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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.
PHILADELPHIA: DAVID McKAY, PUBLISHER,
23 SOUTH NINTH STREET. 1889.
PREFACE.
The evils of pestilence by which this city has lately been afflicted
will probably form an era in its history. The schemes of reformation and
improvement to which they will give birth, or, if no efforts of human
wisdom can avail to avert the periodical visitations of this calamity,
the change in manners and population which they will produce, will be,
in the highest degree, memorable. They have already supplied new and
copious materials for reflection to the physician and the political
economist. They have not been less fertile of instruction to the moral
observer, to whom they have furnished new displays of the influence of
human passions and motives.
Amidst the medical and political discussions which are now afloat in the
community relative to this topic, the author of these remarks has
ventured to methodize his own reflections, and to weave into an humble
narrative such incidents as appeared to him most instructive and
remarkable among those which came within the sphere of his own
observation. It is every one's duty to profit by all opportunities of
inculcating on mankind the lessons of justice and humanity. The
influences 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 colours,
the evils of disease and poverty, performs an eminent service to the
sufferers, by calling forth benevolence in those who are able to afford
relief; and he who portrays examples of disinterestedness and
intrepidity confers on virtue the notoriety and homage that are due to
it, and rouses in the spectators the spirit of salutary emulation.
In the following tale a particular series of adventures is brought to a
close; but these are necessarily connected with the events which
happened subsequent to the period here described. These events are not
less memorable than those which form the subject of the present volume,
and may hereafter be published, either separately or in addition to
this.
C.B.B.
ARTHUR MERVYN.
CHAPTER I.
I was resident in this city during the year 1793. Many motives
contributed to detain me, though 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 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, 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 exhalations 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 harbour him, we must not forget that there
was a hospital to which he would, perhaps, consent to be carried, and
where he would be 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 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 luxury and uninured 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 receive all the kindness that it is in
our power to bestow. Pluck up courage, and I will answer for your
recovery, provided you submit to directions, and do as we would have
you. Rise, and come along with me. We will find you a physician and a
nurse, and all we ask in return is good spirits and compliance."
"Do you not know," he replied, "what my disease is? Why should you risk
your safety for the sake of one whom your kindness cannot benefit, and
who has nothing to give in return?"
There was something in the style of this remark, that heightened my
prepossession in his favour, and made me pursue my purpose with more
zeal. "Let us try what we can do for you," I answered. "If we save your
life, we shall have done you some service, and, as for 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 assistance. My wife, with a feeble frame and a mind shrinking, on
ordinary occasions, from such offices, with fastidious scrupulousness,
was to be his only or principal nurse.
My neighbours were fervent in their well-meant zeal, and loud in their
remonstrances on the imprudence and rashness of my conduct. They called
me presumptuous and cruel in exposing my wife and child, as well as
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
inconveniences and perils to which I thus spontaneously exposed myself.
No one knew better the value of that woman whom I called mine, or set a
higher price upon her life, her health, and her ease. The virulence and
activity of this contagion, the 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 approbation. All
objections on the score of my friends 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
characterized 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 he meant to pursue upon
his recovery, he professed himself without any precise object. He was
willing to be guided by the advice of others, and by the lights which
experience should furnish. The country was open to him, and he supposed
that there was no part of it in which food could not be purchased by his
labour. He was unqualified, by his education, for any liberal
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 outroot from his mind the persuasion that to plough,
to sow, and to reap, were employments most befitting a reasonable
creature, and from which the truest pleasure and the least pollution
would flow. He contemplated no other scheme than to return, as soon as
his health should permit, into the country, seek employment where it was
to be had, and acquit himself in his engagements with fidelity and
diligence.
I pointed out to him various ways in which the city might furnish
employment to one with his qualifications. He had said that he was
somewhat accustomed to the pen. There were stations in which the
possession of a legible hand was all that was requisite. He might add to
this a knowledge of accounts, and thereby procure himself a post in some
mercantile or public office.
To this he objected, that experience had shown him unfit for the life of
a penman. This had been his chief occupation for a little while, and he
found it wholly 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 afforded him was owing to their fewness; yet he confessed
that a mode of life which entirely forbade him to read was by no means
to his taste. But this was trivial. He knew how to value the thoughts of
other people, but he could not part with the privilege of observing and
thinking for himself. He wanted business which would suffer at least
nine-tenths of his attention to go free. If it afforded 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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 entreated us to forbear any further discussion of this topic. He
foresaw the difficulties to which his silence would subject him. One of
its most fearful consequences would be the loss of our good opinion. He
knew not what he had to dread from the enmity of Wortley. Mr. Wortley's
violence was not without excuse. It was his mishap to be exposed to
suspicions which could only be obviated by breaking his faith. But,
indeed, he knew not whether any degree of explicitness would confute the
charges that were made against him; whether, by trampling on his sacred
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 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. 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
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 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 across the river, and this, it
seems, is the first of your reappearance 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 forlorn. 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.