Arthur Mervyn | Page 4

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