University of Virginia Library

ARTHUR MERVYN;
OR,
MEMOIRS OF THE YEAR 1793.

CHAPTER I.

I was resident in this city during 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.

Returning 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 celiar 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 burring
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,
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 finding the house with
the exhalations of gun-powder, vinegar, or tar. They consisted
in cleanliness, reasonable exercise, and wholesame
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 harbour him, we must not forget that there was an hospital
to which he would, perhaps, consent to be carried, and
where he would be accommodated in the best manner the
times would admit.

“Nay,” said she, “talk not of hospitals. At least let
him have his choice. I have no fear about me, for my part,
in a case where the injunctions of duty are so obvious. Let
us take the poor unfortunate wretch into our protection and
care, and leave the conseouences 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. Without candle near, I
had 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 luxury and
uninnured to misfortune. I scarcely ever beheld an object
which laid so powerful and sudden a claim to my affection and
succour.

“You are sick,” said I, in as cheerful a tone as I could
assume. “Cold bricks and night airs are comfortless attendants
for one in your condition. Rise, I pray you, and come
into the house. We will try to supply you with accommodations
a little more suitable.”

At this address he fixed his languid eyes upon me. “What
would you have,” said he. “I am very well as I am. While
I breathe, which will not be long, I shall breathe with more
freedom here than elsewhere. Let me alone—I am very well
as I am.”

“Nay,” said I, “this situation is unsuitable to a sick
man. I only ask you to come into my house and received all
the kindness that it is in our power to bestow. Phick up
courage and I will answer for your recovery, provided you
submit to directions, and do as we would have you. Rise,
and come along with me. We will find you a physician and
a nurse, and all we ask in return is good spirits and compliance.”

“Do you not know,” he replied, “what my disease is?
Why should you risk your safety for the sake of one, whom
your kindness cannot benefit, and who has nothing to give in
return?”

There was something in the style of this remark, that
heightened my prepossession in his favour, and made me pursue
my purpose with more zeal. “Let us try what we can do

for you,” I answered. “If we save your life, we shall have
done you some service, and as for recompence, 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 bed-side.

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 burthensome to one not used
to the performance, and luxuriously educated. The addition
of a sick man, was likely to be productive of much fatigne.
My engagements would not allow me to be always at home,
and the state of my patient and the remedies necessary to be
preseribed were attended with many noxious and disgustful
circumstances. My fortune would not allow me to hire assistance.
My wife, with feeble frame and a mind shrinking,
on ordinary occasions, from such offices with fastidious scrapulousness,
was to be his only or principal nurse.

My neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, and
loud in their remonstrances on the imprudence and rashness
of my conduct. They called me presumptuous and cruel in
exposing my wife and child, as well as myself, to such imminent
hazard, for the sake of one too who most probably
was worthless, and whose disease had doubtless been, by
negligence or mistreatment, rendered incurable.

I did not turn a deaf ear to these censurers. I was aware
of all the inconveniencies and perils to which I thus spontaneously
exposed myself. No one knew better the value of that
woman whom I cafled mine, or set an 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 dublousness of his character, were not forgotten by
me; but still my conduct in this affair received my own entire

approbation. All objections on the score of my friend were
removed by her own willingness and even solicitude to undertake
the province. I had more confidence than others in the
vincibility of this disease, and in the success of those measures
which we had used for our defence against it. But,
whatever were the evils to accrue to us, we were sure of one
thing; namely, that the consciousness of having neglected
this unfortunate 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 congratulate
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
prodigious exertions to perform necessary offices for himself.
He suppressed his feelings and struggled to maintain
a cheerful 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 information, that
his place of abode was Chester County, and that some momentous
engagement induced him to hazard his safety by
coming to the city in the height of the epidemic.

He was far from being talkative. His silence seemed to be
the joint result of modesty and unpleasing remembrances.
His features were characterised by pathetic seriousness, and
his deportment by a gravity very unusual at his age. According
to his own representation, he was no more than eighteen
years old, but the depth of his remarks indicated a much
greater advance. His name was Arthur Mervyn. He 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 be meant
to pursue, upon his recovery, he professed himself without any
precise object. He was willing to be guided by the advice of
others, and by the lights which experience should furnish.
The country was open to him, and he supposed that there
was no part of it in which food could not be purchased by his
labour. He was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal
profession. His poverty was likewise an insuperable
impediment. He could afford to spend no time in the acquisition
of a trade. He must labour, not for future emolument,
but for immediate subsistence. The only pursuit which his
present circumstances would allow him to adopt was that
which, he was inclined 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 knowledge; but so it was, he could not out root
from his mind the persuasion that to plough, to sow, and to
reap were employments most befitting a reasonable creature,
and from which the truest pleasure and the least pollution
would flow. He contemplated no other scheme than to
return, as soon as his health should permit, into the country,
seek employment where it was to be had, and acquit himself
in his engagements with fidelity and diligence.

I pointed out to him various ways in which the city might
furnish employment to one with his qualifications. He had
said that he was somewhat accustomed to the pen. There
were stations in which the possession of a legible hand was all
that was requisite. He might add to this a knowledge of accompts,
and thereby procure himself a post in some mercantile
or public office.

To this he objected, that experience had shewn him unfit
for the life of a penman. This had been his chief occupation

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 laboured merely for the sake of living, and he lived merely
for the sake of pleasure. If his tasks should enable him
to live, but at the same time, bereave him of all satisfaction,
they inflicted injury and were to be shunned as worse
evils than death.

I asked to what species of pleasure he alluded, with which
the business of a clerk was inconsistent.

He answered, that he scarcely knew how to describe it. He
read books when they came in his way. He had lighted upon
few, and, perhaps, the pleasure they afford him was owing to
their fewness; yet, he confessed that, a mode of life which
entirely forbade him to read, was by no means to his taste.
But this was trivial. He knew how to value the thoughts of
other people, but he could not part with the privilege of
observing and thinking for himself. He wanted business
which would suffer at least nine tenths of his attention to go
free. If it afforded agreeable employment to that part of
his attention which it applied to its own use, so much the
better; but if it did not, he should not repine. He should
be content with a life whose pleasures were to its pains as
nine are to one. He had tried the trade of a copyist, and in
circumstances more favourable than it was likely he should
ever again have an opportunity of trying it, and he had found
that it did not fulfil the requisite conditions. Whereas the
trade of ploughman was friendly to health, liberty, and pleasure.

The pestilence, if it may so be called, was now deelining.
The health of my young friend allowed him to breathe the
fresh air and to walk.—A friend of mine, by name Wortley,
who had spent two months from the city, and to whom, in the
course of a familiar correspondence, I had mentioned the
foregoing particulars, returned from his rural excursion. He
was posting, on the evening of the day of his arrival, with

a friendly expedition, to my house, when he overtook Mervyn
going in the same 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 frequently
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.
Worthey'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
request that he would walk home with him. This invitation,
delivered in a tone which left it doubtful whether a compliment
or menace were meant, augmented Mervyn's confusion.
He complied without speaking, and they went out together,
—my wife and I were left to comment upon the scene.

It could not fail to excite uneasiness. They were 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
dearest 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 unworthiness would produce.

In an 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 anxiety
which I felt would not allow me to hesitate long.

“Arthur,” said I, “something is the matter with you.
Will you not disclose it to us? Perhaps you have brought
yourself into some dilemma out of which we may help you to
escape. Has any thing of an unpleasant nature passed between
you and Wortley?”

The youth did not readily answer. He seemed at a loss
for a suitable reply. At length he said, That something disagreeable

had indeed passed between him and Wortley.
He had had the misfortune to be connected with a man by
whom Wortley conceived himself to be injured. He had
borne no part in inflicting this injury, but had nevertheless
been threatened with ill treatment if he did not make disclosures
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 injuriously than otherwise; yet it was endeavoured to
be wrested from him by the heaviest menaces.—There he
paused.

We were naturally inquisitive as to the scope of these menaces;
but Mervyn intreated us to forbear any further discussion
of this topic. He foresaw the difficulties to which
his silence would subject him. One of its most fearful consequences
would be the loss of our good opinion. He knew
not what he had to dread from the enmity of Wortley.
Mr. Wortley's violence was not without excuse. It was
his mishap to be exposed to suspicions which could only be
obviated by breaking his faith. But, indeed, he knew not
whether any degree of explicitness would confute the charges
that were made against him; whether, by trampling on his
sacred promise, he 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 inexperienced as he was.

Sincerity, perhaps, was the best course. Perhaps, after
having had an opportunity for deliberation, he should conclude
to adopt it; meanwhile he intreated 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. Whatever
shall tend to obscure or malign your character will of
course excite our solicitude. Wortley is not short-sighted or
hasty to condemn. So great is my confidence in his integrity
that I will not promise my esteem to one who has irrecoverably
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
inquiries with as much eagerness as they were made.

“You 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 youth who lived with him,
and by what means that youth was discovered to have crossed
the river in his company on the night of his departure. This
is that very youth.

“This will account for my emotion at meeting him at your
house: I brought him out with me. His confusion sufficiently
indicated his knowledge of transactions between Welbeck
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 any information.
I asked him if he knew, that his master, or accomplice,
or whatever was his relation to him, absconded in my
debt? He answered that he knew it well; but still pleaded
a 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 excesses of my passion; I even went so far as to strike
him. He bore my insults with the utmost patience. No

doubt the young villain is well instructed in his lesson. He
knows that he may safely defy my power.—From threats I
descended to entreaties. I even endeavoured to wind the
truth from him by artifice. I promised him a part of the
debt if he would enable me to recover the whole. I offered
him a considerable 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-compliance.”

Such was my friend's account of this interview. His suspicions
were unquestionably plausible; but I was disposed to
put a more favourable construction on Mervyn's behaviour.
I recollected the desolate and pennyless 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 allowing him the continuance of our friendship on no
other condition than that of a disclosure of the truth. To
entitle ourselves to this confidence we were willing to engage,
in our turn, for the observance of secrecy, so far, that no detriment
should accrue from this disclosure to himself or his
friend.

Next morning at breakfast, our guest appeared with 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 the night of his departure
you are known to have accompanied him accross the
river, and this, it seems, is the first of your re-appearance on
the stage. Welbeck's conduct was dishonest. He ought
doubtless to be pursued to his asylum and be compelled to
refund his winnings. You confess yourself to know his place
of refuge, but urge a promise of secrecy. Know you not
that to assist, or connive at the escape of this man was
wrong? To have promised to favour his concealment and
impunity by silence was only an aggravation of this wrong.
That, however, is past. Your youth, and circumstances,
hitherto unexplained, may apologize for that 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 it.”

“I have spent most of last night,” said the youth, “in
reflecting 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 considerations of the highest importance would persuade
me to break my promise. No injury will accrue from my
disclosure to Welbeck. If there should, dishonest as he was,
that would be a sufficient reason for my silence. Wortley
will not, in any degree, be benefited by any communication
that I can-make. Whether I grant or withhold information,
my conduct will have influence only on my own happiness,
and that influence will justify me in granting it.

“I received your protection when I was friendless and folorn.
You have a right to know whom it is that you protected.

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,
unjust, may yet be a good man; but I have no desire to make
him one of my auditors. You, Sir, may, if you think proper,
relate to him afterwards what particulars concerning
Welbeck it may be of importance for him to know; but at
present, it will be well if your indulgence shall support me to
the end of a tedious but humble tale.”

The eyes of my Eliza sparkled with delight at this proposal.
She regarded this youth with a sisterly affection and
considered his candour, in this respect, as an unerring test of
his rectitude. She was prepared to hear and to forgive the
errors of inexperience and precipitation. I did not fully participate
in her satisfaction, but was nevertheless most zealously
disposed to listen to his narrative.

My engagements obliged me to postpone this rehearsal till
late in the evening. Collected then round a cheerful hearth,
exempt from all likelihood of interruption from without, and
our babe's unpractised senses, shut up in the sweetest and profoundest
sleep, Mervyn, after a pause of recollection, began.