University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

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 possibly be wiped away.
Nothing but his own narrative, repeated with that simple
but nervous eloquence, which we had witnessed,
could rescue him from the most heinous charges. Was
there any tribunal that would not acquit him on merely
hearing his defence?

Surely the youth was honest. His tale could not be
the fruit of invention; and yet, what are the bounds of
fraud? Nature has set no limits to the combinations of
fancy. A smooth exterior, a show of virtue, and a specious
tale, are, a thousand times, exhibited in human
intercourse by craft and subtlety. Motives are endlessly
varied, while actions continue the same; and an acute
penetration may not find it hard to select and arrange
motives, suited to exempt from censure any action that
an human being can commit.

Had I heard Mervyn's story from another, or read it
in a book, I might, perhaps, have found it possible to
suspect the truth; but, as long as the impression, made
by his tones, gestures and looks, remained in my memory,
this suspicion was impossible. Wickedness may

sometimes be ambiguous, its mask may puzzle the observer;
our judgment may be made to faulter and fluctuate,
but the face of Mervyn is the index of an honest
mind. Calm or vehement, doubting or confident, it is
full of benevolence and candor. He that 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 the country where his father resided. I paid
them a visit, and, after a few preliminaries, mentioned,
as if by accident, the name of Mervyn. They 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 Colvil, 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 knowledge.
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, however, when there, last year, during the
fever, to have heard that Sawny Mervyn had taken a
second wife; that his only son, a youth of eighteen, had
thought proper to be highly offended with his father's
conduct, and treated the new mistress of the house with
insult and contempt. I should not much wonder at
this, seeing children are so apt to deem themselves unjustly
treated by a second marriage of their parent, but
it was hinted that the boy's jealousy and discontent was
excited by no common cause. The new mother was
not much older than himself, had been a servant of
the family, and a criminal intimacy had subsisted between
her, while in that condition, and the son. Her

marriage with his father was justly accounted by their
neighbors, a most profligate 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, metamorphosed from a rustic
lad into a fine gentleman. Nothing could be quicker
than this change, for he left the country on a Saturday
morning, and was seen in a French frock and silk stockings,
going into Christ's Church the next day. I suppose
he kept it up with an high hand, as long as his
money lasted.

My father paid us a visit last week, and among other
country news, told us than Sawny Mervyn had sold his
place. His wife had persuaded him to try his fortune
in the Western Country. The price of his hundred
acres here would purchase a thousand there, and the man
being very gross and ignorant, and withall, quite a simpleton,
found no difficulty in perceiving that a thousand
are ten times more than an hundred. He was not aware
that a rood of ground upon Schuylkill is ten fold better
than an acre on the Tenessee.

The woman turned out to be an artful profligate.
Having sold his ground and gotten his money, he placed
it in her keeping, and she, to enjoy it with the more security,
ran away to the city; leaving him to prosecute
his journey to Kentucky, moneyless and alone. Sometime
after, Mr. Althorpe and I were at the play, when
he pointed out to me a groupe of females in an upper box,
one of whom was no other than Betty Laurence. It
was not easy to recognize, in her present gaudy trim,
all flaunting with ribbons and shining with trinkets, the

same Betty who used to deal out pecks of potatoes and
superintend her basket of eantilopes in the Jersey market,
in paste-board 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 consolation
in the bottle, of which he had been at all times
overfond. He wandered from one tavern to another
till his credit was exhausted, and then was sent to jail,
where, I believe, he is likely to continue till his death.
Such, my friend, is the history of the Mervyns.

What proof, said I, have you of the immoral 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
neighbors. Respectable and honest men have affirmed, in
my hearing, that they have been present when the boy
treated his mother in the way that I have described. I
was, besides, once in company with the old man, and
heard him bitterly inveigh against his son, and charge
him with the fact of stealing his horse and money. I
well remember that tears rolled from his eyes while
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 described his appearance with
great exactness. The boy is extremely handsome,
give him his due; has dark hazle eyes, auburn hair,
and very elegant proportions. His air and gate have
nothing of the clown in them. Take away his jacket
and trowsers, and you have as spruce a fellow as ever
came from dancing-school or college. He is the exact
picture of his mother, and the most perfect contrast to
the sturdy legs, squat figure, and broad, unthinking,
sheepish face of the father that can be imagined. You

must confess that his appearance here is a pretty strong
proof of the father's assertions. The money given for
these clothes could not possibly have been honestly acquired.
It is to be presumed that they were bought
or stolen, for how else should they have been gotten?

What was this lad's personal deportment during the
life of his mother, and before his father's second marriage?

Very little to the credit of his heart or his intellects.
Being 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 idleness was much
against the father's inclination and judgment; and, indeed,
it was the foundation of all his vices. When he
could be prevailed upon to do any thing it was in a
bungling manner, and so as to prove that his thoughts
were fixed on any thing except his business. When his
assistance was wanted he was never to be found at hand.
They were compelled to search for him among the rocks
and bushos, and he was generally discovered sauntering
along the bank of the river, or lolling in the shade of
a tree. This disposition to inactivity and laziness, in
so young a man, was very strange. Persons of his
age are rarely fond of work, but then they are addicted
to company, and sports, and exercises. They ride, or
shoot, or frolic; but this being moped away his time in
solitude, never associated with other young people,
never mounted an 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 right mind; and, indeed, his
conduct was so very perverse and singular, that I do
not wonder at those who accounted forit in this way.

But, surely, said I, he had some object of pursuit.
Perhaps he was addicted to books.

Far from it. On the contrary, his aversion to school
was as great as his hatred of the plough. He never
could get his lessons or bear the least constraint. He
was so much indulged by his mother at home, that tasks

and discipline of any kind were intolerable. He was
a perpetual truant; till the master one day attempting
to strike him, he ran out of the room and never entered
it more. The mother excused and countenanced his
frowardness, and the foolish father was obligged to give
way. I do not believe he had two month's 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 decypher the figures in an almanac,
but that was all. I am apt to think, that the son's
ability was not much greater. You might as well look
for silver platters or marble tables in his house, as for
a book or a pen.

I remember calling at their house one evening in the
winter before last. It was intensely cold; and my
father, who rode with me, having business with
Sawney Mervyn, we stopped a minute at his gave;
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 prefer knitting yarn to threshing my
brain with a book or the barn-floor with a flail.

I wonder, said I contemptuously, you do not
put on the petticoat as well as handle the needle.

Do not wonder, he replied: it is because I hate a
petticoat incumbrance 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 taylor.

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
needle-work from seven year's squatting on a taylor'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 sister, 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 any thing like a school.

True. It was early and violent. Had not you?

No. I went to school with pleasure; for I thought
to read and write were accomplishments of some value.

Indeed? Then I misunderstood you just now. I
thought you said, that, had you the strength of a man,
you should prefer the plough and the book to the needle.
Whence, supposing you a female, I inferred that
you had a woman's love for the needle and a fool's hatred
of books.

My father calling me from without, I now made a
motion to go. Stay, continued he with great earnestness,

throwing 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 slip them on in a trice.

Finding me positive in my refusal, he dropped the
stockings; and, without more ado, caught me up in
his arms, rushed out of the room, and, running barefoot
through the snow, set me fairly on my horse. All
was done in a moment, and before I had time to reflect
on his intentions. He then seized my hand, and, kissing
it with great 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 practice the lesson in wondering at
your folly, in wearing worsted shoes and silk stockings
at a season like this. Take my counsel, and turn your
silk to worsted and your worsted to leather. Then
may you hope for warm feet and dry. What! Leave
the gate without a blessing on your counsellor?

I spurred my horse into a gallop, glad to escape from
so strange a being. I could give you many instances
of behaviour equally singular, and which betrayed a
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 impenetrability to ridicule and censure.
You might revile him for hours, and he would
listen to you with invincible composure. To awaken
anger or shame in him was impossible. He would answer,
but in such a way as to show him totally unaware
of your true meaning. He would afterwards talk to
you with all the smiling affability and freedom of an
old friend. Every one despised him for his idleness
and folly, no less conspicuous in his words than his actions;

but no one feared him, and few were angry with
him, till after the detection of his commerce with
Betty, and his inhuman treatment of his father.

Have you good reasons for supposing him to have
been illicitly connected with that girl?

Yes. Such as cannot be discredited. It would not
be proper for me to state these proofs. Nay, he never
denied it. When reminded, on one occasion, of the
inference which every impartial person would draw
from appearances, he acknowledged, with his usual
placid effrontery, that the inference was unavoidable.
He even mentioned other concurring and contemporary
incidents, which had eluded the observation of his censurer,
and which added still more force to the conclusion.
He was studious to palliate the vices of this woman
as long as he was her only paramour; but after
her marriage with his father, the tone was changed.
He confessed that she was tidy, notable, industrious;
but, then, she was a prostitute. 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 this family.