She is virtuous, though bred behind the scenes: and, whatever pleasure she may feel in seeing herself applauded on the stage, she would much rather pass for a modest girl, than for a good actress -- Gil Blas.

“My father,” said Eugenia, “was at the head of this company of strolling players; my mother was a young lady of respectable family, at a boarding-school. She took a fancy to my father in the character of ‘Rolla’; and, being of course deservedly forsaken by her friends, became a prima donna. I was the only fruits of this connection, and the only solace of my mother in her affliction; for she bitterly repented the rash step she had taken.

“At five years old, my father proposed that I should take the character of Cupid, in the opera of Telemaque. To this my mother strongly objected, declaring that I never should go upon the stage; and this created a disunion which was daily embittered by my father’s unkind treatment both of my mother and myself. I never left her side for fear of a kick, which I was sure to receive when I had not her protection. She employed all her spare time in my instruction, and, notwithstanding the folly she had been guilty of, she was fully competent to the task.

“When I was seven years old, a relation of my mother died, and bequeathed fifteen thousand pounds, to be equally divided between her and her two sisters, securing my mother’s portion in such a manner as to prevent my father having any control over it. As soon as my mother obtained this information, she quitted my father, who was too prudent to spend either his time or his money in pursuit of her. Had he been aware of her sudden change of fortune, he might have acted differently.

“We arrived in London, took possession of the property, which was all in the funds; and then, fearing my father might gain information of her wealth, my mother set off for France, taking me with her. There I passed the happiest days of my life; my mother spared no pains, and went to considerable expense in my education. The best masters were provided for me in singing, dancing, and music; and so much did I profit by their instruction, that I was very soon considered a pretty specimen of my countrywomen, and much noticed accordingly.

“From France we went to Italy, where we remained two years, and where my vocal education was completed. My poor mother lived all this time on the principal of her fortune, concluding it would last for ever. At last she was taken ill of a fever, and died. This was about a year ago, when I was only sixteen. Delirious many days before her death, she could give me no instructions as to my future conduct, or where to apply for resources. I happened, however, to know her banker in London, and wrote to him immediately; in answer, he informed me that a balance of forty pounds was all that remained in his hands.

“I believe he cheated me, but I could not help it. My spirits were not depressed at this news; I sold all the furniture; paid the little debts to the tradespeople, and, with nine pounds in my pocket, took my place in the diligence, and set off for London, where I arrived without accident. I read in the newspaper, at the inn, that a provincial company was in want of a young actress for genteel comedy. My mother’s original passion for the stage had never left her; and, during our stay in France, we often amused ourselves with la petite comedie, in which I always took a part.

“Without resources, I thought a precarious mode of obtaining a livelihood was better than a vicious one, and determined to try my fortune on the stage: so I ordered a hack, and drove to the office indicated. I felt a degree of comfort, when I discovered that my father was the advertising manager, although I was certain he would never recognise me. I was engaged by the agent, the bargain was approved of, and in a day or two after, was ordered to a country town, some miles from the metropolis.

“I arrived; my father did not know me, nor did I wish that he should, as I did not intend to remain long in the company. I short, I aspired to the London boards; but aware that I wanted practice, without which it would have been useless to have offered myself, I accepted this situation without delay, and applied with great assiduity to the study of my profession. My father, I found, had married again; and my joining the company added nothing to his domestic harmony, my stepmother becoming immoderately jealous of me; but I took good care to keep my own secret, and never exposed myself for one moment to any suspicion of my character, which hitherto, thank Heaven, has been pure, though I am exposed to a thousand temptations, and beset by the actors to become the wife of one, or the mistress of another.

“Among those who proposed the latter, was my honoured father, to whom, on that account, I was one day on the point of revealing the secret of my birth, as the only means of saving myself from his importunities. He was, at last, taken ill, and died, only three months ago, not before I had completed my engagements, and obtained an increased salary of one guinea and a half per week. It is my intention to quit the company at the expiration of my present term, which will take place in two months, for I am miserable here, although I am quite at a loss to know what will be my future destination.”

In return for her confidence, I imparted as much of my history as I thought it necessary for her to know. I became deeply fascinated I forgot Miss Somerville, and answered my father’s letter respectfully and kindly. He informed me that he had procured my name to be entered on the books of the guard-ship, at Spithead: but, that I might gain time to loiter by the side of Eugenia, I begged his permission to join my ship without returning home, alleging as a reason, that delay would soften down any asperity of feeling occasioned by the late fracas. This in his answer he agreed to, enclosing a handsome remittance; and the same post brought a pressing invitation from Mr Somerville to come to Hall.

My little actress informed me that the company would set out in two days for the neighbourhood of Portsmouth; and, as I found that they would be more than a fortnight in travelling, I determined to accept the invitation, and quit her for the present. I had been more than a week in her society. At parting, I professed my admiration and love. Silence and a starting tear were her only acknowledgment. I saw that she was not displeased; and I left her with joyful anticipations.

But what did I anticipate, as I rolled heedlessly along in the chaise to Hall? Sensual gratification at the expense of a poor defenceless orphan, whose future life would be clouded with misery. I could see my wickedness, and moralise upon it; but the devil was triumphant within me, and I consoled myself with the vulgar adage, “Needs must when the devil drives.” With this, I dismissed the subject to think of Emily, whose residence was now in sight.

I arrived at Hall, was kindly received and welcomed by both father and daughter; but on this visit, I must not dwell. When I reflect on it, I hate myself and human nature! Could I be trusted? yet I inspired unbounded confidence. Was I not as vicious as one of my age could be? Yet I made them believe I was almost perfection. Did I deserve to be happy? Yet I was so, and more so than I had ever been before or ever have been since. I was like the serpent in Eden, though without his vile intentions. Beauty and virtue united to keep my passions in subjection. When they had nothing to feed on, they concealed themselves in the inmost recesses of my bosom.

Had I remained always with Emily, I should have been reclaimed; but when I quitted her, I lost all my good feelings and good resolutions; not, however, before the bright image of virtue had lighted up in my bosom a holy flame which has never been entirely extinguished. Occasionally dimmed, it has afterwards burnt up with renewed brightness; and, as a beacon-light, has often guided me through perils that might have overwhelmed me.

Compelled at last to quit this earthly paradise, I told her, at parting, that I loved her, adored her; and to prove that I was in earnest, and that she believed me, I obtained a lock of her hair. When I left Hall, it was my intention to have joined my ship, as I had agreed with my father; but the temptation to follow up my success with the fair and unfortunate Eugenia was too strong to be resisted; at least I thought so, and therefore hardly made an effort to conquer it. True I did, pro forma, make my appearance on board the guard-ship, had my name entered on the books, that I might not lose my time of servitude, and that I might also deceive my father. All this being duly accomplished, I obtained leave of absence from my first lieutenant, an old acquaintance, who, in a ship crowded with supernumerary midshipmen, was but too happy in getting rid of me and my chest.

I hastened to the rendezvous, and found the company in full activity. Eugenia, when we parted, expressed a wish that our acquaintance might not be renewed. She feared for her own character as well as mine, and very sensibly and feelingly observed that my professional prospects might be blasted; but, having made up my mind, I had an answer for all her objections. I presented myself to the manager, and requested to be admitted into the company.

Having taken this step, Eugenia saw that my attachment was not to be overcome; that I was willing to make any sacrifice for her. I was accepted; my salary was fixed at one guinea per week, with seven shillings extra for playing the flute. I was indebted for my ready admission into this society to my voice: the manager wanted a first singer. My talent in this science was much admired. I signed my agreement the same evening for two months; and, being presented in due form to my brethren of the buskin, joined the supper-table, where there was more of abundance than of delicacies. I sat by Eugenia, whose decided preference for me excited the jealousy of my new associates. I measured them all with my eye, and calculated that, with fair play, I was the best man among them.

The play-bills announced the tragedy of “Romeo and Juliet.” I was to be the hero, and four days were allowed me to prepare myself. The whole of that time was passed in the company of Eugenia, who, while she gave me unequivocal proofs of attachment, admitted of no freedom. The day of rehearsal arrived, I was found perfect, and loudly applauded by the company. Six o’clock came, the curtain rose, and sixteen tallow candles displayed my person to an audience of about one hundred people.

No one who has not been in the situation can form any idea of the nervous feeling of a debutant on such an occasion. The troupe, with the exception of Eugenia, was of a description of persons whom I despise, and the audience mostly clodhoppers, who could scarcely read or write; yet I was abashed, and acquitted myself badly, until the balcony scene, when I became enlivened and invigorated by the presence and smiles of my mistress. In the art of love-making I was at home, particularly with the Juliet of that night. I entered at once into the spirit of the great dramatist, and the curtain dropped amidst thunders of applause. My name was announced for a repetition of the play, and I was dragged forward before the curtain, to thank the grocers, tallow-chandlers, cheesemongers, and ploughmen for the great honour they had done me. Heavens! how I felt the degradation; but it was too late.

The natural result of this constant intercourse with Eugenia may easily be anticipated. I do not attempt to extenuate my fault it was inexcusable, and has brought its punishment; but for poor, forlorn Eugenia I plead; her virtue fell before my importunity and my personal appearance. She fell a victim to those unhappy circumstances of which I basely took the advantage.

Two months I had lived with her, as man and wife; I forgot my family, profession, and even Emily. I was now upon the ship’s books; and though no one knew anything of me, my father was ignorant of my absence from the ship everything was sacrificed to Eugenia. I acted with her, strolled the fields, and vowed volumes of stuff about constancy. When we played, we filled the house; and some of the more respectable townspeople offered to introduce us to the London boards, but this we both declined. We cared for nothing but the society of each other.

And now that time has cooled the youthful ardour that carried me away let me do justice to this unfortunate girl. She was the most natural, unaffected and gifted person I ever met with. Boundless wit, enchanting liveliness, a strong mind, and self-devotion towards me, the first, and, I firmly believe, the only object she ever loved; and her love for me ceased only with her life. Her faults, though not to be defended, may be palliated and deplored, because they were the defects of education. Her infant days were passed in scenes of domestic strife, profligacy, and penury; her maturer years, under the guidance of a weak mother, were employed in polishing, not strengthening, the edifice of her understanding, and the external ornaments only served to accelerate the fall of the fabric, and to increase the calamity.

Bred up in France, and almost in the fervour of the Revolution, she had imbibed some of its libertine opinions; among others, that marriage was a civil contract, and if entered into at all, might be broken at the pleasure of either party. This idea was strengthened and confirmed in her by the instances she had seen of matrimonial discord, particularly in her own family. When two people, who fancied they loved, had bound themselves by an indissoluble knot, they felt from that time the irksomeness of restraint, which they would never have felt if they had possessed the power of separation; and would have lived happily together if they had not been compelled to do it. “How long you, my dear Frank,” said Eugenia to me one day, “may continue to love me, I know not; but the moment you cease to love me, it were better that we parted.”

These were certainly the sentiments of an enthusiast; but Eugenia lived long enough to acknowledge her error, and to bewail its fatal effects on her peace of mind.

I was awoke from this dream of happiness by a curious incident. I thought it disastrous at the time, but am now convinced that it was fraught with good, since it brought me back to my profession, recalled me to a sense of duty, and showed me the full extent of my disgraceful situation. My father, it appears, was still ignorant of my absence from my ship, and had come down, without my knowledge, on a visit to a friend in the neighbourhood. Hearing of “the interesting young man” who had acquired so much credit in the character of Apollo, as well as of Romeo, he was persuaded to see the performance.

I was in the act of singing “Pray Goody,” when my eyes suddenly met those of my papa, who was staring like the head of Gorgon; and though his gaze did not turn me to stone, it turned me sick. I was stupified, forgot my part, ran off, and left the manager and the music to make the best of it. My father, who could hardly believe his eyes, was convinced when he saw my confusion. I ran into the dressing-room, where, before I had time to divest myself of Apollo’s crown and petticoat, I was accosted by my enraged parent, and it is quite impossible for me to describe (taking my costume into consideration) how very much like a fool I looked.

My father sternly demanded how long I had been thus honourably employed. This was a question which I had anticipated, and, therefore, very readily replied “Only two or three days;” that I had left Portsmouth for what we called “a lark,” and I thought it very amusing.

“Very amusing, indeed, sir,” said my father; “and pray, may I venture to inquire, without the fear of having a lie told me, how long this ‘lark,’ as you call it, is to continue?”

“Oh, to-morrow,” said I, “my leave expires, and then I must return to my ship.”

“Allow me the honour of keeping your company,” said my father; “and I shall beg your captain to impose some little restraint as to time and distance on your future excursions.”

Then rising in his tone, he added, “I am ashamed of you, sir; the son of a gentleman is not likely to reap any advantage from the society of strolling vagabonds and prostitutes. I had reason to think, by your last letters from Portsmouth, that you were very differently employed.”

To this very sensible and parental reproof I answered, with a demure and innocent countenance (for I soon regained my presence of mind) that I did not think there had been any harm in doing that which most of the officers of the navy did at one time or another (an assertion, by-the-by, much too general); that we often got up plays on board of ship, and that I wanted to practise.

“Practise, then with your equals,” said my father, “not in company with rogues and street-walkers.”

I felt that the latter name was meant for Eugenia, and was very indignant; but fortunately kept all my anger within board, and, knowing I was “all in the wrong,” allowed my father to fire away without returning a shot. He concluded his lecture by commanding me to call upon him the next morning, at ten o’clock, and left me to change my dress, and to regain my good humour. I need not add that I did not return to the stage that night, but left the manager to make his peace with the audience in any way he thought proper.

When I informed Eugenia of the evening’s adventure, she was inconsolable: to comfort her, I offered to give up my family and my profession, and live with her. At these words, Eugenia suddenly recollected herself. “Frank,” said she, “all that has happened is right. We are both wrong. I felt that I was too happy, and shut my eyes to the danger I dared not face. Your father is a man of sense; his object is to reclaim you from inevitable ruin. As for me, if he knew of our connection, he could only despise me. He sees his son living with strolling players; and it is his duty to cut the chain, no matter by what means. You have an honourable and distinguished career marked out for you; I will never be an obstacle to your father’s just ambition or your prosperity. I did hope for a happier destiny; but love blinded my eyes: I am now undeceived. If your father cannot respect me, he shall at least admire the resolution of the unhappy Eugenia. I have tenderly loved you, my dearest Frank, and never have loved any other, nor ever shall; but part we must: Heaven only knows for how long a time. I am ready to make every sacrifice to your fame and character the only proof I can give of my unbounded love for you.”

I embraced her as she uttered these words; and we spent a great part of the night in making preparations for my departure, arrangements for our future correspondence, and, if possible, for our future meetings. I left her early on the following morning; and with a heavy, I had almost said, a broken heart, appeared before my father. He was, no doubt, aware of my attachment and the violence of my passions, and prudently endeavoured to soothe them. He received me affectionately, did not renew the subject of the preceding night, and we became very good friends.

In tearing myself away from Eugenia, I found the truth of the French adage, “Ce n’est que la premiere pas qui coûte;” my heart grew lighter as I increased my distance from her. My father, to detach my mind still more from the unfortunate subject, spoke much of family affairs, of my brother and sisters, and lastly named Mr Somerville and Emily: here he touched on the right chord. The remembrance of Emily revived the expiring embers of virtue; and the recollection of the pure and perfect mistress of Hall, for a time, dismissed the unhappy Eugenia from my mind. I told my father that I would engage never to disgrace him or myself any more, if he would promise not to name my late folly to Mr Somerville or his daughter.

“That,” said my father, “I promise most readily; and with the greater pleasure, since I see, in your request, the strongest proof of the sense of your error.”

This conversation passed on our road to Portsmouth, where we had no sooner arrived than my father, who was acquainted with the port-admiral, left me at the “George,” while he crossed the street to call on him. The result of this interview was that I should be sent out immediately in some sea-going ship with a “tight captain.”

There was one of this description just about to sail for Basque Roads; and, at the admiral’s particular request, I was received on board as a supernumerary, there being no vacancies in the ship. My father, who by this time was wide awake to all my wiles, saw me on board; and then flattering himself that I was in safe custody, took his leave and returned to the shore. I very soon found that I was under an embargo, and was not on any account to be allowed leave of absence.

This was pretty nearly what I expected; but I had my own resources. I had now learned to laugh at trifles, and I cared little about this decided step which his prudence induced him to take.