How happy could I be with either,
Were t'other dear charmer away!
"BEGGAR'S OPERA."
Hell, they say, is paved with good intentions. If so, it has a much
better pavement than it deserves; for the "trail of the serpent is over
us all." Then why send to hell the greatest proof of our perfection
before the fall, and of weakness subsequent to it? Honest and sincere
professions of amendment must carry with them to the Throne of Grace a
strong recommendation, even if we are again led astray by the
allurements of sense and the snares of the world. At least, our tears
of contrition and repentance, our sorrow for the past, and our firm
resolves for the future, must have given "joy in heaven," and
consequently cannot have been converted into pavement for the infernal
regions.
Pleasure and pain, in youth, are, for the most part, transient
impressions, whether they arise from possession or loss of worldly
enjoyment, or from a sense of having done well or ill in our career.
The excitement, though strong, is not durable; and thus it was with me.
I had not been more than four days on board the ship of the line in
which I took my passage to England, when I felt my spirits buoyant, and
my levity almost amounting to delirium. The hours of reflection were at
first shortened, and then dismissed entirely. The general mirth of my
new shipmates, at the thoughts of once more revisiting their dear native
land, the anticipation of indulging in the sensual worship of Bacchus
and Venus, the constant theme of discourse among the midshipmen--the
loud and senseless applause bestowed upon the coarsest ribaldry--these
all had their share in destroying that religious frame of mind in which
I had parted with my first captain, and seemed to awaken me to a sense
of the folly I had been guilty of in quitting a ship where I was not
only at the head of my mess, but in a fair way for promotion. I
considered that I had acted the part of a madman, and had again begun to
renew my career of sin and of folly, a little, and but a little, sobered
by the recent event.
We arrived in England after the usual passage from the Rock. I
consented to pass two days at Portsmouth, with my new companions, to
revisit our old haunts, and to commit those excesses which fools and
knaves applauded and partook of at my expense, leaving me full leisure
to repent, after we separated. I, however, did muster resolution enough
to pack my trunk; and, after an extravagant supper at the Fountain,
retired to bed intoxicated, and the next morning, with an aching head,
threw myself into the coach and drove off for London. A day of much
hilarity is generally succeeded by one of depression. This is fair and
natural; we draw too largely on our stock, and squander our enjoyment
like our money, leaving us the next day with low spirits and a lower
purse.
A stupid dejection succeeded the boisterous mirth of the overnight. I
slumbered in a corner of the coach till about one o'clock, when we
reached Godalming, where I alighted, took a slight refreshment, and
resumed my seat. As we drove along, I had more leisure, and was in a
fitter frame of mind to review my past conduct since I had quitted my
ship at Gibraltar. My self-examination, as usual, produced no
satisfactory results. I perceived that the example of bad company had
swept away every trace of good resolution which I had made on the death
of my mother. I saw with grief, that I had no dependence on myself; I
had forgotten all my good intentions, and the firm vows of amendment
with which I had bound myself, and had yielded to the first temptation
which came in my way.
In vain did I call up every black and threatening cloud of domestic
sorrow which was to meet me on my return home--the dreadful vacuum
occasioned by my mother's death--the grief of my father--my brother and
my sisters in deep mourning, and the couch on which I had left the best
of parents when I turned away my thoughtless head from her in the
anguish of her grief. I renewed my promise of amendment, and felt some
secret consolation in doing so.
When I arrived at my father's door, the servant who let me in greeted me
with a loud and hearty welcome. I ran into the drawing-room, where I
found that my brother and sisters had a party of children to spend the
evening with them. They were dancing to the music of a piano, played on
by my aunt, while my father sat in his arm-chair, in high good humour.
This was a very different scene from what I had expected. I was
prepared for a sentimental and affecting meeting; and my feelings were
all worked up to their full bearing for the occasion. Judge then of the
sudden revulsion in my mind, when I found mirth and good humour where I
expected tears and lamentations. It had escaped my recollection, that
although the death of my mother was an event new to me, it had happened
six months before I had heard of it; and, consequently, with them grief
had given way to time. I was astonished at their apparent want of
feeling; while they gazed with surprise at the sight of me, and the
symbols of woe displayed in my equipment.
My father welcomed me with surprise; asked where my ship was, and what
had brought her home. The fact was, that in my sudden determination to
return to England, I had spared myself the trouble of writing to make
known my intentions; and, indeed, if I had written, I should have
arrived as soon as my letter, unless (which I ought to have done) I had
written on my arrival at Portsmouth, instead of throwing away my time in
the very worst species of dissipation. Unable, therefore, in the
presence of many witnesses, to give my father that explanation which he
had a right to expect, I suffered greatly for a time in his opinion. He
very naturally supposed that some disgraceful conduct on my part was the
cause of my sudden return. His brow became clouded and his mind seemed
occupied with deep reflection.
This behaviour of my father, together with the continued considerable
noisy mirth of my brother and sisters, gave me pain. I felt as if, in
the sad news of my mother's death, I had over-acted my part in the
feeling I had shown, and the sacrifice I had made in quitting my ship.
On explaining to my father, in private, the motives of my conduct, I was
not successful. He could not believe that my mother's death was the
sole cause of my return to England. I stood many firm and angry
interrogations as to the possible good which could accrue to me by
quitting my ship. I showed him the captain's handsome certificate,
which only mortified him the more. In vain did I plead my excess of
feeling. He replied with an argument that I feel to have been
unanswerable--that I had quitted the ship when on the very pinnacle of
favour, and in the road to fortune. "And what," said he, "is to become
of the navy and the country, if every officer is to return home when he
receives the news of the death of a relation?"
In proportion as my father's arguments carried conviction, they did
away, at the same time, with all the good impressions of my mother's
dying injunction. If her death was a matter of so little importance,
her last words were equally so; and from that moment I ceased to think
of either. My father's treatment of me was now very different from what
it had ever been during my mother's lifetime. My requests were harshly
refused, and I was lectured more as a child than as a lad of _eighteen_,
who had seen much of the world. Coldness on his part was met by a
spirit of resistance on mine. Pride came in to my assistance. A
dispute arose one evening, at the finale of which I gave him to
understand that if I could not live quietly under his roof, I would quit
it. He calmly recommended me to do so. Little supposing that I should
have taken his advice, I left the room, banging the door after me,
packed up a few changes of linen, and took my departure, unperceived by
any one, with my bundle on my shoulder, and about sixteen shillings in
my pocket.
Here was a great mismanagement on the part of my father, and still
greater on mine. He was anxious to get me afloat again, and I had no
sort of objection to going; but his impatience and my pride spoiled all.
Reflection soon came to me, but came too late. Night was fast
approaching: I had no house over my head, and my exchequer was in no
very flourishing condition. I had walked six miles from my father's
house, when I began to tire. It became dark, and I had no fixed plan.
A gentleman's carriage came by; I took up a position in the rear of it,
and had ridden four miles, when, as the carriage was slowly dragging up
a hill, I was discovered by the parties inside; and the postilion, who
had dismounted and been informed of it, saluted me with two or three
smart cuts of his whip, intimating that I was of no use, but rather an
incumbrance which could be dispensed with.
My readers know that I had long since adopted the motto of our northern
neighbours, _Nemo me_, etcetera; so waiting very quietly till the driver
had mounted his horses, at the top of the hill, that he might be more at
my mercy, I discharged a stone at his head which caused him to vacate
his seat, and fall under his horse's belly. The animals, frightened at
his fall, turned short round to the right, or they would have gone over
him, and ran furiously down the hill. The post-boy, recovering his
legs, followed his horses without bestowing a thought on the author of
the mischief; and I made all the haste I could in the opposite
direction, perfectly indifferent as to the fate of the parties inside of
the carriage, for I still smarted with the blows I had received.
"Fools, and unkind," muttered I, looking back, as they disappeared at
the bottom of the hill, with frightful velocity, "you are rightly
served. I was a trespasser, 'tis true, but a civil request would have
had all the effect you required--that of inducing me to get down; but a
whip to me--" And with my blood still boiling at the recollection, I
hastily pursued my journey.
In a few minutes I reached the little town of ---, the lights of which
were visible at the time the horses had turned down the hill and ran
away. Entering the first inn I came to, I found the large room below
occupied by a set of strolling players, who had just returned from a
successful performance of "Romeo and Juliet"; and, from the excitement
among them, it was easy to perceive that their success had been fully
equal to their expectations. They were fourteen in number, seated round
a table, not indifferently covered with the good things of this life;
they were clad in theatrical costume, which, with the rapid circulation
of the bottle, gave the whole scene an air of romantic freedom,
calculated to interest the mind of a thoughtless half-pay midshipman.
Being hungry after my walk, I determined to join the party at supper,
which, being a table d'hote was easily effected. One of the actresses,
a sweet little, well-proportioned creature, with large black eyes, was
receiving, with apparent indifference, the compliments of the better
sort of bumpkins and young farmers of the neighbourhood. In her
momentary and occasional smiles, she discovered a beautiful set of
small, white teeth; but when she resumed her pensive attitude, I was
sensible of an enchanting air of melancholy, which deeply interested me
in favour of this poor girl, who was evidently in a lower situation in
life than that for which she had been educated. The person who sat
nearest to her, vacated his seat as soon as he found his attentions were
thrown away. I instantly took possession of the place, and, observing
the greatest respect, entered at once into conversation with her.
Whether she was pleased with my address and language, as being superior
to what she was usually compelled to listen to, or whether she was
flattered by my assiduous attention, I know not; but she gradually
unbent, and became more animated; showing great natural talent and a
highly-cultivated mind; so that I was every moment more astonished to
find her in such a situation. Our conversation had lasted a
considerable time; and I had just made a remark to which she had not
replied, apparently struggling with concealed emotion, when we were
interrupted by a carriage driving up to the door, and cries of "Help!
help!" I instantly quitted the side of my new acquaintance, and flew to
answer the signal of distress.
A gentleman in the carriage was supporting a young lady in his arms, to
all appearance lifeless. With my assistance, she was speedily removed
into the house, and conveyed to a bedroom. A surgeon was sent for, but
none was to be had; the only practitioner of the town being at that
moment gone to attend one of those cases which, according to Mr
Malthus, are much too frequent for the good of the country. I
discovered that the carriage had been overturned, and that the young
lady had been insensible ever since. There was no time to be lost; I
knew that immediate bleeding was absolutely necessary. I had acquired
thus much of surgical knowledge in the course of my professional duties.
I stated my opinion to the gentleman; and although my practice had been
very slight, offered my services to perform the operation. This offer
was accepted with thanks by the grateful father, for such I found he
was. With my sharp penknife I opened a vein in one of the whitest arms
I ever beheld. After a few moments' chafing, the blood flowed more
freely; the pulse indicated returning animation; a pair of large blue
eyes opened suddenly upon me like a masked battery; and so alarmingly
susceptible was I of the tender passion, that I quite forgot the little
actress whom I had left at the supper-table, and who, a few minutes
before, had occupied my whole thoughts and attention.
Having succeeded in restoring the fair patient to consciousness, I
prescribed a warm bed, some tea, and careful watching. My orders were
punctually obeyed; I then quitted the apartment of my patient, and began
to ruminate over the hurried and singular events of the day.
I had scarcely had time to decide in my own mind on the respective
merits of my two rival beauties, when the surgeon arrived; and, being
ushered into the sick room, declared that the patient had been treated
with skill, and that in all probability she owed her life to my presence
of mind. "But, give me leave to ask," said the doctor, addressing the
father, "how the accident happened?" The gentleman replied: that a
scoundrel, having got up behind the carriage, had been flogged off by
the postilion; and, in revenge, had thrown a stone, which knocked the
driver off his horse they took fright, turned round, and ran away down
the hill towards their own stables; and after running five miles, upset
the carriage against a post, "by which accident," said he, "my poor
daughter was nearly killed."
"What a villain!" said the doctor.
"Villain, indeed," echoed I; and so I felt I was. I turned sick at the
thought of what my ungoverned passion had done; and my regret was not a
little increased by the charms of my lovely victim; but I soon recovered
from the shock, particularly when I saw that no suspicion attached to
me. I therefore received the praises of the father and the doctor with
a becoming modest diffidence; and, with a hearty shake of the hand from
the grateful parent, was wished a good night and retired to my bed.
As I stood before the looking-glass, laying my watch and exhausted purse
on the dressing-table, and leisurely untying my cravat, I could not
forbear a glance of approbation at what I thought a very handsome and a
very impudent face: I soliloquised on the events of the day, and, as
usual, found the summing-up very much against me. "This, then, sir,"
said I, "is your road to repentance and reform. You insult your father;
quit his house; get up, like a vagabond, behind a gentleman's carriage;
are flogged off, break the ribs of an honest man, who has a wife and
family to support out of his hard earnings--are the occasion of a
carriage being overturned, and very nearly cause the death of an amiable
girl! And all this mischief in the short space of six hours, not to say
a word of your intentions towards the little actress, which I presume
are none of the most honourable. Where is all this to end?"
"At the gallows," said I, in reply to myself,--"the more probably, too,
as my finances have no means of improvement, except by a miracle or
highway robbery. I am in love with two girls, and have only two clean
shirts; consequently there is no proportion between the demand and the
supply." With this medley of reflections I fell asleep. I was awoke
early by the swallows twittering at the windows; and the first question
which was agitated in my brain was, what account I should give of myself
to the father of the young lady, when interrogated by him, as I most
certainly should be. I had my choice between truth and falsehood: the
latter (such is the force of habit), I think, carried it hollow; but I
determined to leave that point to the spur of the moment, and act
according to circumstances. My meditations were interrupted by the
chambermaid, who, tapping at my door, said she came to tell me "that the
gentleman that _belonged_ to the young lady that I was so kind to was
waiting breakfast for me."
The thought of sitting at table with the dear creature whose brains I
had so nearly spilled upon the road the night before, quite overcame me;
and leaving the fabric of my history to chance or to inspiration, I
darted from my bedroom to the parlour, where the stranger awaited me.
He received me with great cordiality, again expressed his obligations,
and informed me that his name was Somerville, of ---.
I had some faint recollection of having heard the name mentioned by my
father, and was endeavouring to recall to mind on what occasion, when
Mr Somerville interrupted me by saying, that he hoped he should have
the pleasure of knowing the name of the young gentleman who had
conferred such an obligation upon him. I answered that my name was
Mildmay; for I had no time to tell a lie.
"I should be happy to think," said he, "that you were the son of my old
friend and schoolfellow, Mr Mildmay, of ---; but that cannot well be,"
said he, "for he had only two sons--one at college, the other as brave a
sailor as ever lived, and now in the Mediterranean: but perhaps you are
some relation of his?"
He had just concluded this speech, and before I had time to reply to it,
the door opened, and Miss Somerville entered. We have all heard a great
deal about "love at first sight;" but I contend, that the man who would
not, at the very first glimpse of Emily Somerville, have fallen
desperately in love with her, could have had neither heart nor soul. If
I thought her lovely when she lay in a state of insensibility, what did
I think of her when her form had assumed its wonted animation, and her
cheeks their natural colour? To describe a perfect beauty never was my
forte. I can only say, that Miss Somerville, as far as I am a judge,
united in her person all the component parts of the finest specimen of
her sex in England; and these were joined in such harmony by the skilful
hand of Nature, that I was ready to kneel down and adore her.
As she extended her white hand to me, and thanked me for my kindness, I
was so taken aback with the sudden appearance and address of this
beautiful vision, that I knew not what to say. I stammered out
something, but have no recollection whether it was French or English. I
lost my presence of mind, and the blushes of conscious guilt on my face
at that moment, might have been mistaken for those of unsophisticated
innocence. That these external demonstrations are often confounded, and
that such was the case on the present occasion, there can be no doubt.
My embarrassment was ascribed to that modesty ever attendant on real
worth.
It has been said that true merit blushes at being discovered; but I have
lived to see merit that could not blush, and the want of it that could,
while the latter has marched off with all the honours due to the former.
The blush that burned on my check, at that moment, would have gone far
to have condemned a criminal at the Old Bailey; but in the countenance
of a handsome young man, was received as the unfailing marks of "a pure,
ingenuous soul."
I had been too long at school to be ashamed of wearing laurels I had
never won; and, having often received a flogging which I did not
deserve, I thought myself equally well entitled to any advantages which
the chances of war might throw in my way; so having set my tender
conscience at rest, I sat myself down between my new mistress and her
father, and made a most delightful breakfast. Miss Somerville, although
declared out of danger by the doctor, was still languid, but able to
continue her journey; and as they had not many miles farther to go, Mr
Somerville proposed a delay of an hour or two.
Breakfast ended, he quitted the room to arrange for their departure, and
I found myself _tete a tete_ with the young lady. During this short
absence I found out that she was an only daughter, and that her mother
was dead; she again introduced the subject of my family-name, and I
found also that before Mrs Somerville's death, my father had been on
terms of great intimacy with Emily's parents. I had not replied to Mr
Somerville's question. A similar one was now asked by his daughter; and
so closely was I interrogated by her coral lips and searching blue eyes,
that I could not tell a lie. It would have been a horrid aggravation of
guilt, so I honestly owned that I was the son of her father's friend,
Mr Mildmay.
"Good Heaven!" said she, "why had you not told my father so?"
"Because I must have said a great deal more besides," added I, making
her my confidante. "I am the midshipman whom Mr Somerville supposes to
be in the Mediterranean, and I ran away from my father's house last
night."
Although I was as concise as possible in my story, I had not finished
before Mr Somerville came in.
"Oh, papa," said his daughter, "this young gentleman is Frank Mildmay,
after all."
I gave her a reproachful glance for having betrayed my secret; her
father was astonished--she looked confused, and so did I. Nothing now
remained for me but an open and candid confession, taking especial care,
however, to conceal the part I had acted in throwing the stone. Mr
Somerville reproved me very sharply, which I thought was taking a great
liberty; but he softened it down by adding, "If you knew how dear the
interests of your family are to me, you would not be surprised at my
assuming the tone of a parent." I looked at Emily and pocketed the
affront.
"And Frank," pursued he, "when I tell you that, although the distance
between your father's property and mine has in some measure interrupted
our long intimacy, I have been watching your career in the service with
interest, you will, perhaps, take my advice, and return home. Do not
let me have to regret that one to whom I am under such obligations
should too proud to acknowledge a fault. I admire a high spirit in a
good cause: but towards a parent it can never be justified. It may be
unpleasant to you; but I will prepare the way by writing to your father:
and do you stay here till you hear from me. I should wish for the
pleasure of your company at --- Hall; but your father has prior claims:
and I hardly need tell you, that once restored and reconciled to him, I
expect as long a visit as you can afford to pay me. Think on what I
have said and, in the meantime, as I daresay your finances are not very
flourishing"--(thinks I, you are a witch!)--"allow me to leave this
ten-pound note in your hands." This part of his request was much more
readily complied with than the other.
He left the room, as he said, to pay the bill; but, I believe, it was to
give his fair daughter an opportunity of trying the effect of her
eloquence on my proud spirit, which gave no great promise of concession.
A few minutes with _her_, did more than both the fathers could have
effected, the most powerful motive to submission being the certainty
that I could not visit at her father's house until a reconciliation had
taken place between me and mine. I therefore told her that, at her
solicitation, I would submit to any liberal terms.
This being agreed to, her father observed that the carriage was at the
door, shook hands with me, and led his lovely daughter away, whose last
nod and parting look confirmed all my good resolutions.
Reader, whatever you may think of the trifling incidents of the last
twenty-four hours, you will find that they involved consequences of vast
importance to the writer of this memoir. Pride induced me to quit my
father's house; revenge stimulated me to an act which brought the
heroine of this story on the stage, for such will Emily Somerville prove
to be. But, alas! by what fatal infatuation was Mr Somerville induced
to leave me my own master at an inn, with ten pounds in my pocket,
instead of taking me with him to his own residence, and keeping me till
he had heard from my father? The wisest men often err in points which
at first appear of trivial importance, but which prove in the sequel to
have been fraught with evil.
Left to myself, I ruminated for some time on what had occurred; and the
beautiful Emily Somerville having vanished from my sight, I recollected
the little fascinating actress from whom I had so suddenly parted on the
previous night; still I must say, that I was so much occupied with the
charms of her successor, that I sought the society of the youthful
Melpomene more with a view to beguile the time, than from any serious
prepossession.
I found her in the large room, where they were all assembled. She
received me as a friend, and evinced a partiality which flattered my
vanity. In three days, I received a letter from Mr Somerville,
inclosing one from my father, whose only request was, that I would
return home, and meet him as if nothing unpleasant had occurred. This I
determined to do; but I had now been so long in the company of Eugenia
(for that was the actress's name), that I could not very easily part
with her. In fact, I was desperately in love, after my fashion; and
though perhaps I could not with truth say the same of her, yet that she
was partial to my company was evident. I had obtained from her the
history of her life, which, in the following chapter, I shall give in
her own words.