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The Adventures of Hugh Trevor

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I thanked my gentleman for his politeness, but declined the offer: and
he continued.

'Look at that man in brown, leaning against the pillar! He is a
painter, and a man of genius; but the greatest ass existing!'

'How? Of genius, and--!'

'Hear and judge for yourself. No man has studied his art with so much
assiduity and zeal, or practised it with greater enthusiasm; but,
instead of confining himself to portrait-painting, by which with half
the labour and one tenth of the talent he might have made a fortune,
he devoted all his youth to poverty and starving, and undertook a
series of paintings that would have immortalized a man under the
patronage of Leo. X. This task he was years in accomplishing, living
all the while on little better than bread and water, and that procured
by robbing his nights of the hours of rest; for his pride, which he
calls independence, is as great as his ambition, which he dignifies
with the title of a love of fame. But the most prominent trait in his
character is a jealous--'

Here my commentator, suddenly interrupting himself, pressed my arm,
and bade me turn to the left.

'There,' said he pointing, 'is a Mr. Migrate; a famous clerical
character, and as strange an original as any this metropolis affords.
He is not entitled to make a figure in the world either by his riches,
rank, or understanding; but with an effrontery peculiar to himself
he will knock at any man's door, though a perfect stranger, ask him
questions, give him advice, and tell him he will call again to give
him more the first opportunity. By this means he is acquainted with
every body, but knows nobody; is always talking, yet never says any
thing; is perpetually putting some absurd interrogation, but before it
is possible he should understand the answer puts another. His desire
to be informed torments himself and every man of his acquaintance,
which is almost every man he meets; yet, though he lives inquiring,
he will die consummately ignorant. His brain is a kind of rag shop,
receiving and returning nothing but rubbish. It is as difficult to
affront as to get rid of him; and though you fairly bid him begone
to-day, he will knock at your door, march into your house, and if
possible keep you answering his unconnected fifty times answered
queries tomorrow. He is the friend and the enemy of all theories and
of all parties; and tortures you to decide for him which he ought
to chuse. As far as he can be said to have opinions, they are crude
and contradictory in the extreme; so that in the same breath he
will defend and oppose the same system. With all this confusion of
intellect, there is no man so wise but he will prescribe to him how he
ought to act, and even send him written rules for his conduct. He has
been a great traveller, and continually abuses his own countrymen for
not adopting the manners and policy of the most ignorant, depraved,
and barbarous nations of Europe and Africa. He pretends to be the
universal friend of man, a philanthropist on the largest scale, yet is
so selfish that he would willingly see the world perish, if he could
but secure paradise to himself. Indeed he can think of no other being;
and his child, his canary bird, his cook-maid, or his cat, are the
most extraordinary of God's creatures. This is the only consistent
trait in his character. In the same sentence, he frequently joins
the most fulsome flattery and some insidious question; that asks the
person, whom he addresses, if he do not confess himself to be both
knave and fool. Delicacy of sentiment is one of his pretensions,
though his tongue is licentious, his language coarse, and he is
occasionally seized with fits of the most vulgar abuse. He declaims
against dissimulation, yet will smilingly accost the man whom--'Ha!
Migrate! How do you do? Give me leave to introduce you to Mr. Trevor,
a friend of mine; a gentleman and a scholar; just come from Oxford.
Your range of knowledge and universal intimacy, with men and things,
may be useful to him; and his erudite acquisitions, and philosophical
research, will be highly gratifying to an inquirer like you. An
intercourse between you must be mutually pleasing and beneficial, and
I am happy to bring you acquainted.'

This, addressed to the man whom he had been satirizing so unsparingly,
was inconceivable! The unabashed facility with which he veered, from
calumny to compliment, the very moment too after he had accused the
man whom he accosted of dissimulation, struck me dumb. I had perhaps
seen something like it before, but nothing half so perfect in its
kind. It doubly increased my stock of knowledge; it afforded a new
instance of what the world is, and a new incitement to ask how it
became so? The inquiry at first was painful, and half convinced me of
the truth of manicheism; but deeper research taught me that the errors
of man do not originate in the perversity of his nature, but of his
ignorance.

These however were most of them after thoughts, for Glibly did not
allow us any long pause.

'Yonder, in the green boxes,' said he, 'I perceive Mrs. Fishwife, the
actress. She should have played in the comedy we are come to see, but
threw up her part from scruples of conscience. It was not sufficiently
refined for her exquisite sensibility; it wounded her feelings,
offended her morals, and outraged her modesty. Yet in the Green-room,
she is never happy unless when the men are relating some lewd tale, or
repeating obscene jests; at every one of which she bursts into a horse
laugh, and exclaims--'Oh, you devil! But I don't hear you! I don't
understand a word you say!' To heighten the jest, her armours are as
public as the ladies on Harris's List.'

'But perhaps there is something violently offensive and immoral, in
the part she refused?'

'Not a syllable. The writer is too dull even for a _double entendre_,
as you will hear. Mere pretence. The author, who happens by some odd
accident to have more honesty than wit, and could not in conscience
comply with the present vicious mode of bestowing indiscriminate
praise on actors, when no small mixture of blame had been merited by
many of them, forbore to write a preface to his last piece; from which
she had thought herself secure of a large dose of flattery. This is an
offence she can never pardon.'

'I have heard,' said Migrate, 'that our actresses are become
exceedingly squeamish.'

'Oh ridiculous beyond belief. I have a letter in my pocket from a
young friend in a country company, the ladies of which have their
sensibility strung up to so fine a tone that he cannot take the
tragedy of King Lear for his benefit, because not one of them will
play either Regan or Goneril. If their feelings are so exquisite in
the country, where our wise laws treat players as vagabonds, what must
they be when loaded with all the legal, tragic, and royal dignity of a
London theatre?'

This was so incredible that I expressed my doubts of the fact; but
they were ill founded, for Glibly produced the letter.

A moment afterward two more of his acquaintance caught his eye.

'Look to the right,' said he; 'the box next the gallery. There they
sit! Mr. and Mrs. Whiffle-Wit! They are now in state! They have really
a capacious appearance! Were Rubens or Jordaens but here, we should
have them painted in all the riches of oil colours, grinning in
company with Silenus and his ass. Let the poor author beware; they are
prodigious critics! Madam can write a farce, or even a solution to an
enigma, with as little labour as any lady in the land; and her dear
Mr. Whiffle-Wit can set them both to music, with no less facility and
genius! Nothing can equal them, except his own jigs on the organ! They
never fail to attend the first night of a new play; and their taste
is so very refined that nothing less than writing it themselves could
afford them satisfaction. They never admire any nonsense but their
own. The manager and author have always to thank them for exerting
their whole stock of little wit, and abundant envy, to put the house
into an ill temper. The favour is the more conspicuous because
they are _orderly people_. But that perhaps is a phrase you do not
understand, Mr. Trevor? They never pay for their places; yet always
occupy a first row for themselves, and in general the rest of the box
for their friends; who they take good care shall be as well disposed
toward the house and the author as they are. You may be sure to meet
them to-morrow, very industriously knocking at every door where they
can gain admission, to tell their acquaintance what a vile piece it
was; and what a strange blockhead the manager must be, who had refused
farces of their writing, and operas of their setting, yet could dare
to insult the town with such trash! They have now continued for years
in this state of surprise, and there is no knowing when it will end.'

The satire of Glibly was incessant, till the tinkling of the
prompter's bell, and the rising of the curtain, put an end to his
remarks on persons, and turned them all on the piece. I cannot but
own the author opened an ample field for the effluvia of critic gall.
I know not whether Glibly might influence the tone of my mind, but I
think I never felt such ineffable contempt for any human production
as for the thing called a comedy, which I that night saw. Disjointed
dialogue, no attempt at plan or fable, each scene a different story,
and each story improbable and absurd, quibbles without meaning, puns
without point, cant without character, sentiments as dull as they were
false, and a continual outrage on manners, morals and common sense,
were its leading features. Yet, strange to tell, the audience endured
it all; and, by copious retrenchments and plaistering and patching,
this very piece had what is called a run!

How capricious a thing is public taste! It can regale on garbage, from
which Hottentots would turn with loathing, and yet, in the frenzy of
idiotism, could reject and condemn Congreve's 'Way of the World!'

Glibly treated the piece with unceasing contempt, yet clapped
every scene; and when, on two or three occasions, some few raised
their voices and called _off! off!_ he more loudly than the rest
vociferated, _Go on! go on!_ When it was over, he left me; saying it
was the most execrable piece he had ever beheld; but he had promised
to give it a good character, in the paper with which he was connected,
and this he must immediately go and write.




CHAPTER III


_Repetition of doubts: A very old acquaintance: Another pleasing
rencontre: Perplexity and suspense created_


The adventures of the evening sent me home with no very agreeable
reflections. What a world was this! How replete with folly, hypocrisy,
and vice! What certainly had the man of virtue that his claims should
be heard? Amid the tumultuous pursuits of selfishness, where all
were eager to gratify their own passions and appease the capricious
cravings of vanity, how might truth and worth ascertain success? The
comedy I had seen had convinced me that farce, inanity, and supreme
nonsense, might not only pass current but find partisans; yet proofs
in abundance were on record that genius itself had no security against
faction, envy, and mistaken opposition. I was at present in a state of
warfare: and were judges like these to give the meed of victory? How
many creatures had the powerful and the proud obedient to their beck;
ever ready to affirm, deny, say and unsay; and, by falsehood and
defamation, involve in ruin men whose souls were the most pure, and
principles the most exalted!

For some days I remained in a state of suspense, continually
determining to seek the satisfaction which I supposed my injuries
demanded, but undecided with respect to the method.

This delay was still prolonged by another event. My man Philip, one
morning when he brought my breakfast, told me that a woman in the
house, who lived with a young lady on the second floor, had asked him
various questions concerning me; saying she was sure she knew me, that
she loved me from her soul, for that I had once saved the life of her
and her dear boy, and that she wished very much to see me.

At first this account surprised me. A woman and a boy whose lives
I had saved? Where is she, said I? Below in the kitchen, answered
Philip. I bade him desire her to come up; and in a few minutes a woman
about the age of forty entered, but of whose countenance I had no
clear recollection. 'I beg pardon, Sir,' said she, 'for my boldness,
but your name I believe is Mr. Trevor?'

'It is.'

'Mr. Hugh Trevor?'

'The same.'

'God in his mercy bless and keep you! Since the night that you saved
my life, I never went to bed without praying for you. But you were
always a kind, dear, good child; and your uncle, Mr. Elford, was the
best of men!'

The epithet, child, and the name of Elford instantly solved the
riddle: it was poor Mary; and the boy, whose life I had saved, was the
child of which she was delivered, after the adventure of the barn.
Her features suddenly became as it were familiar to me. She revived a
long train of ideas, inspiring that kind of melancholy pleasure which
mind so much delights to encourage. I kissed her with sincere good
will: and in sympathy with my feelings the poor creature, yielding
to her affections, clasped me round the neck, pressed me to her
cheek, exclaimed 'God in heaven for ever bless you!' then, suddenly
recollecting herself, with that honest simplicity which was so
constitutionally her character, dropped on her knees, and added, 'I
humbly beg pardon, Sir, for being so bold!'

After some persuasion, I prevailed on her to sit down: but I could not
conquer her timidity and imaginary inferiority so far as to induce
her to partake of my breakfast. 'She knew her duty better; I was a
gentleman, once her dear young master, and she should always adore me,
and act as was befitting a poor servant, like her.'

We talked over former affairs, and she brought many scenes of my
early youth strongly to recollection. On inquiry, she told me she
had apprenticed her son to a printer; that till this period she had
fed, clothed, and educated him by her own industry; and that he was
now likely to be no longer burthensome to her, being an apt and
industrious boy, and already capable of supplying himself with clothes
by his over-work.

I farther learnt, from her discourse, that she lived with a young
lady, whom she affectionately loved; and there was something
mysterious occasionally in her phrases, that led me to imagine her
mistress had been unfortunate. 'She had been a kind mistress to her;
she loved her in her heart. Poor young lady! she did not deserve the
mishaps she had met with; and it was a shame that some men should be
so base as they were: but, though all the world should turn their
back on her, she would not be so wicked. Poor women were born to
be misused, by false-hearted men; and, if they had no pity for one
another, what must become of them?'

I asked if she had lived with the lady long? She answered, that first
and last she had known her ever since she left Mr. Elford's service.

'What! Was she of our county?'

'Yea.'

'Was I acquainted with her?'

Mary hesitated, and my curiosity was rouzed--'What was the lady's
name?'

'Miss Lydia Wilmot.'

'Wilmot? Wilmot? Surely, not Miss Wilmot, the niece of the bishop of
----?'

'No, no,' said Mary, ''a's not his niece, 'a has better blood in her
veins; thof mayhap 'a may have had her failings. God help us! who is
without 'em? A bishop? Lord ha' mercy on us! No Christian soul could
have believed there was so much wickedness in the world!'

My impatience increased, and I eagerly demanded--'Did she ever live
with the bishop?'

Poor Mary knew not what to answer; I perceived her confusion. 'Go,
Mary,' said I, 'and tell Miss Wilmot that Mr. Trevor presents his
compliments to her, and will be glad to speak to her the moment she is
at leisure.'

After a little hesitation Mary went, continued up stairs some time,
and at last returned with--'Miss Wilmot's compliments: she should be
glad to see me.'

I hurried to her apartment. My conjectures were too well founded to be
false: it was the same Miss Wilmot to whom I had been introduced by
the bishop, the sister of the guide of my studies and the friend of my
youth. Her embarrassment was considerable, she sunk on the sopha as
she curtsied, pointed to a chair, and faintly requested I would sit
down.

I exerted myself to assume the tone that should tranquilize her
feelings; and by asking and answering my own questions, and
endeavouring myself to sustain the conversation, brought her with some
little difficulty to join in it.

I was burning to interrogate her concerning the bishop, but was
restrained by the fear of wounding her sensibility. I inquired after
her brother, but him I found she had not lately seen. I forebore to be
minute, but it appeared that they knew not the place of each other's
abode. I sat with her an hour; but, notwithstanding my impatience,
perceiving she evaded the subject I wished to introduce, and turned
the discourse on the common place occurrences of the day. I was
too respectful of her delicacy to violate it, and left her with an
invitation to drink tea with me the following afternoon, which she
accepted.

I saw Mary again in the interim, had some discourse with her, and, by
several phrases which she once more let fall, was involved in greater
perplexity. A person of my family had _a ruinated_ Miss Wilmot of all
hope; she never could have justice and right done her now; that was
_impossable_. But mayhap all things _was_ for the best. The base man
had shewn that he was not worth having. She was sorry, both on her
ladyship's account and mine; but there was no help for it. God send
him a good end! but she feared it! Such wickedness could never
prosper.

This language was totally incomprehensible!--'A person of my family?
The base man? Sorry on my account?' What did she mean?

Mary was afraid she had said too much--'I dare not tell you, dear good
Sir,' continued she; 'only don't you be _cunsarned_; it is no blame of
yours; you will know soon enough.'

In this uncertainty she left me, impatiently hoping some farther
explanation from Miss Wilmot; of which I was not disappointed. The
afternoon came, Mary announced her mistress, we were left alone, and I
could no longer forbear expressing my desire of knowing her history.

At first she felt some reluctance, but, when I informed her how much
Mary had already told, she sighed deeply, and said, 'I find, Sir,
it is in vain to think of concealment; I will, therefore, since you
desire it, relate the few events that are remarkable in my unfortunate
life. I fear they are more blameable than extraordinary; for,
from what I hear and see in this great city, mine are no uncommon
misfortunes. I even fear I am hitherto less wretched and guilty than
thousands. God only knows for what I am reserved!'




CHAPTER IV


_The story of Miss Wilmot: Family misfortunes: A father's death: A
brother's disappointment: Intelligence that astonishes me: Wakefield
characterized: The death of Miss Wilmot's mother; and the dread of
fatal consequences: Piety and compassion of a bishop: Deep designs of
Wakefield: The good faith and affection of a poor adherent_


'My father was an officer in the army, in which, though he served all
his life, he only attained the rank of major. He was twice married,
the second time to my mother at the age of thirty, by whom he had
five children, who, except my brother and myself, did not arrive at
maturity. Being reduced to the income of half-pay, they retired into
their native county, where they lived with such strict oeconomy that
they contrived to educate us better perhaps than the children of
people of much larger fortune.

'My brother was the eldest child, and I the youngest, so that there
was an interval of fifteen years between us. My father had been well
educated, loved letters, and undertook to be my brother's instructor
himself to the age of fourteen. At this period my brother was admitted
a chorister at the cathedral of ----, at which city my parents had
fixed their residence. They were respected by all the inhabitants,
whose wealth, birth, and pride, did not place them at too great a
distance; and it was a severe mortification to be unable to provide
better for their son; but there was no remedy.

'The disappointments of my father's life had given him a melancholy
cast, with an aptitude to be dissatisfied; and this propensity was
strongly communicated to my brother. The danger of a war between
England and Spain called my father up to town, in the hope of being
once more put on actual service. But in this his hopes again were
frustrated; and expence without benefit was incurred. Early, however,
in the American war, he obtained his wishes; unhappily obtained them,
for, having been long unused to the baneful severity of camps, he and
many more brave men were carried off, by the damps of the climate to
which he was sent. This happened when I was but nine years old; and my
mother was left with what little their economy had collected, and such
scanty provision as is made for officers widows.

'My brother, however, who was truly affectionate, and active in
efforts to protect us, afforded my mother some aid. From being a
chorister, he had gained admission into the grammar-school; of which,
while he remained there, he was the pride and boast. Immediately after
our father's death, from the recommendation of his own merit and the
misfortunes of the family, he was appointed a Latin usher in the same
school; in which station he remained five years. The difference of
our age made him consider himself something rather like a father than
a brother to me: he loved me tenderly, took every method to improve
and provide for me, and expected in return something like parental
obedience. The manners of my mother were of the mild and pleasing
kind, with which qualities she endeavoured to familiarize me, and the
behaviour of the whole family gained general approbation and esteem.

'My brother was deeply smitten with the love of letters: his poetical
essays were numerous, many of them were sent up to London and readily
admitted into periodical publications.

'Anxious to place his family in that rank which he had been taught to
suppose it deserved, for my father and mother were both, though not
noble, well born, he did not rest satisfied with these attempts: he
wrote a tragedy, and, by the advice of people who pretended to have a
knowledge of such affairs, determined to go to London, that he might,
if possible, get it on the stage. From this my mother would fain have
dissuaded him, but his arguments and importunity at length prevailed.
He was then but nine and twenty, and I fourteen.

'I could ill describe to you the state of anxiety and suspence in
which his various literary efforts involved him, while he remained in
London: but in about two years he returned to the country, despairing
of that pleasure, profit, and fame, which hope had delusively taught
him to consider as his due. This was the period at which he once more
became an usher of the school where you were educated. This too was
the period at which my misfortunes began.

'And now, Mr. Trevor, I am coming to events in which you, without any
knowledge or interference of your own, may be said to be a partaker.'

She paused a moment: and I, with amazement, doubt, and increasing
ardour, requested she would proceed.

'The name of Wakefield must certainly be familiar to you?'

'It is: I am sorry to say it is the name my mother at present bears.'

'If you feel sorrow, Mr. Trevor, what must my feelings be? Mine! who,
had there been truth or honour in man, ought to have borne that name
myself. Mine! who, when I first heard of your mother's marriage,
should not have felt so severe a pang had a dagger been struck to my
heart. Mine! who from that moment, or rather from the fatal and guilty
moment when I confided in an unprincipled man, have never known that
cheerfulness and peace, which once were the inmates of my bosom!'

'You astonish me, madam! Wakefield?'

'Wakefield! Him have I to thank for loss of self-respect, a brother's
love, and perhaps a parent's life! I was my mother's companion,
consolation, and pride. How can I estimate a mother's grief? She died
within a year. Have I not reason to believe her days were shortened by
her daughter's guilt?'

The pain of recollection was agonizing. She burst into a flood of
tears: nor could every effort she made keep down the deep sobs that
for some minutes impeded speech. I used every endeavour to appease
and calm her mind: she seemed sensibly touched by that sympathy which
intensely pervaded me; and, as soon as she could recover herself, thus
continued.

'The kind part you take in my affliction, Mr. Trevor, affords me
greater relief than any that perhaps I have felt for years. It is
true the faithful Mary, good creature, has almost shed tear for tear:
but she herself is the daughter of misfortune, and from her, though
grateful, it is something like expected. You are a man; you perhaps
have been accustomed to the society of those whose pleasure is the
most exquisite when they can most contribute to the miseries of woman:
that you should be virtuous enough to contemn such instruction, does
more than sooth feelings like mine: and I think we esteem benefits the
more the less we expect them.'

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