate the af- 
 fections of Thetford ; by whom, it is but justice to acknowl- 
 edge, that I had hitherto been treated with unexampled gen- 
 erosity 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 disposed to hasten 
 away ; but this inclination was combated by new arguments 
 and new entreaties of Tlietford. 
 
 "In this state of suspense, the girl by whom Mrs. Thet- 
 ford's infant was nursed fell sick. She was an excellent 
 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 hur- 
 ried to the hospital. I saw that no reliance could be placed 
 upon the assurances of Thetford. Every consideration 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 repeating and believing her assertions, 
 that her disease was not the fever. 
 
 " I was now greatly alarmed for my own safety. I was de- 
 termined 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 re- 
 moval thither was to the last degree abhorred. 
 
 " The morning arrived, and my situation was discovered. 
 At the first intimation, Thetford rushed out of the house, and 
 refused to re-enter it till I was removed. I knew not my 
 fate, till three ruffians made their appearance at my bedside, 
 and communicated their commission. 
 
 "I called on the name of Thetford and his wife. I en- 
 treated a moment's delay, till I had seen these persons, and 
 endeavored to j^rocure a respite from my sentence. They 
 were deaf to my entreaties, and prepared to execute their 
 office by force. I was delirious with rage and terror. I 
 heaped the bitterest execrations on nij' murderer ; and by 
 turns, invoked the compassion of, and poured a torrent of 
 reproaches on, the wretches whom he had selected for his 
 ministers. My struggles and outcries were vain. 
 
MBM0IB8 OF THE YEAR 1793. 143 
 
 " I have no perfect recollection of wliat passed till my ar- 
 rival at the hospital. My passions combiued with my dis- 
 ease to make me frantic and wild. In a state like mine, the 
 slightest motion could not be endured without agony. What 
 then must I have felt, scorched and dazzled by the sun, sus- 
 tained by hard boards, and borne for miles over a rugged 
 pavement ? 
 
 " I cannot make you comprehend the anguish of my feel- 
 ings. 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 cai't had moved 
 three paces. 
 
 " I knew not how, or by whom, I was moved from this ve- 
 hicle. 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 dis- 
 tortions bespoke the desperateness of his condition. 
 
 " The atmosphere was loaded by mortal stenches. A vapor, 
 suffocating and malignant, scarcely allowed me to breathe. 
 No suitable receptacle was provided for the evacuations pro- 
 duced by medicine or disease. My nearest neighbor was 
 struggling with death, and my 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 ax^artments 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 con- 
 sume the cordials which are provided for the patients, in de- 
 bauchery and riot. 
 
 "A female visage, bloated with malignity and drunkenness, 
 occasionally looked in. Dying eyes were cast upon her, in- 
 voking the boon, perhaps, of a drop of cold water, or her as- 
 sistance to change a posture which compelled him to behold 
 the ghastly writhings or deathful smile of his neighbor. 
 
 " The visitant had left the banquet for a moment, only to 
 see who was dead. If she entered the room, blinking eyes 
 and reeling steps showed her to be totally unqualified for 
 
144: ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 ministering the aid that was needed. Presently she disap- 
 jjeared, and others ascended the staircase, a coffin was de- 
 posited 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 depravity 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 com- 
 prehend them ; they were never executed by the nurses, and, 
 if the attempt had Iseen made, I should probably have refused 
 to receive what was offered. Recovery was equally bej-ond 
 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 ex- 
 pected to be the last. That, amid an atmosphere so conta- 
 gious and deadly, amid causes of destruction hourly ac- 
 cumulating, I should yet survive, appears to me nothing less 
 than miraculous. That so many conducted to this house the 
 only one who jjassed out of it alive should be myself almost 
 surpassess my belief. 
 
 "Some inexplicable principle rendered harmless those 
 potent enemies of human life. My fever subsided and van- 
 ished. 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 evUs." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Having gratiiied my curiosity in this respect, Wallace pro- 
 ceeded to remind me of the circumstances of our first inter- 
 view. He had entertained doubts whether I was the person 
 whom he had met at Lesher's. I acknowledged myself to be 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 145 
 
 the same, tod 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 de- 
 liberately executed. My professions at the tavern were sin- 
 cere. I meant not to injure but to serve you. It was not till 
 I reached the head of the staircase that the mischievous con- 
 trivance occurred. I foresaw nothing at the moment but lu- 
 dicrous mistakes and embarassments. The scheme was 
 executed almost at the very moment it occurred. 
 
 "Alter I had returned to the parlor, Thetford charged me 
 with the delivery of a message in a distant quarter of the city. 
 It was not till I had performed this commission, and had set 
 out on my return, that I fully revolved the consequences 
 likely to flow from my project. 
 
 " That Thetford and his wife would detect you in their bed- 
 chamber was unquestionable. Perhaps, weary of my long 
 delay, you would have fairly undressed and gone to bed. Tne 
 married couple would have made preparations 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 differ- 
 ent 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. 
 
 " 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 indig- 
 nation to myself, to whom it was equitably due. 
 
 " The married couple had retired to their chamber, and no 
 0,larm or confusion had followed. This was an inexplicable 
 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 afterward by a noise at the door. 
 
 " Some connection between these sounds and the foundling 
 was naturally suspected. In the morning the closet was ex- 
 amined, and a coarse pair of shoes was found on the floor. 
 The chamber door, which Thetford had locked in the evening, 
 
14:6 ARTHUR MBRVTN; OB, 
 
 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 rue. I rejoiced that 
 my stratagem had no more dangerous consequence, and ad- 
 mired the ingenuity and perseverance with which you had ex- 
 tricated yourself from so critical a state." 
 
 Tliis 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 unpriucij)led. 
 Superintended and controlled, they might be useful instru- 
 ments ; but that superintendence could not be bought. 
 ,y 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. He must be mild 
 and firm, intrepid and compliant. One perfectly qualified for 
 the office it is desirable, but not possible, to find. A dispas- 
 sionate and honest zeal in the cause of duty and humanity 
 may be of eminent utility. Am I not endowed with this zeal? 
 Cannot my feeble efforts obviate some portion of this evil ? 
 
 No one has hitherto claimed this disgustful and perilous 
 situation. Mj' powers and discernment are small, but if 
 they be honestly exerted they cannot fail to be somewhat 
 beneficial. 
 
 The impulse produced by these reflections was to hasten to 
 the City Hall, and make known my wishes. This impulse 
 was controlled by recollections of my own indisposition, and 
 of the state of Wallace. To deliver this youth to his friends 
 wn^i the strongest obligation. When this was discharged, I 
 might return to the city, and acquit myself of more compre- 
 hensive duties. 
 
 Wallace had now enjoyed a few hours' rest, and was per- 
 suaded to begin the journey. It was now noonday, and the 
 sun darted insupportable rays. Wallace was niore 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 pave- 
 ment. 
 
 My limbs were scarcely less weak, but my resolutions were 
 much more strenuous than his. I made light of his indis- 
 position, and endeavored to persuade him that his vigor 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 147 
 
 would return in proportion to his distance from tlie 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 ou. 
 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 regain 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 fervors of the sun, 
 was not to be endured. To carry him in my arms exceeded 
 my strength. Should I not claim the assistance of the first 
 passenger that appeared? 
 
 At that moment a horse and chaise passed us. The vehicle 
 proceeded at a quick pace. He that rode in it might afford 
 us the succor 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 forward. Feeble as I 
 was, I even ran with speed, in order to overtake the vehicle. 
 My purpose was effected with the utmost difficulty. It 
 fortunately happened that the carriage contained 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 ? " Ob- 
 serving 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 unfortunate ; but he could not 
 think of risking his own life in the cause of a stranger, 
 when he had a wife and children depending on his exist- 
 ence 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 manner 
 
148 ARTUUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 prepared 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 carry Wallace along with him. I confided greatly 
 in the salutary influence of rural airs. I believed that de- 
 bility constituted the whole of his comj)laint ; that continuance 
 in the city might occasion his relapse, or, at least, procrasti- 
 nate his restoration. 
 
 I once more addressed myself to the traveller, and inquired 
 in what direction and how far he was going. To my un- 
 speakable satisfaction, his answer informed me that his home 
 lay beyond Mr. Hadwin's, and that this road carried him di- 
 rectly 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 occuirence surpassed my fond- 
 est hopes. I hurried with the pleasing tidings to Wallace, 
 ^vho eagerly consented to enter the carriage. I thought not 
 at the moment of myself, or how far the same means of es- 
 caping 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 hurried away. I gazed after them, motion- 
 less and mute, till the carriage, turning a corner, passed be- 
 yond my sight. 
 
 I had now leisure to revert to nij' own condition, and to 
 ruminate on the series of abrujjt and diversified events that 
 had happened during the few hours which had been passed 
 in the city ; the end of my coming was thus speedilj' and 
 satisfactorily accomplished. My hopes and fears had rapidly 
 fluctuated ; but, respecting this young man, had now subsi- 
 ded into calm and propitious certainty. Before the decline 
 of the sun he would enter his paternal roof and diffuse inef- 
 fable joy throughout that peaceful and chaste asylum. 
 
 This contemplation, though rapturous and soothing, speed- 
 ily gave way to reflections on the conduct whichjny duty re- 
 quired and the safe departure of Wallace afforded me liberty 
 to piu'sue. To offer myself as a superintendent of the hos- 
 pital was still my purpose. The languors of my frame might 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 149 
 
 terminate in sickness, but tbis event it was useless to anticipate. 
 The lofty site and pure aii- of Bush Hill might tend to dissi- 
 pate my languors and restore me to health. At least while I 
 had power, I was bound to exert it to the wisest purposes. I re- 
 solved to seek the City Hall 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 re- 
 gard to her, were the same as ever ; but now it occurred to 
 me, with new force, that my death might preclude an inter- 
 view 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 ma- 
 lignity and facilitated the progress of the pestilence. 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 prescribing 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 relin- 
 quishing the possession during my life ? 
 
 These thoughts were superseded by a tide of new sensa- 
 tions. The weight that incommoded my brows and my 
 stomach was suddenly increased. My brain was usurped by 
 some benumbing power, and my limbs refused 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 indisi^osi- 
 tion would vanish of itself. This hope was at an end. The 
 grave was before me, and myjprojects of curiosity or benevo- 
 lence_ were to sink into oblivionr~1['was "iToTbereaved of the 
 powers of reflection. The consequences of lying in the road, 
 friendless and unprotected, were sure. Tlie 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 imagina- 
 tion. To hide me under some roof, where my existence 
 would be unknown and unsuspected, and where I m ight per- 
 ish unmolested and in quiet, was my jjresent wisl/, Thet- 
 
/ 
 
 150 AliTHUR MEBVTN; OB, 
 
 ford's or Medlicote'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 Wel- 
 becli's house. 
 
 This incident was unexpected. It led my reflections into a 
 new train. To go farther, in the present condition of my 
 frame, was impossible. I was well acquainted with tliis dwell- 
 ing. All its avenues were closed. Whether it had remained 
 unoccupied since nij' flight from it, I could not decide. It 
 was evident that, at present, it was without inhabitants. Pos- 
 sibly it might have continued in the same condition in v/hich 
 Welbeck had left it. Beds or sofas might be found, on which 
 a sick man might rest, and be fearless of intrusion. 
 
 This inference was quickly overturned by the obvious sup- 
 position 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 imagined, 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 fer- 
 vors were abated, and my faculties relieved from the weight 
 which had lately oppressed them. Mj' 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 precipitation of 
 the latest possessor, this window had been overlooked. Per- 
 haps it had been unclosed by violence, and afforded entrance 
 to a robber. By what means soever it had happened, it un- 
 doubtedly afforded ingress to me. I felt no scruple in profit- 
 ing by this circumstance. My purposes were not dishonest. 
 I should not injure or purloin anything. 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 17 03. 151 
 
 Having gotten in at the window, I could not but remark 
 that the furniture and its arrangements had undergone no 
 alteration in my absence. I moved softly from one apai't- 
 ment to another, till at length I entered that which had for- 
 merly been Welbeck's bedchamber. 
 
 The bed was naked of covering. The cabinets and closets 
 exhibited their fastenings broken. Their contents were gone. 
 Whether these appearances had been produced by midniglit 
 robbers, or by the ministers of law and the rage of the cred- 
 itors 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 charitable 
 cruelty of my neighbors. Mj' new sensations conjured up the 
 hope that my indisposition might jDrove a temporary evil. 
 Instead of pestilential or malignant fever, it might be aharm- 
 less intermittent. Time would ascertain its true nature ; 
 meanwhile, I would turn the carpet into a coveilet, supjjly 
 my pitcher with water, and administer without sparing, and 
 without fear, that remedy which was placed within my reach. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 I LAID myself on the bed and wrapped my limbs in the 
 folds of the carpet. My thoughts were restless and per- 
 turbed. I was once more busy in reflecting on the conduct 
 which I ought to pursue with regard to the bankbills. I 
 weighed, with scrupulous attention, every circumstance that 
 might influence my decision. I could not conceive anj' more 
 beneficial application of this propeity than to the service of 
 the indigent, at this season of multiplied distress ; but I con- 
 sidered that, if my death were unknown, 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 sea- 
 son of scarcity. The number and wants of the poor, during 
 the ensuing winter, would be deplorably aggravated. 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 
 
152 ARTHUR ilERVTK; OR, 
 
 were fulfilled in the person of the present chief magistrate. 
 To him, therefore, the packet was to be sent. 
 
 Piij^er and the implements of writing were necessary- forthia 
 end. Would they be found, I asked, in the upper room ? If 
 that apartment, like the rest which I had seen, and its furni- 
 ture, had remained untouched, my task would be practicable ; 
 but, if the means of writing were not to be immediately pro- 
 cured, my purpose, momentous and dear as it was, must be 
 relinquished. 
 
 The truth, in this respect, was easily and ought immediate- 
 ly to be ascertained. I rose from the bed which I had lately 
 taken, and proceeded to the study. The entries and staircases 
 were illuminated by a pretty strong twilight. The rooms, in 
 consequence of every ray being excluded by the closed shut- 
 ters, 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 in- 
 to the study would be found in the same condition. The door 
 was shut, but no key was to be seen. My hopes were con- 
 siderably 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 betokened that the room 
 was already occupied by some other, who desired to ex- 
 clude a visitor. The unbarred shutter below was i-emem- 
 bered, 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. Num- 
 berless 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 apijlied to the lock. The door, in 
 sj)ite of my repeated efforts, would not open. 
 
 My design was too momentous to be readily relinquished. 
 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 plunder- 
 ers. Here was one who labored for seclusion and conceal- 
 ment. 
 
 The pillage was not made upon my property. My weak- 
 
MEMOIRS OF TUE YEAR 1793. 153 
 
 ness would disable me from encountering or mastering a 
 man of violence. To solicit admission into this rootn 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 conclusions 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 discovered a light dif- 
 ferent from what was usually met with at this hour. It was 
 not the twilight which the sun, imperfectly excluded, pro- 
 duces, but gleams as from a lamp ; yet its gleams were fainter 
 and obscurer than a lamj) 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 disastrous events, 
 was ominous. Hitherto no direct proof had been given of 
 the presence of a human being. How to ascertain his pres- 
 ence, 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 anyone within? Speak." 
 
 These words were scarely uttered, when someone ex- 
 claimed, 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 pre- 
 lude. 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 suspicion which 
 presently succeeded to my doubts — that the person within 
 was disabled by sickness. The circumstances 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 hosj^ital, he has 
 shut himself in this apartment. The robber, it may be, who 
 came to pillage, was overtaken and detained hy disease. In 
 either case, detection or intrusion would be hateful, and would 
 be assiduously eluded. 
 
154 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 my duty to succor and 
 cherish to the utmost of my power. Once more I spoke : 
 
 " Who is within ? I beseech you answer me. Whatever 
 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 contracted 
 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 compassion. I again entreated 
 to be admitted, promising all the succor or consolation which 
 my situation allowed me to afford. 
 
 Answers were made in tones of anger and impatience, 
 blended with tbose of grief : "I want no succor ; 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 deUrium, or 
 the dictates of despair. The style and articulation denoted 
 the speaker to be superior to the class of servants. Hence 
 my anxiety to see and to aid him was increased. My remon- 
 strances were sternly and pertinaciously I'epelled. For a time, 
 incoherent and impassioned 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 com- 
 miseration. 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 admitted. 
 
 My perseverance seemed now to have exhausted all his 
 patience, and he exclaimed, in a voice of thunder, " Arthur 
 Mervyn ! Begone. Linger but a moment, and my 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 familiar with my name. Not- 
 withstanding the improbability of my entrance into this 
 dwelling, I was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named ! 
 
 My curiositj' and compassion were in no wise diminished, 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAIt 1793. 155 
 
 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 resem- 
 blance, in voice or tones, to him whom I had just heard. 
 This process was effectual. Gradually my imagination called 
 up an image which, now that it was clearly seen, I was as- 
 tonished had not instantly occurred. Three years ago, a 
 man, by name Colvill, came on foot and with a knapsack on 
 his back, into the district where my father resided. He 
 had learning and genius, and readily obtained the station 
 for which only he deemed himself qualified — that of a school- 
 master. 
 
 His demeanor was gentle and modest ; his habits, as to 
 sleep, food, and exercise, abstemious and regular. Medita- 
 tion in the forest, or reading in his closet, seemed to consti- 
 tute, together with attention to his scholars, his sole amuse- 
 ment and employment. He estranged himself from company, 
 not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studi- 
 ous seclasion afforded him chief satisfaction. 
 
 No one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbors. 
 His scholars revered him as a father, and made under his tu- 
 ition a remarkable proficiency. His character seemed open 
 to boundless inspection, and his conduct was pronounced 
 by all to be faultless. 
 
 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. 
 Tiie betrayer was gradually detected, and successive discover- 
 ies showed that the same artifices had been practised, with 
 the same success, upon many others. Colvill was the arch- 
 villain. He 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 
 recognizing his features or accents, I had abundant cause to 
 think of him with detestation, and pursue him with implac- 
 
156 ARTHUR MERVTN ; OR, 
 
 able revenge, for tlie victim of liis acts, she wliose ruin was 
 first detected, was — my sister. 
 
 Tliis unhappy girl escaped from the upbraidings of her pa- 
 rents, from the contumelies of the world, from the goadings 
 of remorse, and the anguish flowing from the perfidy and de- 
 sertion of Colvill, in a voluntary death. She was innocent and 
 . lovely. Previous to this evil my soul was linked with hers with a 
 thousand resemblances and sympathies, as well as by perpet- 
 ual intercourse from infancy, and by the fraternal relation. 
 She was my sister, my j)receptress and friend ; but she died — 
 her end was violent, untimely, and criminal ! I cannot think 
 of her without heart-bursting grief ; of her destroyer with- 
 out a rancor which I know to be wrong, but which I cannot 
 subdue. 
 
 When the image of Colvill rushed, upon this occasion, on 
 my thought, I almost started on my feet. To meet him, 
 after so long a separation, here, and in these circumstances, 
 was so unlooked-for and abrupt an event, and revived a 
 tribe of such hateful impulses and agonizing 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 surpi-ise on first hearing my 
 voice, all contributed to strengthen my belief. 
 
 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 mj' reason from lead- 
 ing me, in any instance, to outrage or even to upbi'aiding. 
 
 All my wishes with regard to this man were limited to ex- 
 pelling his image from my memory, and to shunning a meet- 
 ing with him. That he had not opened the door at my 
 bidding was now a topic of joy. To look upon some bottom- 
 less 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 im- 
 mersed in the infection of the liospital, and to be hurried, yet 
 breathing and observant, to my grave was a more supportable 
 fate, 
 s/ 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 extraordinary degree of its 
 mischiefs, is unjustifiable. To regard the wicked with no 
 emotion but pity, to be active in reclaiming them, in control- 
 ling their malevolence, and preventing or repairing the ills 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 157 
 
 which they produce, is the only province of duty. This lesson, 
 as -well as a thousand others, I have yet to learii ; but I despair 
 of living long enough for that or any beneficial purpose. ^ 
 
 My emotions with regard to Colvill were erroneous, but 
 onanipotent. 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 root with a wretch spotted with so many crimes. 
 
 I had not set my feet upon the floor before my precipitation 
 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 creeijiug from his hiding-place, and would probably 
 fly with speed from the house. My belief of his sictness was 
 DOW confuted. 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 myself 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 circumspec- 
 tion. They reached the stairs and descended. The room in 
 which I lay was, like the rest, obscured by the closed shutters. 
 This obscuritj' 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 disen- 
 gaged 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, turning 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 tormenting doubts, was 
 
158 ARTHUR 2IERVr^; OB, 
 
 now beheld. One glance oommuuicated to my senses all the 
 parts of this terrific vision. A siuking 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 my equanimity and fortitude. The test 
 of my courage was once more employed to cover me with 
 humiliation and remorse. This second time my fancy con- 
 jured up a spectre, and I shuddered as if the grave were 
 forsaken and the unquiet dead haunted my pillow. 
 
 The visage and the shape had, indeed, preternatural atti- 
 tudes, but they belonged, not to Colvill, but to — Welbeck. 
 
 CHA.PTER XXI. 
 
 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 ground- 
 less belief of preternatural visitations, I was able to banish 
 the phantom almost at the same instant at which it appeared. 
 Welbeok had escaped from the stream alive ; or had, by some 
 inconceivable means, been restored to life. 
 
 Tlie first was the most j)lausible conclusion. It instantly 
 engendered a suspicion, that his plunging into the water was 
 an artifice, intended to establish a belief 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 iuiquit}', 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 me : 
 
 " ^Vhat is thi-s? Are you here ? In defiance of pestilence, 
 
 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? 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TSJAS 1793. 159 
 
 Is there no means of evading your pursuit ? Must I dip my 
 Lauds a second time in blood and dig for you a grave bv 
 tlje side of Watson ? " 
 
 These words were Kstened to with calmness. I suspected 
 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 mis- 
 taken. While you hve there is room to hope that your 
 errors will be cured, and the turmoil and inquietudes 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 recalled. 
 
 " This meeting was casual. Since I believed you to be 
 dead, it could not be otherwise. You err, if j'ou suppose 
 that any injury will accrue to you from mj' 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 fort- 
 unate to you. 
 
 " Death is the inevitable and universal lot. When or how 
 it comes, is of little moment. To stand, when so many thou- 
 sands are falling around me, is not to be expected. 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 re- 
 covery are too slender to deserve my confidence. I came V 
 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 condi- 
 tion to the agents of the hospital." 
 
 Welbeck listened with the deepest attention. The wild- 
 ness of his air disappeared and gave place to perplexity and 
 apprehension. 
 
 "You are sick,'' said he, in a tremulous tone, in which 
 terror was mingled with affection. " You know this, and ex- 
 
160 ABTHUR MEItVYN ; OB, 
 
 pect 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 expect 
 to be, I cling to life. To comply with your heroic counsel, 
 and to fly ; to leave you thus desolate and helpless, is the 
 ■strongest impulse. Fain would I resist it, but cannot. 
 
 " To desert you would be flagitious and dastardly beyond 
 all former acts ; yet to stay with you is to contract the dis- 
 ease, and to perish after you. 
 
 " Life, burdened as it is with guilt and ignominy, is stiU 
 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 be- 
 lief that his presence might endanger himself without con- 
 ferring 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 iTiin is complete. 
 My last hope is extinct. 
 
 r" Tes, Mervyn, I will stay with you. I will hold your 
 head. I will put water to your lips. I wiU watch night and 
 day by your side. Wheu you die I will carry you by night 
 to the neighboring 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 between 
 opposite purposes. His tempestuous features subsided 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 remon- 
 strances. I was conscious that his attendance might pre- 
 clude, in some degree, my own exertions and alleviate the 
 pangs of death ; but these consolations might be purchased 
 
MEMOIRS OF TUB YEAS, 1793. 161 
 
 i, too dear. To receive them at the hazard of his life would be 
 £^-^ make them odious. 
 
 But, if he should remain, what conduct would his com- 
 panion 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 per- 
 sisting in it you will add to the miseries of my condition ; 
 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 de- 
 struction." 
 
 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? Someone answered my interrogations and en- 
 treaties, whom I too certainly recognized. Why does he 
 remain ? " 
 
 " You heard no one but myself. The design that brought 
 me hither was to be accomplished without a witness. I de- 
 sired to escape detection, and repelled your solicitations for 
 admission in a counterfeited voice." 
 
 " That voice belonged to one from whom I had lately part- 
 ed. What his merits or demerits are I know not. He found 
 me wandering in the forests of New Jersey. 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 difierent 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 inter- 
 
1C2 ABTHUn MERVYN; OR, 
 
 course between Welbeck and liim? By what miracle escaped 
 the forruer from the river, into which I had imagined him for- 
 ever sunk? 
 
 "I will answer you," said he with candor. "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 fi'om destruction may be told 
 without detriment to my person or fame. 
 
 " When I leaped into the river I intended to perish. I 
 harbored no previous doubts of my ability to execute my 
 fatal purpose. lu this respect I was deceived. Suffocation 
 would not come at my bidding. My muscles and limbs re- 
 belled against my will. There was a mechanical repugnance 
 to the loss of life which I could not vanquish. My struggles 
 might thrust me below the surface, but my lips were spon- 
 taneously shut and excluded the torrent from my lungs. 
 When my breath was exhausted, 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 pro- 
 long my existence. I landed in a few minutes on the Jersey 
 shore. 
 
 " This scheme being frustrated, I sunk into dreariness 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 en- 
 joyment and embellishment. My means of living were an- 
 nihilated. I saw no path before me. To shun the presence 
 of mankind was my sovereign wish. Since I could not die 
 by my own hands, I must be content to crawl upon the sur- 
 face till a superior fate should permit me to perish. 
 
 " I wandered into the centre of the wood. I stretched my- 
 self on the mossy verge of a brook and gazed at the stars till 
 they disappeared. The next day was spent with little varia- 
 tion. The cravings of hunger were felt, and the sensation 
 WHS a joyous one, since it afforded me the isracticable 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 sue- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THB YEAB 1793. 1G3 
 
 ceeded. On the evening of the fourth I was seated on a rock, 
 with my face buried in my hands. Someone laid his hand 
 upon my shoulder. I started and looked up. I beheld a face 
 beaming with compassion and benignity. He endeavored to 
 extort from me the cause of my solitude and sorrow. I dis- 
 regarded his entreaties 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 
 imijatience and anger, but he was not to be discouraged or 
 intimidated. To elude his persuasions I was obliged to com- 
 ply. My strength was gone, and the vital fabric was crum- 
 bling into pieces. A fever raged in my veins, and I was eon- 
 soled by reliectiug that my life was at once assailed by famine 
 and disease. 
 
 " Meanwhile my gloomy meditations experienced no res- 
 pite. 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 recalled, his expiring 
 looks and the directions which were mutually given respect- 
 ing his sister's and his property. 
 
 "As I perpetually revolved these incidents, they assumed 
 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 re- 
 membered. It came attended by recollections respecting a 
 volume which I filled, when a youth, with extracts from the 
 Eoman and Greek poets. Besides this literary purpose, I 
 likewise used to preserve in it the bank-bills with the keep- 
 ing or carriage of which I chanced to be entrusted. This 
 im"age led me back to the leather case containing Lodi's 
 property, which was put into n)y 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 electrical flash. 
 Was it not possible that part of Lodi's property might be 
 enclosed within the leaves of this volume ? In hastilj^ turn- 
 ing it over I recollected to have noticed leaves whose edges 
 by accident or design adhered to each other. Lodi, in speak- 
 ing of the sale of his father's West India property, men- 
 tioned that the sum obtained for it was forty thousand dol- 
 lars. Half only of this sum had been discovered by me. 
 How had the remainder been appropriated ? Surely this vol- 
 ume contained it. 
 
164: ARTHUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 " The influence of this thought was like the infusion of a 
 new soul into my frame. From torpid and desperate, from 
 inflexible aversion to mediciue 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 exas- 
 perated my disease. While chained to my bed the rumor of 
 pestilence was spread abroad. This event, however, generally 
 calamitous, was propitious to me and was hailed with satis- 
 faction. It multiplied the chances that my house and its 
 furniture would be unmolested. 
 
 " My friend was assiduous and indefatigable in his kind- 
 ness. 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 aU that he witnessed was contradictory and unintel- 
 ligible. 
 
 "At length my strength was 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 ex- 
 plore 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 desola- 
 tion 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 con- 
 tents. At this spectacle my heart sunk. My books, doubt- 
 less, had shared the common destiny. My blood throbbed 
 with painful vehemence as I approached the study and opened 
 the door. 
 
 " My hopes, that languished for a moment, were revived 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 windows. My eye eagerly sought 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 165 
 
 the spot where I rememhered 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 mj' 
 curses of the fatal interference which had snatched away the 
 prize, would be only aggravations of my disappointment and 
 my sorrow. You found me in this state, and know what fol- 
 lowed." 
 
 CHAPTEE XXn. 
 
 This narrative threw new light on the character of Wel- 
 beck. If accident had given him possession of this treasure, 
 it was easy to predict on what schemes of luxury and selfish- 
 ness it would have been expended. The same dependence 
 on the world's erroneous estimation, the same devotion to im- 
 posture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have coiisti-\ 
 tuted 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 supreme law of his 
 actions. To be subjected to the necessity of honest labor 
 was the heaviest of all evils, and one from which he was 
 willing to escape by the commission 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 promotion 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 pur- 
 loined from the shelf? The first impulse was to hide this 
 truth ; but my understanding had been taught, by recent oo- 
 cuiTences, 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. That awe 
 which was once created by his superiority of age, refinement 
 
1G6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 of manners, and dignity of garb, had vanislied. I was a boy 
 in years, an indigent and uneducated 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 vol- 
 umes, this only should have vanished, was an inexplicable 
 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 con- 
 jecture 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 knowl- 
 edge 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 lightly 
 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 immediately 
 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 rightful 
 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 perplexity 
 or anguish ; to sport with your passions. On the supposi- 
 tion of your death, I deemed it no infraction of justice to take 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 167 
 
 this manuscript. Accident unfolded its contents. I could 
 not hesitate to choose my path. The natural and legal suc- 
 cessor 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 con- 
 sult and to act for herself on the most trivial 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 imagine 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 plen- 
 teously supplied. The dwelling and its furniture was hers, as 
 far as rigid jurisprudence would permit. To prescribe her 
 expenses and govern her family was the province of her 
 guardian. 
 
 " You have heard the tale of ray anguish and despair. 
 Whence did they flow but from the frustration of schemes 
 projected for her benefit, as they were executed with lier 
 money and by means which the authority of her guardi:iu 
 fully justified? Why have I encountered this contag ious at- 
 mo sphere , and explored my way, like a thiei, to this recess, 
 DutwEha 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 con- 
 ceptions crude. But if, after this jaroof of the justice of my 
 claim, you hesitate to restore the money, I shall treat you as 
 a robber, who has plundered my cabinet and refused to re- 
 fund 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 him- 
 self 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 tliis statement compatible with former rep- 
 resentations. No mention had then been made of guardian- 
 ship. By thus acting, he would have thwarted all his schemes 
 
leS ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 this money 
 was established ; but I questioned its truth. To intimate 
 my doubts of his veracity would be to provoke abhor- 
 rence and outrage. 
 
 His last insinuation was peculiarly momentous. Suppose 
 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 behavior on this occasion be 
 deemed ilUoit ? I entered Welbeck's habitation at midnight, 
 proceeded to his closet, possessed myself of portable prop- 
 erty, 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 answer. 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 frofn one in my sit- 
 uation. The folly of opposition, when my feebleness and 
 loneliness were contrasted with his activity and resources, 
 appeared to him monstrous and glaring ; but his contempt 
 was converted into rage and fear when he reflected that this 
 folly might finally defeat his hopes. He had probably deter- 
 mined to obtain the money, let the purchase cost what it 
 would, but was willing to exhaust pacific expedients before 
 he should resort to force. He might likewise question 
 whether the money was within his reach. I had told him 
 that I had it, but whether it was now about me was some- 
 what 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 remonstance 
 and persuasion : 
 
 " Your present behavior, 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 asser- 
 tions that you keep this money for another, when I recollect 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE YEAR 1793. 109 
 
 that six weeks have passed since you carried it off? "Why- 
 have you not sought the owner and restored it to her ? If 
 your intentions 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 inherit this wealth. Next to 
 Signora 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 imputations 
 of dishonesty affected me but Httle. They excited no anger, 
 because they originated in ignorance, and were rendered 
 plausible to Welbeck by such facts as were known to him. It 
 was needless to confute the charge by elaborate and circum- 
 stantial details. 
 
 It was true that my recovery was, in the highest degree, 
 improbable, and that my death would put an end to my power 
 over this money ; but had I not determined to secure its use- 
 ful application in case of my death ? This project was ob- 
 structed by the presence of Welbeck ; 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 peaceable 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 
 sacrifice, not a clioice, but necessity. 
 
 Promises were easily given, but were surely not to be con- 
 fided in. Welbeck's own tale, in which it could not be im- 
 agined that he had aggravated his defects, attested the frailty 
 of his virtue. To put into his hands a sum like this, in ex- 
 pectation of his dehveriiig it to another, when my death would 
 cover the transaction with impenetrable secrecy, would be, 
 indeed, a proof of that infatuation which he thought proper 
 to impute to me. 
 
170 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 These thoughts influenced nay 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 preventing. The sooner this contro- 
 versy should end, and I in any measure be freed from the 
 obstruction of his company, the better. 
 
 "Mr. Welbeck," said I, " my regard to your safety compels 
 me to wish that this interview should terminate. At a differ- 
 ent 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 money 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 appropriate it in a way in which you shaU have no par- 
 ticipation." 
 
 I will not repeat the contest that succeeded between my 
 forbearance and his passions. I listened to the dictates of 
 his rage and his avarice in silence. Astonishment at my 
 inflexibility was blended with his anger. By turns he com- 
 mented 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 
 ej'es, my cheeks glowing and my temples throbbing with 
 fever, and my total passiveness, attracted his attention and 
 arrested his stroke. Compassion would take the place of 
 rage, and the belief be revived that remonstrances and ar- 
 guments would answer his purpose. 
 
 CHAPTER XXni. 
 
 This scene lasted I know not how long. Insensibly the 
 passions and reasonings of Welbeck assumed a new form. A 
 grief, mingled with perplexitj', overspread his countenance. 
 He ceased to contend or to speak. His regards were with- 
 drawn from me, on whom they had hitherto been fixed ; and 
 wandering or vacant, testified a conflict of mind terrible be- 
 yond any my young imagination had ever conceived. 
 
 For a time he appeared to be unconscious of my presence. 
 He moved to and fro with unequal steps, and witli gesticula- 
 tions that possessed a horrible but indistinct significance. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 171 
 
 Occasionally he struggled for breath and his efforts were di- 
 rected to remove some choking impediment. 
 
 No test of iny fortitude had hitherto occurred equal to 
 that to which it was now subjected. The suspicion which this 
 deportment suggested was vague and formless. 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 bloodj' 
 sacrifice ? Was his own death or was mine to attest the mag- 
 nitude of his despair or the impetuosity of his vengeance ? 
 
 Suicide was familiar to his thoughts. He had consented 
 to live but on one condition — that of regaining posses- 
 sion 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. 
 
 No. These were tokens that pointed to me. Some un- 
 known instigation was at work within him, to tear away his 
 remnant of humanity and fit him for the ofiice of my mur- 
 derer. I knew not how the accumulation of guilt could con- 
 tribute to his gratification or security. His actions had been 
 partially exhibited and vaguely seen. What extenuations or 
 omissions had vitiated his former or recent narrative ; how 
 far his actual performances 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 deportment of this 
 man with deeper attention. The paroxysm which controlled 
 him at length, in some degree, subsided. 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 enormous perils, must not be. 
 
 " O Clemenza ! O Mervyn ! Ye have not merited that I 
 should leave j^ou 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 
 cbnsequences of my guilt. It must not be." 
 
 Saying this, Welbeck cast fearful glances at the windows 
 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 approached the bed. He 
 
172 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR. 
 
 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 articulate 
 and suflbcated with emotion be spoke : " Excellent but fatally 
 obstinate youth ! Know at least the cause of my impor- 
 tunity. 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 and disgrace. Save the woman whom you wish 
 to benefit from the blackest imj)utations, from hazard to her 
 life and her fame, from languishing in dungeons, from ex- 
 piring on the gallows ! 
 
 "The bills — oh, save me from the bitternes of death ! Let 
 the evils to which my miserable Hfe has given birth termi- 
 nate here and in myself. Surrender them to me, for " 
 
 There he stopped. His utterance was choked bj- tejTor. 
 Rapid glances were again darted at the windows and door. 
 The silence was uninterrupted, except by far-off sounds, pro- 
 duced by some moving carriage. Once more he summoned 
 resolution and spoke : 
 
 " Surrender them to me — for — they we forged ! 
 
 "Formerly I told you that a scheme of forgery had been 
 conceived. Shame would not suffer me to add, <hat 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 interview with Lodi 
 saved me from the dangerous experiment. 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 Watson 
 they were forgotten. They afterward recurred to recollec- 
 tion. 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, loud 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. HappUy 
 they have not been used. Give them, therefore, to me, that 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAM 1793. 173 
 
 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, 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 inferred. My career 
 would have found an ignominious close ; or, if my punishment 
 had been transmuted into slavery and toil, would the testi- 
 mony 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's request was salutary to me and honorable 
 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 dis- 
 course. This incident was adapted to infuse 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 conversation 
 below. This interval was pregnant with thought. That im- 
 pulse 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 sur- 
 render 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 at- 
 tentive to the conversation in the street. 
 
 All the circumstances of my present situation tended to arrest 
 the progress of thought and chain my contemplations to one 
 image; but even now there was room for foresight and de- 
 liberation. Welbeck intended to destroy these bills. Per- 
 haps he had not been sincere ; or if his purpose had been 
 honestly disclosed, this purpose might change when the bills 
 
174 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 were in bis possession. His poverty and sanguineness of tem- 
 per might prompt bim 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 promote 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 momentarj' 
 lingering might change the circumstances that surrounded 
 me and frustrate my project. 
 
 My languors were suspended by the urgencies of this occa- 
 sion. 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 wus too 
 late. Only enough of them remained 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 sjjeech. 
 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 destroj"^ 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 ! Miscreant ! To be fooled by so gross an arti- 
 fice ! The notes were genuine. The tale of their forgery 
 was false and meant only to wrest them from you. Execra- 
 ble 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 me, on the rack." 
 
 During this speech all was frenzy and storm in the counte- 
 nance and features of Welbeck. Nothing less could be expect- 
 ed than that the scene would terminate in some bloody ca- 
 tastrophe. I bitterly regretted the facility with which I had 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 175 
 
 been deceived and the precipitation of my sacrifice. The act, 
 however lamentable, could not be revoked. What remained 
 but to encounter or endure its consequences with unshrink- 
 ing firmness? 
 
 The contest was too unequal. It is possibly that the frenzy 
 which actuated Welbeck might have siseedily subsided. 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 someone on the pave- 
 ment without of — " Who is within ? Is anyone within ? " 
 
 These noises gave a new direction to Welbeck's thoughts. 
 "They ai-e 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 succession 
 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 ceiling of the third story to which you 
 were conducted by a movable stair or ladder. I considered 
 that this probably was an opening into a narrow and dark- 
 some nook formed by the angle of the roof. By ascending, 
 drawing after me the ladder and closing the door, I 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 distance from sus- 
 picion. 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 possibly to change it. The air was 
 musty, stagnant, and scorchingly hot. My breathing became 
 difficult, and I saw that to remain here ten minutes would un- 
 avoidably produce suffocation. 
 
 My terror of intruders had rendered me blind to the con- 
 sequences of immuring myself in this cheerless recess. It 
 was incumbent on me to extricate myself as speedily as pos- 
 sible. I attempted to lift the door. My first effort was suc- 
 cessless. Every inspiration was quicker and more difficult 
 than the former. As my terror, so my strength and my ex- 
 ertions increased. Finally, my trembling hand lighted on a 
 nail that was imperfectly driven into the wood, and which, by 
 
176 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 affording me a firmer hold, enabled me at length to raise it, 
 and to inhale the air from beneath. 
 
 Eelieved 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 protection with unbounded confidence. 
 
 My scrutiny was imperfect by reason of the faint light 
 which found its way through the opening ; yet it was suffi- 
 cient to set me afloat on a sea of new wonders and subject 
 my fortitude to a new test. 
 
 (^Here Mervyn paused in his narrative. A minute passed in 
 sUence and seeming indecision. His perplexities gradually 
 disappeared, and he continued : ) 
 
 I have promised to relate the momentous incidents of my 
 life, and have hitherto been faithful in my enumeration. There 
 is nothing which I more detest than equivocation and mystery. 
 Perhaps, however, I shall now incur some imputation of that 
 kind. I would willing escape the accusation, but confess that 
 I am hopeless of escaping it. 
 
 I might, indeed, have precluded your guesses and surmises 
 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 occurred ; but this 
 would be false, and every sacrifice is trivial which is made 
 upon the altar of sincerity. Besides, 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 
 wliich 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 interval, though 
 short, and the scrutiny, though hasty, furnished matter which 
 my curiosity devoured with unspeakable 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 my- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 177 
 
 self on the bed whicli 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 tor- 
 ments of thirst ; ultimately to expire in torpor or frenzy, was 
 the fate to which I looked forward ; yet I was not terrified. I 
 seemed to be sustained by a preternatural energy. I felt as 
 if the opportunity of combating such evils was an enviable 
 privilege, and, though none would witness my victorious mag- 
 nanimity, yet to be conscious that j)raise was my due was all^ 
 that my ambition required. 
 
 These sentiments were doubtless tokens of delirium. The 
 excruciating agonies whicli 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. Tliese 
 impediments were now, in the confusion of my understand- 
 ing, overlooked 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 
 
178 ARTHUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 difficulty, but was not dislieartened. I proceeded, as I have 
 since discovered, in a direction dilferent from the true, but 
 hesitated not till my powers were exhausted and I sunk upon 
 the ground. I closed vay 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 tenderest humanity, 
 could suggest. 
 
 In consequence of your care, I have been restored to life 
 and to health. Your conduct was not influenced by the pros- 
 pect 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 show- 
 ing that the being whose life you have prolonged, though un- 
 educated, ignorant, and poor, is not profligate and worthless, 
 and will not dedicate that life which your bounty has given, 
 to mischievous or contemptible purposes. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIV. 
 
 Hebe ended the narrative of Mervyn. Surely its incidents 
 were of no common kind. During this season of pestilence, 
 my opportunities of observation had beeu numerous, and I 
 had not suffered them to pass unimproved. The occurrences 
 which fell within my own experience bore a general resem- 
 blance to those which had just been related, but they did not 
 hinder the latter from striking on my mind witli 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 qual- 
 ities. 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 encounter of gigantic dangers 
 by no laborious education. He stepped forth upon the stage, 
 unfurnished, by anticipation or experience, with the means of 
 ^ /Security against fraud ; and yet, by the aid of pure intentions, 
 ' had frustrated the wiles of an accomplished and veteran de- 
 ceiver. 
 
 I blessed the chance which placed the youth under my 
 protection. When I reflected on that tissue of nice contin- 
 gencies which led him to my door, and enabled me to save 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 179 
 
 from death a being of snch rare endowments, my heart over- 
 flowed 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-devotion are ravished from exitst- 
 ence, and consigned to hopeless oblivion ! 
 
 I had saved the life of this youth. This was not the limit 
 of my duty or my power. Could I not render that life jDrofit- 
 able to himself and to mankind ? The gains of my profession 
 were slender ; but these gains were sufficient for his main- 
 tenance 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 occuiTed 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 previously to be ob-^ 
 tained. 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 calamit}-, her tale would have 
 been listened to with insupportable sympathy ; but the fre- 
 quency of the spectacle of distress seems to lessen the com- 
 passion with which it is reviewed. Now that those scenes 
 are only remembered, my anguish is greater than when they 
 were witnessed. Then every new day was only a repetition 
 of tlie disasters of the foregoing. My sensibility, if not ex- 
 tinguished, was blunted ; and I gazed uiDon the comjplicated 
 ills of poverty and sickness with a degree of unconcern on 
 which I should once have reflected with astonishment. 
 
 The fate of Clemenza Lodi was not, perhaps, more signal 
 than many which have occurred. It threw detestable 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 imperfectly 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 English ofiicer. 
 Her manners and mode of living were specious. She had 
 
180 ARTHUR MERVTK ; OR, 
 
 three daughters, well trained in the school of fashion, and 
 elegant in person, manners, and dress. They had lately ar- 
 rived from Europe, and, for a time, received from their neigh- 
 bors 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 un- 
 faithful to their secret ; one of these was allied to me by lies 
 which authorized me in watching his steps and detecting his 
 errors, with a view to his reformation. From him I obtained 
 a knowledge of the genuine character of these women. 
 
 A man like Welbeck, who was the slave of depraved appe- 
 tites, 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 fre- 
 quent demands made upon his purse by this woman that part 
 of the embarrassments 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 
 profligate schemes. 
 
 Tlie appearance of pestilence, meanwhile, threw them into 
 panic and they hastened to remove from danger. Mrs. Vil- 
 lars appears to have been a woman of no ordinary views. 
 She stooped to the vilest means of amassing money ; but this 
 money was employed to secure to herself and her daughters 
 the benefits of independence. She purchased the house 
 which she occupied in the city, and a mansion in the environs, 
 well built and splendidly furnished. To the latter she and 
 her family, of which the Italian girl was now a member, re- 
 tired 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 181 
 
 rectitude by the impetuosity of youthful passions. He bad 
 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 pleasure his reputation and his fortune. 
 
 My house was his customary abode daring those intervals 
 in which he was persuaded to pursue his profession. Some 
 time before the infection began its progress he had disap- 
 peared. 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 kins- 
 man. Here, it seems, he had immured himself from my in- 
 quiries, 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. 
 
 Despondencj' 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 condition of 
 Clemenza Lodi were related. Welbeck was not named, but 
 was described in terms which, combined with the narrative of 
 Mervyn, enabled me to recognize the paramour of Lucy Vil- 
 lars in the man whose crimes had been the principal theme of 
 our discourse. 
 
 Mervyn.'s curiosity was greatly roused when I intimated 
 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 thoughtful- 
 ness he spoke : 
 
 " Her condition is perilous. The povei'ty of Welbeck will 
 drive him far from her abode. Her profligate protectors will 
 entice her or abandon her to ruin. Cannot she be saved ? " 
 
 "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 introduction 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 f u giti ve ? 
 
1S2 ARl'HVU MEHVYX; OR, 
 
 Whom will you convinoe that lier illicit iiitercoui-se witliWel- 
 beck, 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 tbeu' family 
 a stranger whose conduct has incuiTed infamy, 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 mine to do anything.'' 
 
 The lateness of the hour put an end to our conversation 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 con- 
 curred. In the morning I mentioned it to Mervyu. I dwelt 
 upon the benefits that adhered to the medical profession, the 
 power which it confers of lightening the distresses of our 
 neighbors, 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 pf 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. 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 know 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 ac- 
 quainted you, at this interview, with my intentions. An 
 hour's delay is superfluous, and I hope you will consent to my 
 setting out immediately. Eural exercise and air, for a week or 
 fortnight, wiU greatly contribute to my health." 
 
 No objection could be made to this scheme. His narrative 
 had excited no common affection in our bosoms for the Had- 
 wins. His visit could not only inform us of their true state, 
 but would dispel that anxiety which they could not but enter- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 1S3 
 
 tain respecting our guest. It was a toijic 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 
 iQore easy to suppose them to have been detained by some 
 misfortune, than by insensibilitj' or indolence. In a few min- 
 utes Mervyu bade us adieu, and set out upon his journey, 
 promising to acquaint us \Yith the state of affairs as soon as 
 possible after his arrival. We parted from him with reluc- 
 tance, 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 de- 
 portment of this youth. Different conclusions were formed 
 hy his two auditors. They had both contracted a deep inter- 
 est 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 Welbeck were themes of 
 much speculation. Whether he were dead or alive, near or, 
 distant from his ancient abode, was a point on which neitherJ 
 Mervyn, nor any of those with whom I had means of inters 
 course, afforded any information. Whether he had shared thej 
 common fate, and had been carried by the collectors of the's 
 dead from the highway or the hovel to the pits, opened alike! 
 for the rich and the poor, the known and the unknown ;j 
 whether he had escaped to a foreign shore, or were destined I 
 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 calamity, and was to be 
 numbered among the earliest victims. Those of his profes- 
 sion 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 bis health, he had left my house. He repeated his 
 invectives against the villany of Welbeck, his suspicions of 
 Mervyn, and his wishes for another interview v/ith the 
 
184 ARTUUn MERVYN; OR, 
 
 youth. Why had I suffered him to depart, and whither had 
 he gone ? 
 
 " He has gone for a short time into the counti-y. 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 be counteracted by an imperfect tale, 
 and the full recital, though it might exculpate Mervyn, might 
 produce inconveniences by which this advantage would be 
 outweighed. 
 
 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 ingenious and plausible lies ; 
 that the mere assertions, however plausible and solemn, of 
 one like him, whose conduct had incurred such strong suspi- 
 cions, were unworthy of the least credit. 
 
 "It cannot be denied," continued my friend, " that he lived 
 with Welbeck at the time of his elopement ; that they dis- 
 appeared 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 Eedbank, who affirmed 
 that he had found it stranded near his door the day succeed- 
 ing that on which they disappeared. Of all this I can sup- 
 ply 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 essential portion of his 
 narrative." 
 
 " What, then, is the inference ? Are not these evidences of 
 a compact between them ? Has he not acknowledged this 
 compact in confessing that he knew Welbeck was my debtor ; 
 that he was apprized of his flight, but that (what matchless 
 effrontery !) he had promised secrecy, and would by no means 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1S5 
 
 betray liim ? You say he means to return, but of tLat 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 intelligence 
 has lately been received which has enabled us to 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 malignity of devils." 
 
 The vengeful disposition thus betrayed by Wortley was not 
 without excuse. The vigor of his days had been spent in ac- 
 quiring a slender capital ; his diligence and honesty had suc- 
 ceeded, and he had lately thought his situation such as to 
 justify marriage with an excellent 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 Wel- 
 beck and brought him, in one evil hour, to the brink of 
 insolvency. 
 
 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 commodity. 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 tan dollars. It was better to give the hun- 
 dred 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 interests should allow him 
 to become the dupe of Welbeck. 
 
 " What," said I, " is old Thetford's claim upon Welbeck ? " 
 " It is a claim," he replied, " that, if it ever be made good, 
 will doom Welbeck to imprisonment and wholesome labor 
 for life." 
 
 " How? Surely it is nothing more than debt." 
 
 " Have you not heai'd ? But that is no wonder. Happily 
 
1S6 ARTHUR MERVTK; OR, 
 
 you are a stranger to mercantile anxieties and revolutions. 
 Your fortune does not rest on a basis wliicli an untoward 
 blast may sweep away or four strokes of a pen may demolish. 
 The hoaiy dealer in suspicions was persuaded to put his hand 
 to three notes for eight hundred doUars each. The eight was 
 then dexterously prolonged into eighteen ; they were duly 
 deposited in time and place, and the next day Welbeek 
 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 upper- 
 most. He disdains 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 Welbeek must have powers above the common rate 
 of mortals. Grown gTay in studying the follies and the strat- 
 agems 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 in- 
 juries to men who have earned their scanty subsistence with- 
 out forfeiting their probity that I hate him, and shall exult 
 to see him suiTer all the rigors of the law." Here Wortley's 
 engagements compelled him to take his leave. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 While musing upon these facts I could not but reflect with 
 astonishment on the narrow escapes which Mervyn's 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 possi- 
 bly be wiped away. Nothing but his own narrative, repeated 
 with that s imple but n eryoHgelo gnencpi wliipli yre had wit- 
 nessed, could rescue hTm irom the most heinous charges. Was 
 there any tribunal that would not acquit him on merely hear- 
 ing his defence ? 
 
 Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be tlie 
 fruit of invention ; and yet, what are the bounds of fraud? 
 Nature has set no limits to the combinations of fancv. A 
 smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a specious tale, "are, a 
 thousand times, exhibited in human intercourse by craft and 
 subtlety. Motives are endlessly varied, while actions con- 
 
i 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. (187 
 
 tinue the same ; and an acute penetration may not find it 
 bard 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, "'-, r9?,(\ \ijx\ n 
 IjooL-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 memory this suspicdon 
 was impossible. Wickedness may sometimes be ambiguous, 
 its mask may puzzle the observer; our judgment may be 
 made to falter and fluctuate, but the face of Mervyu is the / 
 index of an honest mind. Calm or vehement, doubting or "^ 
 confident, it is full of benevolence ai^ candor. He that f 
 listens to his words may question their truth, but, he that / 
 looks upon 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 tlie 
 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 immediately recognized this name as 
 belonging to one of their ancient neighbors. 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 this family. 
 
 "I cannot say much," she answered, "of my own knowl- 
 edge. Since my marriage I am used to spend a few weeks 
 of summer at my father's, but am less inquisitive than I once 
 was into the concerns of my old neighbors. I recollect, how- 
 ever, when there last year, during Lhe 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 mis- 
 tress 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 discon- 
 tent were excited by no common cause. The new mother 
 was not much older than himself, had been a servant of tlie 
 family, and a criminal intimacy had subsisted between her, 
 while in that condition, and the son. Her marriage with his 
 
188 ARTHUR MBliVYN; OR, 
 
 father was justly accounted by their neighbors a most profli- 
 gate and odious transaction. 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 is 
 said to have grinned upon her with contempt, and even 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 his 
 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, meta- 
 morphosed 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 sup- 
 posed 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 liis fortune in the West- 
 ern country. The price of his hundred acres here would pur- 
 chase a thousand there, and the man being very gross and 
 ignorant, and, withal quite a simpleton, found no difficulty in 
 perceiving that a thousand are ten times more than a hundred. 
 He was not aware that a rood of ground upon the Schuylkill is 
 tenfold better than an acre on the Tennessee. 
 
 " The woman turned out to be an artful profligate. Hav- 
 ing 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 bos, one of whom was no other than 
 Betty Lawrence. It was not easy to recognize, in her gaudy 
 trim, all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the 
 same Betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and super- 
 intend 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 consolar 
 tiou in the bottle, of which he had been at aU times over-fond. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 1S9 
 
 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 his- 
 tory of the Mervyns." 
 
 " What proof," said I, " have you of the immoral conduct 
 of the son, of his mistreatment of his mother, and his 
 elopement with his father's horse and money ? " 
 
 "I have no proof but the unanimous report of Mervyn's neigh- 
 bors. Respectable and honest men have affirmed, in my hear- 
 ing, that they had been present when the boy treated his mother 
 in the way tbat I have described. I was, besides, once in com- 
 pany 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 reuiember that tears rolled from his eyes while 
 talking 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 mistaken, and de- 
 scribed his appearance with great exactness. The boy is ex- 
 tremely handsome, give him his due ; has dark hazel eyes, 
 auburn hair, and very elegant proportions. 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 a 
 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 got- 
 ten ? " 
 
 " What was this lad's personal deportment during the life 
 of his mother and before his father's second marriage ? " 
 
 " Very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects. Be- / 
 ing the youngest son, the only one who at length survived,"*" 
 and having a powerful resemblance to herself, he became the 
 mother's favorite. His constitution was feeble, and he loved 
 to stroll in the woods more than to plow or sow. This idle- 
 ness was much against his father's inclination and judgment ; 
 and. indeed, it was the foundation of all his vices. When he 
 could be prevailed upon to do anything it was in a bungling 
 
190 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR. 
 
 manner, and so as to prove that his thoughts were fixed on 
 anything except his business. When his assistance was 
 wanted he was never to be found at liand. They were com- 
 pelled to search for him among the rocks and bushes, and ho 
 was generally discovered sauntering along the bank of a river, 
 or lolling in the shade of a tree. This disposition to inactiv- 
 ity and laziness, in so young a man, was very strange. Per- 
 sons of his age are rarely fond of work, but then they are ad- 
 dicted to company, and sports, and exercises They ride, or 
 shoot, or frolic ; Isut this being moped away his time in soli- 
 tude, 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 supposed him to 
 be half an idiot, or, at least, not to be in his light 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. Per- 
 hajas 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 constr:unt. He was so much in- 
 dulged by his mother at home that tasljs 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 forwardness, 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 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 sometimes 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 liis 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 
 roile with me, having business with Sawny Mervyn, we stopped 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 191 
 
 a miuute at his gate, and while the two old men were engaged 
 in conversation, I 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 I 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 labor and demands most 
 skill. You see, though a man, I use your privilege and pre- 
 fer 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 pet- 
 ticoat 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.' 
 
 " He looked at me with an air of ridiculous simplicity, and 
 said, ' How prone the woman is to wonder ! 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 be sure.' 
 
 " ' 'Twas liberty and money thrown away. Send your sis- 
 ter, if you have one, to me, and I will teach her without 
 either rod or wages. Will you ? ' 
 
 " ' You have an old and a violent antipathy, I believe, to 
 anything 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 j'ou just now. I 
 thought you said that, had you the strength of a man you 
 
192 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 earnestness, throw- 
 ing aside his knitting apparatus, and beginning 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 sKp 
 them on in a trice.' 
 
 " Finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the stock- 
 ings, 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 fervor, exclaimed, 
 ' A thousand thanks to 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 j'our silk to worsted and 
 your worsted to leather. Tlien you may 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 be- 
 havior equally singular, and which betrayed a mixture 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 impen- 
 etrability 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 meaning. He would afterward 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 conspicu- 
 ous in his words than his actions ; but no one feared him, and 
 few were angry with him, till after the detection of his com- 
 merce with Betty, and his inhuman treatment of his father." 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 193 
 
 " 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 inference which every 
 impartial person would draw from appearances, he acknowl- 
 edged, with his usual placid efErontery, that the inference was 
 unavoidable. He even mentioned other concurring and con- 
 temporary incidents which had eluded the observation of 
 his censurer, and which added still more force to the conclu- 
 sion. 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 
 was tidy, notable, industrious ; but, then, she was a prosti- 
 tute. When charged with being instrumental in making her 
 such, and when his companions dwelt upon the depravity of 
 reviling her for vices which she owed to him, '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 myself, 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 
 interest, 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.' " 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 extra- 
 ordinary 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 in- 
 quietudes respecting Welbeck and Mervyn. An accident had 
 newly happened which had awakened these suspicions afresh. 
 He desired a patient audience while he explained them to me. 
 These were his words : 
 
194: AliTHUR MEItVTN; OR, 
 
 " To-day a person presented me a letter from a mercantile 
 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 incomprehensible manner. He was known to 
 have arrived in this city from Jamaica, and to have intended 
 an immediate journey to his family, who lived at Baltimore ; 
 but he never arrived there, and no trace of bis existence has 
 since been discovered. The bearer had come to investigate, 
 if possible, the secret of his fate, and I was earnestly en- 
 treated 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 entertainment at my house, which was thank- 
 fully accepted, he proceeded to unfold to me the particulars 
 of this affair. His story was this : 
 
 " ' On the 20th of last June I ai-rived,' said he, ' from the 
 W^est Indies, in company with Captain Watson. I com- 
 manded 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 Mj- Keys- 
 ler, since dead, but who then lived in Water street. He was 
 extremely anxious to visit his family, and having a few com- 
 missions to perform 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 engagemeuts which 
 required 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 expected, 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 was an old acquaintance of Wat- 
 son'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 de- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 195 
 
 parture southward, and added, that no doubt my brother hud 
 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 departui'e 
 his baggage was forgotten. Hence I inferred that be was 
 still in town, and have been puzzling myself these three days 
 with conjectures as to what is become of him. What sur- 
 prises me more is, that, on inquiring among the few friends 
 which he has in this city, I hnd them as ignorant of his 
 motions as myself. I have not, indeed, been wholly with- 
 out apprehensions 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 Watson's friends, 
 and made anxious inquiries, but none of them had seen my 
 brother since his arrival. I endeavored to recollect his com- 
 missions which he designed 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 un- 
 luckily he chanced to be in the country. I found, by ques- 
 tioning the 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 capture of one of 
 Thetford's vessels by the English. This was the sum of the 
 information he was able to afford me. 
 
 " ' I then applied to three merchants for whom my brother 
 had letters. They all acknowledged the receipt of these let- 
 ters, but they were delivered through the medium of the 
 post-oflSce. 
 
 " 'I was extremely anxious to reach home. Urgent engage- 
 ments 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-oiHees, his name nowhere appeared, and no con- 
 veyance by water had occurred dui-ing the last week. Still, 
 
196 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 the only conjecture I could form was that he had gone home- 
 ward. 
 
 " ' 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 our arrival, and on which 
 he had designed to commence his journey. This letter had 
 been written by my brother in my presence, but I had dis- 
 suaded him from sending 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 in- 
 tended to enclose in it, was now conveyed to his wife's hand. 
 In this letter he mentioned his design of setting out for Bal- 
 timore 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 pres- 
 ent 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 resuming 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 payment of my cargo, in order that they 
 might as soon as possible be presented and accepted. These 
 have disappeared with the bearer. There is likewise another 
 circumstance that makes his existence of no small value. 
 
 " 'There is an English family, who formerly resided in Ja- 
 maica, and possessed an estate of great value, but who, for 
 some years, have lived in the neighborhood of Baltimore. 
 The head of this familj' died a year ago and left a widow and 
 three daughters. The lady thought it eligible to sell her hus- 
 band'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 disinterestedness being well known, she intrusted 
 him with legal powers to sell this estate. This commission 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 197 
 
 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 mer- 
 chants 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. Keysler, 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 remained 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 patri- 
 mony of a worthy and excellent family, and the loss of it re- 
 duces them to beggary. It is gone with Watson, and whither 
 Watson lias 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 
 resarded 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 sus- 
 picions which JIi's. 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 payment for these bills and 
 retain the money for his own use. 
 
 " ' No man was more impatient of poverty than Watson, 
 but no man's honesty was more inflexible. He murmured at 
 the destiny that compelled him to sacrifice his ease and risk 
 his life upon the ocean in order to procure the means of 
 subsistence ; and all the property in 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 
 
198 ARTHUR MERVTlSf; OR, 
 
 have embarked directly for London ; but none who thor- 
 oughly knew him can for a moment harbor a suspicion of his 
 truth. 
 
 " ' If he be dead, and if the bills are not to be recovered, 
 yet to ascertain this will at least serve to vindicate his char- 
 acter. As long as his fate is unknown, his fame will be 
 loaded \vith the most flagrant imputations, and, if tliese 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 payment, and the Maurices may not unreason- 
 ably conclude that the robber was Watson himself.' Many 
 other particulars 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 di- 
 rections or advice to afford this man. Keysler, as you know, 
 died early of the pestilence ; but Keysler was the only resi- 
 dent in this city with whom Williams had any acquaintance. 
 On mentioning the propriety of preventing 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 advertisement, in which the bills had been represented 
 as having been lost or stolen in this city, and a reward of a 
 thousand dollars was offered to anyone 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 satisfac- 
 tion. Watson's friends had drawn up, likewise, a descrip- 
 tion of the person and dress of the fugitive, an account of 
 the incidents attending his disappearance, and of the papers 
 which he had in his possession, with the manner in which 
 these papers had been secured. These had ah'eady been pub- 
 lished 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 Thetford's ; but 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 199 
 
 Thetford himself had Bot been seen, and he had been con- 
 tented -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 Thetford might have some knowl- 
 edge of his nephew's transactions, 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 Wat- 
 son had brought to Thetford, containing documents respect- 
 ing 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. Hav- 
 ing somewhat exhausted this rhetoric, he 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 inter- 
 est of five per cent, per month on his own loan. For the payment 
 of these notes he by no means relied, as the world foolishly 
 imagined, on the seeming opulence and secret funds of Wel- 
 beck. 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 supercargo, 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 passage from the pocket of 
 his nephew to that of Welbeck. In case of loss, he had ob- 
 tained a similar security upon the policy. Jamieson's pro- 
 ceedings 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 defeated. The ship was taken and con- 
 demned, for a cause which rendered the insurance ineffectual. 
 
 " I bestowed no time in reflecting on this tissue of ex- 
 tortions 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 
 
200 ARTHUR MB:RVYN; OR, 
 
 filled my thoughts with restlessnesis and suspicion. Welbeck 
 was capable of any weakness. It was jjossible an interview 
 had happened between these men and that the fugitive 
 had been some way instramental in Watson's fate. Tliese 
 thoughts were mentioned 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 Wel- 
 beck a score of times from my brother. There formerly sub- 
 sisted 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 character 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 for revenge, burst all bounds, and transported him 
 to a pitch of temporary frenzy. I often inquired in what man- 
 ner he intended to act if a meeting should take place between 
 them. He answered, that doubtless he should act like a ma- 
 niac, in defiance of his sober principles, and of the duty which 
 he owned to his family. 
 
 " ' " What ! " said I, " would you stab or pistol him ? " 
 
 " ' No. I was not born for an assassii^ - 1 would upbraid him 
 in such terms as the furious moments 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 provision for my possible death as 
 duty and discretion would prescribe. 
 
 " ' Now, nothing is more probable than Welbeck and my 
 brother have met. Thetford would of course mention his 
 _ name and interest in the captured ship and hence the resi- 
 dence 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.' 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 201 
 
 CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 " Heee was new light thrown upon the character of Wel- 
 beck, aud new food administered to my suspicions. No con- 
 clusion could be more plausible than that which Williams had 
 drawn ; but how should it be rendered certain ? Walter 
 Thetford, or some of his family, had possibly 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 circum- 
 stances, of the incidents of that eventful period, was, at 
 length, enabled to relate that he had been present at the meet- 
 ing which took place between Watson aud 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 no- 
 ticed some emotion of the stranger, occasioned by his son's 
 mentioning the concern which Welbeck had in the vessel. 
 He likewise remembered the stranger's declaring his intention 
 of visiting Welbeck, and requesting Walter to afford him di- 
 rections 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 was something very strange 
 in his behavior," says my son, "when I mentioned the name 
 of the captain who brought the papers ; and when I mentioned- 
 the captain's design of paying him a visit, he stared upon me, 
 for a moment, as if he were frighted out of his wits, and then, 
 snatching up his hat, ran furiously out of the house." This 
 was all my son said upon that occasion ; but, as I have since 
 heard, it was on that very night that Welbeck absconded from 
 his creditors.' 
 
 " I have this moment returned from this interview with old 
 Thetford. I come to you, because I thought it possible that 
 Mervj-n, agreeably to your expectations, had returned, and I 
 
1 
 
 202 ARTHUR MERrris'; OR, 
 
 wanted to see the lad once more. My suspicions with regard 
 to him have been confirmed, and a warrant was this day is- 
 sued for apprehending him as Welbeck's accomplice." 
 
 I was startled by this news. " My friend," said I, "be cau- 
 tious how you act, I beseech you. You know not in what e^dls 
 you may inyolve the innocent. Mervyu I know to be blame- 
 less ; but Welbeek is indeed a villain. The latter I shall not 
 be sorry to see brought to justice ; but the former, instead of 
 meriting punishment, is entitled to rewards." 
 
 " So you believe, on the mere assertion of the boy, perhaps, 
 his plausible lies might produce the same effect upon me ; but 
 I must stay till he thinks proper to exert his skill. The sus- 
 picions to which he is exposed will not easily be obviated ; 
 but, if he has anything to say in his defence, his judicial ex- 
 amination will afford him the suitable opportunity. Why are 
 you so much afraid to subject his innocence to this test ? It 
 was not till you heard his tale that 3"0ur own suspicions were 
 removed. Allow me the same privilege of unbelief. 
 
 " But you do me wrong in deeming me the cause of his ap- 
 prehension. It is Jamieson's and Thetford's work, and they 
 have not proceeded on shadowy surmises and the impulses of 
 mere revenge. Facts have come to light of which you are 
 wholly unaware, and which, when known to you, will conquer 
 even your incredulity as to the guilt of Mervyn." 
 
 "Facts? Let me know them, I beseech you. If Mervyn 
 has deceived me, there is an end to my confidence in human 
 nature. All limits to dissimulation, and all distinctness be- 
 tween vice and virtue, will be effaced. No man's word, nor 
 force of collateral evidence, shall weigh with me a hair." 
 
 " It was time," replied my friend, " that your confidence in 
 smooth features and fluent accents should have ended long 
 ago. Till I gained from my present profession some knowl- 
 edge of the world, a knowledge which was not gained in a 
 moment, and has not cost a trifle, I was equally wise in my 
 own conceit ; and in order to decide upon the truth of any- 
 one's pretensions, needed only a clear view of his face and a 
 distinct hearing of his words. My folly, in that respect, was 
 only to be cured, however, by my own experience, and I sup- 
 pose your credulity will yield to no other remedy. These are 
 the facts : 
 
 " Mrs. Wentworth, the proprietor of the house in which 
 Welbeek lived, has furnished some intelligence respecting 
 Mervyn, whose truth cannot be doubted, and which furnishes 
 the strongest evidence of a conspiracy between this lad and 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 203 
 
 his employer. It seems that, some years since, a nephew of 
 this lady left his father's house clandestinely, and has not 
 been heard of since. This nephew was intended to inherit 
 her fortunes, and her anxieties and inquiries respecting him 
 have been endless and incessant. These, however, have been 
 fruitless. Welbeck, knowing these circumstances, and being 
 desirous of substituting a girl whom he had moulded for his 
 purpose, in place of the lost youth, in the affections of the 
 lady while living, and in her testament when dead, endeav- 
 ored to persuade her that the youth had died in some foreign 
 country. For this end, Mervyn was to personate a kinsman 
 of Welbeck who had just arrived from Europe, and who had 
 been a witness of her nephew's death. A story was, no 
 doubt, to be contrived, where truth should be copied with the 
 most exquisite dexterity ; and the lady being prevailed upon 
 to believe the story, the way was cleared for accomplishing 
 the remainder of the plot. 
 
 "In due time, and after the lady's mind had been artfully 
 prepared by Welbeck, the pupil made his apisearance ; and 
 in a conversation full of studied ambiguities, assured the lady ,■ 
 that her nephew was dead. F.or^the .present he declined re-i)\ 
 lating the particulars of his death, and displayed a constancy .y 
 and intrepidity in resisting her entreaties that would have \iJ' 
 been'_admij.;able_jn a better cause. Before she had time to i 
 fathom the 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 in-i' 
 cident which the plotters had not foreseen or precluded, and , 
 which possibly might have created some confusion or impedi- 
 ment 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 neph- 
 ew. 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 introduced 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 afford- 
 ed ground enough to question the truth of his intelligence 
 respecting her nephew ; but it has since been confuted, in a 
 letter just received from her brother in England. In this 
 
204 ABTHUB MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 letter she is informed tliat 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 to- 
 kens of compliance. The letter-writer, who was father to the 
 fugitive, had written to certain friends at Charleston, entreat- 
 ing them to use their influence with the runaway to the same 
 end, at any rate, to cherish and protect him. Thus, I hope 
 you will admit that the duplicity of Mei-vyn is demonstrated." 
 
 " The facts which you have mentioned," said I, after some 
 pause, " partly coiTespond with Mervyn's story ; but 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 es- 
 timate their consequences fully. I am afraid to speak ; fear- 
 ing that, in the present trouble of my thougts, I may say 
 something which I may afterward regret. I want a counsel- 
 lor ; but you, Wortley, are unfit for the office. Tour judg- 
 ment is unfurnished with the same materials ; your suffer- 
 ings have soured your humanity and biassed your candor. 
 The only one qualified to divide with me these cares, and aid 
 in selecting the best mode of action, is my wife. She is mis- 
 tress of Mervyn's history, an observer of his conduct during 
 his abode with us, and is hindered, by her education and 
 temper, from deviating into rigor and malevolence. Will 
 you pardon me, therefore, if I defer commenting on your 
 narrative till I have had an opportunity of reviewing it and 
 comparing it with my knowledge 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 intelligence which I 
 had lately received. Mrs. Altliorpe's portrait 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 com- 
 merce that subsisted 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 205 
 
 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 be- 
 tween the vague hints laboriously collected by these inquirers, 
 and the narrative of Mervyn, afforded the most cogent attesta- 
 tion 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 adher- 
 ing to his body. What conduct was incumbent upon me 
 who possessed this knowledge ? 
 
 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 disclosures to be 
 made? By what authority or agency could these half-decayed 
 limbs be dug up, and the lost treasure be taken from amid 
 the horrible corruption in which it is immersed ? 
 
 This ought not to be the act of a single individual. This 
 act would entangle him in a maze of perils and suspicions, 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 n/ 
 must submit his conduct. The story which he told to me he 
 must tell to the world. Suspicions have fixed themselves f 
 upon him which allow him not the privilege of silence and * 
 obscurity. While continued unknown and unthought of, 
 the publication of his story would only give unnecessary 
 birth to dangers ; but now dangers are incurred which it may 
 probably contribute to lessen, if not to remove. 
 
 Meanwhile the return of Mervyn to the city was anxiously 
 expected. Day after day passed and no tidings were re- 
 ceived. I had business of an urgent nature which required 
 my presence in Jersey, but which, in the dailj' 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 Mer- 
 vyn's return with all practicable expedition. 
 
 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 
 
506 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 warnings of Wortley, and his assertions that Mervin had 
 withdrawn himself forever from our view. The event had 
 hitherto unwelcomely coincided with these predictions, and a 
 thousand doubts and misgivings were awakened. 
 
 One evening, while preparing to shake off gloomy thoughts 
 by a visit to a friend, someone knocked at my door, and left 
 a billet containing these words : 
 
 " Dr. Stevens is reqitested to come invmediately to the Debtors' 
 Apartments in Prwie 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 un- 
 certainty only hastened my compliance with the summons. 
 
 The evening was approaching — a time when the prison- 
 doors are accustomed to be shut and strangers to be exclu- 
 ded. Tliis 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 accustomed 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 overwhelm his fiunilj-. 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 distress, 
 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 supposed that 
 he by whom I had been 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. Fero- 
 cious gayety, or stupid indifference, seemed to sit upon every 
 brow. The vapor from a heated stove, mingled with the 
 fumes of beer and tallow that were spilled upon it, and with 
 the tainted breath of so promiscuous a crowd, loaded the 
 stagnant atmosphere. At my first transition from the cold 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 207 
 
 and pure air witliout to this noxious element, I found it diffi- 
 cult 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, carrried on with 
 much emphasis of tone and gesture, was not wanting. Sun- 
 dry groups, in different corners, were beguiling the tedious 
 hours at whist. Others, unemployed, were strolling to and 
 fro, and testified their vacancy of thought and care by hum- 
 ming or whistling a tune. 
 
 I fostered the hope that my prognostics had deceived me. 
 This hope was strengthened by reflecting that the billet re- 
 ceived 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 tlie floor, and 
 his face half concealed by his hands, a form was at length 
 discovered which verified all my conjectures and fears. Carl- 
 ton was he. 
 
 My heart drooped and my tongue faltered at this sight. 
 I surveyed him for some minutes in silence. At length, ap- 
 proaching the bench on which he sat, I touched his hand and 
 awakened bim from his reverie. He looked up. A momen- 
 tary gleam of joy and surprise was succeeded 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 im- 
 patient of constraint. He shrunk, with fastidious abhorrence, 
 from the contact of the vulgar and the profligate. His con- 
 stitution was delicate and feeble. Impure airs, restraint from 
 exercise, unusual aliment, unwholesome or incommodious ac- 
 commodations, and perturbed 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 than encounter it, and to yield to 
 the flood rather than sustain it ; but it is just to observe that 
 bis anguish, on the present occasion, arose not wholly from 
 selfish considerations. His parents were dead, and two sisters 
 
208 AETHUB. MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 were dependent on him for support. One of these was nearly 
 of liis own age. The other was scarcely emerged from child- 
 hood. There was an intellectual as well as a personal resem- 
 blance between my friend and his sisters. They possessed his 
 physical infirmities, his vehement passions, and refinements 
 of taste ; and the misery of his condition was tenfold in- 
 creased 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 succor would expose them. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVin. 
 
 It was not in my power to release my friend by the pay- 
 ment 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 as 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 encompassed him. 
 
 After the first surprise had subsided he inquired by what 
 accident this meeting had been produced. Conscious 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 
 m_y affection for Carlton, had taken this mysterious method of 
 calling me to his succor. 
 
 Conjectures as to the author and motives of this interposi- 
 tion were suspended by more urgent considerations. I re- 
 quested 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 con- 
 sequence of the dismission of three persons in the morning, 
 had at present but one tenant. This person had lately ar- 
 rived, 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 be readily given, though this 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 209 
 
 arrangement, being the best, must take place whether he con- 
 sented 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 admission. It was in- 
 stantly opened, and I entered. The first person who met my 
 view was — Arthur Mervyn. 
 
 I started with astonishment. Mervyn's countenance be- 
 trayed nothing but 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 ac- 
 quainted 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 concealment or disguise being tenfold greater 
 in him than in others, by reason of the indelible and eye-at- 
 tracting 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 upbrading on my companion. 
 The latter comprehended his emotion, and endeavored to 
 appease him. 
 
 " This person," said he, " is my friend. He is likewise a 
 physician ; and, perceiving your state to require medical as- 
 sistance, I ventured to send for him." 
 
 Welbeck replied, in a contemptuous and indignant 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 
 mv miseries." 
 
210 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 He now rose from the bed, and continued in a firm and 
 resolute tone, " You are intruders into this apartment. It 
 is mine, and I desire to be left alone." 
 
 Merv^-n returned, at first, no answer to this address. He 
 was immersed in perplexity. At length, raising his eyes from 
 the floor, he said, " Mj' intentions are indeed honest, and I 
 am grieved that I want the power of persuasion. To-morrow, 
 perhaps, I may reason more cogently with jour despair, or 
 your present mood may be changed. To aid my own weak- 
 ness I will entreat the assistance of this friend." 
 
 These words roused a new spirit in Welbeck. His con- 
 fusion and anger increased. His tongue faltered as he ex- 
 claimed, "Good God! what mean you? Headlong and rash 
 as you are, you will not share with this person your knowl- 
 edge of me?" Here he checked himself, conscious that the 
 words that he had already uttered tended to the very end 
 which he dreaded. Tliis consciousness, 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 stoi-y has already been told. WLiatever I 
 have witnessed under your roof, whatever I have heard from 
 your lips, have been faithfully disclosed to him." 
 
 The countenance of Welbeck now betraj-ed 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 tliine out- 
 strips the last, and belies the newest calculations. But this — 
 this perfidy exceeds — this outrage ujDon promises, this viola- 
 tion of faith, this blindness to the future, is incredible." 
 There he stopped, while his looks seemed to call upon 
 Mervyn for a contradiction of his first assertion. 
 
 "I know full well how inexplicably stupid or wicked my act 
 will appear to you, but I will not prevaricate or lie. I re- 
 peat, that everything 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." 
 
 Here the shock that was felt by Welbeck overpowered his 
 caution and his strength. He sunk upon the side of the bed. 
 
N 
 
 MEMOIRS OF TUE YEAR 1793. 211 
 
 His air -was still incredulous, and he continued to gaze upon 
 Mervyn. He spoke in a tone less vehement : 
 
 "And hast thou then betrayed me? Hast thou shut every 
 avenue to my i-eturn to honor ? Am I known to be a seducer 
 and assassin ? To have meditated all crimes, and to have per- 
 petrated the worst ? 
 
 " Infamy and death are my portion. I know they are re- a 
 served for me ; but I did not think to receive them at thy a 
 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 "^ 
 l^repare 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 aU this I was prepared to endure. My friend 
 and I will vyithdraw, as you wish ; but to-morrow 1 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 followed 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 me to Welbeck's chamber. This pur- 
 pose was y6t unaccomiDlished. I desired Mervyn to linger a 
 moment while I returned into the house. I once more in- 
 quired 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 com- 
 panion of Welbeck? Why did j'ou 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 ; bint this • 
 is^ no suitabK~place. Jiave patience till~'we— *each your 
 house. I have involved myself in perils and embarassments s 
 
212 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 from which I depend upon your counsel and aid to release 
 me." 
 
 I had scarcely reached my own door when I was overtaken 
 by a servant whom I knew to belong to a 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 moruing with a 
 stranger, and had not yet returned. His absence had occa- 
 sioned some inquietude, and his sister had sent this message 
 to me to procure what information 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 putting an end to her sus- 
 pense, and of preventing the news from reaching her with 
 fallacious aggravation or at an unseasonable time. 
 
 I told the messenger that I had j ust parted with Mr. Carl- 
 ton, that he was well, and that I would speedily come and ac- 
 quaint his sister with the cause of his absence. 
 
 Though burning with curiosity respecting Mervyn and Wel- 
 beck, I readily postponed its gratification till my visit to Miss 
 Carlton was performed. I had rarely seen this lady, my 
 friendship for her brother, though ardent, having been lately 
 formed, and chiefly matured by interviews at my house. I 
 had designed to introduce her to my wife, but various acci- 
 dents had hindered the execution of my purpose. Now con- 
 solation and counsel were more needed than ever, and delay 
 or reluctance would have been, in a high degree, unpardon- 
 able. 
 
 I therefore parted from Mervyn, requesting him to await 
 my return, and promising to perform the engagement 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 ray 
 countenance that cheerfulness 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 received I 
 was somewhat anxious. This day he usually spends in ram- 
 bling through the fields ; but so bleak and stormy an atmos- 
 phere I suppose would prevent his excursion. I pray, sir, 
 what is it detains him ? " 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 213 
 
 To conquer my embarrassment and introduce the sub- 
 ject by indirect and cautious means I eluded her question, 
 and casting an eye on 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 bar- 
 gains which others made, but I knew not that the pen was 
 ever usurped by his sister." 
 
 " The usurpation was prompted by necessity. My broth- 
 er's impatient temper and delicate frame unfitted him for the 
 trade. He pursued it with no less reluctance than diligence, 
 devoting to the task three nights in the week and the whole 
 of each day. It virould 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 ex- 
 ercise and recreation, without diminishing our profits ; and 
 my time, though not less constantly, is more agreeablj-, as 
 well as more lucratively, employed than formerly." 
 
 "I admire your reasoning. By this means provision is 
 made against untoward accidents. If sickness should dis- 
 able him you are qualified to pursue the same means of sup- 
 port." 
 
 At these words the lady's countenance changed. She put 
 her hand upon 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 j'our 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, indeed, is too plain. I 
 know his fate. It has long been foreseen and exjDected, 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 narra- 
 tive of what had lately occurred with tokens of gratitude. 
 
214 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 observed that it was far 
 from being the heaviest calamity which might have happened. 
 The creditoi' was perhaps vincible by arguments and suppli- 
 cations. 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 lie be obdurate, their state was far from being hope- 
 less. Carlton's situation allowed him to pursue his profes- 
 sion. 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 labor on her brother's health. Yet 
 this was not to be considered as inevitable. Fortitude 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 person 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 advan- 
 tage, and after spending some hours with her, took my 
 leave. 
 
 I now regretted the ignorance in which I had hitherto re- 
 mained respecting this lady. That she was, in an eminent 
 degree, feminine and lovely, was easily discovered ; but intel- 
 lectual weakness had been rashly inferred from external 
 frailty. She was accustomed to shrink from observation, and 
 reserve was mistaken for timidity. I called on Carlton only 
 when numerous engagements would allow, and when, by some 
 accident, his customary visits had been intermitted. On 
 those occasions my staj' was short, and my attention chiefly 
 confined 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 com- 
 municate respecting Carlton. I was unwilling, and yet per- 
 
HdB^tlOIRS OF THE YEAH 1793. 215 
 
 ceived tlie necessity of disclosiug the truth. I desired to 
 bring these women, as soon as possible, to the knowledge of 
 each other, but the necessary prelude to this was an acqaint- 
 ance with the disaster that had happened. 
 
 Scarcely had I entered the room, when Mervyn turned to 
 me and s;dd, 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 sur- 
 prise. 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 in- 
 quired in my turn, "Whence originated 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 curi- 
 osity 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 inci- 
 dents 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 travelled, therefore, 
 with diligence. Setting out so early, I expected, though on 
 foot, to reach the end of my journey before noon. The ac- 
 tivity of muscles is no obstacle to thought. So far from being 
 inconsistent with intense musing, it is, in my own case, pro- 
 pitious to that state of mind. 
 
 Probably no one had stronger motives for ardent medita- 
 tion than I. My second journey to the city was prompted 
 by reasons, and attended by incidents, that seemed to have a 
 
216 ARTHUR MEBVYN; OR, 
 
 present existence. To think upon them was to view, more 
 dehberately and thoroughly, objects and persons that still 
 hovered in my sight. Instead of their attributes being 
 already seen, and their consequences at an end, it seemed as 
 if a series of numerous years and unintermitted contemplation 
 were requisite to comprehend them fully, and bring into exist- 
 ence 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 creat- 
 ures of reflection, I may justly claim to be enrolled in the sec- 
 ond class. My existence is a series of thoughts rather than 
 of motions. Ratiocination and deduction leave my senses un- 
 employed. 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 inat- 
 tentive to the scene that was continually shifting before and 
 without me than I am wont to be. The loveliest form which 
 I had hitherto seen was that of Clemenza 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 igno- 
 rance ? Would not some benefit redound to her from benefi- 
 cent and seasonable interposition ? 
 
 You had mentioned that her abode had lately been with 
 Mrs. Villars, and that this lady still resided m 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 ca- 
 lapas 
 
 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 moment I 
 might place myself before her, ascertain her true condition, 
 and point out to her the path of honor and safety. This op- 
 portunity might be the last. Longer delay miglit render in- 
 terposition fruitless. 
 
 But how was I to interpose ? I was a stranger to her Ian- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 217 
 
 guage, and she was unacquainted with mine. To obtain ac- 
 cess to her, it was only necessary to demand it. But bow 
 should I explain my views and state my wishes when an in- 
 terview 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 existence and physical en- 
 joyment, are not changed or enlarged 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 ob- 
 viated, it is always easy and just to employ in relieving the 
 necessities 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 sud- 
 den 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 plen- 
 teous. Their residence was sequestered and obscure, and 
 not obnoxious to impertinent inquiries and malignant animad- 
 version. Their frank and ingenuous temj^er would make them 
 easy of persuasion, and their sympathies were prompt and 
 overflowing. 
 
 " I am nearly certain," continued I, " that they will instant- 
 ly afford protection to this desolate girl. Why shall I not an- 
 ticipate their consent, and present myself to their embraces 
 and their welcomes in her company? " 
 
 Slight reflection showed me that this precipitation was im- 
 proper. 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 determined. 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 happj', to procure their concurrence to my 
 scheme respecting Clemenza. 
 
218 ARTHUR MERVYN; OB, 
 
 Actuatod by these considerations I resumed my journey. 
 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, methought 
 I recognized iu this carriage the same in which my importu- 
 nities had proc lived 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 by 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 possibly 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 lingering a few 
 minutes an interview might be gained , and the uncertainty 
 and suspense of some hours be thereby precluded. I there- 
 fore waited, and the same person whom I had formerly en- 
 countered made his appearance, in a short time, from under a 
 copse that skirted the road. 
 
 He recognized 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. 
 
 lie 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 instanta- 
 neous and total change appeared to have been wrought in 
 him. He no longer languished with fatigue or fear, but be- 
 came 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 hia disease, but imparted 
 many anecdotes of a humorous kind. Some of these my 
 companion repeated. I heard them with regret and dissatis- 
 faction. They betokened a mind vitiated by intercourse with 
 the thoughtless and depraved of both sexes, and particularly 
 with infamous and profligate women. 
 
 My companion proceeded to mention that Wallace's exhila- 
 ration lasted but for a short time, and disappeared as sud- 
 
MBM0IR8 OF THE TEAR 1793. 219 
 
 denly as it Lad appeared. He was seized with deadly sick- 
 ness, 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 ac- 
 count, but was unwilling to desert him, and endeavored to 
 encourage him. His efforts were vain. Though the nearest 
 house was at the distance of some hundred yards, and though 
 it was probable that the inhabitants of this house would re- 
 fuse to accommodate one in his condition, yet Wallace could 
 not be prevailed on to proceed ; and, in spite of persuasion 
 and remonstrance, left the carriage and threw himself on the 
 grassy bank beside the road. 
 
 This person was not unmindful of the hazard which he in- 
 curred 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, persisting in afSrming 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 un- 
 toward accidents. Now, however, there was reason to sup- 
 pose him to have perished by a lingering and painful disease, 
 rendered fatal by the selfishness of mankind, by the want of 
 seasonable remedies, and exposure to inclement airs. Some 
 uncertainty, however, rested on his fate. It was my duty to 
 remove it and to carry to the Hadwins no mangled and de- 
 fective tale. Where, I asked, had Wallace and his com- 
 panion parted ? 
 
 It was about three miles farther onward. The spot, and , 
 the house within view from the spot, were accurately de- 
 scribed. In this house it was possible that Wallace had 
 sought an asylum, and some intelligence respecting him 
 might be gained from its iohabitants. My informant was 
 journeying to the city, so that we were obliged to sep- 
 arate. 
 
 In consequence of this man's description of Wallace's de- 
 portment, and the proofs of a dissolute and thoughtless tem- 
 per which he had given, I began to regard his death as an 
 event less deplorable. Such a one was unworthy of a being 
 so devoutly pure, so ardent in fidelity and tenderness, as 
 Susan Hadwin. If be loved, it was probable that, in defiance 
 of his vows, he would seek a different companion. If he ad- 
 hered to his first engagements, his motives would be sordid, 
 and the disclosure of his latent defects might produce more 
 
220 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 exquisite misery to his wife than his premature death or 
 treacherous desertion. 
 
 The preservation of this man was my sole motive for enter- 
 ing the infected city, and subjecting my own Hfe to the haz- 
 ards from which my escape may almost be esteemed miracu- 
 lous. 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 inten- 
 tions 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, wiU, at 
 least, secure it to him who fosters them. 
 
 By these reflections my regrets were dissipated, and I pre- 
 pared 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 mansion and was conducted to a 
 lady of a plain and housewifely appearance. 
 
 My curiosity was fully gratified. Wallace, whom my de- 
 scription easily identified, had made his ajjpearance 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 de- 
 signed to apologize to me for her refusing entrance to the 
 sick man. The peroration, however, was different. Wallace 
 was admitted, and suitable attention paid to his wants. 
 
 Happily, the guest had nothing to struggle with but ex- 
 treme weakness. Kepose, nourishing diet, and salubrious 
 airs restored him in a short time to health. He Hngered 
 under this roof for three weeks, and then, without any pro- 
 fessions of gratitude, or offers of pecuniary remuneration, or 
 information of the course which he determined 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 obvious 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 ex- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 221 
 
 pedition. In the present instance, my resolution was con- 
 ceived with unhesitating zeal, and I walked the faster that I 
 might the sooner execute it. Miss Hadwin 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 alTection. 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 unbounded 
 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 knowledge, relative to Wallace, should be unfolded to the 
 lady with simplicity and truth. The lover should be present, 
 to confute, 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 ex- 
 pected. At length, just as the evening 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 trees were decked with the luxuri- 
 ance and vivacity of summer, was mournful, and seemed to 
 foretoken ill. My spirits drooped as I noticed the general in- 
 activity and silence. 
 
 I entered, without warning, the door that led into the 
 parlor. No face was to be seen or voice heard. The chim- 
 ney 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 toward the kitchen. 
 
 No one was there but an old man, squatted in the chim- 
 nej''-corner. His face, though wrinkled, denoted undecayed 
 liealth and an unbending spirit. A homespun coat, leathern 
 breeches, wrinkled with age, and blue yarn hose, were well 
 
222 ARTHUR MERVY^-; OR, 
 
 suited to Lis lean and shrivelled form. On his right knee 
 ^vas 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 stood 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 sayiug ' by your leave'? 
 What's thee business? Who's thee want ? " 
 
 I had never seen this personage before. I suijposed 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 exclamation was 
 uttered in a tone of some vehemence. It attracted the at- 
 tention of someone who was standing without, who imme- 
 diately entered the kitchen. It was Eliza Hadwin. 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 emo- 
 tion, made up of joy, and sorrow, and surprise, rendered me 
 for a moment powerless as she. At length he said, " I un- 
 derstand this. I know who thee is, and will tell her thee's 
 come." So saying, he hastily left the room. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 In a short time this gentle girl recovered her senses. She 
 did not withdraw herself from my sustaining arm, but, lean- 
 ing on my bosom, she resigned herself to passionate weep- 
 ing. I did not endeavor 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 hor affection were, at 
 once, mournful and dehghtful. 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 223 
 
 The attention of both was presently attracted by a faint 
 Bcream, 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 con- 
 jectured, 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 disappoint- 
 ment 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 engrossed 
 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 hud 
 made in this lovely frame. I 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, endeavored in vain to 
 smother her sobs. I sat on the other motionless, and hold- 
 ing 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 sj'mptoms that it 
 would sj^eedily depart forever. For a time my faculties were 
 palsied, and I was made an impotent spectator of the ruin 
 that environed me. This pusillanimity gave way to resolu- 
 tions 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 expiring, and perform for 
 her, when dead, the rites of interment. The survivor was 
 capable of consolation and of succor. I went to her and drew 
 her gently into another apartment. The old man, tremulous 
 and wonderstruck, seemed anxious to perform some service. 
 I directed him to kindle a fire in Eliza's chamber. Meanwhile 
 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. 
 
224 AUTEUB MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 I perceived that the bouse liad 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, smok- 
 ing 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. 
 Hadwin's servant ; that lately he had cultivated a small farm 
 in this neighborhood for his ovsn 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 neighbors refused to 
 approach it. The task of attending his sick-bed was allotted 
 to his 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 particulars, than 
 he hurried to the house, and had since continued in their 
 service. His heart was kind, but it was easUy 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 understand- 
 ing. The neighbors 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 tid- 
 ings that Wallace was alive, and had returned, that she leaped 
 upon her feet and rushed downstairs. How little did that 
 man deserve so strenuous and immortal an affection ! 
 
 I would not allow myself to ponder on the suffeiings of 
 these women. I endeavored to think only of the best expedi- 
 ents of 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 moi-e generosity toward 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 225 
 
 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 snow, was now 
 chiinged 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 a 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 recognize an old acquaintance, and suffer me to ap- 
 pi'oach. In this I was not mistaken. 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 hastened to 
 awaken Mi-. EUis, by knocking briskly at the door. Presently 
 he looked out of a window above, and, in answer to his in- 
 quiries, in which impatience at being so unseasonably dis- 
 turbed 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 fira. 
 
 My appearance was sufficiently adapted to excite his won- 
 der. 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 befallen me, and no in- 
 terview was more distant from his expectations than the pres- 
 ent. His curiosity was written in his features, but this was 
 no time to gratify his curiosity. The end that I now had in 
 view was to procure 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 aU that had happened since my 
 arrival. 
 
 I perceived that my tale excited his compassion, and I con- 
 tinued with new zeal to paint to him the helplessness of this 
 girl. The death of her father and sister left her the property 
 
226 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 of this farm. Her sex and age disqualified her for superin- 
 tending the harvest-field and the threshing-floor ; and no ex- 
 pedient was left but to lease the laud to another, and, taking 
 up her abode in the family of some kinsman or friend, to sub- 
 sist, as she might easily do, upon the rent. Meanwhile her 
 continuance in this house was equally useless and dangerous, 
 and I insinuated to my companion the propriety of imme- 
 diately removing her to his own. 
 
 ' Some hesitation and reluctance appeared in him, which I 
 imijiediately ascribed to an absurd dread of infection. I en- 
 deavored, 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 doors should not be shut against 
 her when she j)resented 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 person to as- 
 sist her, and no doubt he would be as willing as able. 
 
 The marks of dubiousness and indecision which accom- 
 panied these words encouraged me in endeavoring to subdue 
 his scruples. The increase of his aversion to my scheme kept 
 pace with my remonstrances, and he finally declai-ed that he 
 would, on no account, consent to it. 
 
 Ellis was by no means hard of heart. His determination did 
 not prove the coldness of his charity, but merelj' the strength 
 of his fears. He was himself an object more of compassion 
 than of anger ; and he acted like the man whose fear of death 
 jDrompts him to push his conjpanion from the plank which 
 saved him from drowning, but which is unable to sustain 
 both. Finding him invincible to my entreaties, I thought 
 upon the expedient which he suggested of seeking the pro- 
 tection of her uncle. It was true that the loss of parents had 
 rendered her uncle her legal protector. His knowledge of 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 227 
 
 the world ; his house and property and influence, ■would, 
 pei'hiips, fit him for this offlce iu a more eminent degree tliiiu 
 I was fitted. To seek a different asylum might, indeed, he 
 unjust to both ; and, after some reflection, I not only dis- 
 missed the regret which Ellis's refusal had given me, but even 
 thanked him for the intelligence and counsel which lie had- 
 afforded me. I took leave of him, and hastened back to Had- 
 wiu's. 
 
 Eliza, by Caleb's report, was still asleep. There was no 
 urgent necessity for awakening her ; but something was forth- 
 with to be done with regard to the unhappy girl that was 
 dead. The proceeding incumbent on us v/as obvious. All 
 that remained was to dig a grave, and to deposit the remains 
 with as much solemnity and deceiicj' as the time would per- 
 mit. There were two methods of doing this. I might wait 
 till the next day ; till a eofiin could be made and conveyed 
 hither ; till the woman, whose trade it was to make and put 
 on the habiliments assigned by custom to the dead, could be 
 sought out and hired to attend ; till kindred, friends and 
 neighbors could be summoned to the obsequies ; till a car- 
 riage were provided to remove the body to a buryiug-ground, 
 belonging to a meeting-house, and five miles distiuit ; till 
 those whose trade it was to dig graves had prejDared one, 
 within the sacred enclosure, for her reception ; 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 was strong in my preference of the latter mode. 
 The customs of burial maj', iu most cases, be in themselves 
 proper. If the customs be absurd, yet it may be generally 
 proper to adhere to them ; but doubtless there are cases in 
 which it is our duty to omit them. I conceived the present 
 case to be such a one. 
 
 The season was bleak and inclement. Much time, labor, 
 and expense would be required to go through the customary 
 rites. There was none but myself to perform 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 need- 
 lessly 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 proceeded to 
 an outer shed where farmers' tools used to be kept. I sup- 
 plied him and myself with a spade, and requested him to lead 
 me to the spot where Mr. Hadwin was laid. 
 
22S ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 re- 
 moved his doubts by explaining my intentions ; but he was 
 scarcely less shocked, on discovering the truth, than he had 
 been alarmed by his first suspicions. He stammered out his 
 objections to my scheme. There was but one mode of burial, 
 he thought, that was decent and proper, and be 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 convic- 
 tions were resumed, and his deviation from the beaten track 
 would be merely productive of compunction. His aid, on the 
 present occasion, though of some use, was by no means indis- 
 pensable. 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 auothez*. 
 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. 
 
 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, and made it my retreat at 
 periods of leisure. It had been recommended by its sequest- 
 ered situation, its luxuriant verdure, 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 
 vi'as accustomed to seek the benefits of contemplation and 
 study the manuscripts of Lodi. A few months had passed 
 since I last visited this spot. What revolutions had since oc- 
 curred, and how gloomily contrasted was my present purpose 
 with what had formerl3' led me hither ! 
 
 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 
 
MEMOIRS Of THE YEAR 1793. 229 
 
 time apparetly too short for so solemn and momentous a trans- 
 action. 
 
 I look back upon this incident with emotions not easily de- 
 scribed. It seems as if I acted with too much precipitation ; 
 as if insensibility and not reason had occasioned that clear-""" 
 ness of conceptions and bestowed that firmness of muscles 
 which I then experienced. I neither trembled nor wavered 
 in my purpose. I bore in my arms the being whom I had 
 known and loved, through the whistling gale and intense dark- 
 ness of a winter's night ; I heaped earth upon her limbs and 
 covered them from human observation, without fluctuations 
 or tremors, though not without feelings that were awful and 
 sublime. 
 
 Perhaps some part of my steadfastness was owing to my 
 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, perhaps it is 
 just for sensibility to be diminished. 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 per- 
 petual motion. I waited with impatience till she shoidd 
 awake and allow me to consult with her on plans of futurity. 
 
 Her sleep terminated not till the next day had arisen. Hav- 
 ing 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 passion. 
 It seemed as if her loss was not hopeless or complete 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 defrauding her of her dearest and 
 only consolation, and of treating her sister's sacred remains 
 with barbarous indifference and rudeness. 
 
 I explained in the gentlest terms the reasons of my con- 
 duct. I was not surprised or vexed that she at first treated 
 
230 ARTHUB MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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. 
 
 The torrent was at length exhausted. Upbraiding was at an 
 end, and gratitude, and tenderness, and implicit acquiescence 
 in any scheme which my prudence should suggest, succeed- 
 ed. 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 no- 
 tions of propriety ; that she thought with aversion of seeking 
 her uncle's protection. I requested her to state her objec- 
 tions 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 Philiis, 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 capri- 
 cious and groundless antipathy. I desired her to explain 
 what in her uncle's character made him so obnoxious. 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 accommodated as a 
 boarder in the city, or some village, or in a remote quarter of 
 the country ? Ellis, her neai-est and most opulent neighbor, 
 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 ignorance ? Their compliance ought not to be the re- 
 sult of deception. 
 
 While thus engaged, the incidents of my late journey re- 
 curred to my remembrance, and I asked, "Is not the honest 
 woman, who entertained Wallace, just such a person 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 occasional inmate." 
 
 Encouraged by these views, I told my weeping companion 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 231 
 
 that I had recollected a family in which she would be kindly 
 treated ; and that, if she chose, we would not lose a moment 
 in repairing thither. Horses, belonging to the farm, grazed 
 in the meadows, and a couple of these would carry us in a few 
 hours to the place which I had selected for her residence. 
 On her eagerly assenting to this proposal, I inquired in whose 
 care, and in what state, our present habitation should be 
 left. 
 
 The father's property now belonged to the daughter. 
 Eliza's mind was quick, active, and sagacious ; but her total 
 inexperience gave her sometimes the appearance of folly. 
 She was eager to fly from this house, and to resign herself 
 and her property, without limitation or condition, to my con- 
 trol. Our intercourse had been short, but she relied on my 
 protection and counsel as absolutely as she had been accus- 
 tomed to do upon her father's. 
 
 She knew not what answer to make to my inquiry. What- 
 ever I pleased to do was the best. What did I think ought 
 to be done ? 
 
 " Ah ! " thought I, " sweet, artless, and simple girl ! how v^ 
 wouldst thou have fared if Heaven had not sent me to thy 
 succor? There are beings in the world who would make a 
 selfish use of thy confidence ; who would beguile thee at once 
 of innocence and property. Such am not I. Thy welfare is 
 a precious deposit, and no father or brother could watch over 
 it with more solicitude than I will do." 
 
 I was aware that Mr. Hadwin might have fixed the destina- 
 tion of his property, and the guardianship of his daughters, 
 by will. On suggesting this to my friend, it instantly re- 
 minded her of an incident that took place after his last re- 
 turn from the city. He had drawn up his will, and gave it 
 into Susan's possession, who placed it in a drawer, whence it 
 was now taken by my frieud. 
 
 By this will his property was now found to be bequeathed 
 to his two daughters ; and his brother, Philip Hadwin, was 
 named executor and guardian to his daughters fill they 
 should be twenty years old. This name wag no sooner lieai'd 
 by n)y friend, than she exclaimed, in a tone of affright, " Ex- 
 ecutor ! My uncle ! What is that ? What power does that 
 give him ? " 
 
 "I know not exactly the power of executors. He will, 
 doubtless, have possession of your property till you are 
 twenty years of age. Your person will likewise be under his 
 care till that time." 
 
232 ARTUUB MEliVYK; OB, 
 
 " Must be decide where I am to live ? " 
 
 " He is vested with all the power of a father." 
 
 This assurance excited the deepest consternation. She 
 fixed her ejes on tlie ground, and was lost, for a time, in the 
 deepest reverie. Recovering, at length, she said, with a sigh, 
 " What if my father had made no will ? " 
 
 " In that case a guardian could not be dispensed with, but 
 the right of naming him would belong to yourself." 
 
 " And my uncle would have nothing to do with my afiiiirs ? " 
 
 "I am no lawyer," said I; "but I presume all authority 
 over j'our person and property would devolve upon the 
 guardian of your own choice." 
 
 " Then I am free." Saying this, with a sudden motion, she 
 tore in several pieces the will, which, duiing this dialogue, 
 she had held in her hand, and threw the fragments into the 
 fire. 
 
 No action was more unexpected to me than this. My as- 
 tonishment hindered me from attempting to rescue the paper 
 from the flames. It was consumed in a moment. I was at 
 a loss in what manner to regard this sacrifice. It denoted a 
 force of mind little in unison with that simplicity and help- 
 lessness which this girl had hitherto displayed. It ai-gued 
 the deepest apprehensions of mistreatment from her uncle. 
 Whether his conduct had justified this violent antipathy, I 
 had no means of judging. JMr. Hadwin's choice of him, aa 
 his executor, was certainl}' one proof of his integrity. 
 
 My abstraction was noticed by Eliza with visible anxiety. 
 It was plain that she dreaded the imjDression which this act 
 of seeming temerity had made upon me. " Do not be angry 
 with me," said she ; "perhaps I have 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 unquahfied 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, carrying 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 com- 
 pelled to confront it. 
 
 In leaving her dwelling, in which she had spent her whole 
 
MEMOIBB OF THE YEAR 1793. 233 
 
 life, the unhappy girl gave way afresh to her sorrow. It 
 made her feeble and helpless. "When placed upon the horse, 
 she was scarcely able to maintain her seat. Alreadj' chilled 
 by the cold, blinded by the drifting 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 com- 
 panion, and made no account of her being less able to sup- 
 port 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 con- 
 ceived it, however, too late to retreat, and endeavored to push 
 on with speed. 
 
 My comj)anion was a skilful rider, but her steed was re- 
 fractory and unmanageable. She was able, however, to curb 
 his spirit till we had proceeded ten or twelve miles from 
 Malverton. 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 my view, for the sake of re- 
 freshment and warmth. 
 
 We now entered a wood of some extent, at the termination 
 of which I remembered that a dwelling stood. To pass this 
 wood, therefore, with expedition, was all that remained before 
 we could reach a hospitable asylum. I endeavored to sus- 
 tain, 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 succor. The snow was al- 
 ready 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 unspeak- 
 able joy, the blood flowed from the nostrils, and was there- 
 fore 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 
 
234 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 upward of a mile distant. I remembered none that was 
 nearer. To place tlie wounded girl on my own horse, and 
 proceed gently to the house in question, was the sole expedi- 
 ent ; but, at present, she was senseless, and might, on recover- 
 ing, be too feeble to sustain her own weight. 
 
 To recall her to life was my first duty ; but I was power- 
 less, or unacquainted with the means. I gazed upon her 
 features, and endeavored, by pressing her in my arms, to in- 
 spire her with some warmth. I looked toward the road, and 
 listened for the wished-for sound of some carriage that might 
 be prevailed upon 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 wood, still 
 bearing her in my arms, and re-entered the road, from the 
 desire of descrying, as soon as possible, the coming passenger. 
 I looked this way and that, and again Ustened. 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, ap- 
 peared 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 as- 
 pect and engaging manners, insisted upon turning back and 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 235 
 
 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 ten- 
 derness, 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, com- 
 pelling her companions to depart without her, remained to 
 nurse and console the sick. 
 
 A little time showed that no lasting injury had been suf- 
 fered. Contusions, more troublesome than dangerous and 
 easily curable by such applications as rural and traditional 
 wisdom has discovered, were the only consequences of the 
 fall. My mind, being relieved from ajsprehensions on tbis 
 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 dis- 
 cerned a powerful resemblance between this family and Had- 
 win'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. 
 Tbe curiosity of our host and hostess, whose name was Curl- 
 ing, speedily afforded me an oj^portunity 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 and circumstantially relate. I concluded 
 with statiug my wishes that they would admit my friend as a 
 boarder into their house. 
 
 The old man was warm in his concurrence. His wife be- 
 trayed some scruples, which, however, her husband's argu- 
 ment^ 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 appeared that Mr. Curling had some 
 knowledge of Philip Hadwin, 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 
 endeavor to usurp the property which his brother had left. 
 
236 ABTUUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 To provide against his power and his malice would he 
 particularlj' incumbent on us, and my new friend readily 
 jjromised bis assistance in the measures which we should take 
 to that end. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXn. 
 
 The state of my feelings may be easily conceived to consist 
 of mixed, but, on the whole, of agreeable, sensations. 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 reflections 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 happiness they would find an ample compensation. 
 
 This happiness, however, was still incomplete. It was stm 
 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 someone should make himself her father's administra- 
 tor. Mr. Curling, being tolerably conversant with these sub- 
 jects, jjointed 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 decision. I 
 formerly' mentioned that, during my abode at Malverton, I had 
 not been insensible to the attractions of this girl. An affec- 
 tion had stolen upon mo, for which it was easily discovered 
 that I should not have been denied 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 produced on my feelings, and how far partaking 
 and relieving her distresses had revived a passion which may 
 readily be supposed to have been, at no time, entirely extin- 
 guished. 
 
 The impediments which then existed were removed. Our 
 union would no longer risk the resentment or sorrow of her 
 excellent parent. She liad 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 237 
 
 legal protector, and her happiness was inTolved 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 con- 
 spired to determine my choice. Omitting all regard to the 
 happiness of others, my own interest could not fail to recom- 
 mend a scheme by which the precious benefits of competence 
 and independence might be honestly obtained. The excur- 
 sions of my fancy had sometimes carried me beyond the 
 bounds prescribed by my situation, but they were, neverthe- 
 less, limited to that field to which I had once some prospect 
 of acquiring a title. All I wanted for the basis of my gaudi- 
 est 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 sup- 
 plied with abundant scope. Though the want of these would 
 not benumb my activity, or take away content, the possession 
 would confer exquisite and permanent 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 con- 
 centrated. I had now a form and features before me ; a sweet 
 and melodious voice vibrated in my ear ; my soul was filled, 
 as it were, with her lineaments and gestures, actions and 
 looks. All ideas, possessing any relation to beauty or sex, 
 appeared to assume this shape. They kept an immovable 
 place in my mind, they diffused around them an ineffable 
 complacency. Love is merely of 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 bonds, the boundless 
 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 I should 
 refuse to marry, and even foi'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 and 
 employments of all my previous years Iwd conferred. Hence 
 I might infer the childlike immaturity of my understanding, 
 
 ? 
 
238 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 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 instruc- 
 tions ? What qualities might not time unfold, and how little 
 was I qualiiied to estimate the character of one whom no 
 vicissitude or hardship had ajjpvoached before the death of 
 her father — whose ignorance was, indeed, great, when it could 
 justly be said to even exceed my own ! 
 
 Should I mix with the world, enroll myself in different 
 classes of societj', be a witness to new scenes ; might not my 
 modes of judging undergo essential variations ? 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 sentiments my own would be much more congenial than 
 they could possibly be with the extreme youth, rustic sim- 
 plicity, and mental imperfections of Eliza Hadwin ? 
 
 To say truth, I was now conscious of a revolution in my 
 mind. I can scarcely assign its true cause. No tokens of it 
 ajjpeared during my late retreat to Malverton. Subsequent 
 incidents, perhaps, joined with the infiueuce of meditation, 
 had generated new views. On my fi^rst 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 dis- 
 astrous and gloomy ; but my second visit produced somwhat 
 different 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 recived 
 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 com- 
 municate just conceptions of human performances. The in- 
 fluence of manners, professions, and social institutions could 
 be thoroughly known only by direct inspection. 
 
 Competence, fixed property and a settled abode, rural occu- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 239 
 
 pations 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 condi- 
 tions ; and who have visited different hemispheres and cli- 
 mates and nations. The next five or eight years of my life 
 should be devoted to activity 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 sup- 
 press 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. AH ambiguities, in a case like this, and 
 all delays, were hurtful. She was not exempt from passion, 
 but this passion, I thought, was young, and easily extin- 
 guished. 
 
 In a short time her health was restored, and her grief 
 melted down into a tender melancholy. I chose a suitable 
 moment, when not embarrassed by the presence of others, to 
 reveal my thoughts. My disclosure was ingenuous and per- 
 fect. I laid before her the whole train of ray thoughts, nearly 
 in tlie order, though in different and more copious terms than 
 those, in wliich I have just explained them to you. I con- 
 cealed nothing. The impression which her artles loveliness 
 had made upon me at Malverton ; my motives for estranging 
 myself from her society ; the nature of my present feelings 
 with regard to her, and my belief of the state of her heart ; 
 the reasonings into which I had entered ; the advantages of 
 wedlock and its inconveniences ; and, finallj', 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, flut- 
 terings, and sighs, showed her to be deeply and variously af- 
 fected bj' my discourse. I paused for some observation or 
 comment. She seemed conscious of my expectation, 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 symptoms. 
 I waited till her vehemence was somewhat subsided and then 
 said, " What think you of my schemes? Your approbation 
 is of some moment ; do you approve of them or not ? " 
 
240 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Tliis question excited some little resentment, and she an- 
 swered, " 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 up- 
 braiding. "Your happiness," said I, " is too dear to me to 
 leave it in danger. In this house you will not need my pro- 
 tection, 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 cannot be soon expected ; 
 but what you have got, if you remain with Mr. Curling, will 
 pay your board and all other exjjenses 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 emploj'ed and 
 every penny is expended, and, if I find you erring, I must teU 
 you so in good round terms." 
 
 These words did not dissipate the suUeness which her looks 
 had betrayed. She still forbore to look at me, and said, " I 
 do not know how I should tell you everything. 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 inde- 
 pendent and free. Consult your own understanding, and act 
 according to its dictates. Nothing more is wanting to make 
 you useful and happy. I am anxious to return 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 j'ou please, I will call at your uncle's, and tell him 
 what has happened. He may, otherwise, entertain pretentions 
 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 maj' 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 un- 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 241 
 
 cle'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 ? " 
 
 " You do yourself injustice, my friend. I think I see your 
 most secret thoughts ; and these, instead of exciting 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 harboring such thoughts. Time 
 only and reflection 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 be- 
 fore I sit down in retirement and ease." 
 
 "Ah ! how much you mistake me ! I admire and approve of 
 your schemes. What angers and distresses nie is, that you 
 think me unworthy to partake of your cares and labors ; 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 studying 
 many sciences ; but you desire it for yourself alone. Me you 
 think poor, weak, and contemptible ; fit for notliing 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. 
 I deserve not the gift." 
 
 This strain, simple and just as it was, was wholly unex- 
 pected. I was surprised and disconcerted. In my previous 
 reasonings I had certainly considered her sex as utterly un- 
 fitting her for those scenes and pursuits to which I had destined 
 myself. Not a doubt of the validity of my conclusion had in- 
 sinuated itself ; but now my belief was shaken, though it was 
 not subverted. I could not deny that human ignorance was 
 
243 ABTEUB MERVTN; OB, 
 
 curable by the same means in one sex as in the other ; that 
 fortitude and skill were of no less value to one than to the 
 other. 
 
 Questionless my friend was rendered, by her age and inex- 
 perience, if not by sex, more helpless and dependent than I ; 
 but had I not been prone to overrate the difficulties which I 
 should encounter ? Had I not deemed unjustly of her con- 
 stancy 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 
 
 Avhich would evince an incurable difference in our minds? 
 
 /Would not time lead me to the feet of one who more nearly 
 
 I approached that standard of ideal excellence which poets and 
 
 Vomancers 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 indecorum. It be- 
 came me, however, to be explicit, and to excite her resent- 
 ment rather than mislead her judgment. She collected my 
 meaning from a few words, and, interrupting 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 ben- 
 efit 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 in- 
 quisitive 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 affectionate 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 
 
MBMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 243 
 
 beyond the usual bounds of reserve by the charms of thtit 
 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 pos- 
 sessed. 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 eagerness and gratitude ? 
 
 No. I was not so much a stranger to mankind as to ac- 
 quiesce 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 com- 
 pany 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 neighborhood, 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 society, 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 
 with this request. Perhaps the city will be as suitable a resi- 
 dence 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 distance. At present you must 
 consent to remain here, while I visit your uncle, and after- 
 ward go to the city. I shall look out for you a suitable lodg- 
 ing, and inform you when it is found. If you then continue 
 in the same mind, I will come, and, having gained the appro- 
 bation of Mr. Curling, will conduct you to town." Here ended 
 our dialogue. 
 
214 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXm. 
 
 Though I had consented to this scheme, I was conscious 
 that some hazards attended it. I was afraid of cahimny, 
 which might trouble the peace or destroy the reputation of 
 my friend. I was afraid of my own weakness, which naight 
 be seduced into an indiscreet marriage by the charms or suf- 
 ferings 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 importance 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 suggest less dangerous 
 schemes. Meanwhile, I was to lose no time in ■visiting Mal- 
 verton and Philip Hadwin. 
 
 About ten days had elapsed since we had deserted Mal- 
 vevton. 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 interrogated him as to the condition of the farm 
 and the purpose of his remaining on it. William Hadwin 
 they knew to have been some time dead ; but where were the 
 girls, his daughters? 
 
 Caleb answered that Susy, the eldest, was likewise dead. 
 
 These tidings excited astonishment. When died she, and 
 how, and where was she buried ? 
 
 It happened two days before, and she was buried, he be- 
 lieved, but could not tell where. 
 
 Not tell where ? By whom, then, was she buried ? 
 
 Eeally, he conld 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 morning and then went off with Lizzy, 
 leaving him to keep house by himself. He had not seen 
 eitlier of them, nor, indeed, a single soul since. 
 
 This was all the information that Caleb could afford the 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 245 
 
 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 entered 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, explained my former situation in the family 
 and my disappearance in September. He stated the advice 
 he had given me to carry Eliza to her uncle's, and my prom- 
 ise 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 sus- 
 picion. 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 quarter, 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 rifling his drawer of some hundreds of dol- 
 lars which he had laid up against a rainy day. I was noted 
 for such pranks, and was hated by all the neighbors 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. 
 
 Previously to this journey he had heard of me from Had- 
 win, who was loud in praise of my diligence, sobriety, and 
 modesty. For his part he had always been cautious of giving 
 countenance to vagrants that came from nobody knew where, 
 and worked their way with a plausible tongue. He was not 
 surprised to hear it whispered that Betsy Hadwin 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 executoi-, and that this 
 will would in good time be forthcoming. 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 contents for his use. This was all that Caleb's mem- 
 ory 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 
 
246 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 brawler and bully, a tyrant to his cbildren,;a plague.to his 
 neighbors, and kept a rendezvous for drunksirdrs-aifd 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 covetous, and never missed an opportunity of over- 
 reaching his neighbor. 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. His 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 Lavsrence 
 gave me no uneasiness. My father had no doubt been de- 
 ceived, as well as my father's neighbors, by the artifices of 
 this woman. I passed among them for a thief and profligate, 
 but their error had hitherto 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 at- 
 tention 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 my 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 buffetings, and made his life an 
 eternal brawl. The sooner my interview with such a person- 
 age should be at an end the better. I therefore explained the 
 purpose of my coming as fully and in as few words as pos- 
 sible. 
 
 "Your name, sir, is Philip Hadwin. Your brother Will- 
 iam, of Malverton, died lately and left two daughters. The 
 youngest only is now alive, and I come, commissioned 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 entitled to thjs information." 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 247 
 
 The change which took plnce in the countenance of this 
 man during this address was remarkable, but not easily de- 
 scribed. His cheeks contracted a deeper crimson, his eyes 
 sparkled, and his face assumed an expression in which curios- 
 ity 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 " God damn it ! " " Damna- 
 tion ! " "I'll be damned to hell if," and the like energetic ex- 
 pletives) — " 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 con- 
 ceal from this man the tenor and destruction of the will, 
 nor even the measures which his niece had taken or in- 
 tended to take. "What I supposed to be unknown to him 
 appeared to have been communicated by the talkative Caleb, 
 whose mind was more inquisitive and less sluggish than 
 first appearances had led me to imagine. Instead of mop- 
 ing 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 men- 
 aces. 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 villainy, and talked of the gallows and the whipping- 
 post ; enforced each word by the epithets damnable and hell- 
 ish ; closed each sentence with " And be cursed to you ! " 
 
24S ARTHUR MERYYK; OR, 
 
 There was but one mode for me to pursue ; all forcible op- 
 position to a man of bis strength was absurd. It was my 
 province to make his anger confine itself to words, and pa- 
 tiently to wait till the paroxysm should end or subside of it- 
 self. To effect this purpose I kept my seat, and carefully 
 excluded from my countenance every indication of timidity 
 and panic on the one hand, and of scorn and defiance ou 
 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 in- 
 stantly resort to violence inspired me with courage, since it 
 depended on myself whether food should be supplied to his 
 passion. Kage must either progress or decline ; and, since it 
 was in total want of provocation, it could not fail of gradually 
 subsiding. 
 
 My demeanor 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 behavior. 
 The disparity in size and strength between us was too evident 
 to make him believe that I coniided in my sinews for my de- 
 fence ; 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 sentiment. 
 
 " You are angry, Mr. Had win, 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 mis- 
 chievous a wretch as your fancy paints me. I have no claims 
 upon your niece but that of friendship, and she is now in tlie 
 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 
 burned in my presence, because she dreaded the authority 
 which that will gave you, not only over her property, but per- 
 son. 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 
 left her in an honest man's keeping. I am answerable for 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 249 
 
 nothing more. As to you, I meant not to injure you ; I ad- 
 vised 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 EKza's uncle, 
 you had a right to the information." 
 
 " So ! you come to tell me that she burned the will, and is 
 going to administer — to what, I beseech you ? To her father's 
 property? Ay, I warrant you. But take this along with 
 you — that property is mine ; land, house, stock, everything. 
 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 Hadwin's not so easily choused, I promise you. I 
 intended to give you this news, and a drubbing into the bar- 
 gain ; but you may go, and make haste. She burned 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 
 yoa, 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, and affecting not to 
 hear his commands ; " that will be sad news for my friend. 
 Why, sir, you are a fortunate man. Malverton is au excellent 
 spot ; well watered and manured ; newly and completely 
 fenced ; not a larger bam in the county ; oxen and horses 
 and cows in the best order ; I never set eyes on a finer or- 
 chard. By my faith, sir, you are a fortunate man. But, pray, 
 what have you for dinner ? I am hungry as a wolf. Order 
 me a beefsteak, and some potation or other. The bottle 
 there — it is cider, I take it ; pray, push it to this side." Say- 
 ing this, I stretched out my hand toward the bottle which 
 stood before him. 
 
 I confided in the power of a fearless and sedate manner. 
 Methought that, as anger was the food of anger, it must un- 
 avoidably 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 character made him dreaded 
 and obeyed by all. He had been accustomed to ready and 
 
250 ARTHUB MEBVYN; OR, 
 
 tremulous submission from men far more brawny and robust 
 than I was, and to find his most vehement menaces and gest- 
 ures 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 seem- 
 ingly 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, pour- 
 ing its contents into a tumbler, put it to my lips . 
 
 " Come, sir, I drink your health and wish you speedy pos- 
 session 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 beg- 
 gar. No doubt your claim is legal, and therefore ought to 
 lie admitted. What the law gave, the law has taken away. 
 Blessed be the dispensers of law ! Excellent cider ; open an- 
 other bottle will you, and, I beseech, hasten dinner if you 
 would not see me devour the table." 
 
 It was jnst, 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 without artifice or 
 disguise. If his claim were legal opposition would be absurd 
 and pernicious. I meant not to relj' iipon bis 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 tlie inspection should be made. 
 Meanwhile no reason coiild 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 favor. It was possible 
 to obtain a remission of his claims, even when the law en- 
 forced 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 accompanied 
 by gestures and tones so menacing as those which had before 
 been used. It was plain that the tide which so lately threat- 
 ened my destruction had begun to recede. This encouraged 
 me to persist. 
 
 " Be not alarmed my good friend," said I, placidly and smil- 
 ing. " A man of your bone need not fear a pigmy like me. I 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE YEAR 1793. 251 
 
 shall scarcely be able to dethrone you in your own castle with 
 an army of hostlers, tapsters, 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 consented not only to supply 
 me with a dinner, but to partake of it with me. Nothing- 
 was more a topic of surprise to himself than his forbear- 
 ance. He knew not how it was. He had never been treated 
 so before. He was not proof against entreaty and sub- 
 mission, but 1 had neither supplicated nor submitted. The 
 stuff that I was made of was at once damnably tough and 
 (iavilishl^__£liant^_ When he thought of my impudence in 
 Allying in liis~liOuse 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, notwithstanding 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 va- 
 lidity 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 
 owu history so far as it was connected with the Hadwins. I 
 exhibited in affecting colors 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. If 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 adojDted by a man who I'c- 
 garded 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 mortgage, he would, at least, afibrd 
 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 suffi- 
 ciently wonder at ray 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 
 
252 ARTHUR MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 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 gi-eatly 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 horsewhipping. But if he did not give her 
 his estate, he might extend to her, forsooth, his counsel and 
 protection. " That I 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 chambermaid to 
 an inn. If she minds her p's and q's 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 prothono- 
 tary's office, which was kept in the village, and quickly ascer- 
 tained the truth of Hadwin's pretensions. There existed a 
 mortgage, with bond and warrant of attorney, to so great an 
 amount as would swallow up evei-ything at Malverton. Fur- 
 nished with these tidings, I prepared, with a di'ooping heart, 
 to return to Mr. CurUng's. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 This incident necessarily produced a change in my views 
 with regard to my fi-iend. Her fortune consisted of a few 
 hundreds of dollars, which, frugally administered, might pro- 
 cure decent accommodation in the country. When this was 
 consumed, she must find subsistence in tending the big wheel 
 or the milk-pail, unless fortune should enable me to place 
 her in a more favorable 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, volun- 
 tary, and relieved by frequent intervals of recreation and leis- 
 
MEMOIBS OF THE TEAR 1793. 253 
 
 ure. Now they were likely to prove irksome and servile, in 
 consequence of being performed for hire and imposed by ne- 
 cessity. Equality, parental solicitudes, and sisterly endear- 
 ments, 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 like- 
 wise create anew those ties which death had dissolved. The 
 affections of parent and sister would be supplied by the fon- 
 der and more rational attachments of friendship. These toils 
 were not detrimental to beauty or health. Wbat 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 indiffer- 
 ence or aversion to the only instruments of rational improve-f 
 ment, the pen and the book. "~^ 
 
 This evil, however, was at some distance from Eliza. 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, per- 
 haps, 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, and my fancy now pur- 
 sued it with uncommon pleasure. To reside in your family ; 
 to study your profession ; to pursue some subordinate or cas- 
 ual mode of industry, by which I might purchase leisure for 
 medical pursuits, for social recreations, and for the study of 
 mankind on your busy and thronged stage, was the scope of 
 my wishes. This destiny would not hinder punctual corre- 
 spondence and occasional visits to Eliza. Her pen might 43e 
 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 reflections 
 
 on my future lot, and just views of the situation of my friend, 
 insensibly restored my cheerfulness. I arrived at Mr. Cur- 
 ling's in the evening, and hastened to impart to Eliza the issue 
 of my commission. It gave her uneasiness, merely as it frus- 
 trated 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 viHitor. 
 
 Next morning I set out on my journey hither on foot. The 
 way was not long ; the weather, though cold, was wholesome 
 
26j/ ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 and serene. My spirits were high, and I saw nothing in the 
 
 world before me but sunshine and prosperity. I was cou- 
 
 . scious that my happiness.. dep.ended_not ou the re TOluE Ms"of 
 
 . imtrnTofThe caprice of maju. All without was, indeedT'vicis- 
 
 situde and" uncertainty ; but within mj' 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. 
 
 This felicity was too rapturous to be of long duration. I 
 gradually descended from these heights ; and the remem- 
 brance of past incidents, connected with the images of your 
 family, to which I was returning, led my thoughts into a dif- 
 ferent channel. Welbeck and the unhaj^py 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 Clemenza, were recalled. My former 
 resolutions with regard to her had been suspended by the 
 uncertainty in which the fate of the Hadwius 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 beneiit ; whether cau- 
 tion, 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 intercourse, to seek her pres- 
 ence ? 
 
 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 refinements, 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 
 wliose interest it might be to shut out visitants was cowardice. 
 This was an infringement of her liberty which equity and 
 law equally condemned. By what right could she be re- 
 strained 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. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 255 
 
 Away witli cowardly reluctances and clownish scruples, and 
 let me hasten this moment to her dwelling. 
 
 Mrs. Villars is the portress of the mansion. She will prob- 
 ably present herself before me, and demand the reason of my 
 visit. What shall I say to her ? The truth. To falter, or 
 equivocate, or dissemble to this woman would be 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 afford her the opportu- 
 nity of vindication ? Perhaps she is indeed selfish and profli- 
 gate, 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 compas- 
 sion 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 ! Clemenza 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 consequently could not fail to have ac- 
 quired it. This conclusion is somewhat dubious, but experi- 
 ment 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 long- 
 er than it was. You were the pleasing phantom that hovered 
 before me and beckoned me forward. What a total revolu- 
 tion had occurred in the course of a few seconds ! for thus 
 long did my reasonings with regard to Clemenza and the Vil- 
 lars 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 catalpas, leafless, loaded with ici- 
 cles, 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 then a hasty 
 inference that the house was not without inhabitants, and 
 knocked, quickly and loudly, for admission. 
 
256 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 Someone -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 
 j-eadily 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 de- 
 livery 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 parlor, inquired, "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 parlor was spacious and expensively furnished, but an 
 air of negligence and disorder was everywhere visible. The 
 carpet was wrinkled and unswept ; 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, uncovered, 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, 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 Salvator, 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 
 
MEM0IB8 OF THE YEAR 1793. 257 
 
 and voluptuous being to whom I was about to present my- 
 self. 
 
 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 so 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 ; in- 
 deed 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 pro- 
 long it ; but to leave the house with my errand unexecuted 
 would argue imbecility and folly. To ascertain Clemenza's 
 presence in this house, and to give an interview, were yet in 
 my power. Had I not boasted of my intrepidity in braving 
 denials and commands when they endeavored to obstruct my 
 passage to this woman ? But here were no obstacles nor 
 prohibition. Suppose the girl had told the truth, that the 
 matron and her daughters were absent, and that Nanny and 
 herself were the only 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 door 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 endeavor to extort infor- 
 mation 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 staircase, and to a back window. No- 
 body was within hearing or sight. 
 
 Once more I reflected on the rectitude of my intentions, 
 on the possibility that the girl's assertions might be true,_ on 
 the benefits of expedition, and of gaining access to the object 
 
258 ABTEUB MERVTN ; OB, 
 
 of my visit without interruption or delay. To these con- 
 siderations was added a sort of charm, not easily explained, 
 ^4Ui4J)y ^° means justifiable, produced by the very temerity 
 I and hazardness accompanyiug this attempt. I thought, with 
 I scornful emotions, on the bars and hinderances which pride, 
 and 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 fetters 
 into a,ir 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 
 Kclosed. I knocked. After a pause, a soft voice said, "Who 
 Wthere ? " 
 
 ^^he 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 disconcerned 
 or vanquished by the objects that I saw, I was tranquQ and 
 firm. My curiosity, however, made me a vigilant observer. 
 Two females, arrayed with voluptuous negligence, in a man- 
 ner 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 succes- 
 sively 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 unseasonableness of this 
 meeting. 
 
 The other shrieked likewise, but in her it seemed to be the 
 token of suprise 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, however, to assume the air of 
 one offended, and, looking sternlj', " How now, fellow," 
 said she, " what is this ? Why come you hither ? " 
 
 This questioner was of mature age, but had not passed the 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 259 
 
 period of attractiveness and grace. AJl the beauty that nature 
 bad bestowed was still retained, but the portion 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 de- 
 cision. I had brought with me the belief of their being un- 
 chaste, and seized, perhaps with too much avidity, any appear- 
 ance that coincided with my prejjossessions. Yet the young- 
 er by no means inspired the same disgust, though I had no 
 reason to suppose lier 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 
 consciousness of what had already been exposed filled her 
 with confusion, and she would have flown away, if her com- 
 panion 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 steadfastly, 
 but, I believe, with neither effrontery nor anger, on the one 
 who addressed me. I spoke in a tone serious and emphat- 
 ical. "I come for the sake of speaking to a woman who for- 
 merly 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 imperious 
 and more inquisitive air, in this woman, on hearing the name 
 of Clemenza. It was momentary, and gave way to peremp- 
 tory lopks. "What is your business with her? And why did 
 you adopt this mode of inquiry? A very extraordinary in- 
 trusion 1 Be good enough to leave the chamber. Any ques- 
 tions 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 Clemenza 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." 
 
200 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 " Impossible, madam," I replied, still looking at her earnest- 
 ly. " 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 behavior. 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 expostulate with you, but merely to 
 counsel and aid a being that needs both ; all I want is to see 
 her. lu 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 wiU punish this 
 insolence as it deserves '? " 
 
 " Dearest madam, I compel you to nothing. I merely sup- 
 plicate. 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 interview with Clemenza Lodi. Com- 
 pliance will harm you not, but will benefit her. What is your 
 objection ? " 
 
 " This is the strangest proceeding ! the most singular con- 
 duct ! Is this a fit place to parley with you ? I warn you of 
 the consequences of staying a moment longer. Depend upon 
 it, you will sorely repent it." 
 
 "You are obdurate," said I, and turned toward 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 condescen- 
 sion. 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 tal- 
 ents, beauty, and address, but dissolute and wanton, sensual 
 and avaricious ; 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 appetites. Is it 
 so?" 
 
 She made me no answer, but somewhat in her looks seemed 
 to evince that my favorable prepossessions were just. I no- 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 261 
 
 ticed likewise tbat the alarm of the elder was greatly increased 
 by this address to her companion. The thought suddenly 
 occurred that this girl might be in circumstances 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. Cle- 
 menza was for a time forgotten. I paid no attention to the 
 looks or demeanor 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 visi- 
 tant? Do you know the character, profession, 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, even supposing her inclined to do so, 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 at- 
 tainable. 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 slie 
 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 inces- 
 sant interrupter to silence. What I had to say, I compressed 
 in a few words, and adhered to perspicuity and candor 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, I 
 cannot tell. In either case, however, what I am going to say 
 
2C2 ARTHUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 ■will be useful. Let me faithfully repeat what I have heard. It 
 is mere rumor, and I vouch not for its truth. Kumor as it is, 
 I submit it to your judgment, and hope that it may guide you 
 into paths of innocence and honor. 
 
 "Mrs. Villars and her three daughters are Englishwomen, 
 who supported for a time an unblemished reputation, but who, 
 at length, were suspected of carrying on the trade of prosti- 
 tution. This secret could not be concealed 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 deathbed, 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 
 afterward removed to Mrs. Villars's. Her name was Cle- 
 menza Lodi. Residence in this house, under the control of a 
 woman like Mrs. Villars and her daughters, 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 reluctance in 
 answering will be useless ; till an answer be obtained, 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 torrent of opjjro- 
 brious epithets. I was a villain, a calumniator, 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 use- 
 less. 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 I really deserve the imputations of rashness 
 and insolence? My behavior, I well know, was ambiguous 
 and hazardous, and perhaps wanting in descretion, but my 
 motives were unquestionably pure. I aimed at nothing but 
 tjae rescue of a human creature from distress and dishonor. 
 
 I pretend not to the wisdom of experience and age ; to the 
 praise of forethought or sublety. I choose the obvious path. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 263 
 
 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 be- 
 cause we are ignorant. Our good purposes must hurry to 
 performance, whether our knowledge be greater or less. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXV. 
 
 To explore the'house in this manner was so contrary to or- 
 dinary rules, that the design was probably wholly unsuspected 
 by the women whom I had just left. My silence, at parting, 
 might have been ascribed bj' them to the intimidating in- 
 fluence 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 negli- 
 gent 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 cadav- 
 erous. Either it was dead, or could not be very distant 
 from death. 
 
 The features of Clemenza were easily recognized, though 
 no contrast could be greater, in habit and shape and com- 
 plexion, than that which her present bore to her former ap- 
 pearance. All her roses had faded, and her brilliancies van- 
 ished. Still, however, there was somewhat fitted to awaken 
 the tenderest emotions. There were tokens of inconsolable 
 distress. X 
 
 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 toward the door 
 and waved it in silence, as if to admonish me to depart. 
 
 This motion, however emphatical, I could not obey. I 
 wished to obtain her attention, but knew not in what words 
 
264 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 to claim it. I was silent. In a moment site removed 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 Wel- 
 beck might have taught her to regard me. What proposal, 
 conducive to her comfort and her safety, could I make 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 attention 
 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, re- 
 peated, " 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 friendlessness ; 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 window, and endeavored 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 ViUars 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 character. Though voluptuous 
 themselves, it does not follow that they have labored 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 enough to pro- 
 vide 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 toward 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 ? " 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 265 
 
 "Alas!" returned I, "I know not. That question miglit, 
 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 demeanor 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 distress for her 
 child, but concern for the fate of Welbeck. " Know yon," 
 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 produced a convulsion 
 harder than the last. 
 
 The mother easily interpreted these tokens. The same 
 mortal struggle seemed to take place in her features 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 in- 
 compatible with thinking. A few incoherent motions and 
 screams, that rent the soul, were followed by a deep swoon. 
 She sank 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 succor, 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 calamity, and rescue thee from new evils ? " 
 
 At this moment the door of the apartment was opened and 
 
2G6 ARTIIUn MERVYN; OR, 
 
 tbe 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 spec- 
 tacle, 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, protection, 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 situa- 
 tion and wants are ascertained, will you supply her wants ? 
 Will you rescue her from evils that may attend her continu- 
 ance here ? " 
 
 She was disconcerted and bewildered by this address. At 
 length she said, " All that has happened, all that I have heard 
 and seen is so unexpected, so strange, that I am amazed and 
 distracted. Your behavior 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 moment ; and whatever protection or assist- 
 ance she may justly claim, I am both able and willing to be- 
 stow. I do not live here, but in the city. I am only an oc- 
 casional 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 entereat 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, uncertain 
 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 267 
 
 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 immediate 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, sulleness, and 
 disappointment in her aspect. These, however, were sus- 
 pended by the situation in which she discovered the mother 
 and child. It was plain that all the sentiments of woman 
 were not extinguished in her heart. She summoned the 
 servants and seemed preparing to take such measures as the 
 occasion 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 con- 
 veyed 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 grati- 
 tude and 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 lay good intentions." 
 
 " Begone ! ' interrupted she, in a more angry tone. "Be- 
 gone this moment, or I will treat you as a thief." She 
 now drew foi'th her hand from imder 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 intrepidity 
 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 herself deeply injured by my 
 conduct ; and was it absolutely certain that her anger was 
 without reason ? I had loaded her house with atrocious im- 
 putations, and those imputations might be false. I had con- 
 ceived them upon such evideuce as chance had provided ; 
 
268 ABTHUS, MERVTN; OB, 
 
 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 not find me less 
 ready to repair, than to perpetrate, this injury. My error 
 was without malice, and " 
 
 I 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 impulse that made 
 me raise my hand and attempt to turn aside the weapon. 
 I did this deliberately and tranquUly, and without conceiv- 
 ing that anything more was intended by her movement than 
 to intimidate me. To this precaution, however, I was in- 
 debted 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 momentary stupor. 
 I reeled backward and should have fallen, had I not sup- 
 ported myself against the wall. The sight of my blood in- 
 stantly restored her reason. Her rage disapjDeared, and was 
 succeeded by terror and remorse. She clasped her hands and 
 exclaimed, ''Oh! what, what have I done? My frantic pas- 
 sion has destroyed me." 
 
 I needed no long time to show me the full extent of the 
 injury which I had suffered and the conduct which it be- 
 came 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 another, and 
 showed me that there is a limit which the impetuosities of 
 anger will sometimes overstep. Instead of revihng my com- 
 panion, 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 rash- 
 ness had like to have sacrificed the life of one who is your 
 friend, and to have 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, on 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 Clemenza 
 
MBMOma OF THE YEAR 1793. 269 
 
 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 the evidence on which I pro- 
 ceed, I am liable to a thousand 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 con- 
 sequences of her rashness, she renewed, though with less ve- 
 , hemence than before, her imprecations on my intermeddling 
 and audacious folly. I listened till the storm was nearly ex- 
 hausted, and then, declaring my intention to revisit, the house 
 if the interest of Clemenza should require it, I resumed my 
 way to the city. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 " Why," said I, as I hasted forward, " is my fortune so 
 abundant in unforeseen occurrences ? Is every man who 
 leaves his cottage and the impressions of his infancy behind 
 him ushered into such a world of revolutions and perils as 
 have trammelled my steps ? or is my scene indebted for 
 variety and change to my propensity to look into other peo- 
 ple's concerns, and to make their sorrows and their joys 
 mine? 
 
 " To indulge an adventurous spirit, I left the precincts of 
 the barn-door, enlisted in the service of a stranger, and en- 
 countered a thousand dangers to my virtue under the dis- 
 astrous influence of Welbeck. Afterward my life was set at 
 hazard in the cause of Wallace, and now am I loaded with 
 the province of protecting the helpless Eliza Had win and the 
 unfortunate Clemenza. My wishes are fervent, and my 
 powers shall not be inactive in their defence ; but how slender 
 are these powers ! 
 
 " In the offers of the unknown lady, there is, indeed, some 
 consolation for Clemenza. It must be my business to lay be- 
 fore my friend Stevens the particulars of what has befallen 
 me, and to entreat his directions how this disconsolate girl 
 may be most effectually succored. It may be wise to take 
 her from her present abode, and place her under some 
 chaste and humane guardianship, where she may gradually 
 
270 ABTEUB MBBVTN; OB, 
 
 lose remembrance of her dead infant and her specious be- 
 trayer. The barrier that severs her from Welbeck must be 
 high as heaven and insuperable as necessity. 
 
 "But, soft! Talked she not of Welbeck? Said she not 
 that he vras in prison and vv^as sick ? Poor v^retch ! I 
 thought thy course v^as at an end ; that the penalty of guilt 
 no longer weighed down thy heart ; that thy misdeeds and 
 thy remorses were buried in a common and obscure grave ; 
 but it seems thou art still alive. 
 / "It is rational to cherish the hope of thy restoration to 
 innocence and peace? Thou artno obdurate crimical ; hadst 
 thou less virtue, thy compunctions would be less keen. Wert 
 thou deaf to the voice of duty, thy wanderings into guilt and 
 folly would be less fertile of anguish. The time will perhaps 
 come when the measure of thy transgressions and calam- 
 ities will overflow, and the folly of thy choice will be too 
 conspicuous to escape thy discernment. Surely, even for such 
 transgressors as thou there is a salutary power in the precepts 
 of truth and the lessons of experience. 
 
 "But thou art imprisoned and art sick. This, perhaps, is 
 the crisis of thj' destiny. Idleness and dishonor were the 
 evils, to shun which thy integrity and peace of mind have been 
 lightly forfeited. Thou hast found that the price was given 
 in vain ; that the hollow and deceitful enjoyments of opulence 
 and digTiity were not worth the purchase ; and that, frivolous 
 and unsubstantial as they are, the only path that leads to 
 them is that of honesty and diligence. Thou art in prison 
 and art sick ; and there is none to cheer thy hour with ofSces 
 of kindness, or uphold thy fainting courage by the sugges- 
 tions of good counsel. For such as thou the world has no 
 compassion. Mankind will pursue thee to the grave with 
 execrations. Their cruelty will be justified or palliated, 
 since they know thee not. They are unacquainted with the 
 goadings of thy conscience and the bitter retributions which 
 tbou art daily suffering. They are full of their own wrongs, 
 and think only of those tokens of exultation and complacency 
 which thou wast studious of assuming in thy intercourse with 
 them. It is I only that thoroughly know thee and can right- 
 ly estimate thy claims to compassion. 
 
 "I have somewhat partaken of thy kindness, and thou 
 meritest some gratitude at my hands. Shall I not visit and 
 endeavor to console thee in thy distress ? Let me, at least, 
 ascertain thy condition, and be the instrument in repairing 
 the wrongs which thou hast inflicted. Let me gain, from 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 271 
 
 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 Welbeck. 
 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 
 odor 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 resi- 
 dence of Welbeck. What contrasts are these to the repose 
 and splendor, 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 dwelling ! Here brawling and the 
 shuffling of rude feet are eternal. The air is loaded with the 
 exhalations of disease and the fumes of debauchery. Thou 
 art cooped up in airless space, and, perhaps, compelled to 
 share thy narrow cell with some stupid ruf&an. Formerly 
 the breezes were courted by thy lofty windows. Aromatic 
 shrubs were scattered on thy hearth. Menials, splendid in 
 apparel, showed their faces with difiidence 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 alabaster, and thy fragrant 
 lymph flowed from vases of porcelain. Such were formerly 
 the decorations of thy hall, the embellishments of thy exist- 
 ence ; but now, alas ! " 
 
 We reached a chamber in the second story. My conductor 
 knocked at the door. No one answered. Repeated 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 
 
272 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 appeared unconscious 
 that anyone had entered. 
 
 At length, uttering a deep sigh, he changed his posture, and 
 perceived me in my motionless and gazing attitude. Eecollect 
 in what circumstances we had last parted. Welbeck bad, no 
 doubt, carried away with him from that interview a firm be- 
 lief 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 eying me for some 
 time, he averted his glances, and that effort which is made to 
 dissipate some obstacle to breathing showed me that his sen- 
 sations were of the most excruciating kind. He laid his head 
 upon the pillow and sunk into his former musing. He dis- 
 dained, or was unable, to utter a syllable of welcome or 
 contempt. 
 
 In the opportunity that had been afforded me to view his 
 countenance I had observed tokens of a kind very ditferent 
 from those which used to be visible. The gloomy and ma- 
 lignant were more conspicuous. Health had forsaken bis 
 cheeks, and taken along with it those flexible parts which 
 formerly enabled him to cover his secret torments and insidi- 
 ous 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 some- 
 what in his eyes that made me shudder. They 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 imaginest. Would to God that thou wouldst be con- 
 tented with the report which I shall make ; that thy mis- 
 guided 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 induce thee to practise. 
 Thou must come, and witness for thyself." 
 
 In speaking thus, I was far from foreseeing the effects which 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE TEAR 1793. 273 
 
 would be produced on the mind of Welbeck. I was far from 
 intending to instil into liim 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 ex- 
 ecute his frantic purpose. I seized his arm and besought 
 him to lay aside his terror, for 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 : 
 
 " She is occupied with other griefs than those connected 
 with the fate of Welbeck. She is not unmindful of you ; she 
 knows j'ou 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 calamity 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 elsewhere thy rueful 
 
274 ARTHUR MEBVTN; OB, 
 
 ditty ! Vanisli, if tliou wouldst not feel in thy heart fangs 
 red with blood less guilty than thine." 
 
 Till this moment the uproar in Welbeck's mind appeared 
 to hinder him from distinctly reooguizing his visitant. Now 
 it seemed as if the incidents of our last interview suddenly 
 siJrung 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 hor- 
 rors without number and name. To whatever crimes I have 
 been urged since that interview, and the fit of madness that 
 made you destroy my property — they spring fi-om 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 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 erroi-s 
 of its foe, labor 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 con- 
 tempt to binder me from expiating 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 hai'm 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 com- 
 fort 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 secrecy on 
 which he so fondly leaned was at an end. Had I acted cul- 
 pably 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 conse- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 275 
 
 quence. I would summon my friend to my aid and take his 
 counsel in tbe 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 afford- 
 ing relief, were far superior to mine. 
 
 Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment without 
 speaking ; and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you 
 the billet which brought about our meeting. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVn. 
 
 Meevyn'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 some- 
 what startled at this signal, and looked, with a mournful sort 
 of earnestness, at this 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 inci- 
 dents than those which had just been related by him ; but, 
 after so much fatigue as he had undergone, I thought it im- 
 proper 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 happened 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 particu- 
 lars." 
 
 " Nay," said he, " withdraw not on my account. If I go to 
 my chamber, it will not be to sleep, but to meditate, es- 
 pecially after your assurance that something of moment has 
 occuiTed in my absence. My thoughts, independently of any 
 cause of sorrow or fear, have received an impulse which soli- 
 tude and darkness will not stop. It is impossible 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 waa 
 
--T" 
 
 276 ARTnUR MEUVTN; OR, 
 
 not difficult to conceive that, however tired the limbs might 
 be, the adventures of this day would not be easily expelled 
 from the memory at night. I told him the substance of the 
 conversation with Mrs. Althorpe. He smiled at those parts 
 of the narrative which related to himself ; but when his 
 father's depravity and poverty were mentioned, he melted 
 into tears. 
 
 " Poor wretch ! I, that knew thee in thy better days, 
 might have easily divined this consequence. I foresaw thy 
 povertj' 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 antidote to grief ; but, 
 now that thy ruin is complete, it seems as if some of it were 
 imputable to me, who forsook thee when the succor 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 
 neighbors 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 
 neighbors anything but laudable abhorrence of vice. They 
 were too eager to blame, to collect materials of censure rather 
 than of praise. It was not I whom they hated and despised. 
 It was the phantom that passed under my name, which ex- 
 isted 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 reproaches 
 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 height- 
 ened the claims of the reproachers themselves to my respect 
 and my gratitude. 
 
 They thought me slothful, incurious, destitute of knowledge 
 and of all thirst of knowledge, insolent, and profligate. They 
 say that in the treatment of my father I have been ungrateful 
 and inhuman. I have stolen his property, and deserted him 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 277 
 
 in bis calamity. Therefore they hate and revUe 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 examined 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, deter- 
 mined 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 im- 
 pulse of the moment, and to prate or be silent, just as my 
 humor 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 resemblances 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 labor. What my 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 
 
278 ARTHUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 and vertical suns was sure to make me sick. My father was 
 insensible to this consequence, and no degree 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 labor. 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 froward 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 in- 
 fluence of my decision on my own happiness, and to weigh 
 the profits flowing to my father from my labor, against the 
 benefits of mental exercise, the pleasures of the woods and 
 streams, healthful sensations, and the luxuiy of musing. The 
 pecuniary profit was petty and contemptible. It obviated no 
 necessity. It purchased no rational enjoyment. It merely 
 provoked, by furnishing the means of indulgence, an appetite 
 from which my father was not exempt. It cherished the seeds 
 of depravity in him, and lessened the little stock of happiness 
 belonging to my mother. 
 
 I did not detain you long, my 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 heai-t by the 
 force of reason, and by submission to necessity, and, there- 
 fore, too frequently employ the cowai-dly expedient of endeav- 
 oring 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 279 
 
 not withstand entreaty, and a potion that produced no effect 
 upon others changed him into a maniac. 
 
 I told you that I had a sister whom the arts of a villain 
 destroyed. Alas ! the work of her destruction was left unfin- 
 ished 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 alternative 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 appropriate 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 supplied 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 my 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 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. If I 
 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 myself by expatiating 
 on domestic miseries, and by calling down that pity on myi 
 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 hai'm- 
 less in its influence on other men ; to interfere thus publicly 
 with his social enjoyments, and expose him to mortification 
 and shame, was loudly condemned ; but my duty to my mother 
 debarred me from eluding this censure on the only terms on 
 which it could have been eluded. Now it has ceased to be 
 
280 ABTHUB MERVYN; OR, 
 
 necessary to conceal wliat 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 acknowledge 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 incurred some hazard by my diligence. 
 
 These were the motives of my idleness — for my abstaining 
 from the common toils of the farm passed by that name among 
 my neighbors ; 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 efi:'orts. They were pursued in the seclusion of 
 my chamber or the recesses of a wood. I did not labor to 
 conceal them, but neither was I anxious to attract notice. It 
 was sufficient that the censure of my neighbors 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 neighbors had 
 formed of my being improperly connected with Betty Law- 
 rence. 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 imparted to me. Her character, 
 profligate and artful, libidinous and impudent, and made 
 up of the impressions which a city life had produced on 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 281 
 
 ber coarse but active mind, was open to my study, and I 
 studied it. 
 
 I scarcely know how to repel the charge of illicit conduct, 
 and to depict the exact species of intercourse subsisting be- 
 tween 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 artifices of Betty. There was 
 no point at which it was possible for her to get possession of 
 my 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 pursue my observations unembarressed ; 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 pre- 
 ceding ; and that, in proportion 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 conse- 
 quences she wished, but they produced 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 inno- 
 cence. This mode of explication implied a continence in me 
 which he denied to be possible. The standard of possibilities, 
 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 neighbors, that the woman who married 
 the father had been prostituted to the son. Though I never 
 
282 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 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 XXXVm. 
 
 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 reflections 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. Wentworth and 
 her nephew, that had perplexed us not a little. " My infor- 
 mation is obtained," continued I, "from Wortley ; 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, appeared 
 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. Claveiing 
 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 un- 
 true. The father's correspondent may have been deceived. 
 The father may have been deceived, or the father may con- 
 ceive it necessary to deceive the aunt, or some other supposi- 
 tion 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 rec- 
 tify her error." 
 
 " I hope not. An honest front and a straight story will be 
 sufficient." 
 
 " How do you mean to act ? " 
 
MEMOIRS OF TUB TEAS 1793. 283 
 
 " 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 pre- 
 possessions 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 re- 
 moved." 
 
 " 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 Welbeck, 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 arresting 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 can- 
 not 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 formidable. I 
 shall, therefore, not avoid them. The sooner my conduct is 
 subjected to scrutiny, the better. Will you go with me to 
 Welbeck ? " 
 
 "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 pris- 
 oner had preserved an obstinate and scornful silence, and had 
 
 y 
 
284 ARTHUR MEEVTN'; OB, 
 
 neither explained his condition nor consented to accept any 
 aid. 
 
 We now went alone into his apartment. His sensibility 
 seemed fast ebbing, yet an emotion of joy was visible in his 
 eyes at the appearance of Mervyn. He seemed likewise to 
 recognize in me his late visitant and made no objection to 
 my entrance. 
 
 " How are you this morning ? " said Arthur, seating him- 
 self 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 : 
 
 " Clemenza ! You have seen her. Weeks ago I left her in 
 an accursed house ; yet she has not been mistreated. Neg- 
 lected and abandoned indeed, but not mistreated. 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 wiU be buried 
 with me. Some of them, but not alL 
 
 "Ere this I should have 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 treasure my own. 
 Prone to think I was forgotten, or numbered 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 recognized by emissaries 
 of Jamieson, 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 roU of lead. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 285 
 
 "Receive this," said he. "In the use of it be guided by 
 your honesty and by the same advertisement that furnished 
 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 con- 
 tinued some time longer in his chamber, but our kind intent 
 availed nothing. He quickly relapsed into insensibility, 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 prog- 
 ress 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 pro- 
 duced, and to shield him, if possible, from the evils which I 
 feared awated 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 Mervyn's letters or those 
 of my wife. 
 
 Meanwhile on leaving the prison I hastened to inform Mer- 
 vyn of the true nature of the scene which had just passed. 
 By this extraordinary occurrence the property of the Mau- 
 rices was now in honest hands. Welbeck, stimulated by 
 selfish motives, had done that which any other person would 
 have found encompassed with formidable dangers and diffi- 
 culties. How this attempt was suggested or executed he had 
 not informed us, nor was it desirable to know. It was suf- 
 ficient 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 par- 
 ticulars respecting Williams and the Maurices which I had 
 lately learned from Wortley. He listened with deep attention, 
 and, my story being finished, he said, " In this small compass, 
 then, is the patrimony and subsistence 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, 
 
2S6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 ■will inform us ; but, first, are we sure tliat any or all of these 
 bills are contained in this covering ? " 
 
 The lead was now unrolled, and the bills which Williams had 
 described were found enclosed. Nothing appeared to be de- 
 ficient. Of this, however, we were scarcely qualified to judge. 
 Those that were the property 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 remains but to visit 
 them, and put an end, as far as lies in my power, to their in- 
 quietudes." 
 
 " 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 myseK ? " 
 
 " I can hardly tell, unless your appearance on such an er- 
 rand may be suspected likely to involve you in embarrass- 
 ments " 
 
 "What emban-assments ? 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 disappearance. These 
 suspicions are connected with Welbeck, and Welbeck's con- 
 nection 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 pursue 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 perform my intended journey. 
 
■J, MEMOIRS OF THE TEAB 1793. 287 
 
 -J ,,'^'' CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 ^^-'^ J' 
 
 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 Jhread. ^ 
 
 First, let me mention theTesolutiohs~r°Ead formed at the 
 time I parted with my friend. I had several objects in view. 
 One was a conference with Mrs. Wentwortli ; another was an 
 interview with her whom I met with at Villars's. My heart 
 melted when I thought upon the desolate condition of Cle- 
 menza, 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 direc- 
 tion, at No. 40 Walnut Street. 
 
 I went thither without delay. She was not at home. Hav- 
 ing 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 meditation ; and with my 
 usual carelessness of forms, I entered the house and made my 
 way to the parlor, where an interview had formerly taken 
 place between us. 
 
 Having arrived, I began, though somewhat unseasonably, 
 to reflect upon the topics with which I should introduce my 
 conversation, and particularly the manner in which I should 
 introduce myself. I had opened doors without warning, and 
 traversed passages without being noticed. This had arisen 
 from my thoughtlessness. There was no one within hearing 
 or sight. What was next to be done? Should I not return 
 softly to the outer door, and summon the servant by knock- 
 ing? 
 
 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 anyone 
 there. When, therefore, the figure of a man caught her 
 vagrant attention, she started and cast a hasty look toward 
 me. 
 
 "Pray " (in a peremptory toMe), "how came you here, sir? 
 and what is your business?" 
 
288 ARTHUR MERV7N; OR, 
 
 Neither arrogance, on tbe 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 negUgence, though pro- 
 priety 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 de- 
 ceive 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 unfavorable 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 favor to entreat, and no pe- 
 tition to ofifer, but that you will suffer me to clear up those 
 mistakes which you have harbored 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 to de- 
 spise and condemn me. Their aversion and scorn shall not 
 make me unhajjpy ; but it is my interest and my duty to rec- 
 tify their error if I can. I regard your character with esteem. 
 You have been mistaken in condemning 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 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 2S9 
 
 you. Certainty, on this head, may be of much importance to 
 your happiness and the regulation of your future conduct. 
 To hear me patiently can do you no injury, and may benefit 
 you much. Will you permit me 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 concession, 
 and proceeded to begin my narration. I described the situa- 
 tion of my father's dwelling. I mentioned the year, month, 
 day, and hour of her nephew's appearance among us. I ex- 
 patiated minutely on his form, features, dress, sound of voice, 
 and repeated his words. His favorite gestures and attitudes 
 were faithfully described. 
 
 I had gone but a little way in my story when the effects 
 were visible in her demeanor 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 creduUty. Every word, every 
 incident related, attested my truth, by their agreement with 
 what she herself previously knew. 
 
 Her suspicious and angry watchfulness was quickly ex- 
 changed for downcast looks and stealing tears and sighs diffi- 
 culty repressed. Meanwhile I did not pause, but described 
 the treatment he received from my mother's tenderness, his 
 occupations, the freaks of his insanity, and, finally, the cir- 
 cumstances of his death and funeral. 
 
 Thence I hastened to the circumstances which brought me to 
 the city, which placed me in the service of Welbeck, 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 accom- 
 plished 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 comply with your former commands, and leave 
 the house with as little ceremony as I entered it." 
 
 "Your story," she replied, "has been unexpected. I be- 
 lieve it fully, and am sorry for the hard thoughts which past 
 appearances have made me entertain concerning you." 
 
290 ARTHUR MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 Here she sunk into mournful silence. " The information," 
 she at length resumed, " which I have received from another 
 quarter respecting that unfortunate youth astonishes and 
 perplexes me. It is inconsistent with j'our 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! Dear madam, how unfortunate? It has 
 done away a part of my ignorance of the world in which Hive. 
 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 be- 
 neficence and generosity. My knowledge of Welbeck has 
 been useful to me. It has enabled me to be useful to others. 
 i I look back upon that allotment of my destiny, which first 
 led me to his door, with gratitude and pleasure. 
 
 "Would to heaven," continued I, somewhat changing my 
 tone, " intercourse with Welbeck had been as harmless to all 
 others as it has been to me ; that no injury to fortune and 
 fame, and innocence and life, had been incurred 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 
 froip which I derive some consolation and some hope. You, 
 dear madam, are rich. These spacious apartments, this plen- 
 tiful accommodation, are yours. You have enough for your 
 own gratification and convenience, and somewhat to spare. 
 Will you take to your protecting arms, to yoiu- hospitable 
 roof, an unhappy girl whom the arts of Welbeck have robbed 
 of fortune, reputation, and honor, 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 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 Olemenza Lodi." 
 
 " Clemenza Lodi ! Good heaven ! " exclaimed Mrs. Went- 
 worth. " Why, surely — it cannot be. And yet— is it possible 
 that you are that person ? " 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 291 , 
 
 "I do Dot 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. ViUars?" 
 
 "The same. Perhaps you ^now her and her character. 
 Perhaps you can confirm or rectify my present opinions con- 
 cerning her. It is there that the unfortunate 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, your- 
 self, an example of beneficence ? Direct me to Mrs. Field- 
 ing, 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. 
 Weutworth 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 forever. Think 
 on the gulf that is already gaping to swallow 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 sorrows. Will you let me ? " 
 
 "Your behavior is extraordinary. I can scarcely tell 
 
292 ARTHUR SIERVYN; OB, 
 
 wliether this simplicity be real or affected. One would think 
 that your common sense would show you the impropriety of 
 your request. To admit under my roof a woman notoriously 
 dishonored, and from an infamous house " 
 
 " My dearest madam ! How can you reflect upon the situ- 
 ation 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 dejjlorable 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 ah-eady 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 be- 
 trayed. You are a stranger to her history. I am myself im- 
 perfectly 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 immediately re- 
 counted 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 sufiferer? Take her to your 
 home, to your bosom, to your confidence. Keep aloof those 
 temptations which beset her in her present situation. 
 Eestore her to that purity which her desolate condition, her 
 ignorance, her misplaced gratitude and the artifices of a skil- 
 ful dissembler, have destroyed, if it be destroyed; for how 
 know we under what circumstances her ruin was accom- 
 plished? with what pretences, or appearances, 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 mv 
 family?" 
 
 " Oh, no. It may be afterward removed. It cannot be re- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 293 
 
 moved before. By bringing her hither you shield her, at least 
 from future and possible evils. Here you can watch ber con- 
 duct aud 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 ac- 
 cording 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-morrow all our ef- 
 forts 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 fin- 
 ger. 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 pro- 
 vince." 
 
 These and many similar entreaties and reasonings were in- 
 effectual. Her general disposition was kind, but she was un- 
 accustomed to strenuous or sudden exertions. To admit the 
 persuasions of such an advocate to so uncommon a scheme as 
 that of sharing her house with a creature thus previously un- 
 known to her, thus loaded with suspicion and with obloquy, 
 was not possible. 
 
 I at last forbore importunity, and requested her to tell me 
 when I might expect to meet with Mrs. Fielding at her lodg- 
 ings. 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. Field- 
 ing 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 behavior 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 indis- 
 cretion. And, pray, what benevolent scheme would you pro- 
 pose to her ? " 
 
 " Has she property ? Is she rich ? " 
 
 " She is. Unhappily, perhaps, for her, she is absolute 
 
294 ARTimB MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 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 affluence and 
 a fair fame ? And will not she devote a few dollars to rescue 
 a fellow-creature from indigence and infamy 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. Cle- 
 menza shall owe life and honor to your friend, till I am able 
 to supply the needful sum from my own stock." 
 
 While thus speaking, my companion gazed at me with stead- 
 fastness : "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 oulj' 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 admin- 
 ister to the wants of one whom she found in such a house as 
 Mrs. Villars's ? She never will. She mentioned her impru- 
 dent 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 pos- 
 sibly be honest. Such a one as you, with your 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 pre- 
 tensions. 
 
 " I have no claim upon Welbeck which can embarrass you. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 295 
 
 On that score you are free from any molestation from me or 
 my friends. I have suspected you of being an accomphce 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 vras much unlike the strain which preceded it. 
 I imagined, by the mildness of her tone and manners, that her 
 unfavorable prepossessions were removed ; but they seemed 
 to have suddenly regained their pristine force. I was some- 
 what disconcerted by this unexpected change. I stood for a 
 minute silent and irresolute. 
 
 Just then a knock was heard at the door, and presently en- 
 tered that very female whom I had met with at Mrs. Villars's. 
 I caught her figure as I glanced through the window. Mrs. 
 Wentworth darted at me many significant glances, which com- 
 manded me to withdraw ; but with the object I had 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 ex- 
 changed salutations with her friend. 
 
 All this while I stood near the window, in a situation not a 
 little painful. Certain tremors which I had not been accus- 
 tomed to feel, and which seemed to possess a mystical relation 
 to the visitant, disabled me at once from taking my leave, or 
 from performing any useful purpose by staying. 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 permit 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 atten- 
 tion was fixed on Mrs. Wentworth, serving to intimidate and 
 check her. At length she said, in an irresolute 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 
 equanimitj'. I was impatient to be gone to Baltimore, and 
 hoped to be able to set out by the dawn of next day. Mean- 
 
296 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 while I was necessarily to perform something witli respect to 
 Clemenza. 
 
 After dinner I accompanied Mi-s. Stevens to visit Miss Carl- 
 ton. 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 serious- 
 ness 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 Carlton,'" 
 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 sit- 
 uation already, as well as that of your brother." 
 
 She looked at me with benignity and said : "I accept this 
 friendship willingly and gratefully, and shall endeavor to con- 
 vince 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 exer- 
 cise 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 contrived to deduce some 
 beneficial consequence to herself, and some motive for grati- 
 tude to Heaven, from every wayward incident that had be- 
 fallen her. 
 
 This demeanor 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 responsible 
 during his father's life. The act was generous but imprudent, 
 as the event has shown ; though, at the time, the unhappy ef- 
 fects 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 
 
MBMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 297 
 
 bond from my brother, by which he engaged to pay the debt at 
 sevei'al successive tiines and in small portions. All these in- 
 stalments were discharged with great difficulty indeed, but 
 with sufficient punctuality, except the last, to which my 
 brother's earnings 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, smihng : " T hat is a very abstract view, of 
 thing s. On such a question you and I might, perhaps, 
 easily decide in favor of mj' 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 aimual 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 mj' brother, not to 
 enforce payment, but to inflict misery. If you could persuade 
 liim that there is no hardship in imprisonment, you would 
 speedily gain the victory ; but that could not be attempted 
 consistently with truth. In proportion to my brother's suf- 
 fering 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 exjDerience 
 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 
 Parquhar is not lightly taken up. I saw him yesterday, and 
 
298 AUTJIUB MEBVYN; OR, 
 
 the nature of bis motives in the treatment of my brother was 
 plain enough." 
 
 Here this topic was succeeded by others, and the conver- 
 sation ceased not till the hour had arrived on which I had 
 preconcerted to visit Mrs. Fielding. I left my two fnends for 
 this purpose. 
 
 I was admitted to Mrs. Fielding's presence without scruple 
 or difficulty. There were two females in her compauy, and 
 one of the other sex, well-dressed, elderly, and sedate persons. 
 Their discourse turned upon political topics, with which, as 
 you know, I have but slight acquaintance. They talked of 
 fleets and armies, of Kobespierre 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 embarrassment was 
 mutually betrayed. With much hesitation, which, however, 
 gradually dissappeared, 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-condem- 
 nation. I was led into it without any fault, unless a too hasty 
 confidence may be styled a fault. I had known Mrs. Yillars 
 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 in- 
 vited 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 incau- 
 tiously complied. 
 
 "You are a stranger to me, and I am unacquainted with 
 your character. What little I have seen of your deportment, 
 and what little I have lately heard concerning you from Mrs. 
 Wentworth, do not produce unfavorable impressions ; but the 
 apology I have made was due to my own reputation, and 
 should have been offered to you whatever yoiu- character had 
 been." There she stopped. 
 
 "I came not hither," said I, "to receive an apology. Your 
 demeanor, on our first interview, shielded you sufficiently 
 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 pur- 
 pose in coming related not to you, but to another. I desired 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 299 
 
 merely to interest your generosity and justice on behalf of 
 one whose destitute and dangerous condition may lay claim 
 to your compassion and your succor." 
 
 "I comprehend you," said she, with an air of some per- 
 plexity. " 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 livincf," 
 
 " Does she not possess them already ? " 
 
 " She is destitute. Her dependence was wholly placed 
 upon one that is dead, by whom her person was dishonored 
 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 re- 
 mains through ignorance, or through the incapacity of leav- 
 ing it." 
 
 " But how shall she be persuaded to a change ? " 
 
 " I will persuade her. I will fully explain her situation. I 
 will supply her with a new home." 
 
 " You will persuade her to go with you, and to live at a 
 home of vour providing and on vour bounty ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Would that change be worthy of a cautious person ? 
 Would it benefit her reputation ? Would it prove her love of 
 independence ? " 
 
 " My purposes are good. I know not why she should sus- 
 pect theui. But I am only anxious to be the instrument. 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, independent, 
 affluent, pay to my own reputation in harboring a woman in 
 these circumstances ? " 
 
 " But you need not act yourself. Make me your agent and 
 almoner. Only supply her with the means of subsistence 
 through me." 
 
 " Would you have me act a clandestine part ? Hold meet- 
 ings with one of your sex, and give him money for a purpose 
 which I must hide from the vi^orld ? Is it worth while to be 
 a dissembler and impostor ? And will not such conduct incur 
 
300 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 more dangerous surmises and suspicions than would arise 
 ^ from acting openly and directly ? You will forgive me for re- 
 minding 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 Lave seen you. My knowledge of you is extremely dubious 
 and imperfect, and such as would make the conduct you pre- 
 scribe 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 represen- 
 tations. " 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 i^oint out some practicable me- 
 thod?" 
 
 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 suc- 
 cess ; but I find my ignorance of the world's ways much great- 
 /er than I had previously expected. You defraud yourself of 
 ' all the happiness redounding from the act of making others 
 happy. You sacrifice substance to show, and are more anx- 
 ious to prevent unjust aspersions from lighting on yourself 
 tlian to rescue a fellow-creature from guilt and infamy. 
 
 "You are rich, and abound in all the conveniences and 
 luxuries of life. A smaU portion of your superfluity would 
 obviate the wants of a being not less worthy than yourself. 
 It is not avarice or aversion to labor that makes you withhold 
 your hand. It is dread of the sneers and surmises of malevo- 
 lence and ignorance. 
 
 " I will not urge you further at present. Your determina- 
 tion to be wise should not be hasty. Think upon the subject 
 calmly and sedately, and form your resolution in the course 
 of three days. At the end of that period I will visit you 
 again." So saying, and without waiting for comment or an- 
 swer, I withdrew. 
 
 CHAPTEE XL. 
 
 I MOUNTED the stage-coach at daybreak the next dav, in com- 
 pany with a sallow Frenchman from St. Domingo, his fiddle- 
 case, an ape, and two female blacks. The Frenchman, after 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 301 
 
 passing the suburbs, took out bis Yiolin 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 -articu- 
 late, monotonous, sing-song jargon. 
 
 The man looked seldom either on this side or that, and 
 spoke only to rebuke the frolics of the monkey with a " Teuez ! 
 Dominique ! Prenez garde ! Diable noir ! " 
 
 As to me, my thought was busy in a thousand ways. I 
 sometimes gazed at the faces of my four companions, and en- 
 deavored to discern the dififerences and Samenesses between 
 them. I took an exact account of the features, proportions, 
 looks, and gestures of the monkey, the Congolese, and the 
 Creole Gaul. I compared them together and examined them 
 apart. I looked at them in a thousand different points of 
 view, and pursued, untired and unsatiated, those trains of re- 
 flections which began at each change of tone, feature, and at- 
 titude. 
 
 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 cottage, 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, of course, 
 crude and inadequate ; and I found an uncommon gratifica- 
 tion in comparing realities, as they successively 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 transactions 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 curiosity. My visit to 
 Mrs. Watson and her brother I designed should take place on 
 the morrow. The evening of my arrival I deemed an unsea- 
 sonable time. 
 
 While roving about, however, it occurred to me that it 
 might not be impolitic to find the way to their habitation even 
 now. My purposes of general curiosity would equally be 
 
302 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 served whicLever 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 dis- 
 cussed at that interview, I felt a trembling and misgiving at my 
 heart. " Surely," thought I, " it wiU become me to exercise 
 an immeasurable circumspection and address ; and yet how 
 little are these adapted to the impetuosity and candor 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 afterward transmitted to her, and, from the same hands, the 
 bills contained in his girdle ? 
 
 '' How will she start and look aghast ! What suspicions 
 will she harbor ? What inquiries shall be made of me? How 
 shall they be disarmed and eluded, or answered? Deep con- 
 sideration 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 Mrs. W^atson was said 
 to reside. The street, and, at length, the habitation, was 
 found. Having reached a station opposite I paused and sur- 
 veyed 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 evening, there was no appearance of light or fire within. 
 
 Beside the house was a painted fence, through which was a 
 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 wliich 
 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 fi-ont ; but at the 
 second a light was discernible. I approached it, and, looking 
 through, beheld a plain but neat apartment, in which parlor, 
 kitchen, and nursery seemed to be united. A fire burned 
 cheerfully in the ehimnej', 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 diflerent hue to make them 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAB 1793. 303 
 
 beautiful. Near it, in a rocking-cliair, with a sleeping babe 
 in her lap, sat a female figure in plain but neat and becoming 
 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 benignity, but 
 the sadness that veiled its lustre was profound. Her eyes were 
 now fixed upon the fire and were moist with the tears of re- 
 membrance, while she sung, in low and scarcely-audible strains, 
 an artless lullaby. 
 
 This spectacle exercised a strange power over my feelings. 
 While occujpied in meditating on the features of the mother, 
 I was unaware of my conspicuous situation. 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 thought 
 showed me the impropriety of departing thus abruptly and 
 leaving behind me some alarm. I felt a sort of necessity for 
 apologizing for my intrusion into these precincts, and hast- 
 ened to a door that led into the same apartment. I knocked. 
 A voice somewhat confused bade me enter. It was not 
 till I opened the door and entered the room that I fully 
 saw in what embarrassments I had incautiously involved 
 myself. 
 
 I could scarcely obtain sufficient courage to speak, and gave 
 a confused assent to the question, '• Have you business 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. Ephriam "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 explanations 
 might be avoided, and I might have reason to congratulate 
 myself on his seasonable absence. Actuated by these thoughts, 
 I drew forth the packet and put it into her hand, saying "I 
 will leave this in your possession and must earnestly request 
 
304: ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 you to keep it safe uatil you can deliver it into his own 
 hands." 
 
 Scarcely had I said this before new suggestions occurred. 
 Was it right to act in this clandestine and mysterious manner ? 
 Should I leave these persons in uncertainty respecting the fate 
 of a husband and a brother? What perplexities, misun- 
 derstandings, and suspenses might not grow out of this un- 
 certainty ? 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 consciousness in her- 
 self, filled my companion with all the tokens of confusion and 
 fear. She alternately looked at me and at the paper. Her 
 trepidation increased and she grew pale. These emotions 
 were counteracted by a strong eifort. 
 
 At length she said falteringly, "I will take good care of 
 them and will give them to my brother." 
 
 She arose and placed them in a drawer, after which she re- 
 sumed her seat. 
 
 On this occasion all my weariness forsook me. I cannot 
 explain why my perplexity and the trouble of my thoughts 
 were greater ujDon this than upon similar occasions. How- 
 ever it be, I was incapable of speaking and fixed my eyes upon 
 the floor. A sort of electrical sympathy pervaded my com- 
 panion and terror and anguish were strongly manifested in 
 the glances which she sometimes stole at me. We seemed 
 fully to understand each other without the aid of words. 
 
 This imbecility could not last long. I gradually recovered 
 my composure and collected my scattered thoughts. I looked 
 at her with seriousness and steadfastly spoke : " Ai'e you the 
 wife of Amos Watson ? " 
 
 She started. "I am indeed. Why do j'ou ask ? Do you 
 know anything of " There her voice failed. 
 
 I replied with quickness, " Yes. I am fuUy acquainted 
 with his destiny." 
 
 "Good God!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of surprise, 
 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 re- 
 turn to me ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
MEM0IB8 OF THE TEAR 1793. 305 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" looking upward 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 solemnity, 
 " he will never return to thee. Long ago was he laid in tlie 
 cold grave." 
 
 She shrieked, and at the next moment sunk in a swoon 
 upon the floor. I was alarmed. The two children shrieked 
 and ran about the room terrified and unknowing what they 
 did. I was overwhelmed with somewhat like terror, yet I in- 
 voluntarily 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 persons, 
 apparently Mrs. Watson's neighbors, and raised by the out- 
 cries of the girls, hastily entered the room. They looked at 
 me with mingled surprise and suspicion ; but my attitude, be- 
 ing 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 as- 
 sistance and explained in some degree, and briefly, the cause 
 of those appearances, I'emoved 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 informa- 
 tion would be useless to her and not to be given by me, at 
 least in the present audience, without embarrassment and 
 peril. I suddenly determined to withdraw, and this, the at- 
 tention of the company being otherwise engaged, I did with- 
 out notice. I returned to my inn and shut myself up in my 
 chamber. Such was the change which, undesigned, unfore- 
 seen, half an hour had wrought in my situation. My cautious 
 projects 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. " I 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." 
 
306 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 CHAPTEE XLI. 
 
 Next morning I arose betimes and equipped myself with- 
 out 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 liches, 
 means which they, no doubt, had long ago despaired of regain- 
 ing, 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 present it was naked 
 and dreary. 
 
 As I approached it through a long avenue I obsei-ved two 
 female figures, walking arm in arm and slowly to and fro in 
 the path in which I now was. "These," said I, "are daugh- 
 ters of the familj'. Graceful, well-dressed, fashionable gWs 
 they seem at this distance. May they be deserving of the 
 good things which I bring!" Seeing them turn toward the 
 house, I mended my pace, that I might overtake them and 
 request their introduction of me to their mother. 
 
 As I more nearly a^Dproached they again turned, and, per- 
 ceiving 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 disappointment, there 
 was nothing highly prepossessing in the 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 defects, 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 croceed. A nause Prisnorl. 
 
MEMOIRS OP THE TEAR 1793. 307 
 
 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 indisposed ■" 
 
 " 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 ob- 
 served, " 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 disappeared. I stood at 
 the bottom of the steps, confounded at such strange and un- 
 expected 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 unpro- 
 pitious aspect, and, opening the door, looked at me in silence. 
 To my question, " Is Mrs. Maurice to be seen ? " he made 
 some answer in a jargon which I could not understand, but 
 his words were immediately followed by an unseen person 
 within the house. " Mi'S. 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." 
 
 I lifted the latch, without a second warning, and, Cato hav- 
 ing disappeared, went into a room, the door of which chanced 
 to be ojien, on my right hand. I found within the two fe- 
 males whom I had accosted on the portico. I now addressed 
 myself to the younger : " This intrusion, when I have ex- 
 plained the reason of it, will, I hope, be forgiven. I come, 
 madam " 
 
 "Yes," interrupted the other, with a countenance suffused 
 by indignation, " I know very well whom you come from, and 
 what it is that prompts this insolence ; but your employer 
 sliall see that we have not sunk so low as he imagines. Cato ! 
 Bob ! I say." 
 
 " My employer, madam ! I see you labor 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 
 
308 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 room. " Turn this person," said the imperious lady, regard- 
 less of my explanations, " out of the house. Don't you hear 
 me ? " she continued, observing that they looked one ux^ou 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." 
 
 " WiU you leave the house?" she exclaimed, quite beside 
 herself with anger. "Villains! why don't you do as I bid 
 you ? " 
 
 The blacks looked upon each other, as if waiting for an ex- 
 ample. Their habitual deference for everything white, no 
 doubt held their hands from what they regarded as a prof- 
 anation. 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 unperformed. I 
 am persuaded, madam, you mistake my character and my 
 views. I have a message to deliver your mother which deeply 
 concerns her and your happiness, if you are her daughter. I 
 merely wished to see her, and leave with her a piece of im- 
 portant 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 exclaimed, "are 
 you Watson? " 
 
 "No ; I am only Watson's representalive 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. Advertisements 
 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 mis- 
 taken you. Mrs. Maurice is my mother. She is really indis- 
 posed, but I can stand in her place on this occasion." 
 
 " You cannot represent her in this instance. If I cannot 
 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 sayintr, she 
 left me for three minutes, and returning said her mother 
 wished to see me. 
 
MSMOIRS OF TEE YEAR 1793. 309 
 
 I followed upstairs 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 daughter'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." 
 
 " 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 daugh- 
 ter by turns with an air of one suddenly bewildered. 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 colors, entered and gazed at me with 
 surprise. Involuntarily I withdrew and returned 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 irretriev- 
 able would naturally produce this effect upon a mind of a 
 certain texture. 
 
 I was deliberating whether to stay or go, when the daugh- 
 
310 ABTJIUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 ter entered the room, and, after expressing some surprise at 
 seeing me, whom she supposed to have retired, told me that 
 her mother wished to see me again before my departure. In 
 this request there was no kindness. All was cold, supercil- 
 ious, 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, she inquired : 
 " Pray, friend, how did you come by these papers ? " 
 
 " I assure you, madam, they were honestly covie hy," an- 
 swered I, sedately and with half a smile ; " but, if the whole 
 is there that was missing, the mode and time in which they 
 came to me is matter of concern only to myself. 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 de- 
 mand it. In this case, curiosity must be very urgent, indeed, 
 before I shall consent to gratify it." 
 
 "You must know this is a susjjicious case. "Watson, to be 
 sure, embezzled the money ; to be sure, you are his accom- 
 plice." 
 
 " 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 unconditionally, 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 am 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 coming 
 hither, had foreboded. I expected to find virtuous indigence 
 and sorrow lifted, by my means, to affluence and exultation. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 311 
 
 I expected to witness the tears of gratitude and the caresses 
 of affection. What had I found ? Nothing but sordidness, 
 stupidity, and illiberal suspicion. 
 
 The daughter staj-ed 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 parlor with a gentleman." 
 
 " Mr. Somers, I suppose ; hey, fool ? Eun with my com- 
 pliments to him, wench. Tell him, please walk up." 
 
 " It is not Mr. Somers, ma'am." 
 
 " No ? Who then, saucebox ? What gentleman can have 
 anything to do with Polly?" 
 
 " I don't know, ma'am." 
 
 " Who said you did, impertinence ? Eun, 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 bitterly of her inat- 
 tention and neglect, but Polly, taking no notice of her, ad- 
 dressed 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 parloi". 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. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLII. 
 
 My eyes sparkled with pleasure at this unexpected inter- 
 view, and I willingly confessed my desire to communicate all 
 the knowledge of his brother's destiny which I possessed. He 
 told me that, returning late to Baltimore on the last even- 
 ing, he found his sister in much agitation and distress, which, 
 after a time, she explained 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, impatient to see 
 the bearer of such extraordinary tidings. This morning, in- 
 quiring for one of your appearance at the taverns, I was at 
 length informed of your arrival yesterday in the stage, of 
 
312 ARTHUR MERVTK; OR, 
 
 your goiug out alone in the evening, of your subsequent re- 
 turn, and of your early departure this morning. Accidentally 
 I lighted on your footsteps, and by suitable inquiries ou the 
 road have finally traced you hither. 
 
 "You told my sister her husband vs-as 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 everything — at this mo- 
 ment or at any time — but the sooner I do it the more agree- 
 able to me." 
 
 "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 before this man 
 every incident of my life connected with Welbeck and Wat- 
 son. My fuU, circumstantial, and explicit story appeared to 
 remove every doubt which he might have entertamed of my 
 integrity. 
 
 In Williams I found a plain, good man, of a temper confid- 
 ing and affectionate. My narration being finished, he ex- 
 pressed, by unaffected tokens, his wonder and his grief on 
 account of Watson's destiny. To my inquiries, which were 
 made with frankness and fervor, respecting his own and his 
 sister's condition, he said that the situation of both was de- 
 plorable till the recovery of this propertj'. They had been 
 saved from utter ruin, from beggary 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-humor are her chief characteristics. 
 
 " The youngest daughter has nothing in mind or person in 
 common with her family. Where they are irascible she is 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 313 
 
 patient ; wliere tliey are imperious slie is hum'ble ; where they 
 are covetous she is liberal ; where they are ignorant and in- 
 dolent she is studious and skilful. It is rare, indeed, to find 
 a young lady more amiable than Miss Fanny Maurice, 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 incoveniences which to 
 any other girl born to an equal rank would have been to 
 the last degree humiliating and vexatious. To her they only 
 afforded new opportunities for the display of her most shining 
 virtues, fortitude and charity. No instance of their sor- 
 didness 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 disappear- 
 ance she has been permitted to pursue this plan, and she 
 now teaches music in Baltimore for a living. No one, how- 
 ever, in the highest rank can be more generally respected 
 and caressed than she is." 
 
 " But will not the recovery of this money make a favorable 
 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 relin- 
 quish 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 recol- 
 lecting himself ; " have you claimed the reward promised to 
 him who should restore these bills ? " 
 
314 ABTHUB MEBVTN; OB, 
 
 " 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 ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. Could you suspect me of so strange a 
 punctilio as that ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I know not why. The story you have just fin- 
 ished taught me to expect some unreasonable refinement up- 
 on 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 promised. In truth, 
 this has been my conduct, for I never once thought of the re- 
 ward, 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 condi- 
 tion 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 a pity you first applied to Mrs. 
 Maurice. Nothing cau 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 thou- 
 sand 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, wiU attend you to 
 him in the evening and state your claim." 
 
 I thankfully accepted this offer and went with him accord- 
 ingly. I found that Hemmings had been with JMrs. Maurice 
 in the course of the day ; had received from her intelhgence 
 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 in- 
 fle.Kible brow afforded me little room to hope for success, and 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 315 
 
 this llopelessness 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. Mervyu's side 
 have been performed. Certain it is the bills are entire and 
 complete, but Mrs. Maurice will not consent 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 com- 
 pelled to pay," said Williams. 
 
 " Perhaps she may ; but I tell you plainly that she never 
 will do the thing without compulsion. Legal process, how- 
 ever, 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 dei^osited 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 de- 
 pend upon determining whether the payer is the 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 cursosit}', so far from studying concealment, I am anxious 
 to publish the truth." 
 
 " You are right, to be sure," said Hemmings. "Curiosity 
 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 compul- 
 sion. 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 con- 
 tented with the aid of the law. Any attorney will prosecute 
 on condition of receiving half the sum when recovered." 
 
 We now rose to take our leave, when Hemmings, desiring 
 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 ; but it must be 
 owned that your claim, at any rate, is equitable. I have 
 
316 ABTHUR MEBVTN; OB, 
 
 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 consequences of an act of justice on 
 myself. I was prepared for you. Sign that receipt, and 
 there is a cheek for the amount." 
 
 CHAPTER XLHI. 
 
 This unexpected and aggreeable decision was accompanied 
 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 Mi'S. Maurice's, 
 and being assured by the former of his entire conviction Of 
 the rectitude of my conduct, he laid aside all reserve and dis- 
 tance with regard to me. He inquired into my prospects and 
 wishes, and professed his willingness 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 compensate 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 competence, 
 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 j-ears 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 ac- 
 quainted with her. This young lady was afiectionately at- 
 tached 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 ad- 
 miration and affection it was impossible to be uncommunica- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 317 
 
 tive. Before the end of my seconcl interview both these wom- 
 en were mistresses of every momentous incident of my life, / 
 and of the whole chain of my feelings and opinions in rela- j/ 
 tion to every subject, and particularly in relation to them- 
 selves. Every topic disconnected with these is compai-atively 
 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 circumstauces 
 leading to her marriage. She depicted the character of 
 her husband, and the whole train of suspenses and inquie- 
 tudes occasioned by his disappearance. The latter did not 
 hide from me her opinions 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 ingenuous and sympa- 
 thetic 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 punc- 
 tual correspondence with Stevens, to whom I imparted aU 
 occurrences. 
 
 The recovery of my friend's kinsman allowed him in a few 
 days to return home. His first object was the consolation 
 and relief of Carlton, whom, with much difficulty, he persuad- 
 ed to take advantage of the laws in favor of insolvent debt- 
 ors. 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 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. 
 Tlieir mutual industry was sufficient for their decent and 
 moderate subsistence. 
 
 The chief reason for my hasty return was my anxiety re- 
 specting Clemenza Lodi. This reason was removed by the 
 activity and benevolence of my friend. He paid this unfort- 
 unate stranger a visit at Mrs. Villars's. Access was easily ob- 
 tained, and he found her sunk into the deepest melancholy. 
 
' 318 ■ ABTUUn MERVTN; OR, 
 
 The recent loss of her child, the death of Welbeok, of which 
 she was soon apprized, her total dependence upon those with 
 whom she was placed, who, however, had always treated her 
 without barbarity or indecorum, were the calamities that 
 weighed down her spiiits. 
 
 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. Fielding, 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 es- 
 j)ress 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 remained, 
 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 pos- 
 sibla, to extricate my father from his unfortunate situation. 
 ■^■""^y father's state had given me the deepest concern. I 
 figured to myself his condition, besotted by brutal appetites, 
 reduced to beggary, shut up in a noisome prison, and con- 
 demned to that society which must foster all his depraved 
 .propensities. I revolved various schemes for his relief. A 
 few hundreds would take him from prison ; but how should 
 he be afterward disposed of? How should he be cured of 
 .hiarindol^nt habits ? How should he be screened from the 
 contagion of vicious society? By what means, consistently 
 with TQy own wants and the claims of others, should I secure 
 to him an acceptable subsistence ? 
 
 Exhortation and example were vain. Nothing but restraint 
 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 drunkenness and blasphemy, without any perma- 
 juent advantage to my father, the principal object of my 
 %i^ty. 
 
 Though unable to fix on any plausible mode of proceeding, 
 I determined, at least, to discover his present condition. 
 
ME2I0IRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 319 
 
 Perhaps sometliincr niiglit sncrpjest itself, upon tlie spot, suited 
 to my purpose. Without delay I proceeded 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 I He came into limbo in a crazy condition au<l 
 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 jjint — 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 disinterested and 
 dispassionate view, not unfortunate. The keeper knew not my 
 relation to the deceased, and readily recounted the behavior 
 of the prisoner and the circumstances 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 benefi- 
 cial 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 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 to 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 des- 
 olate. The fields which I ^vas 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 everything within and without 
 the habitation. 
 
 These images filled me with melancholy, which, however, dis- 
 appeared in proportion as I approached the abode of my be- 
 loved girl. Absence had endeared the image of my Bess— T 
 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 mingled. As I ap- 
 
320 ABTHUB MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 proachecl Curling's house I strained my siglit in hopes of dis- 
 tinguishing her form through the evening dusk. 
 
 I had told her of my purpose by letter. She expected my 
 approach at this hour and was stationed, with a heart throb- 
 bing 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 Curlings, 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 Perhaps I think too 
 much of my poor father and 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. In- 
 stead 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 mopeful. 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 society of 
 my friend, in listening to her relation of all that had hap- 
 pened during my absence, and in communicating, in my turn, 
 every incident which had befallen myself. After this I once 
 more returned to the city. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 I NOW set about carrying my plan of life into effect. I be- 
 gan with ardent zeal and unwearied diligence the career of 
 medical study. I bespoke the counsels and instructions of 
 my friend, attended him on his professional visits, and acted in 
 all practicable cases as his substitute. I found this applica- 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 321 
 
 tion of time more pleasurable than I had imagined. My 
 miud gladly expauded itself, as it were, for the reception of 
 new ideas. My curiosity grew more eager iu 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 iu 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 pur- 
 suits. I was formed on purpose for the gratification of social ■ 
 intercourse. To love and to be loved, to exchange hearts 
 and mingle sentiments with all the virtuous 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 Field- 
 ing were my most valuable associates beyond my own family. 
 With all these my correspondence was frequent and unre- 
 served, but chiefly with the latter. This lady had dignity 
 and independence, a generous and enlightened spirit, beyond 
 what her education had taught me to expect. She was cir- 
 cumspect 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 conform- 
 able to her rules. My manners, indeed, as she once told me, 
 she had never met with in another. Ordinary rules were so 
 totally overlooked in my behavior that it seemed impossible 
 for anyone 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 was 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 occasion to disclose every 
 feeling and every event. Anyone 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 everyone. 
 
 Achsa Fielding's countenance bespoke, I thought, a mind 
 worthy to be known and to be loved. The fii-st moment I en- 
 gaged her attention I told her so. I related the little stoiy of 
 my family, spread out before her all my reasonings and de- 
 
322 ARTHUR MBRVYN ; OR, 
 
 terminations, my notions of rigLt and wrong, my fears and 
 ■wishes. All this was done with sincerity and fervor, 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 feeling 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, recounted our dia- 
 logues, and related all my schemes for making her wise and 
 good and happy. On these occasions my friend would listen 
 to me with the mutest attention. 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 common of meaning. 
 
 "Such and such," I once said, "are my notions ; now what 
 do you think?" 
 
 "Think!" emphatically, and turning somewhat aside, she 
 answered, " that you are the most strange of human creat- 
 ures." 
 
 " But tell me," I resumed, following and searching her 
 averted eyes, "am I right? Would you do thus? Can you 
 help me to improve m j' girl ? I wish j'ou knew the bewitch- 
 ing little creature. How would that heart overflow with af- 
 fection and with gratitude toward 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 ? Ave you not 
 well?" 
 
 Her looks betrayed an unaccountable confusion, from 
 which she quickly recovered. "It was folly to be thus affect- 
 ed. Something ailed me, I believe, but it is past. But 
 come, you want some lines of finishing the description of the 
 Boa in ' La Cepide.' " 
 
 " True. And I have twenty minutes to spare. Poor Pranks 
 is very ill indeed, but he cannot be seen till nine. We'll reac 
 till then." 
 
 Thus on the wings of pleasure and improvement passec 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 323 
 
 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 boolk which 
 she set me to rehearsing to her. One evening, when prepar- 
 ing 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 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 humor not very fit for writing. I had 
 better go to my chamber and weep, weep at your — unkind- 
 neas, I was going to say ; but, perhaps, it is only fovgetful- 
 ness. And yet what can be more unkind than f orgetfulness ? 
 I am sure I have never forgotten you. Sleep itself, which 
 wraps all other images in forgetfulness, only brings you near- 
 er and makes me see you more distinctly. 
 
 " Bat 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 wouldst 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 re- 
 proaches would assuredly break it quite. 
 
 " I will be content. I will be as good a housewife and 
 dairy woman, stir about as briskly and sing as merrily, as 
 Peggy Curling. Why not ? I am as young, as innocent, 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 — for- 
 gotten me. 
 
 " But perhaps it is some accident that hinders. Perhaps 
 Oliver left the market earlier than he used to do, or you mis- 
 took the house, or perhaps some poor creature 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. 
 
324 ARTHUn MERVYN; OR, 
 
 Such things often happen (don't they, Arthur ?) to people o 
 your trade, and some such thing has happened now, and tha 
 was the reason you did not write. 
 
 " And if so, shall I repine at your silence? Oh, no. Ai 
 such a time the poor Bess might easily be, and ought to be 
 forgotten. She would not deserve your love if she could re 
 pine at a silence brought about this way. 
 
 " And, oh ! may it be so ! May there be nothing worse thai 
 this ! If the sick man — see, Arthur, how my hand 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 oughj 
 to cherish you and comfort you ; that ought to be your nurse 
 endure for you your sickness when she cannot remove it ? 
 
 " Oh ! that — I will speak out — oh ! that this strange scruple 
 had never possessed you ! Why should I not be with you S 
 Who can love you and serve you as well as I ? In sickness 
 and health, I will console and assist you. Why will you de- 
 prive yourself of such a comforter and such an aid as I would 
 be to you ? 
 
 " Dear Arthur, think better of it. Let me leave this dreai-j 
 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 wU] 
 be good enough for me. I wiU think it a palace, so that I car 
 hut see you now and then. 
 
 " Do not refuse — do not argue with me, so fond you always 
 are of arguing ! My heart is set upon your compliance. And 
 yet, dearly as I prize your company, I would not ask it if ] 
 thought there was anything improper. Tou say there is, and 
 you talk about it in a way that I do not understand. For mj 
 sake, you tell me, you refuse, but let me entreat you to com- 
 ply for my sake. 
 
 " Your pen cannot teach me like your tongue. Tou write 
 me long letters, and tell me a great deal in them ; but mj 
 soul droops when I call to mind j'our voice and 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 fai 
 away. 
 
 " I bethink me how many questions I might ask you, hoT\ 
 many doubts you might clear up if you were but withii 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 325 
 
 hearing. If you were but close to me, but I cannot ask 
 them here. I am too poor a creature at the pen, and some- 
 Low or another it always happens I can only write about 
 myself or about you. By the time I have said all this I have 
 tited my fingers, and when I set about telling you how this 
 poem and that story have affected me I am at a loss for 
 woi'ds ; 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 thousand 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 ouee 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 j'ou 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 3'ou told 
 me that nobody could gain your love who was not fond of 
 booka And yet, though I like it on that account more than 
 I did, I don't read somehow so earnestly 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, 
 brimful of glee, am now demure as our old tabhy — and not 
 half as wise. Tabby had wit enough to keep her paws out 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 some- 
 times too wise to be happy ? 
 
 " I am now xo grave. Not one smile can Peggy sometimes 
 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/riewrf- 
 less too, now that you forget me, I 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 
 
320 ARTHUR MERVYN ; OR, 
 
 door, perhaps tlie sound of Ina 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 sd 
 quickly followed by a tear. Women are born, they saj', to 
 trouble, and tears are given them for their relief. 'Tis all 
 very true. 
 
 "Let it be as I wisli, will you? If Oliver bring not buck 
 good tidings, if he bring not a letter from thee, or thy letter 
 still refuses my request, I don't know what may happn. 
 Consent if you love your poor girl. 
 
 "E. H" 
 
 CHAPTEE XLV. 
 
 The reading of this letter, though it made me mournful, 
 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 sbalt have thy 
 favorite ditty." She stepped to the instrument, and, with 
 more than airy lightness, touched and sung : 
 
 "Now knit haniis and beat the ground 
 In a light, fantastic round, 
 Till the telltale sun descry 
 Our conceal'd solemnity." 
 
 Her music, though blithesome and aerial, was not sufficient 
 for the end. My cheerfulness would not return even at her 
 bidding. She again noticed my sedateness, and inquired in- 
 to the cause. 
 / "This girl of mine," said I, " has i nfected me with her own 
 ' sadness. There is a letter I have jusn-eoylvedT' 8LB ~took 
 it"anflUSgan 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 
 woiuan's face has no parallel. 
 
 She read it with visible emotion. Having gone through it 
 she did not lift her eyes 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 ; 
 
MEMOIRS OF TJIE YEAR 1793. 327 
 
 "This girl seems to be very anxious to be with you." 
 
 "As much as lam that she should be so." My friend's 
 countenance betrayed some perplexity. As soon as 1 perceived 
 it I said : " Why are 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 be- 
 fore and wondered. It hajjpeus only when my Bess is intro- 
 duced. Something 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, with- 
 out noticing my comments on her looks, said : " Since j'ou 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 wlio 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 brother- 
 ly part, without the relationship." 
 
 " And is that the only part you wish to act toward 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. He 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 my 
 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." 
 
 "Her reliance upon you for happiness," replied my friend, 
 with a sigh, " is plain enough." 
 
 " It is ; but why that sigh ? And yet I understand it. It 
 
328 ARTHUR MERVTN; OR, 
 
 remonstrates -with me on my incapacity for her support. I 
 know it well, but it is wrong to be cast down. I 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 hap- 
 piness, 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 destitute 
 condition, will account for that." 
 
 "She is fifteen, the age of delicate fervor, of inartificial 
 love, and suitable enough for marriage. As to your condition, 
 you can 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 hei 
 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 willing 
 to wait ten years for a wife ? " 
 
 " Does that follow ? Because my Bess will not be quaUfied 
 for wedlock in less time, does it follow that I must wait foi 
 her?" 
 
 "I spoke on the supposition that you loved her." 
 
 " And that is true ; but love is satisfied with studying hei 
 happiness as her father or brother. Some years hence, per- 
 haps in half a year — for this passion, called wedded or mar- 
 riage-wishing love, is of sudden growth — my mind may change 
 and nothing may content me but to have Bess for my wife, 
 Yet I do not expect it." 
 
 " Then you are determined against marriage with this 
 girl?" 
 
 "Of course ; xmtil that love comes which I feel not now, 
 but which, no doubt, will come when Bess has had the bene- 
 fit of five or eight years more, unless previously excited by an- 
 other." 
 
 "All this is strange, Arthur. I have heretofore supposed 
 that you actually loved — I mean with the marriage-seeking 
 passion — your Bess." 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 329 
 
 "I believe I once did ; but it happened at a time when mar- 
 riage was improper — in the life of her father and sister, and 
 when I had never known in what female excellence consisted. 
 Since that time my happier lot has cast me among women so 
 far above EUza Hadwiu — so far above, and so widely different 
 from anything 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 en- 
 dowments ; as having an artless purity and rectitude of mind, 
 which somewhat supersedes the use of formal education ; as 
 being full of sweetness and tenderness, and in her person a 
 very angel of lovliness." 
 
 " All that is true. I never saw features and shape so deli- 
 cately beautiful ; I never knew so young a mind so quick- 
 sighted and so firm ; but, nevertlieless, 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 ? " 
 
 " Everything she wants. Age, capacity, acquirements, per- 
 son, 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, lean. The 
 creature whom I shall worship — it sounds oddly, but, I verily 
 believe, the sentiment which I shall feel for my wife will be 
 more akin to worship than anything else. I shall never love 
 but such a creature as I now image to mj'self, and such a 
 creature will deserve, or almost deserve, 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 expressions 
 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 wiU 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 
 
330 ARTHUR MERVYK ; OR, 
 
 itself in the tender and inimitable strain of tbis epistle. 
 Does not this sweet ingenuousness bewitch j'ou?" 
 
 "It does so, and I love, beyond expression, the sweet girl ; 
 but my love is, in some inconceivable waj', 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 happi- 
 ness ? " 
 
 " 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 ; jjlayful in her pleasures ; 
 to hold her in my arms, and listen to her prattle, always 
 musically voluble, always sweetly tender, or artlessly intelli- 
 gent — and this you will say is the dearest privilege of mar- 
 riage ; 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 interest 
 to prolong these intervals as much as possible, and my 
 endeavors to this end would, no doubt, have some effect. 
 Besides, the bitterness of this reflection would 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 other good " 
 
 "But these reflections, my friend," broke she in upon 
 me, " are of as much force to induce you to mai'i-y, as 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 disclaiming all — is, in few 
 words, your picture." 
 
 " I scarcely understand you. Do you think I ever shall be 
 happy to that degree whicli I have imagined ? Think you I 
 shall ever meet with an exact copy of yourself?" 
 
MEMOIRS OP THE TEAR 1793. 331 
 
 "Unfortunate you will be if you do not meet with many 
 better. Your Bess, in personals, is, beyond measure, my 
 superior, and in mind, allowing for difference in years, quite 
 as mucli so." 
 
 '■ But that,'' returned I, with quickness and fervor, " is not 
 the object. The very counterpart of you I want ; neither 
 worse nor better, nor different in anything. Just such form, 
 such features, such hues. Just that melting voice, ai;d, 
 above all, the same habits of thinking and conversing. In 
 thought, word, and deed ; gesture, look, and form, that rare 
 and precious creature whom I shall love must be your resem- 
 blance. 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 you 
 already feel toward 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 per- 
 versness of my heart. With such means as I possess, of giv- 
 ing happiness to others, I have been thoughtless and inactive 
 to a strange degree ; perhaps, 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 happi- 
 ness. 
 
 "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 remain in 
 a cold and churlish soil will stunt her growth and wither her 
 blossoms. We must hasten to transplant her to a genial 
 
332 ARTHUR MERVTN; OB, 
 
 element and a garden well enclosed. Having so long neg- 
 lected 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 office of conducting her hither. I grant it you as a favor. 
 Will you go ? " 
 
 "Go! I will fly !" I exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, "on 
 pillions swifter than the wind. Not the lingering of an in- 
 stant will I bear. Look ! one, two, three — thirty minutes 
 after nine. I will reach Curling's gate by the mom's dawn. 
 I will put my girl into a chaise, and by noon she shall throw 
 herself into the arms of her sister. But first shall I not in 
 1, 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, I clasped her in my arms and kissed her lips fer- 
 vently. I stayed not to discover the effects of this insanity, 
 but left the room, and the house, and calhng for a moment at 
 Stevens's, left word with the servant, my friend being gone 
 abroad, that I should not return till the morrow. 
 L^ Never was a lighter heart, a gayety more overflowing and 
 more bouyant than mine. All cold from a boisterous 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 mj-self fatigue, and have lost 
 no time ; but my mind was in too great a tumult for delibera- 
 tion and forecast. I saw nothing but the image of my gui, 
 whom my tidings would render happy. 
 
 The way was longer than my fond imagination had fore- 
 seen. I did not reach Curling's till an hour after sunrise. 
 The distance was fully thii'ty-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 single reproach, added to my own, will kill me. That 
 foolish, wicked letter — I could tear my fingers for writin'^ it." 
 
 " But," said I, " I will kiss them," and put them to my lips. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 333 
 
 " They have told me the wishes of my girl. They have en- 
 abled 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- 
 fusion, and her cheeks, always glowing, glowing still more 
 deeply, " indeed, I did not mean — I meant only— I will stay 
 here — I 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 intermission." 
 
 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. Preparations for depart- 
 ure were easily and speedily made. I hired a chaise of a 
 neighboring farmer, and, according 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 my friends. Her affectionate heart 
 was encouraged to pour forth all its feeling as into the bosom 
 of a mother. She was reinspired with confidence. Her want of 
 experience was supplied by the gentlest admonitions and in- 
 structions. 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 behavior 
 and her progress exceeded the most sanguine hopes that I had 
 formed as to the softness of her temper and the acuteness of 
 her genius. 
 
 Those graces which a polished education, and intercourse 
 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 to be obtained from actual 
 observation and instruction was obtained without difficulty ; 
 
334 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 and in a sLort time nothing but tlie affectionate simplicity and 
 unperverted feelings of the country-girl bespoke the original 
 condition. 
 
 "What art so busy about, Arthur? Always at thy pen of 
 late. Come, I must know tlie fruit of all this toil and all this 
 meditation. I am determined to scrape acquaintance with 
 Haller 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 phy- 
 sician. But, first, what is all this writing about ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Wentworth has put me upon a strange task — not 
 disagreeable, however, but such as I should, perhaps, have de- 
 clined, 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 nar- 
 rative, 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 favor to compile much of 
 my history with his own hand. I cannot imagine what could 
 prompt him to so wearisome an undertaking ; but he says that 
 adventures and a destiny so singular as mine ought not to be 
 abandoned to forgetfulness like any vulgar and every-day ex- 
 istence. Beside, 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 behavior, and confides in my integrity 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 
 onlv 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 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 wil 
 read them, that I am determined, before I sleep, and watch il 
 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 designee 
 for her persual, but for those who have no previous knowl 
 
edge of her or of me. 'Twas an odd request. I cannot 
 imagine wliat she means by it, but she never acts without 
 good reason, and I have done so. And now, withdraw, my 
 dear, and farewell." 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVI. 
 
 Move on, my quill ; wait not for my guidance. Reanimated 
 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, for- 
 ward-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 labored to fatigue myself — to 
 reconcile me to repose ; to lolling on a sofa ; to poring over 
 a book, to anything that might win for my heart a respite 
 from these throbs ; to deceive me into a few tolerable moments 
 of forgetfuluess. 
 
 Let me see ; they tell me this is Monday night. Only three 
 days yet to come ! If thus restless to-day ; if mj' 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 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 
 tierce revenge to heart-dissolving pity. 
 
 Perhaps it will befriend me now. It may temper my im- 
 
336 ABTHUB MEBVYN; OB, 
 
 petuous wishes, lull my intoxication, and render my liappi' 
 ness supportable ; and, indeed, it lias produced partly tbii 
 efi'ect already. My blood, within the few minutes thus em- 
 ployed, flows with less destructive rapidity. My thoughti 
 range themselves iu less disorder. And, now that the con- 
 quest 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 thai 
 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 tc 
 my knowledge will best account for that zeal, almost to idol- 
 atry, 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 be- 
 longed. And yet in stature she is too low, in complexion 
 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 en- 
 trance 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 alw-ays so. 
 
 I had vowed to love her and serve her, and been her fre- 
 quent 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 iu 
 America ; that she had scarcely passed 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 con- 
 siderable, and even splendid, fortune ; but the exact amount, 
 and all besides these particulars, were unknown to me till 
 some time after our acquaintance was bei'un. 
 
 One evening she had been talking very earnestly on the in- 
 fluence annexed, in Great Britain, to birth, and had given me 
 some examples of this influence. Meanwhile my eyes were 
 fixed steadfastly on hers. The peculiarity in their expression 
 never before effected me so strongly. A vague resemblance 
 to something seen elsewhere, on the same day, occurred, and 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 337 
 
 occasioned me to exclaim, suddenly, in a pause of her dis- 
 course : 
 
 " 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, prythee, what have they said ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I was mistaken. I might have been deceived 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 
 eifect of my words was equal to my contrition. I 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. Connected 
 with that word are many sources of anguish, which time has 
 not, and never will, dry up ; and the less I think of past 
 events the less will my peace be disturbed. I was desirous 
 that j'ou should know nothing of me but what you see ; noth- 
 ing 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. 
 
 " I now perceive the folly of endeavoring to keep you in 
 ignorance, and shall therefore, once for aU, 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, and 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 tbings and 
 of the same masters with my neighbors. Except frequenting 
 
338 ARTHUR MBRVTN; OR, 
 
 their cliurcli and repeating their creed, and partaking of tl 
 same food, I saw no difference between them and me. Hen 
 I grew more indifferent, perhaps, than was proper to the di 
 tiuctions of religion. They were never enforced upon me. 1 
 pains were taken to fill me with scruples and antipathic 
 They never stood, as I may say, upon the threshold. Th. 
 were often thought upon, but were vague and easily eluded 
 forgotten. 
 
 "Hence it was that my heart too readily admitted impre 
 sions that more zeal and more parental caution would ha 
 saved me from. They could scarcely be avoided, as my socie 
 was wholly English, and my youth, my education, and n 
 father's wealth made me an object of much attention. Ai 
 the same causes that lulled to sleep my own watchfulness hi 
 the same effect upon that of others. To regret or to prai 
 this remissness is now too late. Certain it is, that my destin 
 and not a happy destinj', was fixed by it. 
 
 " The fruit of this remissness was a passion for one wl 
 fully returned it. Almost as young as I, who was only si 
 teen, he knew as little as myself what obstacles the differenc 
 of our births was likely to raise between us. His father, S 
 Ralph Fielding, a man nobly born, high in office, splendid 
 allied, could not be expected to consent to the marriage of L 
 eldest son, in such green youth, to the daughter of- an ahen, 
 PortugufiSfizr-ajJew ; but these impediments were not seen 1 
 fflylgnorance, and ^Yere overlooked by the youth's passion. 
 
 " But, strange to tell, what common prudence would ha 
 so confidently predicted did not hapiDen. Sir Ealph had 
 numerous family, likely to be still more so ; had but slend 
 patrimony ; the income of his offices nearly made up his a 
 The young man was headstrong, impetuous, and would pro 
 ably disregard the inclinations of his family. Yet the fath 
 would not consent but on one condition — that of my admissic 
 to the English Church. 
 
 " No very strenuous opposition to these terms could bee 
 pected from me. At so thoughtless an age, with an educatic 
 so unfavorable to religious impressions ; swayed, likewise, 1 
 the- strongest of human passions ; made somewhat impatie 
 by the company I kept, of the disrepute and scorn to whi( 
 the Jewish nation are everywhere condemned, I could not 1 
 expected to be very averse to the scheme. 
 
 " My fears as to what my father's decision would be we 
 soon at an end. He loved his child too well to thwart h 
 wishes in so essential a point. Finding in me no scruples ] 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 339 
 
 unwillingness, he thouglit 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 probaioly have strengthened into invincible the reluct- 
 ance 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 tenderness 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 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 suc- 
 ceeded. 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 recovered 
 my usual health, and was able to press with true fervor 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 anived. 
 
 "A shocking tale it was, and told abruptly, with every un- 
 pityiug 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 symp- 
 toms 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 con- 
 ducted his affairs, susj)ected 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 dread- 
 ful, 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 bj' his death. 
 The failure of great mercantile houses at Frankfort and Liege 
 was the cause of his disasters. 
 
340 ARTHUR MERYTN; OR, 
 
 " Tbus were my prospects shut id. 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 ; conscious 
 that my wealth was my chief security from the contempt oi 
 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 great obligations on my 
 husband, what reverse could be harder than this, and hovs 
 much bitterness was added by it to the grief occasioned by 
 the violent death of my father ! 
 
 "Yet loss of fortune, though it mortified my pride, didnoi 
 prove my worst calamity. Perhaps it was scarcely to be 
 ranked with evils, since it furnished a touchstone by whict 
 my husband's affections were to be tried, especially as th« 
 issue of the trial was auspicious ; for my misfortune seemed 
 only to heighten the interest which mj' character had made 
 for me in the hearts of all that knew me. The paternal re^ 
 gards of Sir Ralph had always been tender, but that tender- 
 ness seemed now to be redoubled. 
 
 " New events made this consolation still more necessary 
 My unhappy mother ! She was nearer to the dreadful scene 
 when it happened ; had no surviving object to beguile hei 
 sorrow ; was rendered, hj long habit, more dependent upoi 
 fortune than her child. 
 
 "A melancholj', always mute, was the first effect upon mj 
 mother. Nothing could charm her eye or her ear. Swee 
 sounds that she once loved, and especially when her darlinj 
 child was the warbler, were heard no longer. How, witl 
 streaming eyes, have I sat and watched the dear lady, and en 
 deavored to catch her eye, to rouse her attention ! But '. 
 must not think of these things. 
 
 "But even this distress was little in comparison with wha 
 was to come. A frenzy thus mute, motionless, and vacant 
 was succeeded by fits, talkative, outrageous, recpiring inces 
 sant superintendence, restraint, and even violence. 
 
 " Why led you me back thus to my sad remembrances 
 Excuse me for the present. I will tell you the rest somi 
 other time — to-morrow." 
 
 To-morrow, accordinglj', my friend resumed her story. 
 
 "Let me now mate an end," said she, "of my mournfu 
 narrative, and never, I charge you, do anything to revive i 
 again. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 341 
 
 " Deep as was my despondency occasioned by these calami- 
 ties, I was not destitute of some joy. My husband and my 
 child were lovely and aflfectionate. In their caresses, in their 
 welfare, I found peace ; and might still have found it had 
 
 there not been But why should I open afresh wounds 
 
 which time has imperfectly closed ? But the story must some- 
 time be told to you, and the sooner it is told and dismissed to 
 forgetfulnes the better. 
 
 "My ill fate led me into company with a woman too well 
 known in the idle and dissipated circles. Her character was 
 not unknown to me. There was nothing in her features or 
 air to obviate disadvantageous prepossessions. I sought not 
 her intercourse ; I rather shunned it, as unpleasing and dis- 
 creditable, but she would not be repulsed. Self-invited, she 
 made herself my frequent guest ; took unsolicited part in my 
 concerns ; did me many kind offices ; and, at length, in spite 
 of my counter-inclination, won upon my sympathy and grati- 
 tude. 
 
 " No one in the world, did I fondly think, had I less reason 
 to fear than Mrs. Waring. Her character excited not the 
 slightest apprehension for my own safety. She was upward 
 of forty ; nowise remarkable for grace or beauty ; tawdry iu her 
 dress ; accustomed t6 render more conspicuous the traces of 
 age by her attempts to hide them ; the mother of a numerous 
 family, with a mind but slenderly cultivated ; always careful 
 to save appearances ; studiously preserving distance with my 
 husband, and he, like myself, enduring rather than wishing 
 her society. What could I fear from the arts of such a one? 
 
 " But, alas ! the woman had consummate address. Patience, 
 too, that nothing could tire. Watchfulness that none could 
 detect. Insinuation the wiliest and most subtle. Thus 
 wound she herself into my affections, by an unexampled per- 
 severance in seeming kindness ; by tender confidence ; by 
 artful glosses of past misconduct; by self-rebukes and feigned 
 contritions. 
 
 "Never were stratagems so intricate, dissimulation so pro- 
 found ! But still, that such a one should seduce my husband ; 
 young, generous, ambitious, impatient of contumely and re- 
 proach, and surely not indifferent before this fatal inter- 
 course, 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, uncon- 
 scious as I was of her machinations, to reconcile them to each 
 other, to do away what seemed a causeless indignation, or 
 
342 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 antipathy against her. How little I suspected the nature ( 
 the conflict in his heart, between a new passion and the clain 
 of pride, of conscience and of humanity ; the claims of 
 child and a wife ; a wife already in affliction, and placing a 
 that yet remained of happiness in the firmness of his virtu( 
 in the continuance of his love ; a wife, at the very hour of h: 
 meditated flight, full of terrors at the near approach of a 
 event whose agonies demand a double share of a husband 
 supporting, encouraging love ! 
 
 " Good Heaven ! For what evils are some of thy creature 
 reserved ! Resignation to thy decree, in the last and mos 
 cruel distress, was, indeed, a hard task. 
 
 " He was gone. Some unavoidable engagement calling hii 
 to Hamburg was pleaded. Yet to leave me at such an hour 
 I dared not to upraid, nor object. The tale was so specious 
 The fortunes of a friend depended on his punctual jouriie] 
 The falsehood of his story too soon made itself knowi 
 He was gone in company with his detested paramour ! 
 
 " Yet, though my vigilance was easily deceived, it was nc 
 so with others. A creditor, who had his bond for thre 
 thousand pounds, pursued and arrested him at Harwich. H 
 was thrown into prison, but his companion — let me, at leas 
 say that in her praise — would not desert him. She too 
 lodging near the place of his confinement, and saw him daib 
 That, had she not done it, and had my personal conditio 
 allowed, should have been my province. 
 
 " Indignation and grief hastened the painful crisis wit 
 me. I did not weep that the second fruit of this unliapp 
 union saw not the light. I wept only that this hour of agon 
 was not, to its unfortunate mother, the last. 
 
 " I felt not anger ; l-had nothiiig but compassion for Pielc 
 ing. Gladly would I have recalled him to my arms and \ 
 virtue. I wrote, adjuring him, by all our past joys, to return 
 vowing only gratitude for his new afifection, and claiming oul 
 the recompense of seeing him restored to his family, i 
 liberty, to reputation. 
 
 " But, alas ! Fielding had a good but a proud heart. B 
 looked upon his error with remorse, with self-detestation, an 
 with the fatal belief that it could not be retrieved ; sham 
 made him withstand all my reasonings and jDersuasions, anc 
 in the hurry of his feelings, he rnade solemn vows that 1: 
 would, in the moment of restored liberty, abjure his counti 
 and his family forever. He bore indignantly the yoke of h 
 new attachment, but hp strove in vain iq shake it ofi". H« 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 343 
 
 behavior, always yielding, doting, supplioative, preserved liim 
 in her fetters. 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 efifect, 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 be- 
 seeching his compliance with these conditions ; but his pride, 
 his dread of my merited reproaches, the merits and dissua- 
 sions of his new companion, 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 deliverance 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 prison. He set out 
 instantly, in company with his paramour, to Prance. 
 
 "When somewhat recovered from the shock of this calam- 
 ity, I took up my abode with my mother. What she had 
 was enough, as you perhaps will think, for plentiful subsist- 
 ence ; but to us, with habits of a difift^-ent 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 misfortune, were the chief companions of my 
 thoughts. 
 
 " The dear child, whose smiles were uninterrupted by his 
 mother's afflictions, was some consolation in my solitude. 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 Fielding'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 
 
344 ARTHUR MEUVYN; OR, 
 
 known. In leaving England, Fielding dropped all con 
 spoudeuce and conuectiou with bis native country. He pai 
 ed with the woman at Kouen, leaving no trace behind him 1 
 which she might follow him, as she wished to do. She nev 
 returned to England, but died a twelvemonth afterward 
 Switzerland. 
 
 " As to me, I had only to muse day and night upon t! 
 possible destiny of this beloved fugitive. His incensed fath 
 cared not for him. He had cast him out of his patern 
 affections, ceased to make inquiries respecting him, and evi 
 ■wished never to hear of him again. My boy succeeded to n 
 husband's place in his grandfather's affections, and in tl 
 hopes and views of the family ; and his mother wanted not 
 ing which their compassionate and respectful love cou 
 bestow. 
 
 " Three long and tedious years passed away, and no tidin; 
 were received. Whether he were living or dead nobot 
 could tell. At length, an English traveller, going out of tl 
 customary road from Italy, met with Fielding in a town 
 the Venaissin. His manners, habits, and language had b 
 come French. He seemed unwilling to be recognized by i 
 old acquaintance, but, not being able to avoid this, and b 
 coming gradually familiar, he informed the traveller of mai 
 particulars in his present situation. It appeared that he hs 
 made himself useful to a neighboring seigneur, in who 
 chateau he had long lived on the footing of a brother. Fran- 
 he had resolved to make his futui-e country, and, among oth 
 changes for that end, he had laid aside his English name, ai 
 taken that of his patron, which was Perrin. He had endea 
 ored to compensate himself for all other privations by devo 
 iug himself to rural amusements and to study. 
 
 "He carefully shunned all inquiries respecting me, b 
 when my name was mentioned by his friend, who knew w( 
 all that had happened, and my general welfare, together wd 
 that of his son, asserted, he showed deep sensibility, and ev( 
 consented that I should be made acquainted with the situ 
 tion. 
 
 " I cannot describe the effect of this intelligence on m 
 My hopes of bringing him back to me were suddenly revive 
 I wrote him a letter in which I poured forth my whole heai 
 but his answer contained avowals of his former resolutior 
 to which time had only made his adherence more easy, 
 second and third letter were written, and an offer made to fc 
 low him to his retreat and share his exile, but all my effoi 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 345 
 
 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 vyas performed without 
 harshness or contempt. A strange mixture there was of pa- 
 thos and indifference, of tenderness and resolution. Hence 
 I continually derived hope which time, however, brought no 
 nearer to certainty. 
 
 " At the opening of the Eevolution the name of Perrin ap- 
 peared among the deputies to the constituent assembly 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 become almost extinct. But that, and every other 
 hope respecting him, has since been totally extinguished by 
 his marriage with 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 re- 
 straints upon my motions which before existed, I determined 
 to come to America. 
 
 "My son was now eight years old, and his grandfather 
 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 cross- 
 ing the ocean." 
 
 I could not help at this part of her narration expressing 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 reconciled me to 
 my situation, but I would not pause or deliberate. 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 whollj' unused, I heartily repented of my 
 resolution, but now, methinks, I have reason to rejoice at my 
 perseverance. I have come into a scene and society so new, 
 I have had so many claims made upon my ingenuity and for- 
 titude, 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 
 
34:6 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 own mind. It is eiglit years since my father's violent deal 
 How few of my bours since that period have been blessi 
 with serenity ! How many nights and days in hateful ai 
 lingering succession have been bathed in tears and torment 
 with regrets ! That I am still alive with so many causes 
 death and with such a slow-consuming malady, is surely 
 be wondered at. 
 
 " I believe the worst foes of man, at least of men in gri 
 are solitude and idleness. The same eternally-occurri: 
 round of objects feeds his disease, and the effects of mere -^ 
 cancy and uniformity are sometimes mistaken for those 
 grief. Yes, I am glad I came to America. My relations a 
 importunate for my return, and till lately I had some thougl 
 of it, but I think now I shall stay where I am for the rest 
 my days. 
 
 " Since I arrived, I am become more of a student than 
 used to be. I always loved literature, but never, till of la 
 had I a mind enough at ease to read with advantage. I ru 
 find pleasure in the occupation which I never expected 
 find. 
 
 " You see in what manner I live. The letters whicl 
 brought secured me a flattering reception from the best p( 
 pie in your country ; but scenes of gay resort had nothing 
 attract me, and I quickly withdrew to that seclusion in whi 
 you now find me. Here, always at leisure, and mistress 
 every laudable means of gratification, I am not without 1 
 belief of serene days yet to come." 
 
 I now ventured to inquire what were her latest tidings 
 her husband. 
 
 " At the opening of the Revolution, I told you, he beca: 
 a champion of the people. By his zeal and his efforts he 
 quired such importance as to be deputed to the National . 
 sembly. In this post he was the adherent of violent measui 
 till the subversion of monarchy ; and then, when too late 
 his safety, he checked his career." 
 
 " And what has since become of him ? " 
 
 She sighed deeply. "You were yesterday reading a list 
 the proscribed under Robespierre. I checked you. 1 1 
 good reason. But this subject grows too painful ; let 
 change it." 
 
 Some time after I ventured to renew this topic and c 
 covered that Fielding, under his new name of Perrin d'Almr 
 was among the outlawed deputies of last year,* and had bi 
 
 • 1793. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 347 
 
 slain in resisting tlie officers sent to arrest liim. My friend 
 had been informed that his wife, Marguerite d'Almont, whom 
 she had reason to believe a woman of great merit, had eluded 
 persecution, and taken refuge in some part of America. She 
 had iaade various 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 coutiueut from Penobscot 
 to Savannah. I will not leave a nook uusearched." 
 
 CHAPTEE XLVn. 
 
 None will be surprised that, to a woman thus unfortunate 
 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 per- 
 mit, and oftener than I allowed myself to visit any other. In 
 this I was partly selfish. So much entertainment, so much 
 of the best instruction, did her conversation 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 absolute sincerity 
 and unreserve in this respect were so fully established be- 
 tween us, that I can imagine nothing equally instructive and 
 delightful with her conversation. 
 
 Books are cold, jejune, vexatious in their sparingness of in- •/ 
 formation at one time and their impertinent loquacity at an- 
 otlier. Besides, all they choose to give they give at once ; 
 they allow no questions, offer no further explanations, and 
 bend not to the caprices of our curiosity. They talk to us 
 behind a screen. Their tobe is lifeless and monotonous. 
 They charm not our attention by mute significtoces of gest- 
 ure and looks. They spread no light upon their meaning by 
 cadences and emphasis and pause. 
 
 How different was Mrs. Fielding's discourse ! So versatile ; 
 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 val- 
 ue — the knowledge of the human heart; of society as it ex- 
 isted in another world, more abundant in the varieties of 
 
348 ABTHUR MEBVTN; OR, 
 
 customs and characters, than I had ever had the power i 
 witness. 
 
 Partly selfish I have said my motives were, but not so £ 
 long as I saw that my friend derived pleasure, in her tun 
 from my company. Not that I could add directly to h( 
 knowledge or pleasure, but that expansion of heart, that eas 
 of utterance and flow of ideas which always were occasione 
 by my approach, were sources of true jileasure of which sh 
 had been long deprived, and for which her privation had gii 
 en her a higher relish than ever. 
 
 She lived in great affluence and independence, but mad 
 use of her privileges of fortune chiefly to secure to herself th 
 command of her own time. She had been long ago tired an 
 disgusted with the dull and fulsome uniformity and parad 
 of the play-house and ball-room. Formal visits were endure 
 as mortifications and penances, by which the deUghts of pri 
 vacy and friendlj' intercourse were by contrast increased 
 Music she loved, but never sought it in places of public r« 
 sort, or from the skill of mercenary performers ; and book 
 were not the least of her pleasures. 
 
 As to me, I was wax in her hand. Without design axu 
 without effort, I was always of that form she wished me t 
 assume. My own happiness became a secondary passion, &q< 
 her gratification the great end of my being. When with he 
 I thought not of myself. I had scarcely a separate or inde 
 pendent existence, since my senses were occupied by her, ani 
 my mind was full of those ideas which her discourse commu 
 nicated. To meditate on her looks and words, and to pursu 
 the njeans suggested by my own thoughts, or by her, condu 
 cive in any way to her good, was all my business. 
 
 "What a fate," said I, at the conclusion of one of our intei 
 views, " has been yours ! But, thank Heaven, the storm ha 
 disappeared before the age of sensibility has gone past, am 
 without drying up every source of happiness. You are sti] 
 young ; all your powers unimpaired ; rich in the compassio: 
 and esteem of the world ; wholly independent of the claim 
 and caprices of others ; amply supplied with that means c 
 usefulness, called money ; wise in that experience which onl 
 adversity can give. Past evils and sufferings, if incurred am 
 endured without guilt, if called to view without remorsf 
 make up the materials of present joy. They cheer our mos 
 dreary hours with the widespread accents of ' well done,' am 
 they heighten our pleasures into somewhat of celestial brill 
 iancy, by furnishing a deep, a ruefully deep, contrast. 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 349 
 
 " 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 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 de- 
 lightful study, but the profit has only been mine. Tell me 
 how I can be grateful : my voice and manner, I believe, sel- 
 dom 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 rever- 
 ence 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 read- 
 ing. I copy for you when you want the time. I guide the 
 reins for you when you choose to ride. Humble offices, in- 
 deed, though, perhaps, all that a raw youth like me can do 
 for you ; but I can be still more assiduous. I 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 ; some- 
 thing better, I believe, if that be possible. At any rate, me- 
 tbiiiks I would be wholly yours. I shall be impatient and 
 uneasy till every act, every thought, every minute, someuay 
 does you good. 
 
 "How," said I, her eye, still averted, seeming to hold 
 hack the tear with difficulty, and she making a motion as if 
 to rise, " have I grieved you ? Have I been importunate ? 
 Forgive me if I have offended you." 
 
 Her eyes now overflowed without restraint. She articu- 
 lated, with difficulty, " Tears are too prompt with me of late ; 
 
350 ABTRUR MEBYTN; OR, 
 
 but they did not upbraid you. Pain has often caused thei 
 flow, but now it — is — pleasure." 
 
 " What a heart must yours be ! " I resumed. " When 
 ceptible of such pleasures, what pangs must formerly 1 
 rent it ! But you are not displeased, you say, with my 
 portunate zeal. You will accept me as your own in ev 
 thing. Direct me, prescribe to me. There must be so 
 thing in which I can be of still more use to you ; some wa 
 which I can be wholly yours " 
 
 " Wholly mine ! " she repeated, in a smothered voice, 
 rising. " Leave me, Arthur. It is too late for you tc 
 here. It was wrong to stay so late." 
 
 " I have been wrong ; but how too late ? I entered but 
 moment. It is twilight still, is it not ? " 
 
 " No ; it is almost twelve. You have been here a long! 
 hours — short ones I would rather say — but, indeed, you n: 
 go." 
 
 " What made me so thoughtless of the time ? But I 
 go, yet not till you forgive me." I approached her wil 
 confidence and for a purpose at which, upon reflection, I 
 not a little surprised ; but the being called Mervyu is not 
 same in her company and in that of another. What is 
 difference, and whence comes it ? Her words and looks 
 gross me. My mind wants room for any other object. 
 v?hy inquire whence the difference ? The superiority of 
 merits and attractions to all those whom I knew would sui 
 account for my fervor. Indifference, if I felt it, would 
 the only just occasion of wonder. 
 
 The hour was, indeed, too late, and I hastened ho 
 Stevens was waiting my return with some anxiety. I ap' 
 gized for my delay, and recounted to him what had ; 
 passed. He listened with more than usual interest. W 
 I had finished — 
 
 " Mervyn," said he, " you seem not to be aware of your p 
 ent situation. From what you now tell me, and from w 
 you have formerly told me, one thing seems very plain 
 me." 
 
 " Pry thee, what is it ? " 
 
 " Eliza Hadwin — do you wish, could you bear, to see 
 the wife of another ? " 
 
 " Five years hence I will answer you. Then my ans 
 may be, ' No ; I wish her only to be mine.' Till then, I v 
 her only to be my pupil, my ward, my sister." 
 
 " But these are remote considerations ; they are bars 
 
MEMOIBS OF THE TEAR 1793. 351 
 
 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, a!j,a-vulL then, be 
 worthy ; but at present, though I would die to insure her 
 happillgss, I have no wish to insure it hy 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 ail 
 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 leajD. " What a thought is that ! Love her 
 I do as I love my God, as I love virtue. To love her in an- 
 other 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 — 'twould be frenzy." 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " Why ? Eeally, my friend, you astonish me — nay, you 
 startle me — for a question like that implies a doubt in you 
 whether I have not actually harbored 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 my wife ! Good Heaven ! Tlie 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 chastened. Her first marriage 
 was unfortunate. The purer is the felicity she will taste in 
 
353 ARTHUR MERYYN; OR, 
 
 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 gypsy, low in stature, contemptibly diminutive, 
 scarcely bulk enough to cast a shadow as she walks, less lux- 
 uriance 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, person, and 
 condition she is the type after which my enamored 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 moment, 
 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 ob- 
 served 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 admi- 
 rable eloquence against the vain distinctions of property and 
 nation and rank. They were once of moment in her eyes ; 
 but the sufferings, humiliations, and reflection 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 " 
 
 "Prythee, then, what dost imagine her objections tobe ?" 
 
 " Why — I don't know. The thought was so aspiring ; to 
 call her my wife was a height of bliss the very far-olf view of 
 which made my head dizzy." 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE YEAR 1793. 353 
 
 " 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 moment to this 
 lady's happiness and yours. It is plain that you love this 
 woman. How could you help it? A brilliant shin 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 charities regulated by knowledge. She 
 has a woman's age, fortune more than you wish, and a spot- 
 less 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 indirect proofs of impassioned es- 
 teem — how could you, with all that firmness of love, joined 
 with aU that discernment of her excellence, how could you es- 
 cape the enchantment ? 
 
 "You have not thought of marriage. You have not sus- 
 pected 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 enjoying her society as 
 you now do, and have never fostered 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 dif- 
 fidence 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 overturned 
 my peace of mind. Till now the image of this woman has 
 been followed by complacency and sober rapture ; but your 
 
354 ABTEUB MEBVTN'; OB, 
 
 words have dashed the scene -with dismay and confusioi 
 You have raised up wishes, and dreams, and doubts, whic 
 possess me in spite of my reason, in spite of a thousan 
 proofs. 
 
 "Good God! You say she loves — loves me! — me, a bo 
 in age ; bred in clownish ignorance ; scarcely ushered into tb 
 world ; more than childishlj' unlearned and raw ; a barn-doc 
 simpleton ; a plough-tail, kitchen-hearth, turnip-hoeing no^ 
 ice ! She, thus splendidly endowed ; thus allied to nobles 
 thus gifted with arts and adorned with graces ; that she shoul 
 choose me, me for the partner of her fortune, her affectioni 
 and her life ! It cannot be. Yet, if it were ; if your guesse 
 
 should— prove Oaf ! madman ! To indulge so fatal 
 
 chimera, so rash a dream ! 
 
 " My friend ! my friend ! I feel that you have done me a 
 irreparable injiwy. I can never more look her in the face, 
 can never more frequent her society. These new thoughi 
 will beset and torment me. My disquiet will chain up m 
 tongue. That overflowing gratitude ; that innocent joy, ui 
 conscious of offence, and knowing no restraint, which hav 
 hitherto been my titles to her favor, will fly from my feature 
 and manners. I shall be anxious, vacant, and unhappy in he 
 presence. I shall dread to look at her, or to open my lip; 
 lest my mad and unhallowed ambition should betray itself." 
 
 "Well," replied Stevens, " this scene is quite new. I coul 
 almost find it in my heart to pity you. I did not expect this 
 and yet, from my knowledge of your character, I ought, pei 
 haps, to have foreseen it. This is a necessary part of th 
 drama. A joyous certainty, on these occasions, must alwaj 
 be preceded by suspenses and doubts, and the close will b 
 joyous in proportion as the preludes are excruciating. Go \ 
 bed, my good friend, and think of this. Time and a fe 
 more interviews with Mrs. Fielding will, I doubt not, set a 
 to rights." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVm. 
 
 I WENT to my chamber, but what different sensations di 
 I carry into it from those with which I had left it a fe 
 hours before ! I stretched myself on the mattress and pi 
 out the light ; but the swarm of new images that rushed o 
 my mind set me again instantly in motion. All was rapi< 
 vague, and undefined, wearying and distracting my attentio) 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793. 355 
 
 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 terror. 
 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 sud- 
 denly 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 confounded 
 me? Was it a latent error in my moral constitution, which 
 this new conjuncture drew forth into influence ? 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 sup- 
 ported. 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 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 unfhought of. Habituated to this 
 path, I had taken it spontaneouslj'. "How comes this?" re- 
 peated I. "Locked upon me! but I will summon them, I 
 warrant me," and I rung the bell, not timidly or slightly, but 
 with violence. Someone 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 moment, recognize 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 L 
 
 She led the way into the parlor. " Wait a moment here ; I 
 will tell her you are come ; " and she tripped away. 
 
 Presently 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. 
 
356 ARTHUR MERYTN; OB, 
 
 "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 disappeared, and I found myself stretched upon the bed 
 in my own chamber. I remembered the fatal blow I had re- 
 ceived. 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 pro- 
 claimed 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 f " 
 
 It may be proper to mention, in explanation of this scene, 
 and to show the thorough perturbation of my mind during 
 this night, the 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 un- 
 reasonable 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 de- 
 termined 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. Fielding, 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 
 
MEM0IB8 OF TEE TEAR 1793. 357 
 
 despondent perceptions. The image of Achsa filled my fancy, 
 but it was the harbinger of nothing but humiliation a'lid sor- 
 row. To outroot the conviction of my own unworthiuess, 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 impossible. 
 
 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 societ}- ? 
 What expedient could I honestly adopt to justify my absence, 
 and what employments could I substitue for those precious 
 hours hitherto devoted to her ? 
 
 " This afternoon," thought I, " she has been invited to 
 spend at Stedman's country-house on the Schuylkill. She 
 consented to go, and I was to accompany her. I am fit only 
 for solitude. My behavior, in her presence, will be enigmati- 
 cal, capricious, and morose. I must not go ; yet what will she 
 think of my failure ? Not to go will be injurious and sus- 
 picious." 
 
 I was undetermined. The appointed hour arrived. I 
 stood at my chamber window torn by a variety of purposes, 
 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, re- 
 considered, and returned to my room. 
 
 In these fluctuations the hour passed. No messenger ar- 
 rived from Mrs. Fielding, inquiring into the cause of my de- 
 lay. 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 constructions ? 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 se- 
 verely than I will reproach myself. I will hear my sentence- 
 from her own lips, and promise unlimited submissioa to the- 
 doom of separation and exile which she will pronounce. 
 
 I went forth to her house. The drawing-room and sum- 
 mer-house were empty. I summoned Philip, the footman ; 
 Ms mistress had gone to Mr. Stedman's. 
 
358 AETHUB MEBVTN; OB, 
 
 "How? To Stedman's ? In whose company?" 
 
 " Miss Stedman and her brother called for her in the car- 
 riage, and persuaded her to go with them." 
 
 Now my heart sank, indeed ! Miss Stedman's brother ! A 
 youth, forward, gallant, and gay ! Flushed with prosperity, 
 and just returned from Europe, with all the confidence of 
 age, and all the ornaments of education ! She had gone with 
 him, though pre-engaged to me ! Poor Arthur, how art thou 
 desj)ised ! 
 
 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 sleep. On leaving 
 her house, I wandered into the fields. Every moment in- 
 creased my imimtience. "She will probably sjjend the mor- 
 row at Stedman's," said I, "and possibly the next day. Why 
 should I wait for her return ? Why not seek here there, and 
 rid myself at once of this agonizing suspense ? Whj' not go 
 thither now? This night, wherever I spend it, will be unac- 
 quainted with repose. I will go ; it is ah-eady 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 for- 
 merly been there with Mrs. Fielding. I quickly entered 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 Aehsa. I sat down 
 upon the lawn, some hundred feet from the house, and oppo- 
 site the window whence the light i^roceeded. I watched it, 
 till at length someone 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 pleasant. Where I stood was en- 
 lightened by the moon. Whether she saw me or not, I could 
 hardly tell, or whether she distinguished anything but a 
 human figure. 
 
 Without reflecting on what was due to decorum and punc- 
 tilio, 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, 
 
MEMOIRS OF TEE YEAR 1793. 359 
 
 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 daj's ago your friend." 
 
 " Mervj'n ! What is it that brings you here at this hour ? 
 What is the matter ? What lias happened ? Is anybody 
 sick ? " 
 
 "All is safe ; all are in good health." 
 
 "What, then, do you come hither for at such an hour?" 
 
 "I meant not to disturb you ; I meant not to be seen." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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 toward 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 checking 
 my pace, according as my wayward meditations governed me. 
 Sliall 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 signal, all my flourishing structures, and 
 reduce them in a moment to a scene of confusion and horror. 
 
 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 ratifica- 
 tion of my doom. 
 
 I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward 
 till I reached the edge of a considerable precipice ; I laid me 
 down at my length upon the rock, whose cold and hard sur- 
 face I pressed with my bared and throbbing breast. I leaned 
 
360 ARTHUR MERVYN; OR, 
 
 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 Stedmau'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 op- 
 posite to her, the table between, and, crossing my arms uj)on 
 the table, leaned my head upon them, while my face was 
 turned toward and my eyes fixed upon hers. I seemed to 
 have lost the power and the inclination to si^eak. 
 
 She regarded me at first with anxious curiositj' ; after ex- 
 amining my looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terri- 
 fied 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 re- 
 sumed, " could inspire all this woe? Keep me not in this 
 suspense, Arthur ; these looks and this silence shock and 
 afflict me too much." 
 
 "Afflict 3'ou?" 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 unhappy 
 — such a change — from yesterday ! " 
 
 "Yes ! From yesterday ; all then was a joyous calm, 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 dar- 
 ing ! That such as I should look upward with this ambi- 
 tion." 
 
 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 tmst 
 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 deportment 
 distress me ! Let me know the worst ; I cannot bear to be 
 thus perplexed." 
 
MEMOIRS OF THE TEAR 1793. 361 
 
 " Why," said I, turning quickly round and again taking her 
 hands, " that Mervyn, \A'bom you have honored and confided 
 in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been " 
 
 "What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his vir- 
 tue, I am sure. What else has he been ? " 
 
 " This Mervyn has imagined, has dared — will you forgive 
 him?" ' ^ e 
 
 "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 venge- 
 ance of those eyes, as for one that is absent. Why, what — 
 you weep, then, at last. That is a propitious sign. When 
 pity drops from the ej'es of our judge, then should the sup- 
 phant 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 ; naj-, to think of you as 
 of his wife ! " 
 
 Her eyes 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 well 
 did I predict the effect of this confession ; but I will go — and 
 unforgiven." 
 
 She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was with- 
 drawn from her cheek, and stretched toward me. She looked 
 at me. 
 
 "Arthur! I do forgive thee." With what accents was 
 this uttered ! With what looks ! The cheek that was be- 
 fore 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. 
 
362 ABTHUB MERVTN ; OB, 
 
 "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 rev- 
 erie was too delicious ; but let me not attempt the picture. 
 If I can convey no image of my state previous to this inter- 
 view, my subsequent 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 observation. 
 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. Tiie 
 whole rushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions were 
 too rajDid and too comprehensive to be distinct. 
 
 I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents 
 and looks of my Achsa new assurances that all which had lately 
 passed was more than a dream. She made excuses for leav- 
 ing the Stedmans sooner than ordinary, 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 im- 
 patience. 
 
 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 necessary 
 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 pre- 
 vent — but nothing can happen. But why this ominous mis- 
 giving just now ? My love has infected^me with these un- 
 worthy-terrors, for slie has them, too. _.. ' ' 
 
 This morning I was relating my dream to her. She started 
 and grew pale. A sad silence ensued the cheerfulness 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? " 
 
MEMOim OF THE YEAR 1793. 363 
 
 " I know not where to place confidence ; not in my present 
 promises of joy," and she wept. I endeavored 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, T 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 argu- 
 ments to induce her to confirm her propitious resolution to 
 be mine within the week. I, at last, succeeded, even in re- 
 storing 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 composed : 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 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 that I will abjure thy 
 company till ail is settled with my love. Yes, I will abjure _ 
 thee ; so let this be thy last office, till Mervyn has been made f 
 the happiest of men. "J 
 
 THE END.