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THE MAN OF SORROW: A Novel. 3. 52.2, ef', EY THEODORE Hook, Esq. T3%. We – º-ºrrº- d “ºf 3. Nein 33bition. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. ~~~ # LONDON : HOW AND PARSONS, FLEET STREET. 1842. THE MAN OF SORROW. CHAPTER I. It was on one of those evenings early in September when the setting sun gives the most glowing tints to the horizon, and the curling smoke, rising among the variegated foliage, tells where the hospitable board is spread to cherish the hardy sons of labour after their day's fatigue. The vapours were rising from the meadows in the vale, and the moon had just acquired strength enough to throw a silvery light over that part of the landscape which was shaded from the west, when Edward Musgrave first saw the beau- tiful Harriet Vincent, as she entered the gate that opened from her mother's garden to the road. VOL. I. B 2 THE MAN OF SORROW . She was simply dressed in white; a straw hat, tied under her chin with a pink riband, was intended to confine her flowing hair; but the silken chains of love, scorning themselves to be enslaved, wantoned over her snowy neck, and sported on her bosom like the evening dew upon the lily. Edward was on horseback at his father's door, waiting for admittance. Harriet turned her smiling countenance towards him, but their eyes meeting, she passed on as if without observing him ; not a word nor a look did they exchange, no, not the simple sparkling of a maiden's eye in her, nor the bolder look of male impertinence in him, had laid the first foundation of acquaintance between them ; and yet there was a certain something in her manner, her countenance, and form, that struck him forcibly, and his heart told him they must be better known to each other. “Who is that young lady?” said he to his servant, as he led in his horse towards the stable, at the same moment throwing the bridle over the animaſs neck. “Miss Vincent, sir,” replied the man, “who lives next door.” tº “Neat door,” murmured Edward, in a sort of THE MAN OF SORROW. 3 half-dissatisfied tone, as if reproaching himself for having been so long the near neighbour of such a girl without having before particularly observed her. “She is an angel!” was his exclamation; and as his lips pronounced the final syllable, his hand turned the lock of the garden-door; he entered the house, Miss Vincent was yet before him ; he proceeded to the parlour, but still he could not get rid of Miss Vincent. His father, good man was sitting in a walnut-tree arm-chair, at the first fire he had kindled for the season, and by the glimmering of the coals Edward perceived he had been weeping; they were the tears of recollection, —he was a widower: for thirty years he had been a husband; where was now the partner of his pleasures and his griefs, his friend, his comforter 7 Where was the form he had delighted to gaze upon,--where the bosom that supported him when ill, the hand that minis- tered to him while in sickness, the voice that soothed him in adversity? He could never feel their influence more ; that hand was cold which he had loved to press, that voice was mute which he had loved to hear, that animated form was now a corpse, 4 THE MAN OF SORROW. cold and lifeless; stretched in her coffin, the once angelic Louisa now was hidden from his sight for ever; worlds could not exact one look—empires, one word. The God who had inspired her with life had in his judgment taken her to His bosom, and as she lived an angel upon earth, so had she risen to be one in Heaven. Edward saw his father’s countenance, he saw the big tear standing in his eye, he did not seem to notice it, but it would have its way, and it rolled down a furrow in the old man's cheek, a welcome guest to ease his grief. “Well, Edward,” said he, in a voice of sorrow rather than of anger, “you are late from town this evening.” “I was delayed beyond my time,” replied Edward; “nothing but business would have kept me from you so long, sir.” Now, whether our young hero should be taxed with a want of sensibility or a super- abundance of it, it is hard to determine; cer- tain, however, it is, that since his accidental sight of Miss Vincent, she had dwelt so strongly upon his imagination, that he could find no thought for any other subject; and so natural 9 THE MAN OF SORROW. 5 is it for young men to communicate their sentiments, that Edward's heart beat for an opportunity to talk to his father about the fascinating girl, and yet he wished to intro- duce the subject as if accidentally, because to raise a suspicion of the truth in his parent’s mind was what he least of all desired. The servant had brought in the tea equi- page, and Edward's soul fluttered with every second that expired, till at length taking the poker in his right hand, and striking at a large coal placed on the summit of the grate, he commenced the wished-for topic, giving at every word he uttered a violent concussion to the coal, so as to divide the attention of his father between his question and the fireplace. “Pray, sir, did you ever see Miss Vincent?” said he at last, and, as he finished the inquiry, the coal fell to pieces. “Never,” replied his father, “never, but you are spoiling the fire, give me the poker.” So thus this ruse de guerre of Edward suc- ceeded completely ; he had asked his question, and had covered the attack so well that the answer had been returned exactly as he wished. 6 THE MAN OF SORROW. The conversation turned and lasted half an hour; to Edward they were the longest thirty minutes of his life; they did pass, however, and at their expiration he stole out to the lawn at the back of the house, which over- looked Miss Vincent's windows. Natural enough, he had seen a beautiful girl once and he wished to see her again—no, not so, he knew there was hardly any chance of beholding her at so late an hour: it was not the expectation of an interview that led him to the lawn; it was a sort of sensation which my reader can define,—a sort of desire to gaze upon the spot where she dwelt, to look upon the cottage she had ornamented, the wood- bines she had planted. He stole softly down the side of the shrubbery next their garden, and as the evening breeze blew the fresh odour of the clematis and honeysuckles from their arbours, he felt his heart palpitate and his cheek flush with something like hope, a little resembling fear, and not very unlike sorrow; he looked over the pales between the ground, he could see the walks, the grass, the summer- house where she had so often sat unnoticed by him, and he murmured loudly at his own & THE MAN OF SORROW. 7 blindness in never having been attracted by her before. * He was returning to the house, when he saw a light in one of the casements of the cottage. The sinking mariner when he catches a view of land could not have felt a pleasanter sensation; the light was borne by Harriet; there she was, unconscious of observation; he saw her plainly, it was her sleeping-room he could pry into, he could behold the very couch her limbs so often had pressed, the pillow she had told her sorrows to ; but the couch he admired was only a plain, common tent bedstead, whose dome covered the sweet- est girl he had ever seen. - Ye envied canopies of royal stateſ what are the monarchs ye wave over when compared with her we love? yield up your crimson fop- peries, and own yourselves all vanquished by the plain white curtain that kept the morning light from Harriet Vincent's brighter eyes | She drew from her bosom a letter: Edward's heart palpitated,—a lover's epistle perhaps, girls seldom correspond but when Cupid is their writing-master. A chill thrilled through his veins, he wished to draw her attention from the paper, but it was sacrilege to disturb 8 THE MAN OF SORROW. Miss Vincent, something like the fear of doing wrong stopped him, and he remained silent. She read the letter twice, and as she closed it, a tear fell from her eyes, she threw it down, and then fell into a reverie, leaning her pretty peach-bloom cheek upon her left hand, with the fingers of her right she twisted and untwisted a thousand times the curls that flowed upon her forehead; Edward could resist no longer, he coughed—she stirred not—again —she remained unmoved, the third noise roused her—she started up as if she recollected something, suddenly approached the casement, closed it, and drew the curtain. Edward felt a tacit reproach for intruding, and, dissatisfied with himself, walked away. Now, gentle reader, all this occurred, as it naturally might, in a little village not far from London: it shall be nameless, and for that caution there are more reasons than one; suffice it, therefore, to say, it was a village whither Mr. Musgrave and his only son had retired on the death of Mrs. Musgrave, who was, in truth, a woman of superior genius, intelligent in her conversation, fascinating in her manners, and heavenly in her disposition. She was buried in a churchyard in Berk- THE MAN OF SORROW. 9 shire. No marble monument to tell her worth —no sculptor's art to celebrate her actions; her soul was with her God, and the remem- brance of her earthly virtues dwelt in the hearts of all who ever knew her. To educate and make her son the man he should be, had always been her study; and as the young tree that grows in the valley, did she train her Edward the way she thought it fit that he should go. In return for all this care and assiduity, Edward adored her. Never was a son so devoted to a parent: her death was a heavy blow to him, and Harriet Vincent was the first object that seemed to attract his attention from his mother's grave. He never lost the recollection of that awful scene. The sable hearse, the drawing of the cords that lowered her to earth, the rattling dust thrown in upon her coffin, all were fresh upon his mind; her countenance was before him in his dreams, her figure with him wherever he went, every object he saw reminded him of his mother, and nothing divided his thoughts till he saw this lovely girl. . - Hò saw her máely (and in a young woman where is its equivalent 2), and knowing B 2 10 THE MAN OF SORROW. even little of her as he did, he fancied he saw in her a being such as his mother must have been when his father first beheld her : he cherished the idea; his sorrows turned to hope ; he longed for one of the sex he could confide in. There is a charm in woman that soothes our cares and conquers our woes; such a charm to drown his melancholy, or at least to share it, Edward sought, and resolved to become acquainted with Harriet. Poor Musgrave! Misfortune has stamped you for her own; you are marked by Fate for a “ MAN of SoRRow.” From the evening on which he first saw this Venus of the village, little except herself occupied his mind. His habits, his manners were changed; town had no longer attractions for him; Bond Street was a desert, Pall Mall a wilderness, the loungers were insipid, the pretty pastry-cooks at Spring Gardens had no longer any charms, and the conversation of his acquaintance was the most tiresome thing upon earth. e To pass and repass before Harriet's window fifty times a-day, to write sonnets in her praise, to listen to her harp and repeat the airs she sang, to sit and think of her, and to THE MAN OF SORROW. . 11 watch her in her walks with her mother, these were the employments that filled up his time, and reduced the scene of his actions to the boundaries of his father's house. On the Sunday following his first rencontre, he heard a piece of news which gave him no little pleasure, as it promised to bring about circumstances which he anxiously desired, and which could not be effected in a better way. The Earl of Rosemore, a well-known states- man, honoured their little village with his residence: his fashionable Countess lived there too. Of the nobleman's character we shall speak hereafter; it is only necessary here to observe, that his daughter, Lady Fanny, was on the Friday following to be united to the young Lord Belmont, and a grand fête was to celebrate the event. The Musgraves were invited, so were the Vincents; here was the wished-for opportunity —here was the introduction he had sought so long and so ardently desired; to sit, to speak, to be with her : it was an ecstasy But when he recollected that even this happiness would be only the commencement of a long-con- tinued intercourse between the families, his 12 THE MAN OF SORROW. heart beat to the thought, and the flush of triumph warmed his cheek. The Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday came ; the evening arrived : the next was to be the day – Friday. His happiness was at hand, and he threw himself upon *his bed, and fancied conversations that would take place. between Harriet and himself. Thus was he castle-building at a most agree- able rate, when the rattling of carriage-wheels announced an arrival : he ran to the window ; an elegant travelling chariot drew up to the Vincents' door; a young man jumped from it, with a bear-skin pelisse hanging on his right arm, and a brace of pistols in his left hand. He ran to the mother and daughter who were already on the lawn to receive him, and, having saluted them in the most cordial manner, exclaimed,— “Well, ladies, you’ll observe that I am punctual to the hour, though that little mis- chievous devil Harriet betted me six pair of gloves I should not come at all ; you’ll own, miss, I have won my wager ?” Edward shuddered ; here was an explana- tion. This was the lover he dreaded, this ac- THE MAN OF SORROW. 13 counted for the letter he had seen, for the tears that he had witnessed, and for the agita- tions he had observed. His very soul was wounded. IIe beheld a young man, evidently his superior in fortune and rank, cordially received; noticed the man- ner in which he addressed the daughter, and observed the warmth with which he was ac- costed by the mother; he heard the perfect freedom with which he talked nonsense, saw the manière with which he twisted up the fur of his travelling cloak, and the style in which he played with his pistols. All the tonish nonchalance which was so conspicuous in his manner, served to convince Edward that he was the intended husband of Miss Vincent, and so satisfied was he of the fact, that he retired to rest in a complete state of dissatisfaction. rg- s CHAPTER II. Those who are acquainted with the youthful mind must know how sanguine young people are apt to be, and how unwilling they are to believe what they wish not to be true. Poor Edward Musgrave's sorrows began early, and in the first instance; for even in his choice of a friend, which he had in his mind selected Miss Vincent to be, he found himself an- ticipated. We know very well what friendships between the opposite sexes are, and how far they may be carried; and it savours a little of the ro- mantic in Mr. Edward to fancy that he could stop at friendship with Miss Harriet Vincent: she was not the sort of girl to be acquainted with without loving; her beauty was exquisite, and her manners accomplished to the highest degree; and yet she was without one particle THE MAN OF SORROW. 15 of that general appendage to modern misses— affectation. Edward had in view, at first, only the ac- quisition of a charming companion; this calm Platonic idea, however, gave place to a chain of others much more laudable in a young man as well as more matural—he felt he must adore her; and therefore when he saw Mr. Savage, the gentleman newly arrived, so very familiar, he felt a sort of sensation very like hatred towards him, which sensation increased in the course of the night to utter detestation, so that when he rose in the morning and was pro- ceeding down-stairs to breakfast, the seeing Mr. Savage walking round Mrs. Vincent's shrubbery with Harriet in close conversation, pressing her hand ardently to his breast, and acting the lover very violently, did not at all tend to put Mr. Edward Musgrave either into good spirits or good humour. He felt but little pleasure in recollecting that this was to be the day of his introduction to Harriet, a rival had already gained her heart, and nothing was left for him but sorrow and disappointment. The hour at length arrived when they were expected at Lord Rosemore's; the carriage 16 THE MAN OF SORROW, which the preceding evening had imported the beau into the village, now waited to convey the party to the Lodge—Edward watched it —the trio entered it—he saw it drive off—his eyes hung on the rattling wheels, for all he admired in the world was borne away upon them. He received his father's summons to attend him with a mixture of pleasure and pain, he felt how charming it would be to live an evening in Harriet's society, but then he dreaded seeing her smiles lavished on his rival, while, perhaps, one kind look, that would exalt him to happiness, would be denied him. With these contending thoughts he took his father's arm, and proceeded to the scene of festivity. Music, lights, and laughter's shouts, an- nounced the party met; they were received on the portico by two servants, who ushered them into the Egyptian saloon, in which six thou- sand pounds had been spent upon crocodiles, sphinxes, camels, and mummies,— and, to say truth, any thing more ugly or more gaudy was In eVéI* See Il. This was the first party our hero had en- tered since the death of his mother, and the continued blaze of light burst upon his eyes THE MAN OF SORROW. 17 with such lustre, that he could not find Harriet any where among the crowd of belles. They passed from the Egyptian saloon to a room hung with sky-blue satin, the furniture being entirely silver, and it was in a small apartment beyond, fitted up with pink, that Lady Rosemore received her guests. Her ladyship was dressed superbly, and looked prodigious; a water-barrel in the same paraphernalia would have possessed more sym- metry; and the affectation of pomp, which she assumed on her lord's accession to an office high in the government, made her ladyship the ridicule, as well as the contempt, of the world. Distinction, in a modern party, is what the guests neither expect nor desire. On the sofa- sat a duchess in chat with an attorney; while his high-flown sister was sharing another with an officer in the Guards, who, without more courage than conversation, had entered the service because the regimentals were becoming to his pretty face. The Marquess of Avondale, with an extra- sized star spread over his coat, was flirting in a corner with a young married woman, who, by the sleepy affectation of her manner, did not 18 THE MAN OF SORROW. appear to object to it, while her little husband was parading about the room with a fat Irish- woman, like a monkey with a dancing bear. Here was a fellow who had acquired notice by his scurrility, damning his coachman for break- ing one of the panels of his carriage; and a blustering black-leg, presuming on a run of luck, was talking politics with a peer, while if fortune frowned upon him, even his servants’ veils would not be safe from his clutches. Here were pursy stock-brokers — old citi- zens and new peers — knights of the last creation and gentlemen of no creation at all— some men famous for joking, others known as good singers — some who had raised them- selves into notice by jumping, one or two who had gained celebrity by shooting their friends in duels, and two or three, who, after having cheated their creditors, debauched their neigh- bours' wives, and swindled their tradesmen, were received with delight, because they were v \really very “pleasant creatures.” Equality in nations is a system incompatible; and yet it would seem that those whose in- terest it chiefly is to keep up distinctions, appear most ardently to wish a revolution in the customs of society, by patronising those THE MAN OF SORROW. 19 whose actions deserve the whipping-post or the gallows ; and by seeking companions where they should choose servants, rather than seek the countenance and approbation of exalted characters. Savage, the lover of Harriet Vincent, was a pet of Lady Rosemore's; his nonsense suited her capacity, and his servile obedience to her commands or those of any other antiquated piece of quality delighted her, while it sub- jected him to the contempt of all ranks of society. As the Musgraves passed, he inquired of the hostess who they were ? She replied to the question by half shutting her eyes and shrug- ging up her shoulders, thereby indicating, à-la- mode, a sorry opinion of them, whispering at the same time that they were some people her queer lord had invited, she knew not why— that for her part, they were not on her list, and she believed they were nobodies. Her ladyship should have been more careful in her denunciations against respectability—she had not the mortification of being so uncelebrated; her great misfortune was, that EveRY BoDY did know her; and she who talked so vauntingly of NoboDIEs, had, but a few years before, been numbered among the vilest of the vile—the 20 THE MAN OF SORROW. mighty Lady Rosemore had been but no matter, she was LADY RosBMORE I The Musgraves squeezed through the suite of rooms, till the old gentleman finding some acquaintance with whom he entered into con- versation, the young one proceeded more freely in search of his fair Harriet. At length, she struck upon his senses like the noon-day sun upon a renovating sight. She was sitting on a sofa by her mother in a small Indian boudoir, where, at a table, a man of haut ton was practising the sleight-of-hand tricks of Breslaw, which, if report speaks truth, he had displayed rather too freely at Brookes's, and, in consequence, had been conducted to the door; this nobleman's feats were highly ap- plauded, and Mrs. Vincent was watching the operator closely; the old Sir Mammon Clare was standing at her side, with his red riband flowing like a silken river across a meadow of white dimity waiscoat; his star glittering as his broad sides shook with laughter at the comical changes the conjuring peer effected. * Savage was leaning on the back of the chaise longue where the ladies were seated, whispering soft nonsense to Harriet, and beat- ing his pearly teeth with her ivory fan. Edward gazed at her with delight; she was THE MAN OF SORROW. 21 simply dressed in white muslin, with a close- fitted body of the same coloured satin ; her figure, which was exquisite, appeared in this costume to the greatest advantage; for in a young woman, simplicity of dress is every thing. A combination of gaudy colours glar- ing on the sight, a load of ornaments, a suite of pearls or diamonds, draw away the eye, and divert the attention from the beauties of nature, which shine, “When unadorned, adorned the most.” Her cheek was flushed with the heat of the room, and probably with some of Savage's remarks, for she had not recourse to rouge. This paltry artifice in a girl is disgusting and ridiculous; the maiden blush of modesty beats all the gew-gaw trash of paint, and pallid nature is a thousand times to be preferred to \ruddy art. . Her hair was dressed with the greatest taste; it was of a fine light colour, and among its gracefully falling curls, Cupids seemed to sport by thousands, while in her sensible blue eyes there was such a soft and exquisite ex- pression, that it seemed as if Heaven, when it had formed her all perfection, grew so 22 THE MAN OF SORROW. enamoured of her, that it had marked her for its own. Edward, irresistibly drawn to the centre of attraction, passed and repassed before the throne of his goddess, and every time he came in contact with her, her eyes followed his footsteps, till at one instant their looks meet- ing, the blood flew into her cheek, and she blushed like crimson; Savage, catching the glow, said, - “Pray, do you know that dismal-looking youth'" “He is a neighbour of my mother's,” said Harriet; “his name is Musgrave; he is in mourning, he seems as if he had lost 92 “His heart,” said Savage; “ come, come, miss—upon my honour, I shall suspect you.” “Of what?” said her mother, turning round. y “Only flirtation, madam,” replied Savage, which perfectly satisfied the cautious matron, who cared little for any thing but the union of this young man with her daughter; it was the very thing she had set her mind upon, it was the object of all her exertions, and how it was to be effected she minded not, so that it was effected at all. THE MAN OF SORROW. 23 Edward was not such a novice in looks as to disregard the expression of Harriet's eyes as he passed, and he resolved to request Lord Rosemore to introduce him to Mrs. Vincent. He set out for the room where he had just seen his noble host, and with a sort of palpi- tation at his heart, arising from the peculiarity of the request and the exalted rank of the person he made it to, he implored his lordship to chaperone him to the boudoir; the Earl, all affability and good-humour, after joking him on his discernment of beauty, took him by the hand, and led him to the chaise longue where they were seated. “Mrs. Vincent,” said his lordship, “I have brought you a young friend of mine, and a neighbour of yours, to introduce to you.” Mrs. Vincent rose, and, with a chilling look, expressed the honour he did her, then throw- ing her sparkling eyes upon her daughter to watch what kind of reception she would give him, re-seated herself, as if she conceived she had stepped from her dignity materially to notice a young man, whose manners and at- tractions she feared more in regard to the effect they might have upon her child than she admired them for herself. 24 THE MAN OF SORROW. 9 “Miss Vincent”—“Mr. Musgrave,” were the words that brought their eyes for the second time in contact. A gentle fluttering seized both their hearts, and the blush of con- fusion mantled in their cheeks. Savage had turned upon his heel with an exclamation of surprise and walked off. Musgrave coolly seated himself in the place he had vacated, and quietly possessed the paradise he had thirsted for so long. Conversation with Musgrave was generally at hand, and in a few minutes the newly in- troduced couple were perfectly good friends; their ideas, when exchanged, agreed upon most subjects, their tastes assimilated, and their wishes travelled in the same sphere. First impressions were favourable to both of them, for in a quarter of an hour's intercourse, Harriet thought she had never seen a plea- santer creature than Edward Musgrave; who, in his turn, was convinced he had never been in the society of any thing half so fascinating as Harriet Vincent. - “Where is Mr. Savage?” said her mother. “I really don't know,” replied the daughter, in a tone which indicated that she really did In Ot Care. THE MAN OF SORROW. 25 \; “Come,” rejoined her mamma, “ then we will take a turn round the room; we may light upon some beau to escort us to the supper.” “You may command me, madam,” said Edward. * “You are very good, sir, I am sure,” an- swered Mrs. Vincent, coldly ; and with a “Come, come,” to her daughter, she hurried her away, as if she feared Musgrave would have infected her, like the upas of Java, with some pestilential disorder. He remained motionless in his chair for some time; he watched the sylphlike form of his lovely companion with anxiety: “Will she,” thought he to himself, “turn to look after me !” —No—yes—no l yes, she did, she did! it was a fair challenge by Cupid, and he accepted it. Supper was just announced, and so eagerly did he press forward to gain his station near - Harriet, that he broke the shins of a marquess, tore the train of a countess, and upset the chair of a prince of the blood; but it was all excusable: the marquess could not have been angry, the countess would have smiled for- giveness, and the prince granted him a free WOL. I. C 26 THE MAN OF SORROW, pardon, if they could have seen the charms he was pursuing. Savage was with the Vincents, Harriet on his arm—he was seated between her mother and herself. “ Divide the ladies,” resounded from the haut pas where the Countess Rose- more was seated. Edward caught the com- mand, and, stepping over the form, placed himself next to Miss Vincent on the lower side, and divided her from Miss Wain, the imper- tinent daughter of a rich upstart City merchant, who, with more affectation than paint, more words than hairs, and more conceit than her mother, intended to be thought a beauty, and piqued herself upon conquests from the titled don at the West end of the town to the aproned apprentice at the East. Now did the little god play off his darts at Edward from those blue eyes he had admired so much. Dangerous astronomy, watching such stars! mild as the spicy gales of the East, their radiance warmed his very soul brilliancy bade his resolution die, and with the sparkle of triumph, they unconsciously seemed to revel in the conquest. They spoke volumes to his heart. * THE MAN OF SORROW. 27 She was a beautiful creature | Oh! if all women were Harriet Vincents, Heaven would hold out no temptations to man! Gay with- out levity, serious without dulness, elegant without affectation, and lovely without vanity —this child of ingenuousness completely sub- dued poor Edward Musgrave. She was requested to sing. Unassuming and unaffected, without hesitation she com- plied, and breathed forth a song—of LovE. Oh, such a song! and such a girl! She was alarmed, and her bosom palpitated with timidity as the sweet notes dropped from her lips. Her mouth was the most exquisite bit of nature's cunning after all, and as the song proceeded, a wicked line (’twas Moore's) lighted up her countenance into the full blaze of beauty. º This was the coup de grace, and Signor, the executioner of the Holy Inquisition, himself, never gave a surer blow : Edward was hers FOR EVER. Time flew—the party began to separate— the carriage was not ordered—Edward offered his arm to Harriet, and it was accepted, though, to do her mother justice, she en- 28 THE MAN OF SORRow. deavoured to persuade him to bestow it upon her; our hero, however, was rather too much for the dame, and not such a novice, as, having once gained possession of the young lady, to surrender her easily, even for a single moment. Thus they proceeded homewards; Savage was introduced to Musgrave, and the recapi- tulation of the party, scandal of the women, anecdotes of the men, and remarks upon the different styles of dress, employed their tongues to the doors of their houses; where, on parting, Edward, with the most modest assurance, gently pressed the hand he longed to make his own. # "Tis very strange what a pleasure the mere | contraction of the fingers gives when they ! enclose the hand of a person we esteem—how \ is it to be accounted for? not in theory assu- | redly; practice is the only elucidation, and, at i f & § # all events, the best mode of proving facts of A \ this sort, because it is universally allowed to be } the pleasantest. '. And with this gentle squeeze they parted for the night. CHAPTER III. FROM the evening of this party, when their acquaintance commenced, till the middle of November, many were the hours which Mus- grave and Harriet passed together. Savage, the day after the fête set off for Leicester- shire; and Mrs. Vincent, naturally fond of society, indulged herself perpetually in the company of Edward, without reflecting what would be the natural consequence of so unre- served a communication between two persons of similar ages, tastes, and dispositions. This was the happiest period of Musgrave's life. In the society of a girl so amiable and so beautiful, he acquired the balm for all the sorrows his mother's death had involved him in. With this lovely creature the days seemed minutes; her modesty, her filial vir- tues, her disposition, her accomplishments, all 30 THE MAN OF SORROW. endeared her to him, and imperceptibly, without the affectation of love, rendered her so completely part of himself, that he was wretched without her: on the other hand, an intimate acquaintance with his good qualities, an esteem for his talents, and an assimilation of taste, had rendered Edward not less agree- able to Harriet: the force of habit had become a second nature, and Nature herself seemed wounded, if accident kept them apart more than the customary time of separation. - Mr. Savage was too much of the modern man of fashion to waste the precious time in writing which might be so much more pro- fitably spent in hunting and shooting. He never took the trouble of corresponding with Mrs. Vincent or her daughter, except in short notes to request their acceptance of game, which he had honoured so far as “to give the the barrel to,”—his exquisitely elegant term for having brought down his bird. Of this rival, perhaps, it is necessary to say a word or two. His figure, though petite, was not ill made; his appearance had somewhat in it of the bon ton; his complexion resembled that of a sickly South American,—a brown yellow tint was the substitute for a blush, and THE MAN OF SORROW. 31 his languishing, half-closed, green eyes, which were constantly fixed upon Harriet, certainly resembled rather the orbs destined to illuminate the head of a cat, than those designed to em- bellish the face of a man. This was one of the gentlemen Edward never ventured to inquire after; but he per- petually heard. Mrs. Vincent hinting, that “Mr. Savage thought Harriet an angel, that he always spoke in raptures of her singing, her dancing, her playing,” so that he looked upon his very name as a bugbear to terrify him. .-- About the commencement of November, the much-dreaded man of mode arrived a second time in the village, and Edward felt all the horrors of jealousy — that sort of jealousy arising from fear, without which there is no love. He saw the girl he adored more than life always in the society of a man he de- tested; he saw Savage's eyes, green as they were, sparkling with triumph, and beheld him affecting to be more intimate with Harriet than he really was, merely to shew his conse- quence in the family, and create unpleasant sensations in the breast of his rival, which he began to suspect Edward to be. 32 THE MAN of sorrow. Musgrave and Savage perpetually clashed in their meetings; but the beau lover had taken up his abode at the inn of the village, and his head-quarters being fixed in a situa- tion so closely approximating to the citadel, it appeared as if he was resolved not to withdraw his forces till the garrison surrendered. In this posture affairs remained for a week or two, till at length the day Edward had so long dreaded arrived, things were brought to a conclusion,--Mr. Savage made the offer of his band to Harriet. Musgrave by chance happened not to call in the morning; the beau lover was closeted in the house, Harriet guessed the business, and her surmises were all substantiated by her mother's entering the room, and disclosing the matter to her thus. With an affected good-nature, taking her daughter's hand, she began her attack by saying how devoted she was to her child's welfare, that her happiness was the sole object of her life, and that in what she was then going to propose, by her endeavours to effect it, she should materially affect her own com- forts, by depriving herself of the society of her darling girl. THE MAN OF SORROW. 33 “The truth is, my dear,” said she, “that Mr. Savage, pleased by an intimate knowledge of your good conduct and behaviour, in ad- dition to whatever share of beauty and accom- plishments you possess, has just now com- missioned me to make an offer of his hand and heart to you. You will recollect, my dear,” added she, “as far as pecuniary matters go, this union is peculiarly advantageous; his father is a man of large fortune, and he is besides a relation of Lady Rosemore's, so that an introduction to the most elegant society , will be secured for you; as to himself, his manners and person are such that any woman may be happy in marriage with him.” Thus the kind parent proceeded, pointing out advantages, and descanting on his pro- digious merits, till, having gone ten times through the whole vocabulary of his good qualities, she desired her daughter's answer, simply saying, “I shall say, love, that you will accept him then?” in a tone which implied the certainty that she would answer in the affirmative. - Now Harriet had a general character (and a justly drawn one too) for timidity and gen- , , tleness; these qualities in a woman are ex- * * --- - C 2 - 34 THE MAN OF SORROW. s- ¥ quisite ones, but if the timidity and calmness which we admire so much in common life rule through their greater actions in the world, we shall find the gentle, unassuming female gene- rally made the dupe of her own amiable dis- position. It was not so with Miss Vincent, she could rise boldly into action where reason dictated and propriety authorised her doing so; and, surely, if a woman be a free agent, no time is so fitted for the exertion of her energies as that moment her decision in which makes her happy or miserable for life. Boldly collecting all her fortitude, her an- swer to her mother's question, whether she would accept him, was firm, laconic, and ex- pressive, “Never!” was the simple reply— verbum sat. The parent did not receive this resolve with the beautiful philosophy she had so often preached, but, bursting into something very like passion, exclaimed in a voice of thunder, — “Never!—not accept Mr. Savage!—Why what do you mean? has he not legs, and arms, and a head, and every thing that a man should have 2 and what in the d–l's name do you want?—has he not a fortune, is he not cousin THE MAN OF SORROW". 35 to a countess, can't he keep you a carriage, can’t he introduce you every where, what is it you look for? But I know what it is. You have some other attachment, you have, you jade, —you have ſ” “Indeed I have not,” replied Harriet, in a tone of as much firmness as she could com- mand to utter a falsehood. “Mighty well!” exclaimed the mother. “And I am to reject Mr. Savage 7” “I have said, madam,” was Harriet’s an- swer; after hearing which her mother, with a curse upon the tip of her delicate tongue, bounced out of the room to pronounce the sentence of the man she wished success to. The little girl's susceptible heart fluttered most rapidly at the recollection of the firmness with which she had denied the arbitrary power of her mother, and throwing herself upon a sofa, she burst into tears. - She had now taken the step that marked her partiality for Edward Musgrave, and had by the one decision rid herself of the at- tentions she had been accustomed to receive from Savage. Her brow resumed its usual placidity, and the smile of contentment sat upon her countenance; her bosom recovered. 36 THE MAN OF SORROW. ts tranquillity, and her limbs their steadiness, long before the summons to dinner roused her from the reverie into which she had fallen. During the meal little was said ; Savage, however, was gone, and there was but little probability, after the repulse he had met with, that he should return. The repast was hurried over; and no sooner was the cloth removed, and the servant retired, than Mrs. Vincent started the old topic, arraigned her child for imprudence, wondered what girls meant by forming opinions of their own, preached up patience in a violent passion, and bullied her daughter into a lesson of temperance. So blind are mortals to their own follies and imperfections, and so forgetful of their own misdeeds while expatiating on the over sight of others. The lawyer, who in court pleads honesty, forgets how often he has taken fees from his adversary to quash evidence; the divine, who from the pulpit preaches modera- tion, ceases to remember the oppression with which he rules his parishioners; and the lady who was now arraigning her daughter's con- duct, never recollected that twenty years before she had married young Harry Vincent, without sixpence in the world, in opposition THE MAN OF SORROW. 37 to her parent's injunctions, only because she loved him This lecture, however, was rather unsea- sonably broken in upon by the arrival of Edward Musgrave, who came to pay his devoirs, “His custom always in the afternoon." Reports fly quickly, and though the re- jection ofSavage had hardly taken place, Edward had heard of it; an old servant of Mrs. Vincent's, with whom he was a great favourite, had told him of it, and the intelli- gence did not tend to lower his spirits, he imagined at all events that the coast was clear, and the evening passed off most hila- riously. The next morning brought with it, however, an event as little expected as desired. Ed- ward called on his fair Harriet, and who in the name of ugliness should he behold, but Mr. Savage, seated with the most perfect composure: this somewhat startled him, be- cause as the young lady had expressed her dislike of him in her rejection, he wondered at his meanness in condescending to cringe to the hand that had spurned him, not knowing THE MAN OF SORROW". that it was a settled plan between the beau and the mother, that no notice should be taken of the offer he had made, but that he should be allowed the society of her daughter as usual, in hopes that he might, by assiduity and attention, overcome her dislike for him. Odd as this appearance was to Edward, he felt he could have no right to speak upon the subject; the cottage was Mrs. Vincent's, and she had a right to do in her own house what- ever she chose, without appeal. Thus the days passed on till the latter end of the month, when Mr. Savage left the village for Yorkshire, whither he was sent for express, to attend his father, who was dying; and though Edward could hardly hope to gain the lovely girl while her mother was so hostile, yet he felt a sort of satisfaction in seeing the man of fashion packed up in his tra- velling carriage to quit that place, where, had he never been, peace and comfort might still have reigned. . Now that Mr. Savage has taken his de- parture, as it is the first opportunity that has occurred, it will be as well to inform the reader of a few circumstances respecting the Vincents, of whom, as yet, little has been said. CHAPTER IV. AFTER all that has been related on the sub- ject of Mrs. Vincent's ideas of a proper hus- band for her daughter, it may, perhaps, be im- agined that she was descended from a stock of kings or peers, whose blood a little adulter- ated, still boiling in her veins, inspired her with a desire of ennobling her family, only to raise it to its original splendour. But no—the gay, elegant, unassuming Mrs. Vincent was the daughter of a Manchester merchant, resident in the vicinity of Cheap- side, where, in a smoky atmosphere, and in a drawing-room decorated with little prints, hung up in all the gloom of London filth, she had spent the first seven years of her life, with- out an idea beyond a walk to Islington, a tour. over Blackfriars' Bridge, or a Sunday journey to Kensington Gardens. * 40 THE MAN-OF SORROW. º The little Miss Mumford (that was her name) early lost her mother, and was placed by her father at a school at Hackney, where she remained till the bloom of fifteen glowed on her cheek, and her swelling figure pro- claimed the age of womanhood at hand. At this period, an acquaintance of her father's, grown rich in trade, who sported a house at the West end of the town, invited her to spend the vacation; and so pleased was Miss Mumford with the clear air and genteel com- pany of Brook Street, that she made up her mind very shortly not to return to the City. - At her friend’s house, among other com- pany, she saw young Harry Vincent, who, without sixpence in the world, except an ensign's commission in the Guards, displayed his figure to the best advantage while pursu- ing his military duty in the purlieus of Pall Mall and St. James's Street. Captivated by a little flattery, and dazzled by the lace on his coat, she adored him; they mutually opened their hearts to each other, and the officer applied to the citizen for con- sent to their union, which he refused. Miss Mumford laughed at her father, and mustering all the money she was able, the young couple THE MAN of sorrow. 41 eloped, and on their return had the full force of paternal malediction bestowed upon them. Old Manchester was resolute; he disposed of his business, retired to Highgate, and declared he never would see his daughter again. In the meantime the finances of the young couple were not the most splendid, and, to increase their embarrassments, though to bless their loves, the little Harriet made her appear- ance in the world ; an event succeeded by her father's being ordered to the Continent on an expedition from which he never returned. Miss Mumford (now Mrs. Vincent) felt all the stings of poverty coming upon her, and by the intercession of a friend, the little Harriet, when about a twelvemonth old, was taken to her grandfather's villa ; here her silent elo- quence gained the old man's heart, and in the midst of his fondness for the child, his daughter rushed into the room, and declared it for her OWIl. His resentment vanished, he received them to his house, forgot and forgave her miscon- duct, and at his death, bequeathed her his whole fortune, on which they retired to the elegant cottage they now inhabited, to the 42 THE MAN OF SORROW. total oblivion of Cheapside and Manchester stuffs. Here then was the career of Mrs. Vincent. How far it warranted her pretensions to fashion, or how far it authorised her tyranny over her daughter, it is difficult to say; certain, how- ever, it is, that as a mother, till the present in- stance, her conduct towards Harriet had been exemplary; no care, no cost had been spared to render her perfectly accomplished, and if the perfection of a purpose be delight, no parent could be more fully repaid than Mrs. Vincent. She saw her child all excellence; Apollo would have been proud of her as a pupil in music, Terpsichore jealous of her in the dance; her mind was formed for the most refined 2-adies, and her heart calculated for the re- ception of the purest virtues; her innocence was innate, her modesty exquisite, and her disposition the most amiable in the world. Savage then was gone, and Edward left in possession of the field. Happily did the hours pass in her society, and if they did not mutually feel a degree of pleasure in each other's com- pany, Lavater would have been puzzled to know what their looks inferred. THE MAN OF SORROW. 43 But strange to say, her mother, a clever shrewd woman as she was, in all this inter- course, where they sang together, drew to- gethér, read together, and were constantly to- gether, never suspected the existence of any attachment stronger than friendship, till Ed- ward, feeling it a duty to undeceive her, told her the state of his heart, not verbally, his courage would not bear him out in that, but by letter. The answer he received to his candid dis- closure was such as wounded his inmost heart; Mrs. Vincent did not object to him as a young man, no, she owned a partiality for him, but she felt it a duty to reject his offer, as he had no fortune, and was not in the train of getting O726. Here was a death-blow to all his hopes, THE sor.Rows of the man began—this was his last of happiness. The painter's art, the poet's fiction, cannot describe the sensations that distracted him on the receipt of her letter. Madness was in his eye, and horror in his heart; torn from Har- riet—forbidden the house where he had spent the happiest hours of his life, what was to be done? For two whole days did he seclude 44 THE MAN OF SORROW. himself from every body, and on the third evening he determined to call on Mrs. Vincent, and endeavour to prevail upon her to revoke her mandates. * He crossed the lawn, and tapped at the door. “Is your mistress within Ż" “No, sir,” replied the servant, “she is at Lady Rosemore's: Miss Vincent is at home.” Edward would have said, “No, I will not go in,” but his resolution failed, and he found himself in the presence of the adored girl once II].OI’6”, - - To attempt a description of the scene that ensued would be not to do credit to the feelings of the charming couple; suffice it to say, that Mrs. Vincent had never told her daughter of Edward's proposal, butendeavoured to prejudice her against him, by making her believe that his absence from the cottage proceeded from negligence towards her. When he had unde- ceived her, her astonishment was only equalled by her sorrow that her mother should have endeavoured to cheat her into her purpose. “Good God " exclaimed the bewildered Harriet, “is it possible?—Have Ibeen deluded by my mother, and is she determined that Savage shall be my husband?” - THE MAN OF SORROW. 45 “What!” said Edward, trembling for her answer, “do you not love him 7” “Love him 1" exclaimed the raving girl: “do you think, Edward, I CAN LovE Two? I detest him l’’ --~~~~ This was a downright confession, to which Musgrave had never before been able to bring her. “My mother,” continued she, “dissembled her sorrow and surprise at your discontinuing your visits here so well, that I endeavoured to persuade her to send to inquire the cause of your absence; but I trust Heaven will forgive her for setting me the example of deception. In such a concern as marriage, surely the in- climations of the child should be consulted. Oh, Edward, what's to be done? I thought she would have sacrificed any thing to my happiness; but this is absolute tyranny—how shall I escape it?” “EscAPE" was the word that struck upon his ear; this was the moment; she had been deceived by her mother, allowed the perpetual society of this young man only to feel the loss of it with greater force—deception now was only retaliation. Edward mentioned ELOPE- MENT, threw himself upon his knees, and im- 46 THE MAN OF SORROW. plored the girl of his heart to favour his wishes, and consent to flight. His prayer prevailed, she agreed to the plan, and they determined that very night to set off for Scot- land, where their hearts would be for ever united; and when relieved from all fear and anxiety, they might, when blessed by Hymen, enjoy the delights two beings feel in an ex- change of sentiments and an entire union of soul. This is a lesson to parents who expect obedience, not to be too unreasonable in the exercise of their power. Had this girl never been deceived, never forced, she never would have entertained the thoughts of eloping. It was a rash resolve, but resolved it now was, and however such a step may be, it is hard to determine, when the parent becomes despotic, whether it is not a preferable plan in a child, to be imprudent for four-and-twenty hours than miserable for the whole duration of life. Let the causes, however, be what they might, the determination was made, and a few hours only were wanting to complete the de- sign. Musgrave's head burned, and his heart palpitated; tremors, doubts, fears, anticipa- tions, all possessed his imagination. The in- * THE MAN OF SORROW, 47 tended partner of his flight shared his feelings; she was on the eve of taking an important step, and of committing an irrevocable act. But in the midst of all her agitations, she could not help looking forward to the delight- ful interchange of affection in which she might indulge with impunity, when marriage had re- moved the bandage from the eyes of Love, and sanctioned the triumph he was about to enjoy. Time wore apace; Harriet had retired to rest before her mother's return from Lady Rosemore's. She watched; the tedious hours past in expectation seemed protracted—minutes were days, as she told them with her sighs, till the clock struck twelve. The music of the spheres, the lyre of Apollo, or the sound of Edward's voice, could not have given her greater pleasure than the heavy toll of the church-bell, as it announced the hour of mid- night. She softly opened ber bed-room door (it faced her mother's), she fancied she heard her call, but it was the rattling of the honeysuckles against the casement; she descended the stairs, reached the door, with difficulty her tender hands removed the fastenings, at length they 48 THE MAN OF SORROW, yielded to her efforts, and she found herself upon the little lawn before the cottage. Edward was waiting at the gate, she ran to him, she trembled, she turned to look at the house where she had passed so many hours, where her mother, unsuspicious of her flight, slumbered secure. - She leaned her flushing cheek on Edward's shoulder, as he led her to the chaise, which waited on the other side of the bridge, that crossed the mill-stream. They stepped into the carriage, the door was closed, he pressed her to his breast. She sighed consent,-yes, the lovely girl had sur- rendered herself, and the horses set off at full speed. .'- Sorrow adieu ! Edward has gained her, and Harriet is his own! CHAPTER V. Now whatever mother happens to read this tale, will immediately draw herself up at the conclusion of the last chapter, and calling it immoral, either shut up the book, or desire her daughter, if she be reading, to do the same ; but this will not hinder the young lady from finishing the story, or from following the example, if she likes it, so weak is the power of parents over young modern misses, and so strong is the sway of their own in- clinations. Thus, having proved that my story will in fact have no influence upon minds not given to eloping, I shall proceed with the narrative, because it begins to grow rather complicated ; and it is but fair, since I have drawn the young people into something like a difficulty, vol. I. ID 50 THE MAN OF SORROW. that I should do as much as lies in my power to extricate them from it. The step Musgrave had taken was the first decisive one of his life; he had borne from all protection but his own a lovely girl, who, with an equal want of consideration, had thrown her- self upon his honour, but she was safe, for he loved her. The general notion, by the way, that lovers are deceivers, must be erroneous, and the reason is a natural one ; a lover and a deceiver are different characters, for a deceiver cannot love, and, vice versá, a lover cannot deceive ; he ceases to be a lover when he does. The sensations this fond pair experienced, as the horses galloped forward, were such as none but those who have been in similar situ- ations can conceive. The hopes of happiness (which are all centered in the one idea of a safe arrival at their journey’s end), the fear of pursuit (in which all the terrors are combined), equally poise the hearts of flying lovers, and temper the joy they would otherwise feel too exquisitely. For eighteen hours had the incessant whirl of the post-chaise continued, when Harriet first complained of fatigue, and in consequence THE MAN OF SORROW, 51 of a delay for a change of horses, she proposed taking a short rest before they proceeded, to which, as they were secure of ten hours in. advance upon their pursuers (if they had any), Edward consented; and while she was refresh- ing herself, he took a short walk into the town to procure fresh horses if possible. Having, therefore, ordered every care to be taken of Harriet, he proceeded to the second inn, and inquired of the landlord if he could procure him four horses. “No, sir, I cannot,” replied the landlord; “I am very sorry, really, sir; but the last four I had in the stable a gentleman in the parlour has just engaged.” “What can I do?” said Edward. “Mr. Musgravel” cried a voice from the room—“Mr. Musgrave, is that you?” Edward was somewhat startled at hearing his name mentioned at so great a distance from town, and had hardly recovered from his sur- prise, when the elegant figure of Mr. Savage stood before him. * “It is useless, Musgrave,” said the man of fashion, “to attempt to get horses here; by God, it is to no purpose !” 52 THE MAN OF SORROW". “What! sir,” replied Edward, “you have discovered me.” “Oh yes,” cried Savage, “I have found you out. I saw you pass me just now in a chaise.” “And do you mean to stop me, sir?” said Musgrave. “Not I, upon my soul,” returned Savage; “I always prefer forwarding such affairs. So far from hindering you, Musgrave, you shall have my nags to get on with! Now, do take them.” This officiousness of Savage did not proceed from any partiality to Musgrave; but as he feared his influence with Harriet, he rejoiced in this opportunity of doing what he considered getting him out of the way. It did not till the moment of this offer occur to Edward, that though Savage had seen him, he had not caught a view of Harriet; his ideas, however, were confirmed by Savage inquiring after the Vincents, and desiring to be remembered to them when Musgrave next saw them. A culprit reprieved never felt the joy he experienced at hearing these questions, and THE MAN OF SORROW. 53 wishing to evade any further conversation, he wished Savage a good day, and returned to the inn where he left his fair charge with a heart bounding with joy. He flew, rather than ran, to the room where he had left her. The door was open—his bird was flown, she was gone; — his blood ran cold —he rushed down-stairs—he proceeded to the parlour where they had taken some refresh- ment—she was not there ; he ran to the master of the house, who answered his in- quiries with a drawling tone that “he really did — not — know any — thing at all about her.” Edward's heart was on fire, and the chilling reply of the phlegmatic landlord so provoked him, that raising his arm he knocked down the vendor of wines, and he measured his length on the floor of his own passage. The noise brought several persons from the kitchen, and the mistress of the house, a fat, greasy, long-nosed, red-faced old woman, enraged against Edward because he had gone to the other inn for horses, called to a tall, raw-boned fellow who was standing looking on, and, with a voice truly stentorian, ex- claimed,— 54 THE MAN OF SORROW, “George Waters! you are constable in this here parish; I give you charge of that man; take him over to Sir Peter Potiphar, he is a just-ass, and he will mittimise him. “What l” continued she, turning to the host- lers and cook, “is not a married man, and the father of a family, to stand in his wife's pass- age without interruption and abuse? Take him along; — I'll go over and swear the peace against him.” * “For Heaven's sake, have pity!” cried Ed- ward. “Consider—I own I have done wrong —I’ll pay—” “Pay!” said George Waters; “you will pay for it, you may depend on it.” “Where is the lady?” said Musgrave, half mad. “I neither know nor care,” replied the mistress of the house; “she's some runaway madam, I suppose, no better than she should be.” At the end of this reply the landlord made a short speech, displaying his bruised nose at the same time, which by no means tended to increase Edward's popularity with the mob. At this moment a post-boy from the other THE MAN OF SORROW. 55 inn entered the door, and with a loud voice bawled out, “Four horses for a gentleman here on to Gretna.” They were for Musgrave—he told them so— but they were deaf to all entreaties—his heart was breaking. Harriet and Savage in the same town—she ignorant of this adventure— what was to be done? To trust Savage was of course to be betrayed. He, therefore, collected his senses and sent a verbal message to him, thanking him for his offer, but said that, in consequence of a circumstance that had occur- red, he had no occasion for the horses. This being done, he was conveyed along the street, his eyes still wandering in search of his dear girl, who he was now almost assured had fallen into the hands of Savage, so near the spot where they might be united : all these reflections nearly drove him mad. He was by this time at Sir Peter Potiphar’s door. Was he at home 2—No 1—he was gone to attend a vestry meeting. What was to be done 7 Edward must be detained till he arrived; he was, therefore, shewn into a little parlour on the side of the hall, and desired to wait. The tumult of his brain was now too great 56 THE MAN OF SORROW. to be borne, his agitation was terrible; the loss of his dear girl, the suspense he was kept in, and his ignorance of her fate, all conspired to make him miserable. After a delay of two hours Sir Peter Poti- phar appeared. This old gentleman ruled the neighbourhood with sovereign sway. He was a magistrate ; but all the business of the office was transacted by his daughter, Miss Potiphar, a lady of such wonderful feelings that her hu- manity was proverbial—never a bastard child sworn, never an orchard robbed, but the offender, if he was a comely gentleman in person, was sure to escape. Her father, Sir Peter, had been knighted for carrying up an address; and the monkey who had seen the world was not a more grotesque figure; his eyes, fearful of each other's prow- ess, looked across his Roman nose with the most brotherly glances, and formed what is vulgarly termed a squint. - The proboscis which emerged from his visage curled over his upper lip, as his under one overhung his peaked chin; a spare voice, words issuing slowly, and the most inveterate deafness, completed his attractions. In about twenty minutes, the court being THE MAN OF SORROW. 57 arranged, and Miss Potiphar seated on the bench by her father, evidence was called for, and Mr. Waters thus began,— - “Please your worship, I was exalted to come and comprehend this man.” “Very good!” said the justice (it was his favourite expression). * “For, your worship,” continued Waters, “that he had knocked down the landlord of the White Horse.” “ Knocked down a white horse !” said Sir Peter, “what's that?—say that again.” “Knocked down the landlord, your worship,” bellowed the landlady. “Oh ! the landlord—very good—proceed,” said his worship. And in consequence of this magisterial man- date, the business went on in the same style for about an hour, and the examination ended by Sir Peter's committing Edward to the county gaol, to take his trial for the assault at the next sessions; so that three hours had been spent to fix him a prisoner for as many months, but from this he met a happy release. Miss Potiphar, the young lady just noticed for her power as a magistrate, and whose feel- ings were so susceptible, no sooner heard the D 2 58 - THE MAN OF SORROW. sentence pronounced, than casting her eyes over the figure of Edward Musgrave, she thought she saw something about him which ought to prevent his being in durance vile, her tender sentiments towards the male species were awakened; and therefore, in ten minutes after his removal, his discharge was sent over to the constable's house, and he was liberated on making some pecuniary restitution. The moment he found himself in possession of liberty, he ran to the inn where he had seen Savage, to inquire for him. “He is gone, sir,” said the waiter. “The lady did not seem much to like to go, but he came over her scruples, sir, and they packed off together.” “What lady?” said Edward. “Oh! sir, a lady who came here to him ; she had a veil on, and he called her Harriet.” “Oh God!” cried Edward, “ she has fallen into his hands, and here accumulate the sor- rows of my life.” He raved—he tore his hair—he was con- vinced that he had lost her. What was to be done 7 - “Get me another chaise-and-four, I'll follow him,” exclaimed the maddened youth. . THE MAN OF SORROW. 39 “Very well, sir,” answered the waiter, and proceeded to order the equipage. Edward's head burned—tears came to his relief—a torrent burst from his eyes, and he felt himself in less pain; he looked round him, and saw a little boy, the child of some of the inhabitants of the place, standing before him; the flaxen-haired son of labour, turning his large blue eyes towards Edward's face, said,— “Pray, sir, be your name Musgrave?” “It is, my little fellow.” “Here is a letter for you, sir; a fine lady gave it me, sir.” It was, of course, from Harriet. He burst it open, and read, L “I cannot meet you till five; we shall be discovered—I am wretched—therefore remain where you are till dusk, and come to the stile in the churchyard at five. Remember we shall then meet in safety: consider what I have risked for you, and be punctual.” “Heaven be praised !” exclaimed Musgrave, “ and how well she has disguised her hand—it is not the least like her writing. Here my fine little fellow, tell the lady I'll not fail, and here's half-a-crown for you.” 60 THE MAN OF SORROW. “Oh! thank you — thank you,” cried the pretty messenger, and was out of sight in a minute. Edward now saw Harriet's prudence, but could not conceive where she had found an asylum ; it was evident Savage had her not in his power; he therefore supposed, that seeing him, she had told her story to some cottager, who, in consideration of a little reward, had consented to shelter her till the evening. Satisfied with her security, he therefore re- turned to the inn, ordered the chaise not to be ready till five, and seating himself by the fire, swallowed a solitary dinner and a bottle of claret, happy that he had recovered his darling girl after so many mishaps and diffi- culties. Time moved rather slowly, expectation clip- ped the old gentleman's wings, and it was not without some satisfaction that Edward heard the clock strike five; he immediately left the house to meet his angelic Harriet. . It was almost dark, and the trees in the avenue added to the sombre appearance of Nature's beauties, so that to distinguish per- sons would have been a difficult task; for fear THE MAN OF SORROW. 61 of any mistake, Edward therefore whistled a little Italian air, which he knew was a favourite of Harriet's. It had the desired effect; the sweet girl heard the notes, she followed the sound —she ran towards him : he asked no questions—convic- tion —nature—told him it was his angel, and so closely did he clasp the fair wanderer to his breast, that he did not find out his mistake for a couple of minutes. Lo and behold! in the midst of his raptures, his huggings and squeezings, he discovered that the lady he was so fervently embracing was not Harriet Vincent, but Miss Lucretia Potiphar, the justice's daughter who had libe- rated him from durance vile. On this dénoîtment, feeling rather awkward, he drew his arm from her waist, and disen- tangling his fingers from her carroty hair, into whose mazes he had thrust them as the fine fiery locks flowed loosely down her back, bowed very lowly, in as collected a tone as possible, and implored her pardon for the mistake. * “Mistake l’’ cried Miss Lucretia, with a voice as shrill as a peacock's—“mistake my dear sir, there is not the least mistake in 62 THE MAN OF SORROW. the world ; pray don't disturb yourself, - it’s I.” “I, madam l’’ stammered Edward, “yes, madam ; but I have an appointment here with 35 “To be sure you have—with me! Why, I wrote you the letter which I sent you by the farmer's boy, which you answered by saying you’d come and meet me.” “The d–l you did, madam ſ” cried he. “Then I wish from my heart you had signed the epistle ; for really my mind is sc occupied with other business, that it is impossible to devote any moment from the purpose of my journey, so urgent is the case.” Judge Edward's sensations when he found himself as far as ever from Harriet, or any news of her; deceived into an appointment with the most frightful carroty miss in the county, at the moment his heart was devoted to the prettiest girl in England. The truth was, Miss Potiphar expected some return for the kindness she had bestowed on Musgrave in liberating him, and had actu- ally made this dusky appointment to see how far his gratitude would carry him. Her love, however, turned to rage at his THE MAN OF SORROW. 63 indifference, and after she had eased her wounded soul by flying into a violent passion, he contrived to get rid of her; he raving of Harriet, and she calling for revenge. In this state he took to his heels, and like a Joseph, flew from Miss Potiphar to the White Horse, where not being able to hear any tidings of his dear girl, and concluding she had fallen into Savage's hands, he stepped into the chaise that was ready for him, and proceeded with all speed to Gretna Green. CHAPTER VI. Poor Edward, who was aware how mis- fortune had always pursued him, and who was assured that Fate from his birth had marked him for A MAN OF SORRow, imagined, as he proceeded on his journey, that he should just reach Gretna Green time enough to hear that Savage had made his Harriet a wife; but hoping, through all his grief, to prevent, if possible, so melancholy a termination to his journey, he desired the post-boys to make all the way they could, and instructing them in the emergency of the case, and presenting each of them at the same time with the portrait of their gracious majesty in gold, they whipped on their steeds, who, to do the north road justice, had as much ability as their drivers had will. THE MAN OF SORROW. 65 The wheels rattled merrily, the mud flew, the “Very stones seemed to prate at his whereabout.” Twelve miles an hour every inch of the way; a turnpike impeded their progress, the toll was paid, and the carriage some distance from it, when the sound of a voice calling after it roused Edward’s attention. Concluding, therefore, that either bad money, or a miscalculated charge for the carriage, was the cause of the ejaculations he heard, he ordered the boys to stop, but his surprise was greatly excited when, instead of any demand on his purse, the gate-keeper inquired if his name was Musgravel Astonished at the question, but not dis- pleased at it, as he imagined it led to some discovery of his charming girl, he started forward and answered the quare in the af- firmative. “Then, sir,” said the guardian of the bar, “here is a letter for you. It was left by a young lady who passed this in the four o'clock coach ; she desired me to inquire of every body who came through whether his name 3. 66 THE MAN OF SORROW. was Musgrave, and if it was, not on any account to fail of delivering it.” Delighted at once again receiving any tidings of Harriet, he burst open the note and, to his great joy, read these words,- “Dearest Edward, “I saw Savage in the town—a stage-coach for Gretna happened to pass through at the moment; trusting to Providence, I had the courage to enter it; I shall reach my journey's end in two hours; this I leave at the turn- pike, in the hopes that you will take this road to follow “Yours devotedly, “ H. W.” The rapture he felt at the reading of this epistle can better be imagined than expressed. “Faithful, noble girl l’exclaimed he, when he had finished it, “what action of a life dedicated to you will ever repay this firm- ness? it is too great a mark of favour ever to be equalled; my heart—my soul are yours for ever.” This rhapsody was not very intelligible to the keeper of the gate, who stood with two THE MAN OF SORROW. 67 fingers of his right hand placed upon the front of the brim of his hat, in an attitude which seemed to imply, that though Mr. Mus- grave was satisfied, he was not. Edward took the hint, and soon brought the worthy gentleman's understanding to its right sphere, by presenting him with a crown piece; for he knew the only way to get off with honour and expedition was “—Imposuere Coronam.” This was an argument very quickly compre- hended, and, pocketing the coin, the man ordered the post-boy “to put on,” as every thing was right. Oh! what a mercenary world we live in, that a man could not execute such a com- mission as this without expecting to be paid for it ! A truce with moralising— off went the horses, and every minute brought him nearer his Harriet—yes—they should again meet, embrace, unite, never to part | Oh ye who have known what it is to love may guess the warmth—the ecstasy of Edward's sensations; to describe them to those who have felt a touch of the passion, would be only 68 THE MAN OF SORROW. a waste of time in telling them what they already know, and to attempt to depict them to those who never have experienced a wound would be still greater, for it could answer no purpose at all. Jn love there is a certain pleasure in sorrow, a joy in grief, and a delight in misery, which the wisest head in Christendom cannot ex- plain; a fluttering of the heart, a flushing of the cheek, a trembling of the limbs, and a confusion of the senses while the object of affection is present, a restlessness and in-__ quietude, sighs that come whence we know not, tears that flow from hidden sources, a peewishness of temper, and a hatred of society when that object is absent, which neither the pen of the poet, the pencil of the painter, nor the strain of the songster, can ever do justice to. -- *-- *-**º-º- In such a confusion of idea then was Edward's brain as the chaise rattled on towards the village that contained his Harriet; and being such, gentle reader, you must understand ex- actly how he felt— “For, poor fellow, he was in love.” Ay—ay, laugh, ye little mischievous misses, THE MAN OF SORROW. 69 laugh at that passage if ye please, but mind, lest before many months have elapsed, ye who fancy yourselves the freest from the passion do not become its most servile votaries — stranger things have happened. Edward, in the midst of all his travelling speculations, however, was a little confused as to what Harriet it could have been who ac- companied Savage on his journey. “To be sure,” thought he, “there are more Harriets than mine, and if his is another, I really don't wish to enjoy all the Harriets in the kingdom—Heaven forbid!—for I have seen one or two, that, not to speak pro- famely, I would run as many miles to escape from, as I am now travelling in pursuit of another. “Oh !” exclaimed the enraptured youth at the conclusion of his reverie, “We shall be married; ay! before ten this night will she be my wife—united for ever; and then to-morrow and the next day, still my own, and the next, and the night, and all— “It was a consummation devoutly to be wished.’” In this and similar soliloquies did he employ his minutes, till he felt himself whirled into 70 THE MAN OF SORROW . the village which contained his charming girl, and the means of making her his. He ordered the chaise to the principal inn, where he had no sooner alighted than Harriet was in his arms; she had been waiting anxiously for his arrival in a little parlour near the door; he caught her to his breast with a clasp of triumph. Now then was she his own—no one could part them ;—cruel mothers, chattering friends, and flattering rivals, all were distanced; the game was run down, he was in at the death, and the brush was his own. False delicacy at Gretna is exploded. A woman when she goes into Lanchester's is known to want millinery (people say something more); when she lounges at Gray's, she is understood to stand in need of trinkets; when she stops at Gattie's, she wants complexion; and when she goes to Gretna, she wants a Husband 1 That being the case, not to talk of marriage is as absurdly outré as not to call for supper; and, therefore, Musgrave, with a sly look at his blushing_bride, ordered a couple of roasted fowls and a parson to be ready immediately; the waiter, perfect in his part, stepped over to THE MAN OF SORROW. 71 the chandler's shop, hired the divine, and at half-past ten the hymeneal rites were to be solemnised. The landlady was to enact Harriet's mother, the domestics were to officiate as bridesmaids, and a couple of waiters were to witness the ceremony. All this being arranged, matters were thus far concluded without one six-shilling's-worth of law, one skin of parchment, or one word of settlement; a striking proof of the superfluous expenses which people run themselves to, in order to render their children unhappy. One heart for another is a fair exchange—it can be made by a contract between the parties, sealed on their own lips; a man, who as a husband will not regard a verbal engagement as sacred, will hardly be restrained from breaking legal contracts; a lover's promise is the most invio- lable, a lover's oath the most binding in the world, at least they ought to be, as the breaking the one, or failing in the other, may involve in misery, the solace of man's existence, 2007/20,72, - At length, the candied clergyman, having taken off his apron, appeared in the room, and a more amiable character never existed ; his 72 THE MAN OF SORROW. tout ensemble rather bordered on the ridiculous, and it was with great difficulty the young couple could refrain from laughter. The landlord had promised that the supper should smoke on the table at half-past ten ;— the parties waited with great anxiety, and an hour had elapsed before they discovered that the large clock upon the stairs, by which the cook was guided in her actions, had stopped; the reason of which was, that being too tall a timepiece to be regulated by any of the house- hold, the job was always reserved for a lofty postilion belonging to the next town, who, as fate would have it, had not passed through that day: this accounted at once for the delay of supper, which “mine host” apologised for, at the same time cursing the cook, and begging his clerical friend to proceed with the ceremony, added, that as he observed Mr. Musgrave was as tall as the postilion in question, he would be much obliged to him as soon as he had gone through the marriage-service, if he would step up-stairs and wind up the clock. CHAPTER VII. Now the moment approached,—the awful service was to be performed,—but oh “What a falling off was there.” in all the pomps and vanities of it! No altar blazed with holy tapers, no singing boys chanted an epithalamium, no organ sounded the joyous wedding-peal, no bells gave notice to the world that Harriet and Edward were on the eve of being united for ever. No! instead of the altar a round supper- table divided the priest of Hymen from his votaries; a pillow from a bed in the next room served Harriet to kneel upon; two slender tal- low candles, stored in Scotch air till they had grown thin, illuminated the shrine; and a prayer-book (worn a little in the service of VOL. I. IE 74 THE MAN OF SORROW. matrimony), constituted all the external marks of religion. The officiating minister was distinguished from the rest of his brethren by a humble deportment, a spare body, and a rusty brown COat. Unlike some of them, he could read dis- tinctly; and at length the service began, and proceeded, till the priest put that simple ques- tion which decides the business: “Whether Harriet Vincent would have Ed- ward Musgrave for her wedded husband?” To which, naturally enough, Harriet Vincent was about to reply in the affirmative, when all proceedings were stayed, and the whole com- pany thrown into the greatest confusion, by the very unseasonable entrance of Mrs. Vincent, Mr. Savage, and three footmen, armed and prepared for a seizure | | | There is but one thing to a pretty girl worse than doing wrong, and that is—being found out ! “The attempt, and not the deed, confounds her.” The bustle this phantasmagoric appearance occasioned, can hardly be described : the mis- tress and maids escaped by a sudden bolt at # *. \ THE MAN OF SORROW. 75 the door, in which they overturned the as- tonished Mr. Savage, who, being a man of haut ton, “wondered how people could do such things.” The minister of the gospel abandoning his station, upset the altar into the fire; Edward was struck motionless with horror; and Mr. Savage, fatigued by the eacertion of being sur- prised, threw himself into an arm-chair. Mrs. Vincent, when satisfied of the justness of her conclusion and the success of her jour- ney, calmed her anger into something like decency, till the landlord, conscious that if his old timepiece had been correct, the ceremony would have been over an hour before her ar-, rival, put her into a violent paroxysm of passion by bawling as loud as he could— “Oh! if he had but wound up the clock!” Which wish of his he repeated several times, till the mother, not understanding what he meant, let all her vengeance burst upon his head (having at the same moment thrown at it the pillow on which her daughter had been kneeling) in a torrent of words:— “Don’t talk to me of your winding up,” cried she, “you impudent scoundrell you ought to have your license taken away for suffering > * 76 THE MAN OF SORROW. such doings in your house ! I know two or three of the mémbers of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, and if you ever have any marriages in your house, they shall write ad- monitory letters to you, as they did to my friend at Hyde Park Corner, only for having a medallion of a man in an indelicate posture against the front of his house! They shall, you scoundrel ! they shall; they are all good Christians, and will not suffer people to be married as they like.” “As for you, madam,” replied he, “hang me if any society would take the trouble to write to you; and if they did, I know no punishment bad enough for a woman who would make her child marry against her in- climations: and if so be,” continued he, “that this here little brown-faced gentleman be he as you wants miss to marry, curse me if it's even human in you to force her to have a monkey, when she's a mind for a man.” Savage rose here to knock the fellow down, but mine host putting himself on his guard for the blow, the beau, though a disciple of Jackson's, declined the contest because he was not “in training.” Harriet, who had not (like most heroines) the MAN of sorrow. 77 fainted, had by this time recovered from a violent fit of crying, and ventured to look at her mother, who no sooner caught her eye than she attacked her in the most opprobrious language. - “Oh you wretch!” said she, firing up; “you despicable wretch ! what have you done? are you not eternally disgraced by this step 7 de- graded for ever!” “No, madam,” said Edward, “no child is disgraced by refusing to acknowledge despot- ism ; servitude of the body is an awful curse, but when a parent endeavours to enchain the heart and inclinations, I only hope she may always meet a daughter with spirit enough to free herself from such control.” “What, sir! teach a child to rebel before my face?” “No, madam,” replied he ; “I would rather teach her mother to be loved : remember, as you have often told me of them yourself, your sensations in a similar situation, when, un- provoked by deception, you yourself took the same means of following your own incli- nations, and then considered the anger of your father as an injustice done to your sensibility.” 78 THE MAN OF SORRow. “I judged then as a child,” retorted Mrs. Vincent. ** - “Then now, madam, feel as one. Look at your daughter—the prototype of angels,<- distressed, overwhelmed, broken-hearted ; if . you can behold such goodness so oppressed and refuse your pardon, you have a harder heart than I can give you credit for.” “Pardon her after leaving her home with a stranger?” “A stranger ' " said Musgrave. “No, madam, you will consider that under your sanction, with your concurrence, I was allowed that intercourse which familiarised us com- pletely to each other, — you deceived her, madam, look at that insignificant thing you are pleased to design for her husband—did she not refuse his offers with disdain 7 and did you not, by a private agreement between you, suffer him still to pay his fulsome attentions to her, only because you had deter- mined she should marry him ?—Oh! madam, madam, lay the blame of this step to no one but yourself; you are the cause of it, and you alone will feel the miseries of retrospec- tion.” Then turning to Savage, he said, “As for THE MAN OF sorrow. 79 you, sir, I wonder that you should abandon the lady who confided herself to your pro- tection this morning; however, with you I must, at all events, have some private con- versation—you are a scoundrel, and shall meet a scoundrel's reward. This address had no other effect upon Mr. Savage than causing him to arise from his seat, turn upon his heel, and leave the room ; exclaiming, as he passed the door, – “Impertinent fellow, you shall hear from me.” - The moment he had retired, Harriet threw herself upon her knees to her mother, and in a tone of supplication that would have melted a Stoic, implored for Heaven's sake that she would not force her from Edward. This appeal to her mother's feelings roused her into a determination to accelerate her de- parture. She tore her child from Edward's arms, who dared not use againsta woman the exertions he might have put in force against a man ; and deaf to the entreaties, the tears, the com- plainings, and the supplications of the dis- tracted lovers, she thrust her into her travelling chariot, and leaving a note for Savage, who had left the inn, set off for London, well 80 THE MAN OF SORROW, guarded by two outriders on horseback, and a man-servant on the box. When Edward heard the carriage-wheels in motion, and considered what they bore from him, dark as it was, and late, he determined to follow them, and had actually ordered a saddle-horse to put in practice his intention, when a gentleman, wholly unknown to him personally, entered the inn and inquired if Mr. Musgrave was there; hearing his name mentioned, Edward immediately replied to it, on which the gentleman requested very po- litely that he might be indulged with a few moments' conversation. His desire being complied with, and the parties having retired to a parlour, the stranger opened the business by stating that he was a friend of Mr. Savage, who had just called upon him to say that some unwarrantable language which Mr. Musgrave had made use of, rendered it necessary that he should either apologise for it publicly, or give him the meet- ing the next morning. To this message Edward could only reply that, situated as he was, at a vast distance from all his friends and acquaintance, a meeting of the sort he proposed would be attended with very THE MAN OF SORROW. 81 awkward circumstances; but as it was utterly impossible that he should retract any thing he had said, irksome as it was to his feelings, and inconvenient in his present situation, he certainly should make a point of attending Mr. Savage at his appointment, as he doubted not but in the barracks of the neighbourhood he should find some gentleman who would undertake to be his friend upon the occasion. At all events, he added, he would make a point of being punctual. The strange gentleman having, therefore, named the time and place, took his leave of Musgrave, whose brain, confused as it was by the numberless exertions and scenes it had undergone and passed through during the course of the day, was hardly in a state to bear so extraordinary and unpleasant a sur- prise as was contained in the challenge he had just received. Hardly sensible of any action he committed, unsettled as to what line of conduct to pursue, he rung for the landlord and inquired if there were any of the officers of the regiment quartered there then in the house; to which the man replying in the affirmative, he de- sired him to repeat their names, upon doing E 2 82 THE MAN OF SORROW. which Musgrave thought he recognised that of Bulmer. “Where does this gentleman reside when at home 2" said he. “At home, sir!” replied the landlord ; “home!—why, Lord love you, sir, it's only a militia regiment: they have no home but the barracks.” “You misunderstand me,” rejoined Mus- grave: “Mr. Bulmer must have some family?” “No,” said the host, “he has got no family, sir—he ben’t married ; he has gotten a father alive : old Dr. Bulmer, of Carlisle, he is his father.” “This is lucky,” exclaimed our hero. “Yes, for him it is, sir,” replied the land- lord, “for the ould gentleman's mortal rich, and the pay of these here officers isn't over much, considering they have to live like gentlemen ; one of my post-lads gets more than one of their captains in a day, sir, but then he hasn't the honour of having a chance of being shot at, that's worth something, to be sure; though, to say truth, these militia men arn’t often in danger.” “Get me pens and ink,” said Edward; “I’ll write a note to Captain Bulmer.” THE MAN OF SORROW. 83 “Certainly sir,” said the man; “certainly I will.” And as he turned from his guest to get the articles, he could not help exclaiming, with a look of sorrow, “What a pity it was you lost her, sir; she was a sweet girl to be . sure, —I never see’d a prettier.” These words struck like lightning to Ed- ward's heart; she was gone—she he adored, she he had pressed to his heart not an hour before, was torn from him for ever. “Oh, Harriet,” sobbed out the wretched lover, “I am within these few hours going into the field for your sake. If I fall, my dying breath shall utter a prayer for you; that Heaven may guard, protect, and watch over you, is my constant wish—my nightly in- vocations to our Maker are for you, in com- mon with myself: for let us be parted etern- ally, let mountains rise or oceans roll between us, our hearts are so entwined, united so in- separably, that they cannot divide us; and if it is decreed that we shall see each other no more on earth, I shall look forward to the hour of dissolution with delight, as that in which our souls may mingle, and our spirits meet.” He had just finished this appeal to Heaven 84 THE MAN OF SORROW. when the man returned with the implements for writing: Edward sat down, and penned the following note to Captain Bulmer:— “Mr. Musgrave presents his compliments to Captain Bulmer; believing that they have spent much time together at school, and during the vacations, he takes the liberty of presuming upon these circumstances to re- quest a few minutes' conversation with Capt. B. on very urgent business. - “To Captain Bulmer.” This letter had hardly been delivered five minutes, when the friendly Bulmer entered the room where Musgrave had fixed his resi- dence. “My dear Ned—your hand. Why who in the name of fate,” exclaimed he, “could have expected to have met with you here, and alone! What can have induced you to visit so coupling a climate without a mate ’’’ “Oh, Bulmer,” replied Edward, “my story is a complicated one, and I will not worry you with it now ; I will be brief in what I have to say. A thousand unpleasant circumstances have occurred to me, and the last is an affair THE MAN OF SORROW. 85 of honour in which I am engaged with a rival of mine in a love business.” “Oh, and you want me to be second 7" cried the captain. “My dear fellow, I am your man ; I have just received per mail . a brace of Manton's, which are the truest shooting irons in England; hit the ace of spades off a bottle of champagne for fifty, only yesterday, with one of them Damme, I'm your lad!” “I have no desire to kill my antagonist,” said Musgrave. “Kill! no, to be sure,” interrupted Bulmer, “only wing him; tip him the lead through his left arm, or give him the bullet just under his hefts: sting him a bit, that's all : but, who is he 7” “His name is Savage,” replied Edward. “What! Dick Savage, who seduced old Williams's daughter, and set fire to the parson's house for preaching at him £ It is generally re- ported that he burned his father's will, because he left all his cash to charities, and blew out his butler's brains because he wanted to blow the business. Oh, he's the best mark in the world. I saw him just now in the street be- fore the inn, the moon glared full in his face, but I thought I must be deceived, for he 86 THE MAN OF SORROW. doesn't often come into this part of the country; his father has just popped off the perch, and he has come in for the stuff. But I say, Ned, if you don't lay it into him you deserve to be crucified—nobody ever had the opportunity before of tipping him the barrel ; he is but a shy lad at a fight in general. What time is it you meet?” “At six,” said Edward. *A gº “Why,” said Bulmer, looking at his watch, “it’s one now. Oh, we'll not go to bed— we’ll have two or three bottles of claret, they’ll steady you, some broiled bones, and a good fire, and then for the fight; give me your hand Musgrave, curse it! I hardly ex- pected to fall into so good a thing as this, either l’’ In this way did the son of Mars proceed, till he actually persuaded Edward to sit down all night to tell him all his adventures (so fond is a lover of speaking of his mistress); and at the conclusion of the tale the bottles were dry, the day-light was breaking, and the clock pointing to six : the hour was at hand— the hand was at the hour—and off they went, properly prepared to the ground. “When Greek meets Greek, Then comes the tug of war.” CHAPTER VIII. Musgrave and Bulmer having called at the latter's lodgings for the pistols he had spoken off, left a note at the surgeon's of the regiment to desire him not to go out till after mine, and then walked leisurely to the ground appointed by the stranger. Upon their arrival, they perceived Mr. Sa. vage and his friend sitting on a stile at the end of the meadow ; and Bulmer immediately told Musgrave that this friend of his antago- mist was a sea captain, who lived in the neighbourhood of Scotland upon a fortune saved from his services, and that he remem- bered to have seen him once with Savage at a party at Carlisle. Mr. Savage advanced to meet Musgrave, and was about to speak, when Captain Bul- mer stepped up, and said that he conceived it 88 THE MAN OF SORROW. would be more regular, if Mr. Savage had any thing to say, that he should communicate it by his second to him." e This Savage agreed to, and the purport of the communication was simply this :— That Savage bore no enmity to Musgrave for his efforts to obtain Miss Vincent, and that the whole reason for his desiring this meeting was to have the harsh language Mr. Musgrave had made use of towards him, in the heat of passion, explained. Mr. Savage added, that an apology, even upon the ground, for those words, would perfectly satisfy him, and that he had no wish to take any steps against Musgrave's life. To this Musgrave, by Bulmer, replied, that he was extremely tenacious of his words, and very guarded in his expressions towards men in all situations; that in the present instance he had used the word “scoundrel ” to Mr. Savage, as he thought it applied ; and that since the preceding evening, nothing had occurred to make him change his opinion : as that was the case, he could not see how Mr. Savage could expect an apology, and at all events he was determined nothing should ex- act one from him. THE MAN OF SORROW. 89 After this reply, nothing was to be done but fight; and therefore the seconds having agreed upon the distance, the combatants took their stations at twelve paces from each other, and it being agreed that they should fire together at a signal, the seconds retired. The moments which preceded the signal were truly awful; two men, in habits of ac- quaintance with each other, stood armed for each other's destruction. Edward's thoughts flew to Harriet, and his heart palpitated as he recollected the misery of her situation. The word being given, the gentlemen fired to- gether; they remained unhurt—no questions were asked by the seconds, but the remaining pistol of each case was handed to each of them. The word was given a second time, and in an instant afterwards Savage measured his length upon the turf. Musgrave, immediately forgetting all the differences that existed between them, ran to- wards him, but Savage was not conscious of this act of friendship ; the ball from Edward's pistol had passed through the left breast into the heart, and at the moment he advanced to the spot where Savage lay, he became a corpse. 90 THE MAN OF SORROW. Immediate death was the consequence of the wound, and Savage's second, turning to the victor, advised.him to make off with what speed he could ; observing that the assizes at Carlisle would not be held for six or seven weeks, and if he was apprehended then, he must remain in prison during the whole of that time. Musgrave and Bulmer, however, re- solved not entirely to quit the place till they had heard the verdict of the coroner's jury, which of course would be immediately sum- moned; they therefore hurried to a farm-house in the neighbourhood, where, through the in- terest of Bulmer with the old widow who kept it, and her pretty daughter, they received shel- ter from their pursuers. - The body of Savage, as soon as the alarm was given, was moved down to the Sun; where, being undressed, the surgeon examined the wound, and described it to "be exactly as was stated. Here, then, is a lesson to mankind. High in the flush of prosperity, and in the meridian of gaiety the night before, this inanimate piece of earth, now stretched on an ale-house bed, was in the full possession of all its faculties; arrogant, presuming, and insulting, the vicious THE MAN OF SORROW. 91 Mr. Savage had been plotting new sins and new villanies. But an hour before his death, with the crime of seduction on his soul, he had endeavoured a second time to commit the act which, once succeeded in, stamps a man a vil- lain; and with all these sins upon his con- science, this giddy being of fashion was called in an instant before his Maker. Oh! what a reflection to the thinking mind Unawed by a sense of religion—by a sense of decency—had any one of his companions the preceding night ventured to remind him of a future state, ridicule and contempt would have been the reward of his rash attempt. What—a man of five thousand a-year think of Heaven 7–Pshal Cannot he possess every- thing he wishes for on earth 2–his horses, dogs, carriages, claret, and champagne ! Man, man, learn to think while you are in health, that you may know how to suffer when you are in sickness; take Savage for your example:—cut off in the midst of his gaiety and his follies, without a moment's warning, he is hurried into the presence of his God without a moment's preparation. You are all subject to the same extinction,-be therefore ready. Consider the hour of death always at 92 THE MAN OF SORROW. hand, and as it is inevitable, think it impend- ing. Consider his thoughtlessness! What is to become of the victim of his art—Mary 2 Of her as yet we know but little. She was a flower—pure as the lily of the evening, till Savage plucked her from her native stem, and robbed her of her sweetness. Her protector (such was the name her seducer assumed) now is gone, and she, poor creature, deserted by her parent and scoffed at by mankind, is left abandoned on the wide world to seek her for- tune from the charity of her fellow-creatures. Such was the end of Mr. Savage—without one friend to close his eyes, except a casual acquaintance who attended him to the field, without a relative to mourn his fate, his body was placed in a convenient situation to meet the inspection of the coroner and his jury. The reader may judge what his general cha- racter was, and what the impression it made upon the minds of the men who constituted the panel, when he is informed that, having weighed all the circumstances, and having con- sidered that he was the aggressor in sending the challenge, they returned a verdict of “Jus- tifiable Homicide.” No sooner was this decision known, than THE MAN of sorrow. 93 Musgrave and his second returned to the inn, where Edward remained till the day appointed for Savage's funeral; which having seen pro- perly attended to, he left Gretna for London in the mail, with no pleasant reflections, as they regarded the past, the present, and the future. { - As in the course of this narrative occasions will occur where the object of Savage's seduc- tion (Mary Williams) will be frequently men- tioned, it may not be improper here, while Edward is proceeding to town, to give part of the outline of her history. Mary Williams was the daughter of an ho- nest respectable farmer, a widower, and pos- sessed of a competence adequate to all his wishes and his wants. Devoted to his child, he had spent the latter part of his life wholly at home, that he might train his Mary in the paths of religion and duty. He was a good Christian, and a firm adherent to the mother church of his country; he had loyalty enough to love his king, sense enough to laugh at what were called political questions (about which there could be no question at all), independence enough to censure men and 94 THE MAN OF SORROW. measures he despised, and honour enough to give his vote at an election where he thought talent gave superiority. In short, he was one of those men who can lay their heads upon their pillows, and their hands upon their hearts, and say they never did a dishonest action in their lives. His daughter, at the time we shall first notice her, was turned seventeen, and a sweeter girl Nature seldom formed. Her eyes were dark blue, emanating their sparkling glances from under a pair of long silken dark eye- lashes; her brow bent like Cupid’s bow to give new force to the darts shot from beneath its Curve. → Her figure was small, well-made, and deli- cate; her disposition heavenly as her counte- nance ; her heart all rectitude and virtue. In the neighbourhood of their humble cot- tage stood the pompous mansion of Mr. Savage, the father to the gentleman with whom we have been acquainted; and while his son was staying at home, either during the fashionable summer (that is to say in the months of October, No- ºvember, and December), or in the vacations of the university, he selected as a companion for THE MAN OF SORROW. 95 his idle walks and saunters the amiable and interesting Mary Williams. Naturally flattered by the attentions of a man so much his superior, old Williams, too confident in his daughter's virtue and her lover's honour, suffered them to pass whole days together alone. Here Savage's villanies began, for though he knew he had determined never to marry this girl, he would every day meet her, sigh when he gazed upon her, take her hand, press it softly to his lips, and draw such pictures to her fancy as filled her young imagination with delight—with rapture—nay, with love. “Mary, my life,” he would whisper as they walked, “where is happiness to be found but in your society : What is this world without you? What wealth could purchase pleasures which you did not share?” “Oh! sir,” she would reply, “ consider the difference of our situations ! You are destined to adorn the highest circles; I, a poor unlettered girl.” “ Unlettered 1–Believe me, Mary, you don't do yourself justice; turn over the leaves of the peerage, and you’ll find countesses who can hardly write, marchionesses mere moppets, and 96 THE MAN OF SORROW. women of haut ton raised to their stations from the stage, and worse places too. Oh! Mary, never let that alarm you; I seek no accom- plishments which you do not possess,-no joys which you cannot bestow.” In this manner did he raise hopes he never intended to realise, expectations he never meant to fulfil ; and if he did not love her when he excited a passion in her breast, he was a greater villain than I even suspect him to be : he must have loved her at the time, but a fairer face chased her from his imagination, and a fairer prospect made him forget the cot- tage and his Mary. Of all characters upon earth, none can equal for viciousness those of a flirt and a coquet: custom has given so much of frivolity to the epithets, that we are rather inclined to laugh at, than seriously condemn them ; but when they are considered in their proper light, it is a matter of doubt whether they are equalled in vice by those of the highwayman and house- breaker. Some women consider it an addition to the éclat they possess in the world to be followed by a number of beaux, and therefore to en- courage their attentions, bestow an equal THE MAN OF SORROW. 97 share of favour upon each of them by turns: but ladies should be cautious how they practise upon this system ; there are so many of the fools in fashionable life who come under the denomination of boasters, that a woman's honour is hardly safe in their hands; and by bragging one against the other, they proceed so far in their comparative discussions, that the poor object of their conversation seldom comes off without some insinuations (at least) to the detriment of her character. But if a female coquet be a despicable character, what is a male one?— A villain The female heart, formed by nature to be susceptible of the most tender impressions, is open to the wanton attacks of every libertime who chooses to make it a prey;—such a heart had Mary Williams, such a character was Richard Savage. If he saw a beautiful girl in a party, her would he single out for his amusement, sigh and gaze, venture, with the greatest timidity, in the course of the evening to press her hand, make her believe he was desperately enam- oured of her, hand her to her carriage, return to the room she had left, brag of the liberties VOL. I. F 98 THE MAN OF SORROW. he had taken with her, laugh at her credulity, and make her the ridicule of the company. That such a man should be shot, and out of the way, the reader cannot be sorry. Would he had received his mortal wound before the middle of May, for it was one evening in that month that he had as usual appointed to meet poor Mary; it was, perhaps, the finest night that ever came. The moon was up, and no- thing marred the sweet solemnity of the scene but the distant barking of the village watch- dogs, or the falling of a little stream that rippled at the bottom of the hill over a row of planks raised to protect the neighbouring cot- tage doors. Savage was at the appointed place before her, and seating himself on the stile, waited her coming. On a sudden the village bells sent forth a merry sound — it was Mary's eighteenth birth-day, and the young men of the village were ringing a peal to honour it. Savage's heart beat with a sensation he could not define; perhaps he did love her then, for her triumph gave him pleasure. He waited till near an hour had elapsed, when Mary came bounding over the dewy THE MAN OF SORROW. 99 grass, like zephyr on the rose-bud; she flew to Savage, and with a look which the moon discovered, expressed a fear of having tired his patience. She took the hand he offered—he kissed the words from her pretty lips, and placing his arm round her waist, commenced his congratulations of her birth-day in the most ingenious style of flattery. Mary had been presiding at her father's table ; he had invited almost all the young folks of the village to a merry-making in honour of his girl's birth-day. She had been mistress of the feast; and though the floors were not chalked, though not a lord nor a lady adorned the assembly, though no great singer had two hundred guineas for singing a song, hospitality had cheered the scene, and friendship ruled the feast. Elated with the gaiety of her little party, and wild with love (which Savage had in- spired), the artless child of Nature felt her spirits high, her cheek warm, and her heart beating,- she was so happy that she did not struggle when he held her closely to his breast, no, she pressed his hand—but then it might have been to hurt him, in hopes that he would remove it—Cupid only knows. 100 THE MAN OF SORROW. The clock was striking nine when they parted at the end of the avenue; he bounded over the fields, his heart glowing with tri- umph, while she stole quietly to her father's cottage. “Non pronuba Juno— Non hymenaeus adest—non illigratia lecto.” CHAPTER IX. ** STATUTUM est quod scholares et graduati cujuscumque generis a domibus et officiis oppi- danorum de die, et præsertim de nocte, ab- stineant, præcipue vero, ab ædibus infames seu suspectas mulieres* vel meretrices alentibus aut recipientibus; quarum consortis scholaribus quibuscumque sive in privatis cameris sive in aedibus oppidanorum prorsus interdictum est ; et si quis de die in iisdem vel earum aliquâ deprehensus fuerit si non graduatus sit pro arbitri, vice cancellaris vel procuratorum qui deprehenderent castigetur ; si vero graduatus fuerit, 3s. 4d. pro qualibet vice universitate mulctetur.” * These come under the denomination givem in the recent Opera House advertisement. Their avocation seem better understood than expressed,— “ Suspicion ill becomes the generous mimd." 102 THE MAN OF SORROW. Savage was an Oxonian — use is second nature, and it is to be feared that this very statute was the original cause of all his mis- deeds; what in the first place is chiefly en- forced by it—abstinence.—“Ab aedibus in- fames seu suspectas mulieres vel meretrices.” —Quo tendis 2 Give me leave to observe, by the way, Messieurs Trencher-caps, that you are play- ing the very deuce with your statutes; if a man cannot walk along the highroad, he will get over the hedge and walk in the en- closures, that is, if he is determined to walk at all. Look ye then, gentlemen, deny your youths the highroad of wickedness, they jump with fear from suspectas mulieres, and attack citizens' wives and shopkeepers' daughters. This accounts for one of his acts, then for another— “Sive in privatis cameris, sive in aedibus oppidanorum prorsus interdictum est.” Quo tendis' again. To the fields, the hedges, the copses, say I : it must be somewhere, and it really seems as if this statute went to the improving rural sports, and the fertilisation of the country. THE MAN OF SORROW, 103 Horace might now ask of Tibullus with great propriety, “An tacitum sylvas inter reptare salubres Curantem quicquid dignum sapienti bonoque est? Non tu corpus eras sine pectore. Di tibi formam, Di tibi divitias dederunt, artemque FRUENDI.” And I do consider, gentle reader, that Savage is entitled to some lenity; for habit, the fear of university discipline, and the three shillings and four pence, drove him to the sad extremity; he avoided all the penalties of the statutes, bilked the forfeits, and com- mitted a heinous sin. Poor fellow ! he is dead, however; and if, like Beresford, one might be allowed a Latin pun, we might observe that we should The tender, since he is reduced to a heap of Bones, “De mortuis nil nisi Bonum.” From the evening rencontre in the dusky dell, Savage never took the trouble to inquire after Mary; his point was carried, and im- mediately after he fell into the society of Harriet Vincent, whose superior beauty chased 104 THE MAN OF SORROW. the recollection of all his preceding favourites, and left Mary no chance of reparation. Poor Mary watched his departure from the village with the most agonising sensations. “In she had fallen • Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again.” On the morning he left — for London, she was at the window of her humble bed- chamber; the sun beamed through the newly budded foliage of an ancient tree that stood before the cottage door, a rustic seat was formed at its foot, it had been the shrine of industry, the throne of bliss, where murmur- ing discontent had never dared to whisper woe, but where poor Mary had enjoyed so many happy hours, that as she sat at the casement she could not choose but weep to think on what she was and what she had been. A noise roused her; she looked up, it was Savage—the man who loved, the man who had seducED her—the horses bore him rapidly from Mary, she would no more behold him, no more hear his vows, his sighs, he was leaving her— for EveR-1 THE MAN OF SORROW. 105 He waved his hand to her as he passed, she burst into tears, – she stretched forward to look after him, he did not see her, she watched, the carriage turned the corner, and was out of sight. Would there had been no corner—he might, perhaps, have looked again; he did not, and she shut the casement: she had nothing more to see, and leaving the window, she threw her aching head upon the pillow she had wetted with her tears. Poor girl! she never saw him more: her fate was a hard one; for the present, however, we must bid her adieu, and return to Mus- grave, the “MAN of sorrow.” Having wrapped himself up in his travelling coat, the hero of our narrative threw himself into the mail coach at the moment it stopped in the inn-yard, and without taking any notice of his fellow-traveller (for he had one), coiled himself into a corner, determined, if possible, to sleep away some of the dreary hours of his journey. The night happened to be very dark, and Musgrave very restless ; his thoughts wandered very naturally to Harriet, to the duel he had fought, and its consequences, till fancying he F 2 106 THE MAN OF SORROW. heard his fellow-traveller awake, he ventured, by way of diverting his attention, to ask him “if he had any idea what the hour was 2" The gentleman returned no answer. Musgrave was not to be abashed, and there- fore observed, “It was an unpleasant night for travelling.” Still his companion remained silent. “Would you like the window down 7" said Edward. No reply was made, and being curious to know what kind of a being he was shut up with, he stretched forth his hand, and feel- ing the gentleman's surtout, endeavoured to commence a conversation once more, by re- marking, “What a very comfortable coat he had on for a journey !” This agreeable partner of his fatigues, how- ever, persisting in his taciturnity, Edward again essayed to get a little rest, and at length succeeded ; for in about ten minutes he sunk into a sweet sleep, in which he continued till about eight in the morning. At this juncture he awoke; and judge what were his feelings, his sensations, and his ideas, when upon opening his eyes he found that his mail coach friend was nothing more nor THE MAN OF SORROW. 107 less than a Russian bear, muzzled and tied to the seat Thrusting his head out of the window, with an oath he inquired of the coachman, “How the devil the animal had got there?” “Vy I put him there,” said a fellow re- sembling a Cyclops, who was seated on the coach-box. “You did, sir; then now I’ll be obliged to you,” said Edward, “if you will put him somewhere else.” “No I sh'a'nt,” replied the man; “you loves yourself, I loves my bear, 'cause though I keeps him, vy he keeps me, I lives by him; I have paid for him as an inside passenger, and, hang me, if he sh'a'nt ride inside all the way.” “Then I will not,” said Musgrave, at the same moment calling to the guard to open the door. “Do you suppose, sir,” the enraged traveller, “that I am to be shut exclaimed up with a confounded animal to please you ? If the coachman chooses to turn the bear out I’ll go on; if not, I shall proceed in a post- chaise.” Thus the argument continued, till the lord of the whip declared he could not turn the 108 THE MAN OF SORROW. bear out any more than the gentleman; and, therefore, if Mr. Musgrave did not like it, he must leave it. This advice Edward took with great plea- sure, and retiring to the inn, ordered post- horses on to the next stage. The fact was, that the unwelcome guest in the mail was one of the dancing gentry who amuse folks at fairs, and, like the ballet- master at the Opera House, to this accom- plishment he added that of fighting, if neces- sary; so that his master, loving his beast better than himself, had actually paid to have him conveyed inside the coach, while he was content to ride on the outside; such was the gratitude of this fellow to the poor animal, for “As Romulus a wolf did rear, So HE was dry nursed by a bear, That fed him with the purchased prey, Of many a fierce and bloody fray." The incident was a trifling one in itself; but there is no knowing whither trifles may lead, and many were the consequences of this eject- ment of our hero. Having taken a hasty breakfast, he pro- THE MAN OF SORROW. 109 ceeded in the chaise, and after travelling the whole of the day, reached the beautiful village of just as the dews of night were falling. - Not being pressed by any very urgent business, and rather fatigued by the mental as well as bodily exertions he had under- gone, he resolved to sleep at the inn, and not proceed on his journey till the following morning. - He, therefore, secured his bed, and having ordered his supper, sat down to reflect quietly on the events of the last week; in short, according to the recommendation of the learned Dr. Watts, he retraced all his past actions, weighed their merits, considered their faults, and judged their bearings; but, upon summing up, he did not feel that internal satisfaction which his conscience hitherto had used to afford him. What was the action that weighed so heavily upon his mind? Was it the elopement 2 No, not that; there is no sin in love, though love may be the parent of sin ; however, his pas- sion had no offspring of that sort, nor any other, as far as I have heard; therefore on 110 THE MAN. OF SORROW. the score of Harriet his conscience clearly acquitted him. It was from another source his remorse sprang—he had killed a fellow-creature, and though by the laws of honour and his country he was acquitted of every particle of guilt, yet by the laws of NATURE, he was a murderer. The simple Annette, and the simpler Lubin, knew nothing of law, and yet they were mo- rally man and wife; Musgrave was exonerated by the legislature, but the crime in fact he was guilty of; so that the creation of one being by those innocent lovers, and the destruction of another by our hero, were acts of criminality reversed, for as in the one case the parties were legally guilty without guilt, so in the other, the murderer was legally acquitted without being innocent. The law makes nice distinctions. But to proceed : Edward continued his re- flections till he was roused from them by the sound of a pebble striking against the window of his room. Imagining that his sitting with lights in a chamber, without having taken the precaution of closing the shutters, was the cause of this attack from some wanton wag THE MAN OF SORROW. 111 en passant, he rose, and hastily let down the curtain, which effectually concealed him from the observation of straggling wits. In a short time, his supper being introduced, he took what refreshment he required, and retired to bed without delay. s Here on his pillow did he again recall the happy moments he had spent with his Harriet,_ here did he in imagination retrace the smiles she had bestowed upon him, and enjoy in dreams all the pleasures he had felt in pressing her hand to his constant heart. If you are one of those animals denominated by Buffon and several other naturalists—men, you have one girl in your imagination you hold dearer than any other; don't you feel a sort of fluttering in your left breast if you happen to meet her accidentally,– a fear of offending her, — a dread of avoiding her ? Don't your eyes hang upon her charms, her cheek, her lip, her bosom ? and does not con- science whisper it is wrong? Yes, but con- science, like Kemble, has a voice, sweet, not strong, so you curse conscience, and look again. Do you feel a flush on your cheek, and a glowing at your heart, when she speaks to you? a pang if she smiles upon any body else, 1 12 THE MAN OF SORROW. a coldness thrilling through all your veins after having gazed at her, an electrical shock from the touch of her hand, and a transportation to heaven from a smile on her lip 7 You do—you do! Then, my dear reader, concluding that you are a male creature (if you are not, you will, of course, read no farther), you must form some opinion of poor Edward's sensations. “Cum prostrata sopore Urget membra quies, et mens sine pondere ladit.” PETR. In sleeping, the enamoured youth fancies himself clasping the girl that he loves to his breast, flatters himself that he has overcome all difficulties, surly fathers, careful mothers, and worldly guardians,— “For love will hope, when reason would despair.” While the little angel, ripe for joy, with equal fervour, sleeps herself into happiness, and hugging her pillow to her panting bosom, dreams herself into the arms of her constant lover. Poor dear little thing, how disappointed she must be when she wakes' THE MAN OF SORROW. 113 But so it is, fancy drives reason from her seat, and, with sleep for her prime minister, rules the brain with tyrannic sway; love is in- vincible, irresistible, and immeasurable; wis- dom cannot repose, valour cannot vanquish it; and when once it possesseth the heart, adieu to the counsels of the head. “Sequentem fugit—fugientem sequitur.” Edward tossed and tumbled in every direction that his bed would allow of; and in this state of perturbation did he remain till the clock struck three, when, tired with his fancied passion, he fell into a profound sleep. What he dreamt of, worlds would not tempt me even to surmise; may all lovers have similar visions in their slumbers! “Ne voir que bassiers dans les songes, Et soupçonner dans ces mensonges Les douceurs de la vérité.” DoRAT. If imagination, however, was to afford him pleasure, reality had in store a large portion of grief; for judge his feelings, when upon waking in the morning he had the following note put into his hands by a waiter. 114 THE MAN OF SORROW. “11 o'clock, might. “Dearest Edward, “I endeavoured to attract your notice by throwing a pebble against the window of your sitting-room; I saw you come into the house from your chaise, my mother did not; we are to leave this at seven to-morrow morning : if you like to risk a second elopement, her treatment of me is so cruel and harsh, that I am ready to do any thing to escape from her barbarity. Oh, Edward I little thought I ever should be compelled by a parent to act thus. I will not go to bed to-night, but re- main in my room till I hear some signal from you ; you will find I can be resolute. Adieu for ever. “HARRIET WINCENT. “The servant who attended me will bring you this.” “Hell and fury!” cried Edward, “why was nºt this delivered to me last night?” “Why, sir,” said a chamber-maid, as tall as the Monument, with a pair of black eyes, re- sembling a couple of Wedgewood's saucers, “ the lady gived it to me for you, but you THE MAN OF SORROW. 115 were gone to bed, so I gied it to George to gie you the first thing in the morning.” “And where are the ladies 7 ° inquired Musgrave. “They have been gone nearly three hours, sir,” said the waiter; “they were off before seven, it is now just ten.” - “Then I am a wretch, indeed l’exclaimed the Man of Sorrow ; “what must she think of me? Did you tell the young lady,” conti- nued he, “that you could not get the note conveyed to me?” “No, sir,” replied the girl, “I told she you had gotten it, for fear she would be angry with me for not doing as she bid me.” “Then may all the curses of the world light upon you !” exclaimed the frenzied youth. “What am I do—how am I to act? I’ll follow her to the world’s end | Order me a chaise and some of your best horses—I'll proceed this instant—I never, never will give her up ! No, not if I were sure that every mortal man would be my enemy for pursuing her I adore her—I have wooed her—I have gained her : our dispositions—our manners agree, and I defy the endeavours of those who ] 16 THE MAN OF SORROW. would part us. Om will I go—for death omly shall rob me of my Harriet!”* * “ Adjuro nunquam eam me deserturum, Non si cupiundos mihi sciam esse inimicos omnes ho- mines; Hanc mihi expetivi, contegit ; comveniunt mores : valeant Qui inter mos discidium volunt: hanc nisi mors mi ad- imet nemo.” TEE. Andr. Act iv. Sc. 2. CHAPTER X. HERE then was a continuation of Musgrave's ill-luck to have missed another opportunity of making her his — to have had her in his power, — to have been under the same roof, and to have incurred her displeasure, by an apparent neglect of what would have given him the greatest delight. His sorrows seemed as if they never would end, every action of his existence was unpropitious — nothing he ever undertook succeeded, and at twenty years of age he found himself the unsuccessful attempter of an elopement, the murderer of a fellow-creature, and the object of contempt to the girl he adored ! And there is one thing observable in all Musgrave's adventures—which is this, that wherever he failed in any design, the destruc- tion of his hopes was rendered more grievous by the flattering prospects which always pre- ceded their downfall; he was unsuccessful, as it 118 THE MAN OF SORROW . were, by mere accident, and met with sorrows from the most unexpected sources, just at the instant he was on the brink of happiness. There is nothing, perhaps, so melancholy in the world as pursuing an object without overtaking it. Shooting, without ever bringing down a bird; fishing, without ever getting a bite; or making love, without ever winning a heart, are all much of the same species; and in this class of miseries is to be noticed the supreme one of riding twelve miles an hour after a beautiful girl, without being able to catch her. º * This was Musgrave's case, his old luck pursued him; in the first stage, though the chaise flew after the tails of the horses, he was stopped for an hour by the breaking of the traces; in the second, fifty minutes' delay occurred from the falling of one of the wheelers in descending a hill; and in the third, his progress was impeded for a space of time exceeding that consumed in both his other accidents, by the axle-tree cracking into a thousand pieces, as they were rattling over the road in the middle of a heath, from which the nearest village was distant seven miles at least. “Ill luck—ill luck, for ever !” exclaimed THE MAN OF SORROW. | 19 the poor distressed lover; “it really is too much to be borne. What have I done to deserve this combination of accidents to de- stroy my comfort 2 What Fate pursues me with such unrelenting severity?” Here he was thrown out of his conveyance without a possibility of proceeding, with no- thing in the world to cast one ray of comfort over the gloom in which he was involved, when a stage coach coming in sight, he resolved at all events to get into it if there was room for him, as of course this voiture would proceed on the same road as the fair dames he was pursuing, and with greater speed, so that he would still have a chance of overtaking them ; and whenever that oc- curred, it would be not more difficult to dis- engage himself from a public vehicle than from a private one. Indeed the former had one advantage over the latter, which was, that its appearance would not be so likely to create suspicions in the mind of Mrs. Vincent, if they should chance to clash upon the road. I have known an ardent lover not recollect- ing the back of a hostile parent's carriage, drive boldly up to the front of it, at the imminent hazard of betraying himself, and 120 THE MAN OF SORROW. involving the angelic girl in the confusion his detection would have occasioned; but he was a desperate dog, and determined to make one effort, with the same degree of resolution that an angler, after having in vain endeavoured to entice the fish to his bait, throws away his line and hook, and casts a thief met to seize them by force, when he cannot succeed by strata- gem. The vehicle arrived at the spot where Mus- grave's broken chaise was lying, when having inquired if there was a vacant place, and having received an answer in the affirmative, he jumped into the coach in which were al- ready seated four passengers. The first of these was an old fat gentlewoman, who had been taking peppermint for a pain in her stomach, and who, having into the bargain a violent cold in her face, peremptorily refused every body the privilege of lowering the glass of the window, except herself; and to prevent the possibility of increasing the torment she endured in her cheek, she was very tenacious of letting in any of the atmospheric air, ob- serving, with a whiff of her peppermint, that she “was troubled enough with the wind al- ready 1" THE MAN OF SORROW. 121 The second was an elderly gentleman, who was much in the habit of holding forth at various conventicles; he appeared deep in thought, and neither Edward nor his fellow- travellers seemed in the least inclined to dis- turb him from his reverie. -- The third was an Irish gentleman, well known in what are termed the sporting circles, who having dashed down to some of the races in the northern part of England, had been done out of all his ready money, and a curricle in which he had travelled, with the horses and equipments thereunto appertaining: this Hibernian hero was engaged in a political dis- pute with the plump peppermint-taking dame; and the question they were arguing was, whe- ther an expedition to the undiscovered parts of the American Continent might not be condu- cive to the decrease of the price of provision; and they mutually agreed in wondering why the talents of the country had not been already employed in such an enterprise. The fourth and last inhabitant of this lea- thern conveniency was a girl of about seven- teen, who (as it appeared in the sequel) was going to London, to undertake the office of assistant in a ladies' boarding-school near VOL. I. G 122 THE MAN OF SORROW, Chelsea. She was very pretty, very timid, and very silent, three great recommendations to a young lady still in her teens. There was a modesty in her manner, and a retiring bash- fulness so evident in her countenance, whenever the Milesian gentleman played off his jokes upon her, that pleased Edward, and interested him very much in her behalf:—from all ideas but amicable ones, pray, reader, exonerate him, for his heart was Harriet's, and he thought of no one else. In the course of a short time he was, how- ever, induced to take part in the conversation, which grew general, till at length the old Puritan in the corner, after glancing at the immoralities of the age, began thus.- “I heard,” said he, “yesterday a circum- stance that shocked me beyond description. Sir, as I passed through Gretna Green yester- day morning, on my way from Glasgow, whither I journeyed to hear some sermons of my friend Mac Itchen's, I encountered a funeral procession, which, on inquiry, I found to be that of a young man who had been shot in a duel.” Here Musgrave's attention was roused. “And,” continued he, “they tell me that the THE MAN OF SORROW. I23 rascal who murdered him (for murder it is, sir) only quarrelled with him because he found fault with his carrying off a young lady against her own consent, who was very much attached to him.” “Then they have told you a falsehood l’” said Edward, firing up at the misrepresentation he heard given of his own character. “Well, young gentleman, don't be in a passion,” replied the old philosopher. “Whe- ther the matter be as I have exactly stated or not, there is no excuse whatever for one man's . shooting another in a duel.” “Upon my honour,” said the Irish gentle- man, “and I cannot agree with you; I'll be glad to know, sir, what you call the seduction of a sister or the alienation of a mistress's af. fection? I am no fighter, but, by the powers, sir, I shouldn't mind losing my life twenty times in a year in such causes!” “Well, sir,” replied the sage, “there is a difference of opinion; it must exist in the world, and therefore we had better not pursue the subject.” “Oh, well,” cried the honest Hibernian, “I’ll drop it—only I’ll be glad to be told, which is the worse character of the two—the 124 THE MAN OF SORROW. man who ruins innocence, or the man who shoots him that has ruined it ! Gad, sir, the one is as white as this lady's gown, in com- parison to the other, which is as black as the horses that are drawing us.” * “Maybe so,” replied the old satirist, glad of an opportunity to turn the joke upon his antagonist, “may be so, sir; for the horses which are drawing us are white T’’ “White! are they, sir?” bawled O'Connor. “White Egad I’ll be happy to bet you a dozen of claret on that.” “I will not rob you,” answered the Metho- dist ; “for I saw them before we set out, and noticed them particularly.” “Oh, you'll not rob me,” said O'Connor: “by the powers, but I wish you'd take the wager—only look at the shadow, you foolish fellow !—look upon the road—look at the sha- dow of the horses' Isn't it black 7” “Well, sir.” “Look, and by the Holy, did you ever hear of a white horse making a black shadow 2– Oh, you ninny!” This unfortunate Iriscism turned the laugh against O'Connor; and Musgrave, with his usual luck, having got into society where his THE MAN OF SORROW. 125 own conduct was the tone of conversation, endeavoured to avert it, by inquiring of the plump lady, “Whether it was business or plea- sure that called her to the metropolis’ ” “Why, sir,” said she, “I’ll tell you : you must know, I have a daughter living with the Countess of Darkley as a lady's maid, and she is about eighteen, sir; and as I always thought of a quiet, cooseling kind of a disposition, without any more vice or wickedness in her than a baby of a week old. Well, sir, if you'd believe it, the young jade has been fool enough to listen to the lies of one of my lady's foot- men, who has pretended to be in love with her, and she wants me to let her marry him.” “Well !” said Edward, finding he had, with his usual fortune, hit upon another subject, the discussion of which would naturally produce some reflections upon his conduct with Harriet. “Well, sir,” continued the dame, “and I am going to town to insist upon her never seeing this whipper-snapper any more; and if she won't agree to that, I’ll bring her home, and force her from him; for, sir, I’ve no notion of a parcel of pert girls choosing for them- 126 THE MAN OF SORROW. selves: Have you, sir?” cried she, appealing to Musgrave. “Why so far as this, madam,” replied he “I think wherever the parent's sanction can be given with propriety, it should never be withheld.” “With propriety—mighty well!” said the mother; “but what propriety is there in a girl's liking a footman? Why, sir, if a girl was ever so fond of you, and you knew her mother did not wish her to have you, I am sure you would not persuade her, for a minute, to forget her duty to her parent. Why, sir, I would not for the world have a footman for to be my son-in-law. Her father, when he was alive, was as honest a tradesman as any in Manchester, and her uncle is at this moment a major in the army.” “Really l’” said the Methodist, “that makes a difference—a major, is he?” . “Yes, he is,” replied the lady, “he is drum- major in a regiment of the line; so that with- out no disparagement at all, a footman is not the husband for her.” Edward, as usual, had hit upon a wrong to- pic; and in similar discussions to these did THE MAN OF SORROW. 127 they proceed on their journey, till, seeing the smoke of London not many miles before him, he was much surprised at not having overtaken the Vincents, as he was convinced they could not have travelled with half the speed of the coach. He, therefore, took the first opportunity of inquiring of the coachman the reason of their still continuing behind a carriage that was going so much slower. “ Why, sir,” said the man, “there is one reason which settles it all. The post-horses run the upper, and we turned off the Common into the lower road, and we shall come into town at Shoreditch, they by Highgate and Tottenham-court Road.” - “Then I am the most unfortunate fellow under the sun!” exclaimed Musgrave. “Here again I am foiled in every design of my heart— every wish of my soul.—What time shall we reach London 2" “By four o'clock, sir,” was the answer; and in the full contemplation of his misery, he re- sumed his seat in the vehicle, and proceeded with a heavy heart to town. In consequence of a delay, however, occa- sioned by a trifling accident which occurred to 128 THE MAN OF SORROW. the coach, they did not arrive at the Belle Sauvage upon Ludgate Hill till a quarter past seven, and it was near eight o'clock before the passengers and their luggage were clear of the vehicle. The Puritan and the old lady went off immediately to their respective destinations; but the Irish gentleman fixed himself upon the girl mentioned as being intended for a situation in a school, and appeared so ear- nestly to sue for permission to attend her to Chelsea, whither she had declared she was going, that Edward, who had watched his proceedings, perfectly aware of his national character for gallantry, and perfectly assured of the weakness of female resolution when at- tacked in the garb of politeness and attention, determined, if possible, as an atonement for the destruction of one fellow-creature to save the peace and virtue of another. He, therefore, seized an opportunity while O'Connor was absent, of telling the young woman his opinion on the subject, advising her by all means to sleep at the inn that night, adding that if she chose to trust herself to him, he would the next morning escort her to the place of her destination. THE MAN OF SORROW. 129 Now, by what authority Edward took upon himself this guardianship of beauty, it is hard to determine; but certain it is, that the young lady did not appear at all averse to allowing his right of government; for she immediately accepted his offer, and followed his advice, to the great discomfiture of her Hibernian cha- perone. Women, generally speaking, have a pro- digious talent of following the path of pro- priety, particularly when it leads whither their own inclinations point; and without doing any violence either to the judgment, the character, or disposition of the fair traveller, I am apt to suspect that Edward's superiority of manner and appearance, had some little weight with her in her decision. - There is a lady in the great metropolis of London, who has a gradation of acquaintance from the peer to the 'prentice, and if she happens to be in any public place, she gene- rally begins by associating with the lowest; but it is always remarked, that if she sees a baronet, she discards the knight who is holding her arm, while the baronet in his turn gives way to the peer; and thus by her adroitness G 2 - 130 THE MAN OF SORROW. she contrives at last to sport the best company in the room. So, with our young friend, the Irishman was a mighty good sort of body till the young Englishman addressed her, and then with dis- cretion for her oculist, her eyes suddenly were opened to the impropriety of walking four miles with him in the dark, and at the same moment by the same means, she clearly perceived the rectitude of suffering the other gentleman to attend her the same distance in the morning. Edward was really a good creature, and this action of his, which may and will be laughed at by the mad-headed lads of the day as a fine trick, was merely the result of his feelings. He saw a young and unprotected creature entering a metropolis where vice and folly reign su- preme; and he thought if it was possible for him to preserve her from ruin, which he conceived she was in the highroad to under the care of O'Connor, he should be doing an action worthy a man and a Christian in effecting her rescue. Having, therefore, arranged his plan, he changed his dress, strolled into a neighbouring coffee-house, and calling for tea, seated himself. THE MAN OF SORROW. 131 near the fire to consider how he should amuse away the next three or four hours. He first thought of the theatre, but there was no inducement. The old plays he had seen perpetually, and the new ones were not worth seeing at all. He then conceived the idea of going into the gallery of the House of Commons, another theatre; but like the playhouses in Covent Garden and Drury Lane, the actors were for the most part very bad; for, under the new management, a company had been engaged who had no genius of their own, and who had not application to get perfect in their parts. - They had shewn an inclination to produce several pieces, it was true; but two or three of those which were actually on the point of being brought out under the auspices of the manager, had been withdrawn after the first or second rehearsal. Besides, there was another bar to his par- taking the pleasures of senatorial altercation— the Parliament was dissolved. It had melted into ſº “Levis aura;” and the actors had gone into the country to 132 THE MAN OF SORROW. practise, upon provincial stages, the parts they were to play in town. But with respect to these political comedians, it has been observed, with some shrewdness, that though many of them are very promising men, there are very few who perform even decently. While he was ruminating upon his line of conduct for the evening, the door suddenly opened, and, gaily equipped for a party, an old friend of his entered the coffee-room. The mutual inquiries and answers which passed between Edward and his schoolfellow, Jack Milford, are not sufficiently interesting to repeat. Suffice it, therefore, to say, that Jack, after having rallied his friend on the elopement, the duel, and all his other acts of failure, persuaded him to accompany him to an amateur concert in Portman Square, whither he was going with the privilege of introducing a friend. Jack Milford was just two-and-twenty, -of a commanding figure and manner. He was a dasher, and was known at all the coffee-houses about town. He was the greatest epicure in the world; knew where to seek green fat in a turtle, and bonnes bouches in a haunch ; be- longed to eighteen clubs, was intimate with THE MAN OF SORROW. 133 nine aldermen, and always dined at every public dinner in London. One day he was a zealous supporter of the Literary Fund, though he could hardly write; on another, he was anxiously employed in the service of “The Welsh Charity Children,” though he did not care if they were all starved; on a third, he was forwarding the interests of “The Indigent Blind ; ” and on a fourth, espousing the cause of “Insolvent Debtors;” and all for the sake of eating and drinking. Fits of the gout and horrible illnesses were the natural consequences of this conduct; and at twenty-two, Jack Milford was actually a martyr to his benevolent disposition. Under the patronage of this gentleman, Edward jumped into a hackney-coach, and proceeded to the amateur concert, at which, as he really was fond of music, he flattered himself he should feel some gratification. Poor, unhappy Musgrave! nothing but dis- appointments await you; however, let us be silent for the present, and follow them into the room, where sat assembled all the cog- noscenti of the country. CHAPTER XI. GENTLE reader! were you ever at an ama- teur concert? because if you never were, you can form no idea of its charms!— “When Music, heavenly maid, was young,” she never could have been so tormented as she is in a party of amateurs now that she is come to years of discretion. In the gay assembly into which Edward was now introduced, the fiddlers were amateurs, the host was an amateur, his wife was an amateur, his children were amateurs, the com- pany were amateurs, and the servants were amateurs. In the first place, there were but two draw- ing-rooms upon the floor of this house, and the THE MAN OF SORROW. 135 back drawing-room was turned into an orches- tra. The front apartment was appropriated to the audience, who were stuck into rows so closely squeezed together, that when one of the party was seized with a twinge of admira- tion, the twist he or she gave to the body operated upon the whole rank, and they were immediately put into a general motion, like nodding mandarins upon a chimney-piece. Besides three rows of seated connoisseurs, there were myriads of young men not indulged with chairs, who were obliged to stand and admire, till not only their heads were splitting with the noise, but their legs aching with fa- tigue; and these juvenile judges were so com- pletely wedged in, and so dependent for action one upon another, that “Quam multae glomerantur aves, ubi frigidus annus Trans pontum frigat et terris immittit aprices.” In a covy-like manner, if one had occasion to leave the room, the whole flight were disturbed to give him way to pass. Thus was arranged the most outré collection of animals Edward had ever beheld, for he had never been at Pidcock's or the Tower; and the audience of this concert were only equalled by 136 THE MAN OF SORROW. the creatures in those menageries, and only excelled by the band of performers who were playing for their amusement. The leader of this band could not play six notes together correctly; the gentleman who blew into the top of an oboe could never make it sound when he wanted, but always made it emit a hideous squeak when he was particularly anxious to keep it silent. The heroes who wound the horns, though married men, were not au fait with the instru- ments, but aided by two asthmatic bassoon- players, produced sounds, to find a simile for which would subject me to the censure of my readers. I am unhappy that the comparison would be indelicate— “Oh Fato crudele.” A gentleman very active with the violoncello was scratching the strings till “His too solid flesh did melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew," to the total defiance of time and harmony; and to prove his judgment when the leader of the band, during a solo, called to him—“Sir, sir — there are ten bars’ rest here,” he bawled THE MAN OF SORROW. 137 out, scraping with increased fury, “rest !— psha what should I rest for 7 I am not tired in the least, I thank you!” Oh, blest shades of Mozart and Handel, why did not your canonised bones resume their wonted action, and rise in the centre of these murderers of your music! At length a miss with a nose of an extraordi- mary formation came forward to sing; with her nose I do not mean to find fault; but as that excellent author Colman observes, “Though the prejudice goes Very strongly in favour of wearing a nose, Yet a nose should not look like a snout.” Now hers certainly had a snoutish appear- ance; but as ladies do not sing through the nasal promontory in general, the audience looked below to the mouth, which in justice to the nose I must observe was full as frightful, if not more so. At length silence being obtained, with a pair of hands like bunches of radishes, she ran over the keys of the piano-forte, and taken in the “Jack Ketch” sense of the word, she executed the air in a complete style. But her voice, when it came, was so divine, that every 138 THE MAN OF SORROW. body in the room would have rejoiced if the gods had kept it entirely to themselves. She squalled to that degree, that the lemon- ade glasses vibrated with the noise, the candles actually melted at the sound; and amateurs roared brava, brava, at the same time twisting their faces into the contortions of a society of sick monkeys. She courtesied as she finished, and retired. Another symphony succeeded, Beethoven's name resounded through the room, and the poor master was mutilated, while one miss, closing her eyes, cried to a beau next her, “Mon Dieu, how delightful!” and another, with a look which stamped her contempt, exclaimed, “How charmingly Miss Laurina played that concerto ” In the midst of all this harmony, Edward was not a little surprised by the entrance of Lady Rosemore, decked out in all the grandeur of diamonds and drapery; a bow of black crape, pinned in the centre of her dress, indi- cated mourning for her seventeenth cousin, Savage, whose death she had only heard of in the morning. Her affliction for the loss of a relation was, however, not sufficient to prevent her attending so gay a party. She saw Mus- THE MAN OF SORROW. 139 grave in a moment, and after exclaiming, “Musgravel who should have expected to have seen you here ?— Why, I thought you were in prison for shooting Savage—I’m sure you de- serve it!”—she seated herself among a party of her acquaintance, and amused herself by pointing our hero as a disappointed lover and the murderer of a man of fashion. The whisper ran round the room, and the unfortunate Edward was as usual betrayed into an unpleasant dilemma by his fate, from which he contrived, however, to extricate him- self by leaving the party, in which flight (with difficulty effected) Jack Milford accompanied him. Edward would not have had Lady Rosemore see him in a party for the world, it must have the appearance of a total want of feeling towards Harriet, and towards the man he had killed, and how to explain away his conduct he knew not. Milford proposed some supper, and at Ste- vens's they took refreshment. He talked of the claret, and it was called for ; glass suc- ceeded glass, bottle followed bottle, till imper- ceptibly the facetious Jack, and the distressed Edward, became so extremely gay, that at 140 THE MAN OF SORROW, . three o'clock in the morning it was thought expedient by the waiters to conduct them to a hackney-coach they had in attendance. Having seated themselves, the man was de- sired to proceed to Ludgate Hill, but they had not made much way on their journey before Milford proposed knocking up a female friend of his, who lived in Portland Street, and who, though he had not paid her a visit for nearly two months, would, he was sure, give them a bed; or at least part of one, observing that it would be a much better plan than going into the City at that late hour. Edward by far too agreeable to disagree to any proposal, readily assented; and the coach was ordered to a particular number in Portland Street, to which point hastening with all speed, they soon reached the desired spot in safety. To prevent any disturbance, they discharged their jarvy, and having ascertained the door, Jack thundered at it most violently—no an- swer was given—a second rap assailed the portal “Vastis tremit ictibus.” This had not the desired effect—a third did the business. The bolts were drawn, and the THE MAN of sorrow. 14] door softly opened by a female, who softly in- quired what their business might be? Jack softly answered, by softly squeezing the maid in his arms, softly printing a kiss upon her cheek, and softly pushing her back, he softly entered the passage — (the house passage). i Edward followed his leader, and the woman immediately, with a voice resembling thunder, as closely as her looks did lightning, called the watch — rattles were sprung —“Thieves | – thieves!” was the word, and the door was shortly surrounded by the guardians of the night. Jack, always expert, bolted through the back door, and, sobered by the alarm, scaled the garden wall, and dropped into a mews at the back of the house. Edward pursued by misfortune, intoxicated as he was, ran up the bed-room stairs, per- suaded that his companion was safely closeted with his chere amie, the mistress of the house; when, what was his horror, his astonishment, and surprise, on his reaching the top of the flight, to find himself standing, or rather reel- ing, before his own, his adorable Harriet Vincent 142 THE MAN OF SORROW. sº This was the climax of his miseries, and without waiting for any thing more than a shriek of horror from the lovely girl, he rushed down-stairs, and was given in charge to the attending watchmen. The truth of the matter was, that the house had changed its inhabitants since Milford had visited it, and it had been hired that very day by Mrs. Vincent, for her residence during her stay in town. But strange to say, Mrs. Vincent herself at the time of this confusion was not at home. She had been invited to a ball and supper, by a friend, on her arrival in town (to which Harriet for many reasons did not choose to accompany her), and she was not then re- turned from it. This accounts for the door of the house being opened by the drowsy servant, who expecting her mistress naturally threw wide the portal, and admitted the enemy. The watchmen, however, were taking charge of Edward, who by this time was in a state of much greater sobriety than he was at his first entrance into the house, when the heavenly disposition of Harriet displayed itself in glow- ing colours. THE MAN OF SORROW. 143 Insulted, outraged, and abused as she was by the conduct of Musgrave, resolved as she was never to speak to him again, after be- haviour so grossly indicative of a total forget- fulness of her—even with these feelings, the amiable girl could not endure that he should suffer confinement, even one night, in what she imagined a prison. Thus it was, with that goodness for which she was always celebrated, at the risk of her character, at the hazard of her fair fame, did she rush down-stairs, and declare to the men who had her Edward in custody, “that he was an acquaintance, whose misconduct only pro- ceeded from inebriety.” He was immediately liberated, and with the ardour of his disposition would have thanked her for her benevolence on his knees; but re- suming her character, and acting upon the feel- ings of wounded delicacy, when she had fol- lowed the dictates of noble friendship, she or- dered the door to be closed upon him, and after extorting a promise from the servant (the only one then in the house) that she would not mention the circumstance to her mother, with a heart bursting with grief at Musgrave's conduct, she retired to her room. 144 THE MAN OF SORROW. What a multitude of reflections intruded themselves at this moment upon the unhappy girl's imagination! What an escape had she experienced in being parted from a man, who in four short days had so entirely forgotten her, that, regardless of decency and propriet he could . into the º º º licentious extremes of debauchery ! But even then her forgiving spirit whispered something like a justification of his conduct— might his sorrows not have tempted him to have recourse to wine? and might he not have swallowed more than prudence dictated, only to avoid reflection?—it might be so; but that he should force himself into her mother's house, and into her presence, while in a state of intoxication, was a circumstance she could not account for : for she did not understand that his visit was paid by mistake, and least of all did she suspect it was intended for another female. If any thing can be adduced to check the rage for drinking, so detestably prevalent among the young men of the day, surely the consideration of consequences might have some effect. * “Oh that men should put an enemy into THE MAN OF SORROW. 145 their mouths to steal away their brains ! that we should with joy, revel, pleasure, and ap- plause, transform ourselves into beasts l’” While there is a gratification in drinking, for the satisfaction of thirst, or even while the taste of wine is pleasant, there may be an ex- cuse for swallowing it; but when itself has robbed the votary of Bacchus (as a drunkard is termed) of the power of discrimination,-- nay, when the very flavour of the liquor itself becomes nauseous, what excuse can the wittiest bring for sottishness 7 Does it improve the person ?—No. What figure is so disgusting as that of an inveterate drinker? Does it add lustre to wit 2––No, for what character is so nearly allied to folly as a man intoxicated? Does it benefit the consti- tution ?—No, for where is the drunkard who is a healthy man 7 Are not the brightest talents made of no- thing worth by perpetual intoxication ? Is not the statesman degraded, and the wit rendered contemptible, by a constant and habitual use of wine ! Have we not examples before us, where every earthly qualification is marred by it, and where poverty and ignominy are the VOL. I. H 146 THE MAN OF SORR. O.W. reward of exertions weakened by its influence, which, used with sobriety and temperance, would deserve, and might have received, the meed of honour and the wreath of fame 7 The madman is a mischievous member of society, yet in the knowledge of his disease we possess the power of restraining his fury; but the wisest and best of men, heated with wine, may, in the hour of intoxication, commit not only acts of folly, but of vice; the secret of his friend may be betrayed, the honour of his mistress vilified,—nay, there have been in- stances, where, in the heat of drunkenness, murder has been committed by the most vir- tuous of characters. In the very instance before us, Edward Musgrave, with a heart wholly Harriet's, his fate actually entwined with hers, without a thought but for her happiness, without a wish but for her comfort, by the force of wine so completely committed himself, that she, with a spirit highly commendable, before her mother returned, resolved NEVER To SEE HIM AGAIN 1 Poor Edward himself was not very happy in his mind as he walked seriously to the City; and it was with no small difficulty he could be THE MAN OF SORROW. 147 persuaded by Jack Milford, who had arrived at the Belle Sauvage before him and was wait- ing for him, to go to rest. He had offended Harriet, his conduct must corroborate his apparent neglect of her at the inn where they met; and when he considered all the circumstances that had occurred since his parting with her at Gretna Green, his brain was actually affected. He raved of her, he cried, and tore his hair, he was uncertain how to act; he had no rival–should he again apply to her mother? No, she would be still obdurate. What was to be done? He at length resolved : he was first, according to his pro- mise, to accompany Miss Greenford, his tra- velling companion, to Chelsea in the morning, and on his return to town, he would write an explanatory letter to Harriet, which, as he had in his misfortune discovered her residence, he imagined might easily be delivered to her clandestinely. - He, therefore, retired to rest after taking leave of his FRIEND, and remained in bed, though without once closing his eyes, till nine in the morning; when, descending to the par- lour, he desired the waiter to tell the young lady, that if it was agreeable to her, he would | 48 THE MAN OF SORROW . take breakfast with her, as he thought it ex- pedient they should in some degree become acquainted with each other before they set out upon their little journey. They accordingly met, and she, with the candour of youth, related her story to him, and informed him that she was the daughter of a clergyman in the north of England, who, from the largeness of his family, was com- pelled to place some of them in the most elegible situations he could procure for them; that this was the first time of her leaving home; and that she was particularly obliged to Mus- grave for the trouble he was about to take upon her account. In such conversation did their time pass, when having forwarded her luggage by an errand-cart, she set out under the protection of our hero for her new situation. It was almost eleven when they left the inn, and the girl, naturally delighted and surprised with the grandeur and bustle of the metropolis, seemed to regret that they had not occasion to traverse more of it than came under their notice in their progress to Chelsea. Upon reaching Piccadilly, Edward, to gratify her desire of seeing, entered the Green Park THE MAN OF SORROW. 149 at the gate nearest the basin, and proceeded by the ranger's house towards Grosvenor Place. It was during their march up Constitution Hill, that, the wind blowing rather freshly, a tippet, which was tied on the lady's neck, blew aside, and Edward, with his usual gal- lantry, without letting go the arm he held, ad- justed it with the one he had at liberty, and in this tender mode of accommodating the lady, he was suddenly surprised at a turn in the walk by MRs. VINCENT and HER DAUGHTER Here was his luck: Harriet turned pale, and had nearly fainted in her mother's arms; he coloured, trembled, and, without noticing them, passed on. He could not resist, he stopped, looked back, so did Harriet, and with an expression of countenance that would have melted a heart of stone, caught away her eyes the mo- ment they met Edward's. “You know those ladies,” said Miss Green- ford; “do not let me prevent your joining them I beg, I am sure I can find my way.” “Know them!” exclaimed Musgrave, “know them —Oh—yes, yes I do, indeed.” “I must beg,” replied she, “that you will leave me and follow them.” 150 THE MAN OF SORROW. “No, madam,” said Edward, “it must not be. What will she think,+what but suppose, that her Edward is a villain 7 But to Provi- dence alone I trust to undeceive her.” He was no longer an agreeable companion to Miss Greenford, not a word did he speak, he thought her the most odious creature he had ever seen, and when they reached the door of the house into which she was going, he bade her good morning without exactly knowing whether he stood upon his head or his heels, and turning from the steps he set off towards town with the most agonising sensations he had ever experienced. “AEstuatingens Uno in corde pudor, mixtoque insania luctu, Et Furiis agitatus amor, et conscia virtus.” VIRG. AEm. lib. xii. ver. 666. CHAPTER XII, PERHAPs never was man so pursued by mis- fortune as our hero, criminated by the most potent of all evidence, ocular demonstration, he had twice, in the course of twelve hours, been thrown under the observation of his lovely Harriet, and in such situations as made it im- possible for her to doubt his guilt. The former incident occurred while in a state of inebriation, and by pleading folly he might have obtained forgiveness; but here, in sober sadness, did she behold him in the broad noon of day, with the greatest familiarity and the most perfect nonchalance, adjusting the tippet of a young lady (and a pretty one too), hanging on his arm in the Green Park. What an insult to her feelings, what a proof of falsehood, to have lost the recollection of a 152 THE MAN OF SORROW. girl so fascinating as she must be conscious she was, in so short a time, and with a fickleness amounting to villany, to be sporting off an- other in one of the most tonish lounges in London' Her mother did not fail to enlarge upon this subject; and however unwilling Harriet might be to concede to any thing which implicated her Edward's honour, facts are stubborn things, and what she had seen could hardly be op- posed as a defence against her parent's allega- tions. This was Mrs. Vincent's triumph; now it was that she expatiated upon the miraculous preservation of her child from the clutches of such a villain as Musgrave, at the same time adducing all the mishaps which delayed the consummation of the ceremony as the won- derful interposition of an all-seeing Providence, who, with a carefulness a disobedient mortal hardly deserved, had snatched from ruin the votary of deception, and the victim of vice. In this manner did she exult over the feel- ings of the broken-hearted Harriet, who trem- bled at the propriety of her mother's argu- ments; to be deceived in Edward—was it possible he could be false ? She still hoped not. THE MAN OF SORR. O.W. 153 When she recollected the conversation that had passed at the Cottage between them, when enfolded in his arms they had sealed them with a kiss, the solemn ratification of their engagements to each other, and recalled the words with which he pleaded his passion; when she retraced the glow of animation that lighted up his countenance as he gazed upon her, she could not imagine that the ingenuous Musgrave could ever be a traitor. For him and his feelings there is hardly a mortal hardened enough not to shed a tear; his heart was actually breaking, he spoke uncon- sciously, talked of Harriet, looked wildly, and by his actions induced every body at the inn to imagine him disordered in his senses. At length, having in some degree calmed the tumult in his breast, he sat down and wrote the following letter to Harriet :- “Belle Sauvage Inn, Ludgate Hill. “My dearest Harriet, “How shall I address you, -how convince you of my innocence? Appearances are strongly against me. You know my general luck, you will make allowances for ill fortune, and not deny me the mercy I implore. Oh! Harriet, if I H 2 154 THE MAN OF SORROW. were to write volumes I could not express my feelings at this moment—my conduct last might, my appearance this morning ! Good God! what must you think of me? Angel of goodness, I am not the wretch I seem to be. By letter I cannot explain the circumstances which will exonerate me; but we shall meet, and then I shall be able to convince you, in- deed—indeed, best of girls, I am, as I ever shall be, Yours inviolably and devotedly, “EDw ARD MUSGRAve. “Cannot you contrive an arrangement for an interview º' Having finished this epistle, he began to re- flect on the best method of getting it conveyed, and for this purpose planned a thousand schemes, each of which, after deliberation, he found to be impracticable. At length he recol- lected that Harriet had a friend resident in a street near that in which their present habita- tion was fixed, on whose honour he determined to rely; but the same reasons which kept him from the Vincents prevented his appearing at the Hammonds'; therefore, this letter to be conveyed to Harriet, must first be given to THE MAN OF SORROW. 155 Miss Hammond, and the person who delivered it must not be himself. What was now to be done 7 Here he was at fault, he knew nobody of their acquaintance, none of their connexions; and it was at this juncture, that, by the merest accident in the world, a gentleman entered the coffee-room whom he recollected once to have seen with them and the Vincents. They mutually saluted each other, and as Edward was on the point of ordering dinner, he observed, that, if it was agreeable, they might dine together; to this the other replying in the affirmative, they sat down in the same box; and while the repast was preparing, Edward began to beat about the points he had to enforce to his companion. This friend, whose name was Wilmore, was, as it happened, going that very evening to a party at Hammond's, where, doubtless, the Vincents would be ; this knowledge gained, Musgrave after dinner broke his mind to him, and he, with all the readiness that characterises youth, instantly caught the design, and volun- teered his services as the Mercury of the business. To his care, then, was the despatch confided, 156 THE MAN OF SORROW. and Edward's heart did not flutter a little as he saw him leave the coffee-room on his em- bassy, which, however, he would not suffer him to do till he had promised to return after the party, and report progress. To describe Edward's anxiety, or to account for the method by which he wasted time till half-past twelve, would be only to tire the reader with reflections; suffice it to say, that as the dial pointed to the midway figure be- tween the last hour of night and the first of morning, his eyes were blessed with the sight of Wilmore entering the room with the smile of triumph on his countenance. “Has she got it?” exclaimed Musgrave. “Yes, by Jupiter! and has consented to meet you.” “To meet me !” cried he. “Yes, to-morrow morning, with Miss Hammond, in Kensington Gardens, at eleven o'clock,” replied Wilmore. “You are a lucky dog; she is the sweetest girl in Europe, and she loves you!” “Bless her! bless her l’’ whispered Edward, “she is an angel!” * “And what do you think of Lucy Ham- mond 7" said Wilmore. THE MAN OF SORROW. 157 “Oh ! she is another angel,” cried he ; “ she is the angel of goodness, and will meet her re- ward in heaven.” “I hope on earth first,” said Wilmore. “I caught an opportunity,” continued he, “of speaking to her alone, and I simply asked her, if she was in the confidence of Miss Vincent, her answer was yes; I asked her if she would give her the letter, her answer was yes again; so that though two negatives make an affirm- ative, two affirmatives do not make a nega- tive.” “True,” cried Edward, enchanted with the prospect of the meeting. “Well, and what then 2° “Why then,” said Wilmore, “I gave her the note, and joined the party; she called Harriet Vincent out of the room, and of course gave her the letter; for while we were at supper, Lucy, sitting next to me, whispered the message in answer, which I have delivered to you.” “And to-morrow, them, I shall see my dear, dear girl again?” said Musgrave. “To be sure you will,” replied Wilmore; “and as you are to be with her early, I would advise you to retire to rest directly ; it is now 158 THE MAN OF SORROW. late, and eleven is fixed for the hour, be there before your time, for punctuality in love is tar-- diness; so Heaven bless you, and prosper you in your undertaking.” “Ten thousand thanks, my good sir,” said Musgrave, taking his hand; “I shall never be able to repay you for this kindness.” “Well then,” said Wilmore, “I must be like Lucy Hammond, and meet my reward in a better world; for the present, however, good night. I have no doubt that you will be able to cancel all these obligations by coming down to a house I have got in Berkshire, and spend- ing a few weeks with me, we shall then be equally indebted to each other.” In these, and similar acknowledgments, did they spend the last ten minutes of the time they were together ; and when they parted, Edward retired to rest with a heart consider- ably lighter than it was when he rose in the morning; and elated with the idea of the interview with his angelic girl, after desiring to be called by nine o'clock, he fell into a pro- found sleep, undisturbed by sad reflections or unpleasant dreams. When the hour arrived at which he had de- sired to be awakened, the servant who offici- THE MAN OF SORROW. 159 ated as lark to rouse him from his slumbers, entered his room, and Edward having hastily made his toilet, proceeded to breakfast, when his anticipated happiness was turned to the deepest sorrow by observing it to be the most rainy n:orning that he had ever beheld. This put an end to the promised meeting. The ladies could not, even if they had the wish, venture to Kensington Gardens in such incle- ment weather. What was, therefore, the best plan to pursue 2 Something, he thought, was necessary to do to avert the ill fortune that still haunted him : at length he resolved upon visiting the street in which the Hammonds resided. For this purpose, enveloping himself in a great-coat, and arming himself with an um- brella, he repaired to the vicinity of their house, and in passing, as if accidentally, before the windows, caught a glimpse of Lucy Ham- mond, who at the same moment saw him. Conscious of having been noticed, he did not know how to act, whether to continue his perambulation, or to return quietly to the Belle Sauvage, and see whether the ladies would condescend to write to him any account of their movements. 160 THE MAN OF SORROW. While he was in this state of doubt, he was accosted by a gentleman he immediately re- cognised to be young Mr. Hammond's tutor, who, finding himself remembered by our hero, told him that he had a note for him from a lady. “My dear sir,” said Edward, “I really am most particularly obliged to you.” “Oh! don't mention it,” replied the tutor: “here is the note, and Miss Hammond desires me to say how sorry she is that the weather prevented her going out as she intended. There is no answer,” added he, “therefore I will not detain you, sir, but wish you a very good morning.” “A thousand thanks, sir,” said Edward ; “you will give my best love to the ladies.” “Certainly, sir,” were the last words the gentleman uttered; and the moment he had turned the corner of the street, Edward, with a natural impatience, broke open the note, and, to his great disappointment, read as follows:— “You must be well convinced how very unpleasant this clandestine correspondence is to my friend and myself; we entreat you, as THE MAN OF SORROW. 16] you value our happiness, to give up any fur- ther intercourse; we are going to-day to the Cottage, and will, if possible, contrive to see you there. * - “ LUCY HAMMOND.” “To the Cottage!” said Edward; “then I will proceed homeward to-day; and by getting down at the village before them, prevent the suspicion that they are the causes of my going there at all.” This resolution, formed on the impulse of the moment, was as hastily put into execution. He returned immediately to the Belle Sauvage, and ordering a post-chaise, settled his account, packed up his baggage, and set off for his father's house, whence he had been absent ex- actly a week. CHAPTER XIII. EDwARD arrived at home about four in the afternoon, and his father, whom he had made acquainted with the cause of his ab- sence, received him with open arms. After the first inquiries and salutations were past, the old gentleman, however, could not refrain from saying a few words on the subject of his con- duct. “My dear boy,” exclaimed the parent, “there are two parts of your expedition to Scotland which I disapprove of extremely; the one is the undertaking of it at all, and the other is the failing of it, as you did undertake. I like every thing to succeed, let it be what it may. However,” continued he, “the warmth of your temper certainly got the better of your discretion in this instance, for had THE MAN OF SORROW, 163 you applied to me instead of to Mrs. Vincent, I could have settled the business in a very brief manner, at least so I imagine.” “Indeed, sir!” said Edward. “Yes, my son,” replied Mr. Musgrave, “you should have made a confidant of me: there is nobody who has the interest of a young man at heart so much as his father; nobody is there, therefore, who can be trusted with so much reliance; yes, Edward, had you only informed me of your wishes upon this subject, I am almost certain that the mother of Miss Vincent would not have withheld her consent to your marriage an hour; she certainly could have had no reasonable grounds for so doing.” “And is it too late now, sir?" inquired the anxious son. “To be plain with you, Edward, no ; it may be arranged now, it shall be arrange now.” - “Ten thousand thousand blessings, my dear father,” cried the enraptured boy. “Is Mrs. Vincent here at present?” inquired the old gentleman. “She will be here, sir, in the course of the day,” replied he. “Well, Edward,” continued his father, “then 164 THE MAN OF SORROW. we will send this letter to the Cottage, which I wrote in readiness, in case you should ap- prove my plan; believe me, the communication I here propose to make, will settle all differ- ences between you and Mrs. Vincent. Read what I have said.” Edward took up the paper, and read as follows:— “Madam, “Understanding an attachment exists be- tween your daughter and my son, and having no wish but his happiness, as I conclude your sentiments with regard to Miss Vincent are nearly similar, I think if there is a possibility of accommodating matters for their marriage without a violation of propriety or reason, it would be advisable by all means to have it effected; for that purpose, madam, I have a communication to make, which, I think, will throw a new light upon the subject, and war- rant our proceeding in the business, as I know nothing would give me greater pleasure than a connexion between our families. I have to request a meeting on the subject as early as it may suit your convenience; and in the hope that we may be more closely allied, I have the THE MAN OF SORROW. 165 honour to subscribe myself, with the greatest respect, “Your very humble Servant, “JAMES MUSGRAVE.” This letter opened a new world to Edward on the subject of his father's intentions and circumstances with respect to himself; he was at a loss to conceive what incident there could be, which his father had so long and so closely concealed from him, which could so materially affect the Vincents, a family almost strangers to him, as to alter their decisions and arrange- ments. Careless, however, of every thing but the existence of such a circumstance, Edward himself was the bearer of the letter to the Cottage. With what pleasing, yet melancholy, ideas did the sight of that cottage inspire the san- guine young man It was under that roof he had passed the most delightful hours of his life; it was from under that roof he had stolen the sweetest girl in the world; and it was under that roof that they were soon to be reconciled. The anticipation of this event gave him the 166 . THE MAN OF SORROW. greatest delight; he began to imagine all the scenes which would take place after their re- union, when he should enjoy the society of the angelic girl under the sanction of her mother, when he might without fear or disguise avow his attachment with an open boldness, which he had never even in his days of happiness dared to do. The evening wore apace; and at about nine o'clock, the following note, in answer to Mr. Musgrave's letter, announced the arrival of the Vincents at the village. Its contents were these words:— “Mrs. Vincent presents her best compli- ments to Mr. Musgrave. She cannot say any thing upon the subject of his letter till she has had a conference with him ; the pleasure of seeing him she shall have, if convenient, at seven o'clock to-morrow evening, either at his house or the Cottage, whichever may suit his convenience better. ${ Cottage, Dec. 15, 1800.” If the reader has a fertile imagination, he will readily conceive the rapture with which Edward received these few words, and his plea- THE MAN OF SORROW . I67 & sure was not a little increased by his father re- peating the assurances he had before given him, that the communications he should make at the meeting would be decisive, and that the result of their conversation would be favour- able to his hopes and wishes. - Still, however, he could not imagine what it could be that was to have so much weight with them, nor how his father could have any con- nexion with their family; he determined at any rate patiently to await the event, and by different stratagems succeeded in wasting the day till dinner-time, without seeing Har- riet, whom he concluded was confined to the house by the badness of the weather, as he had not caught one glimpse of her in the garden. Dinner being over, Edward's heart beat for the interview, which it was settled was to take place at Musgrave's house. It was now six ; Mrs. Vincent was to call at seven, and Edward proceeded to his room to adonize for the meeting, in which operation he had not busied himself many minutes, when a violent noise, followed by the most dreadful shrieks, assailed his ears. What the uproar meant he was at a loss 168 THE MAN OF SORROW. even to imagine; and rushing down-stairs to inquire the cause, judge his horror and as- tonishment on entering the dinner parlour, to behold the parent he had a few minutes before left in perfect health—a lifeless corpse ! So it was : an apoplectic fit had seized the old gentleman, and in an instant the vital breath was gone; he had fallen from his chair, and was, when Edward entered the room, lying on the ground, the servants surrounding him chafing his temples, and rubbing his hands, endeavouring to recall departed anima- tion ; but it was all over, life had left him, and the wealth of worlds could not restore him. Edward’s distress was at first counterbalanced by his astonishment—he could not believe it possible. His misery appeared too great to be credited ; but when the whole extent of his affliction burst upon his mind, madness took possession of him, force could not restrain him. He seized the cold hand of his dead father, and pressed it to his lips, caught the old man's body in his arms, and imprinted a thousand kisses upon his chilling forehead. The cheek was still warm—he felt it—he thought his father was not dead—he pressed THE MAN OF SORROW . 169 his hand—the hand that had nursed him, fed him, fostered him ; but the old man could not feel it. He was cold—cold—cold. The surgeon who had been sent for at this moment arrived ; Edward flew to him, im- plored him to use his skill. He accordingly endeavoured to open a vein, but all was fruit- less—it was past recalling. The soul of Musgrave had winged its flight to Heaven. Nothing could persuade the unhappy youth to leave his father's body—force alone effected the separation ; and then every moment that he was left alone he would steal to the cham- ber-door where the body lay, and call upon him as if he thought he could awaken him. For he did love his father with his whole heart and soul. He knew—he felt—his loss would be a heavy one to him. What a reverse in one short hour ! All the prospects of a reconciliation with the Vincents blighted—the parent he adored sunk into the silent sleep of death; and Edward, from an idolised child, transformed into an isolated being, without a relation that he knew of to protect him from the craft of the world, or the rude storms of adversity. When the surgeon, who was the only one of VOL. I. I 170 THE MAN OF SORROW. the neighbours who had been admitted, advised Edward to search for a will, if there was one in existence, the wretched young man spurned at the idea, till, considering that some wish of his father's with respect to his funeral might be contained in it, he consented to examine his escritoires. Accordingly, with the assistance of the medical man, he looked over every drawer and every paper of his deceased parent, but among none of the collections could they dis- cover the object of their search; concluding, therefore, that there was no will, they re- linquished the pursuit; and Edward gave the necessary directions for the solemn ceremony of interment, with as much calmness and re- solution as he was able to command. But from the time that his father's corpse was stretched in the coffin till the hour of the funeral, never for one moment did this poor broken-hearted boy leave the bier, except when the hours denoted it was bed-time. Sleep was an utter stranger to him—he could think of nothing but his father: his only friend was gone, and he had no one now in the world who cared for him. At length the dreadful day arrived when THE M A N OF SORROW. 171 the corpse of Mr. Musgrave was to be lowered into the grave, the dark and narrow tenement, prepared alike for peasants and for princes. Before the moment came when the attendants were to fix the coffin-lid for ever over the face of his parent, Edward bedeved his cheek with the tear of unfeigned sorrow, a jewel worthy of a monarch's crown—a gem inestimable in its value. Poor wretch of sorrow ! to lose thy parent—and at such a moment, too, when the cup of happiness was lifted to thy lips 1 The remark made in the early part of this volume applies here again, the contrast, if possible, made the grief more potent. The solemn procession left the house and proceeded to the church—Edward had not courage to follow it; but as soon as the mourners returned he took an affectionate leave of them, and attended by the surgeon we have mentioned before, set off for town, whither he was called by the necessary forms of administration to his late father's property. These he went through during the course of the next three or four days, which he spent at the house of the mother of his companion. To describe the poignancy of his grief, or the strength of his feelings, requires an abler 172 THE MAN OF SORROW. pen than mine; and as I am conscious of my inability to do them justice, I will avoid an exposure of my weakness by the attempt. While, therefore, he is indulging in his woe, we will recur for a moment to Mary Williams, of whom we have heard nothing since Savage's departure from the village, in the month of May, preceding the present December. # CHAPTER XIV. WHAT a horrid reflection must it be to a man (if he reflect at all) to consider himself the seducer of virtue, and the despoiler of innocence | Such must have been Savage's feelings whenever he gave a retrospective glance at his own conduct. Mary Williams, had she never seen him, might have been a peaceful inhabitant of the village without one care to disturb her repose, one sorrow to in- terrupt her happiness. It will, no doubt, be observed, that the fault was her own. I must say, not entirely— I am far from vindicating her conduct, not because I think her morally guilty, but because I am afraid of being accounted immorally so myself; and yet, with all my timidity upon the oc- casion, I am unwilling to give her up. 174 THE MAN OF SORROW. I know there are many elderly ladies, who curl up their countenances into a sneer of con- tempt at an action like this, and say they have no notion of such vile doings. But recollect, my tabbies, Mary had at least the excuses of youth and inexperience on her side ; her heart was free—she gave it to Savage, who to all appearance gave his to her in return. Recollect she loved him, she was elated—they were to part the next day for a long period; recollect all this, and you will find some excuses for Mary. It was a mis- deed done from the warmth of passion; she did not know the world, and, therefore, imagined where there were obligations on one side, there naturally would be gratitude on the other ; she chose to command his affection as well as deserve it, and thus it was the unso- phisticated girl yielded up her honour in barter for his love. Let us not reproach her—the hour of re- tribution was at hand; she had sorrows to undergo, mortifications to endure, the man who had seduced her from the paths of virtue had quitted the only place where she could have any control over him—he was gone to mix in the gay, the fashionable world, in THE MAN OF SORROW. I 75 parties and brilliant assemblies, where thou- sands of girls handsomer, cleverer, and richer than Mary, would be anxious to possess him for a husband; he would forget that she was in existence—and when he saw the counte- nance of beauty turned towards him with a smile, he would as naturally be attracted to it as the needle to the pole. With these ideas Mary's heart could not be very free from pain, and if eyes speak truth (and I am much inclined to think they do) hers told the sorrows she endured—she was sad and wretched. She watched the hours—called on Savage — she could not sleep — she prayed — lis- tened, thought she heard his voice—called on him again. It was not him—it was the storm that whistled through the trees — the rain that pattered hard against her chamber casement, and yet she continued to call on him— “Quel Rosignol, che si soave piagne Forse suo' figli, o sua cara consorte, Di dolcezza empie il cielo, e le campagne Con tante note si pietose, e scorte.”” * PET. Sonnetto xxx. 176 THE MAN OF SORROW. The day after the accomplished man of pride left the village, there had been a storm ; the house of Mary's father had but a narrow escape—the tree that stood before the door was shivered by the lightning, and the woodbine twisted round the porch was blighted, killed— emblem of its wounded mistress. Like thee, sweet woodbine, is the weeping maid—struck by the withering blast of desola- tion—alike ye droop—alike expire! Man—man—proud lord of the creation, look here and shudder 1–these are thy works —a lovely girl, all mirth, all happiness, all inno cence—gone—lost for ever !—her only chance her seducer's honour! A mighty staff for sin to lean upon For some weeks after Savage's departure, she retained something like her usual cheer- fulness; but when two months had elapsed, and no tidings had arrived of him—not one word—one line to comfort her, she sunk into a despondency, which her father noticed ; but which, as he attributed it only to LovE, he appeared not to observe. For hours would she sit in her room, with her hair hanging loosely over her neck, her pallid cheek reclined upon her hand, THE MAN OF SORROW. I77 and in her solitude, with a book, endeavour to restore her mind to its wonted serenity. Now, reader, what book was it she had chosen 7–Was it the Monk 7–No ! Little's Poems ?”—No! Moore's Odes and Epistles ºf —No! The Miseries of Human Life 7–No ! The Comforts 2— No 1 * There is really— “Multum in Parvo,” which she must have understood f Wide “Edinburgh Review,” No. 16.—It was this Review that gave rise to a duel between Mr. Moore and Mr. Jeffreys, the editor; the combatants met, but were prevented doing one another any prejudice, by being apprehended, and brought before the magistrates at Bow Street; where, upon examination, their pistols proved to be loaded not with balls, but with PELLETs of PAPER.—On this ridiculous circumstance the following epigram was founded :— EPIGRAM. When Anacreon would fight, as the poets have said, A reverse he displayed in his vapour, For while all his poems are loaded with lead, His pistols were loaded with paper. For excuses Anacreon Old Custom may thank, Such a salvo he shouldn't abuse, For the cartridge, by rule, is always made blank, That is fired away AT REVIEws!!! I 2 | 78 THE MAN OF SOR ROW. What book could it have been 2 The Monk she had never read; Little's Poems never heard of; Moore's Odes had not yet contaminated her shelves; the Miseries were not known, and the Comforts not pub- lished. How did men exist? How did the world go on before these events took place Or what could Mary read 7–You shall be told : it was the Common Prayer-book! Yes, she had sinned—she had repented — she had recourse to religion ; and she would sit for days together, retired within herself. and read the Prayer-book—Not the service of matrimony. This to town-bred misses may seem sur- prising, but so it was ; she found repentance tread closely on the heels of vice; she turned and caught at it. Her tears were heralds from her heart to tell its reformation. Time, fast fleeting time, rolled on, Savage was still silent; it was plain he had forgotten her—in one continued round of dissipation, at operas, balls, and parties, he never thought of the wretched victim of his villany. But oh if sin could wound her thus— if silent conscience thus could tear her heart, THE MAN OF SORROW. 179 what pangs did the anticipation of public shame inflict!—To be a parent and not a wife—what a horrid reflection Under the impression of it, she summoned resolution to write to him, and inquiring at the mansion of his father what his address was in London, the ruined girl penned the following letter, which, after some hesitation, she despatched to her seducer: — “July 8, 1800. “Oh, Mr. Savage, what am I to think of you? Have you completely forgotten your poor Mary 7—she who lived but for you, and who sacrificed every thing for your sake It surely cannot be —you told me to rely on your honour, I did—I placed a confidence in it — I have not surely been deceived. No, my dear, dear sir, you cannot be so cruel ! “Oh! do you not remember that evening, the last time we met 2 Have you entirely lost the recollection of what you said then? you told me I should be your wife. Yes, you must remember that. Men, however fickle, cannot make engagements so solemnly as you did, and forget them. © | 80 THE MAN OF SORROW. “My poor heart is breaking : I cannot sleep at night for thinking of you; and not to write me one line, one single line ; not to inquire once after me, what am I to think —that you are false to me? I cannot be- lieve it. “You did love me! Yes, you did ; my father suspects me; the girls in the neigh- bourhood shun me; they say such cutting cruel things of me; and will you let a poor wretch be subject to their taunts : If you have any affection for me surely not — I would not hear a word said against you for worlds. * “If I thought you really could deceive me, I should go mad; but no — no, I will not harbour such a suspicion ; and yet your silence—it is cruel at any rate. “My God when I recollect the things you said to me in Goodman's lane, the Tues- day evening before the Thursday that you left this, when you gave me the ring — I have got it on now. You did love me then — if you did not, what villains men must be 4. “But oh my dearest, dearest sir, though all this might help to break my poor aching THE MAN OF SORROW. 181 heart, I would not murmur though you were to marry another to-morrow, if my sorrows were all my own. If–gracious Heaven, how shall I write it ! If I had not reason to sup- pose – yes, it is so, that I may become a MoTHER Consider what my good, kind father will feel if it is discovered Oh! think of that. “I would destroy myself rather than be a torment to you ; but can I? no ; I have not courage enough to rush into eternity with such a sin upon my guilty conscience. “It was you who made me the wicked wretch I am ; you may restore me to society —and you will—I know your heart too well to suspect you of duplicity. If my father was to find me out, he would turn me from his house; and, if he does, where can I shelter my head 7 I have no friend on earth but you. Write to me, therefore, dear sir, and speak comfort to your wretched, constant MARY WILLIAMs.” To Richard Savage, Esq. Long's Hotel, Dover Street, London. Having finished her letter, she stole with it to the post-office, and slipping it into the 182 THE MAN OF SORROW. aperture of the box with the greatest pre- caution, lest the neighbours might be in- quisitive, she returned to the cottage with an anxious heart, to wait the return of the post, which would bring her an answer, by which her sorrows might be relieved, and her honour repaired. But, alas! day followed day, week followed week, and not a word in reply: till the cold winds in September blew through the village, and the golden foliage was scattered on the ground; yes, it was in the early part of this month, while Savage was paying his devoirs to Harriet Vincent, that at the still hour of night, when the neighbourhood was hushed and the cottagers at rest, Mary Williams was turned from her father's house by the parent who adored her; but who, having once dis- covered her vice, disdained to shelter he another hour. By a chain of circumstances old Williams became acquainted with the whole circum- stance, and in the wind and rain of a Sep- tember evening, did he shut his door upon his child, and turn her penniless and friendless upon the wide world ! THE MAN OF SORROW. 183 Could a father do so? Yes, he thought it was his duty; but he was righteous over- much assuredly; for, by depriving his child of support—of friends—of home, he threw her into the paths of temptation, where lures for virtue, and snares for innocence, are daily open to entrap the incautious and unsuspecting ; but he was passionate. Mary, proud, conscious of her im- propriety, a word of reproach cut her to the soul; a mandate to quit the house where she was born, and in which she had closed her dying mother's eyes, needed not to be re- peated ; her spirit refused it—her father en- deavoured to crush her, to make her despic- able in her own sight—displayed her crimes in glowing colours—compared her to the vilest of her sex; she could not bear it—she fled, whither she knew not, her trembling limbs had no guide to lead them on ; no friend had Mary in the wide world—no roof to cover her —deserted by her seducer, by her father, by her fortifude, she sunk in a swoon at the foot of a tree which stood in the centre of the village. Ill-fated girl, why did she ever listen to his prayers? He offered temptations, and talked 184 THE MAN OF SORROW. of marriage. If, as you hear of her sorrows, you can drop one tear of pity, do; for I knew her, and have spoken to her. She was a sweet girl—her only fault was love. Pardon her if you are a female, for you have felt it yourself, reader; or if you have not— “You are no maiden, but a marble monument.” To return, however, to our hero, Edward Musgrave, whom we left in town, settling the business of administration, and arranging other legal affairs; he set off from London for the village, on the eleventh day from that on which he entered it, and proceeded with his friend, the surgeon, to his late father's dwelling. Here, naturally, every thing he saw brought to his recollection his lost parent ; the furni- ture recalled his customs and his manners; the books spoke in his voice, and the garden restored his very self; the trees he had planted murmured with a hollow sound, as if for grief, and the flowers he had trained seemed droop- ing for sorrow at his death. After remaining some time in the house, he felt very much depressed, and thinking that THE MAN OF SORROW. 185 an event like the loss of a parent might plead an excuse for what at another time might be termed an indecorum, he wrote a note to Mrs. Vincent, saying, “that he would, if she would permit him, Gall in and pass the evening with them.” Having finished this epistle, he desired one of the servants to take the note to Mrs. Vincent's. “Oh, sir,” said the man, “it’s of no use at all, if I does, sir.” “Why not?” inquired Edward. “Because, sir, Mrs. Vincent and Miss, are gone some hundred miles off into the country.” - “Is it possible 7" exclaimed his master. “Yes, sir, they set off this morning about nine o’clock.” “Where are they gone?” “I don’t know, sir, I’m sure; but I know it's somewhere by the sea-side.” “Inquire, will you?” said Musgrave; “I wish particularly to know.” The man immediately proceeded to the cot- tage to make proper investigation as to the place of their retreat; for though he assured Edward that they were gone to the margin of 186 THE MAN OF SORROW. the green ocean, he was rather dubious, as he did not think the frigid month of Janu- ary at all adapted for that kind of amphibious life which people at watering places are obliged to lead. º In a short time the domestic returned with positive information, that they had taken their departure for Yarmouth. “Yarmouth !” exclaimed Edward, “what can be the cause of their journey thither ? they have no acquaintance, no relations there, and to make a tour of so great an extent with- out some plan or purpose, at this time of the year, is an action according neither with Mrs. Vincent's prudence nor inclinations. It is very extraordinary,” thought he to himself, “and it shall be my most unremitting endeavour to discover the cause of so extraordinary an ex- cursion.” He inquired at the cottage; but the only domestic left was an old woman, who “really did not know why they were gone, but she believed it was because they liked it; and she knew they would not return before March or April.” - “March or April 1” murmured Edward. “I then must go to them, I cannot live from her THE MAN OF SORROW. 187 so long, and yet how am I authorised to act so decidedly : Her mother has terminated our acquaintance, I have no right to recommence it, my circumstances are worse rather than better now than they were at the time of her refusal, and I have no plea, therefore, to advance—no claim to make. We are destined to be wretched 1 and our efforts to avert the destiny which hangs over us are vain.” Soured by misfortune, and irritated by the failure of all his schemes, poor Musgrave sunk into a desponding melancholy, which, pro- ducing a fever, confined him to his bed and room three weeks, at the expiration of which time he determined to make a visit to Lon- don, to call upon Lord Rosemore, who, during his father's life, had promised to place him in some situation of emolument and respectability, on the fruits of which he might found some- thing like a reason for a journey to Yarmouth, in pursuit of his Harriet. He accordingly put his plan in execution, and having reached the metropolis, proceeded to the mansion of the noble earl, to which he received a hearty welcome from the host, who, after discussing the point with him in the 188 THE MAN OF SORROW. morning, insisted upon his dining with him- self and the countess, en famille. Edward, considering such a visit likely to afford him an introduction to the lady, in which he might do away a little of the dis- like she entertained for him, accepted the in- vitation, and retired to equip himself for the party. It was now the latter end of January, and the days were exactly in that state when there is a sort of intermediate space between light and darkness, in which, though the ap- pearance of day prohibits the introduction of lights, the approach of night calls loudly for them; and it was during this interregnum that Edward dressed himself for the dinner at Rosemore's. While he was performing the operation, a thousand circumstances revolved in his brain ; he wished himself on the Norfolk coast with Harriet, and in her society would have pre- ferred a cottage, where he might with her have shared the scanty earnings of a hard day's la- bour, to the pompous palace he was going to without her. In reflections on this lovely girl, and in re- THE MAN OF SORROW. 189 collections of his dear father, did he spend the hour before he set off for Berkeley Square, which he did in a hackney coach, at a few minutes after six, and (for him) strange to say, he arrived at Lord Rosemore's door without any accident. CHAPTER XV. Edward was announced by the servant in the hall, and his name re-echoed up the stair- case to the drawing-room ; having entered which, he perceived Lady Rosemore seated on a sofa near the fire, with the elegant Miss Sensitive in close conversation ; Lord Rose- more standing at a window, talking politics with a man in office; and Lady Belmont, Lady Rosemore's daughter, engaged in a dialogue with Miss Wilding, a young protégée of the old countess, and, as some said (who were ill- natured), not a very distant relation. This is the worldly way of accounting for charity and benevolence, and it was after this mode people chose to judge of the motherly attention of the amiable woman of quality to this child of her adoption. THE MAN OF SORROW. 191 Lady Rosemore nodded to Musgrave on his entrance, and her noble husband held out his hand to welcome him; he introduced him to the gentleman he was in conversation with, and, at his own desire, presented him to his daughter, Lady Belmont, and her sofa-com- panion, Miss Wilding. The party was afterwards increased by the arrival of two or three of those wonderfully stupid young things in red coats and cocked hats, yelept officers of the Guards; they entered the room, bowed to the earl and countess, and without any sort of idea but that of a good dinner and fine wine, sat themselves down near the ladies, to inquire whether the last night's opera was full? whether every body was there? who happened to be in town what party was in for the night—or who opened their houses during the next week 2 With such extraordinary efforts of genius as these did these veterans talk away time till the dinner was announced, and as eating was a service they preferred to fighting, they set off for the parlour in a quick march : the countess led the way; Miss Sensitive was escorted by Mr. Winslow, Lady Belmont by her father, and Miss Wilding by one of the ensigns; the 192 THE MAN OF SORROW. rest of the party followed promiscuously, and as we shall have some reason to be better acquainted with part of the company, it will be as well, while they are descending the stairs, and arranging themselves at table, to give an account of them. Miss Wilding, the young lady mentioned as the chère enfant of Lady Rosemore, is the first person to be noticed. She was turned eighteen by her own account—twenty-one by the parish register: her figure was small, not ill made, and her face, illuminated by a pair of spark- ling black eyes, was that sort of face, on the seeing which one is apt to exclaim—“Gad that's a good fine girl!” Black eyes are not a thousalidth part so pretty as bºtic in a woman (in my mind); but Fanny Wilding's eyes, for black ones, were not disagreeable; there was a something of expression which she gave to them that added to their lustre, and caught the fancies of those men who look no farther than a feature for happiness, and fancy delight to be centred in personal charms. She was what the world calls an ANIMATED GIRL: —she would pun, throw in a jest where- ever she could, affect opinions different from all the world, talk upon abstruse subjects, THE MAN OF SORROW. 193 quote Homer to an officer of the Guards, and talk of perpetual motion to an effeminate man of fashion. r Self-opinionated, with complete self-posses- sion, a sarcastic sneer, and a bewitching smile, a good person, and many accomplishments, this young woman was known as a genius. She was a connoisseur in painting, an amateur in music, a perfect dancer, an exquisite per- former on the piano, and a Billington in sing- ing. She wrote tales and poems, published on wove paper and broad margins in Bond Street, made designs for furniture, dressed in the most outré costume to set fashions, and, in short, was a fine, dashing, animated girl—and a more horrible thing is there not upon earth ! Mo- desty and diffidence are the attributes of woman: their silence is eloquence, and their timidity conquest. Miss Wilding did not think so, and rattled away most furiously; called one man “a horrid brute,” another “a vile monster;” hurried over all topics but where she could raise the laugh, which she would do at any body's expense except her own. But with all this blaze of notoriety, did any body esteem her particularly 2 Was there VOL. I. K 194 THE MAN OF SORROW, any one man upon earth who on his pillow could say, “What an angel is Fanny Wilding !” Had she ever refused an offer of marriage 7 No! for a palpable reason —nobody ever had made her one. She was like a fine firework, entertaining- to look at, but dangerous to come too near to: her bounc- ing and cracking in the open air gave a lustre to surrounding objects, but there was not a human being who could be tempted to take the exhibition into his own house, and run the risk of burning his fingers with it. As a female philosopher, Fanny would shine; but as the domestic wife, what qualifications did she possess to adorn the station ?—Not one; for, with aii her high-flow il riotivis, people were apt to be ill-natured even with her, and in- sinuate that she was at an early age to com- mence a series of gallantry. Nobody knew what to make of her; she had no acquaintance with whom she was intimate but Miss Sensitive, and she had formed the most enthusiastic ideas of her darling Fanny. Miss Sensitive, it will be also necessary to introduce the reader to, as materially con- cerned in the plots that are forming. Miss Sensitive was one of that class of ladies THE MAN OF SORROW. 195 who are called virgins—only because they are unmarried, and have the epithet of antiquity prefixed to them, because they have been so for a very long time; in fact, she was—an old MAID; nobody would have thought her one to have seen her, for, with a profusion of jewels, ornaments, and rouge, she had a particular knack of falling most desperately in love at particular seasons of the year. In short, she was a complete enthusiast, and wherever she took a fancy, there was nothing that could stop her career. It was in one of these fits that Fanny Wilding had crossed her, and at the time this party took place they were the most perfect friends—sworn to in- violable secrecy; they were the mutual confi- dants of each other, and, like Beaumont and Fletcher, not a sonnet, a poem, a love-letter, was written or despatched, which was not equally the production of Anastatia Sensitive and Fanny Wilding. Women have greater reliance on each other than men; and a couple of girls, shut up to- gether alone for a week, will, before the third day of it is expired, have as completely opened their hearts to each other as if they had been intimate acquaintances all their lives. 196 THE MAN OF SORROW. Fanny was seated at dinner next Edward Musgrave, and, pleased with his manners and conversation, she behaved towards him with less dash and hauteur than usual. She affected to agree with him on all points of taste; pre- ferred Billington to Grassini, because he did ; thought Westall a better draughtsman than Cosway, merely to oblige him; and declared that she considered German much more har- monious than Italian, only out of compliment to Musgrave, who had asserted it as a joke. In the evening, Edward, after much per- suasion, took part of a duet with her— then sung alone—she did the same ; produced some of her sketches, played an air of her own composition with the greatest éclat, and toid Edward that she should be most happy to see him in the morning, to try some difficult pass- ages with her, and rehearse a duet for Lady Rosemore's next party. Comparisons are odious, but Edward could not help marking the difference between this dasher and Harriet —the one all fire and forwardness, the other all sensibility and modesty; the countenance of Fanny all animation and sparkle, the face of Miss Vincent all complacency and softness; her blue eyes beaming with a heavenly ex- THE MAN OF SORROW. 197 pression of kindness and affection, while the other's orbs seemed to seek the soul through the outward form. But their manners—their dispositions: the one, like a desperate general, seemed deter- mined to carry the citadel by storm; the other, like a cool hero of undoubted prowess, insinuated herself into the inmost heart with such unassuming sweetness, that Reason whispered the rectitude of her possessing it; but with Fanny, rectitude and reason had nothing to do, she was—a PHILosopher. In a round of ridiculous conversation did the evening pass away, and the party would be hardly a circumstance worth mentioning, but that it gave rise to incidents neither expected nor desired, and which involved the unfortunate MAN of sorrow in fresh diffi- culties and distresses. The next morning he called upon the Earl by appointment; and no sooner was their business ended, than, upon his leaving the library, a message was delivered to him from Miss Wilding, desiring his company in her boudoir; an invitation which, though Edward did not much approve, he could not but accept. 198 THE MAN OF SORROW. Here, again, she displayed her powers and accomplishments, talked in a most lively manner of the dead languages, compared the descriptions of Virgil with those of Homer, spoke of the science of botany, and concluded her rhapsody by telling our hero that she would introduce him that morning to Sir Joseph Jonquil, a man of great eminence and celebrity, who was elevated to the most dignified stations from his merit, and who was so partial to her for her erudition, that whenever he was not confined with the gout, he always called and paid her a visit every day. * Musgrave, well acquainted with the name, certainly felt no great displeasure at hearing this piece of intelligence; and the lively girl, after having expatiated largely upon his merits, finished her eloquence by observing that Sir Joseph was a sensible quiz, and she could do exactly as she liked with him : all this vivacity she had learned from Miss Sensitive, whose house was actually filled up with old poets and tabby cats. Edward's ambition to see this learned member of seven- teen scientific societies did not proceed exactly from the source Miss Wilding imagined. THE MAN of son Row. 199 There are several causes which excite curiosity; and so easily are the inhabitants of the civilised world caught by notoriety, that a distinguished highwayman, on his way to the gallows, will at any time attract more spec- tators than an unsuccessful general, on his return to his native country. It was from the same motives that urge men to go and see bulls with two heads, or lambs with two bodies, that Edward was in- duced to wait the coming of this extraordinary man, this Knight of the Bath, this doctor of laws, this catcher of caterpillars! This shining character early in life amused himself by collecting snails and periwinkles, which he stored with great avidity;* and his little collection in the course of time growing * An epigram of Peter Pindar's on Sir Joseph Banks, the learned President of the Royal Society, does not apply badly to this baronet of ours, their Christian names as well as propensities corresponding:— “How early genius shews itself at times, Thus Pope the pride of poets lisped in rhymes, And thus the great Sir Joseph (strange to utter, To whom each insect-eater is a fool) Did, when a very little boy at school, Munch spiders spread upon his bread and butter.” 200 THE MAN OF SORROW. to a large one, a vast number of people frequented his house, all anxious to hear him tell how he procured the wonderful natural curiosities he had brought home with him after a voyage round the world ; and every body listened with mute attention while he descanted upon sprats and mammoths, ants and elephants Phaedrus says, and justly too, “Nisi utile est quod facias, stulta est gloria.” But such genius as was indispensably neces- sary for the glorious pursuits of butterfly- hunting and stone-picking could not fail to make its way to the ears of greatness, and, having done so, could not fail to meet its just reward. Ribands — stars / orders, pensions, pre- sidencies, and the deuce knows what, were poured down in torrents upon this fungus of a philosopher, - this mushroom of a man. This rather savours of the burlesque, and seems a little to partake the spirit of “This I do because I DARE l’” Is it not ridiculous, in the highest degree, that a fellow should be invested with one of THE MAN OF SORROW . 201 the noblest honours of the state, because he can tell you that the hyacinth is hexandria monogynia 2 That a brilliant star should glitter on his breast because he can inform the world, after wonderful and elaborate research, that he thinks the corrolea is cam- panulate, and in six segments; while the fuchsia coccinea is octandria, and has, of course, eight stamens and one pistil, that its calyx is monophyllous, and that its corrolea has four petals? Is it not ridiculous, that because he can tell this, a broad red riband should cross his breast; or that he should be patronised, lauded, and exalted to the skies, because he persists in dividing the race of butterflies into five phalanges, that is to say, into the Heliconii, Equites, Danai, Nymphales, Plebeii. And because he thinks Merian classes the Lepidoptera among moths, while Réaumur and Ray place them among butterflies 3 Is it for such knowledge as this that a man K 2 202 THE MAN OF SORROW. is to be set over the heads of thousands who possess what Sir Joseph never did, nor never will possess—common sense 2 On such caterpillar-catchers as these, French artists, and Italian squallers, are the goods and honours of our nation lavished, while the wisest members of the community, the bravest men in our army and navy, are starving for want of employment and food. “Jampridem Syrus in Tiberim defluxit Orontes Et linguam et mores.” Such were Edward's sentiments about Sir Joseph, but yet his name was up, and as a young man, he wished to see him. A fop, with a wig and whiskers, painted in the cheeks, and perfumed through ten waistcoats, without ten grains of common sense or common decency, may, by the very actions which render him ridiculous, render himself conspicuous; even a beggar on crutches in the public streets, by adopting a peculiar style of dress, is immediately recognised by name, modelled by artists, portrayed by engravers, and followed by the rabble. This knight companion, however, was ex- THE MAN OF SORROW. -- 203 pected for a long time, and yet did not arrive; Miss Wilding grew impatient, and at three o'clock sent a message to his house to inquire the cause of his absence from Berkeley Square. At first a fear of illness pervaded the acute, feeling Fanny, Miss Sensitive's eye sparkled and winked with apprehension. “Gracious Heavens !” said she, in a tone so violently shrill, that it appeared as if she wished to get possession of Edward's heart by breaking the drum of his ear; “I hope there's nothing happened to the darling Jonque (an abbreviation of the baronet's name). Oh, the dear, disagreeable beast ! I should break my heart if he was to have any thing the matter with him. Do you know, Fan, I like the monster most amazingly.” “Oh, he's a charming quiz!” replied Fanny; “he is old now, but he must have been a de- lightful fellow forty years ago, then he must have been 5 y What she was going to observe, he knew not, for her eulogium was interrupted by the entrance of the servant who had been sent to his house, and who stated that it was im- possible Sir Joseph could come, as he had set 204 THE MAN OF SORROW, off in the morning for Kew to sell some flocks of sheep by auction. s “Sheep !” thought Edward. “Sheep !” cried the ladies, but so it was ; the right honourable baronet and Knight of the Bath, the president, the member of the Privy Council, the doctor of laws, was down at Kew selling sheep to the best bidders' Here were the state-services, these were the deeds for which he was rewarded ! But what a thing—an auctioneer in a red riband, a sheep-seller in a star !—a king kissing the Pope's toe is nothing to it! After this disappointment Edward took his leave, and no sooner was his back turned, than the pair of pretty ones he left behind him began to discuss his merits. “Well, my dear little Fan,” said Anastatia, “you are caught completely by that fellow : I never saw a more desperate wound than he has made in your little heart.” “Mine, my dear !” replied Miss Wilding: “I assure you you never were farther from the mark in your life, your general discrimi- nation fails you; I think I never saw an uglier, more disagreeable creature in all my life!” “Come, come, my young satirist, not so THE MAN OF SORROW. 205 severe,” cried Miss Sensitive: “you will allow that his eye is sensible, expressive, and ani- mated 7” C & Why, yes,” cried Fan, turning over some music ; “his eye is not a bad one ; no, no, I grant you there the man is decent.” “And,” continued her friend, “his figure is not despicable.” “Oh! no,” allowed Miss Wilding, “there is nothing very exceptionable about his figure.” “And, then, his manners,” said Anastatia, “are easy, his conversation lively, his dispo- sition amiable, and his deportment graceful; you own that he draws prettily, and he cer- tainly sings with taste and plays with great execution.” - “Yes,” drawled out Fanny, “I’ll grant all that, and yet there is something more about a man than all this necessary to gain my love— I like him very well.” cried her confidant, “I know you do, and that something is nothing but a reciprocity of affection, — you want him to love again, my dear.” “Well,” replied poor Miss Wilding, “from you, my dear Anastatia, there is no concealing any thing; you are my friend : and now I tell 5. “Yes, my dear,’ 206 THE MAN OF SORROW. you candidly that I will either marry Edward Musgrave, or die as pure a virgin as I am at this moment l” Miss Sensitive burst into a horse laugh, not at Fanny's virtue, but at the oddity of her wish. “Ay, you may laugh,” said she, “but I never, till I saw him, beheld any man that could fix my affections. I am determined,—my happiness is at stake, and he shall know it before it's long.” “Charming girl!” cried Anastatia, catching her to her breast and kissing her cheek, “you are a divinity, you are every thing you ought to be; make me your messenger, I will deliver notes, letters, and appointments. I endeavoured only last week to talk over a ridiculous mother who would not let her child marry the man she loved; and it is not a month ago that I pleaded the cause of my little friend Adolphe, with a girl he is desperately attached to, who hates him ; I invited them to my house, left them alone, put out the candles by accident, and locked them up together; but she was resolute, and ran to an inner chamber, shut the door, and poor little Adolphe was as bad off as ever; he rang the bell to be liberated, for as he could not get in then, he saw no other THE MAN OF SORROW. 207 opportunity of forcing her, he, therefore, burst into tears; I ordered her carriage, never have spoken to the wretch since, and have taken little Adolphe into my house, and pet him with as much tenderness as I do my cats.” “You are a dear, delicious, little creature !” cried Fanny ; “and you shall take a note to him to-morrow. But there seems one obstacle; you know he ran away with that little insipid creature Harriet Vincent, and would have married her—only her mother caught them.” “Is that all ?” cried Anastatia ; “I’ll settle that ; stratagem must be resorted to; we'll make him jealous of her; invent stories of her flirting, and then 3 y “Oh, and then,” exclaimed the infatuated Fanny, “he will marry me—I shall have him all to myself—I’ll go to Scotland, too,-he shall take me there, and we’ll No, we won’t till after we are married,” cried she, throwing her- self back on the sofa, “we will so love each other—Oh, oh!—I’ll write directly to him, this very moment;” saying which, she actually proceeded for pens, ink, and paper, and having procured them, she sat down, assisted by Miss Sensitive, to compose an epistle to her Musgrave. 208 THE MAN OF SORROW . This, gentle reader, is a copy from nature of what the world admire, —a fine, spirited, dashing, animated girl! Charming young creatures 1 it is delightful to be in their society—impertinent, assuming, and conceited ; a girl once taught to believe herself a wit becomes a shrew, forcing re- marks where they never would be sought, offering opinions where they would never be required, flirting with every young man she comes near, scandalising every woman she knows, and railing at such of her friends as happen to be absent, for the amusement of those who chance to be present: these are the prin- cipal accomplishments of one of these amiable characters. Fiippant and ridiculous as daugh- ters, they become vicious and contemptible as wives, and by displaying an utter contempt of rule, decency, and decorum, prove to the world the strength of their spirits and the brilliancy of their animation. Miss Wilding, it seems, had formed a rash and hasty attachment to Musgrave. Poor fellow ! even good to him is evil; and what might to another young man have been a flattering circumstance was to him the most distressing one. THE MAN OF SORROW. 209 Ignorant of his having been, unfortunately, so lucky as to make a conquest, he repaired to the hotel where he lived, and, according to a desire of Lord Rosemore, the next morning waited upon a nobleman of high rank with a letter of recommendation. CHAPTER XVI. THE young ladies, at least Fanny and her unmarried friend, waited very anxiously for the arrival of Musgrave the next day, whom they knew was expected, but finding him later than they imagined he would be, Miss Sen- sitive sent to her house to desire her favourite Adolphe to come to her immediately. Fanny at first could not discern the purpose of this message or request, but on the arrival of the little beau, she was soon satisfied, for Miss Anastatia, when he came to the Square, immediately instructed him what part to play. He was taught to call in at Lady Rosemore's for Miss Sensitive, during the time that Edward was to be there, and they then tutored him how to act; he was, in the course of conversation, to inquire about the Vincents, and to state that Harriet was on the eve of marriage, and Miss Anastatia and Fanny were to corroborate his ssertions. THE MAN OF SORROW. 211 The plot being properly arranged, the two ladies sat themselves down to ruminate upon its effects till the unfortunate victim of their plans arrived. Edward proceeded in the morning to Lord Glenstore, a man very high in the administra- tion (which, however, did not indicate any superiority of talent); he was a Scotch peer, needy and avaricious, risen from a situation of no consequence by a chain of lucky circum- stances, to a title. This nobleman had a vast range of patron- age, and possessed the power of bestowing more places and offices than any of his party; he, however, did not consider it necessary to throw away the good things of fortune, and therefore made a point of answering all adver- tisements in newspapers, from persons in want of situations under government, made appoint- ments with the party, pocketed their money, put them in possession, and got praised for his impartiality and liberality. When Edward called upon him, the name of Rosemore being mentioned, he was admitted immediately to the great man's presence, and having been graciously received, took a seat 212 THE MAN OF SORROW. till his lordship had settled some business he was then occupied with. A person of his acquaintance had introduced a friend of his to his lordship's house and table, where finding himself treated with the greatest hospitality, he made a point of repair- ing very frequently to enjoy good company, and, what is a much more enlivening thing, good champagne. His acquaintance and intimacy increased with the noble earl, till one day taking his dinner téte-à-tête with him, the steward pro- duced a bill from a tradesman, for three thousand five hundred pounds; Lord Glen- store immediately took a pen and wrote a note at two months for the money. Having done this, as he was doubling up the note in a letter, he reached his hand over to his friend, and told him he wished he would indorse the bill, as it would give it greater weight in the City, where his name was well known. The other, seeing the state of his house- hold, and knowing his lordship to be one of that glorious and ever memorable adminis- tration who sent out an expedition to South THE MAN OF SORROW. 213 America, never even entertaining a doubt as to the perfect security of the bills, or the certainty of their being paid, without hesitation signed his name upon the back of them. The noble lord, finding the scheme succeed, told his dear companion, that as he had done that for him, perhaps he would be so kind as to repeat the favour on the back of another, for three thousand pounds more. Actuated by the same feelings towards his host, and satisfied of his honour, he again put his name to another bill, which the Earl locked up in his escritoire, and the evening passed off with the greatest conviviality. At the expiration of the term which the bills had to run, the honest citizen was some- what surprised at being applied to for six thousand five hundred pounds, as the amount of two notes endorsed by him, and drawn by Lord Glenstore at two months. He told the holders of these notes that he had nothing in the world to do with it, that he really could not pay the sum. To which the creditors replied, they had much greater reliance on him than on his noble friend, and, therefore, they hoped he 214 THE MAN OF SORROW. would excuse their arresting him for the money, which they accordingly did, and re- moved him, before night, to the terrific palace of the law in St. George's Fields. The person in the library when Musgrave was admitted was a messenger despatched from the unhappy gentleman in durance vile, to entreat the Earl's interference. This request, however, the great and glorious- minded peer could not possibly comply with : and after desiring him not to trouble his lord- ship any more about the business, with a consciousness of having sent a friend to the King's Bench prison, he took his seat upon the King's Bench of administration. “Nullane perjuri capitis, fraudisque. Nefandae poena erit P” It is to be feared not; for though Justice is blind— “Yet Justice, ’tis known, Can see through a mill-stone, If bribed with an Abraham Newland.” The redoubted Glenstore received Edward with great affability, and, with the best grace in the world, promised to do every thing in THE MAN OF SORROW, 215 his power—asked for his address — sent his love by him to Lord Rosemore, and parted with our hero at the door of his study with the most obliging affability and kindness. Edward proceeded to Berkeley Square, and having been closeted with the master of the house, on his retiring, received a second summons from Miss Wilding's servant to her boudoir, whither he accordingly followed the Iſla Il. Their salutations were extremely friendly, her manners particularly lively, Miss Sensi- tive remarkably witty; and the trio, over a three o'clock luncheon of fowls, wines, &c. began, according to their usual custom, to cut up reputations with their meat, and destroy characters with their liquor, till at length, by artful insinuations, Miss Vincent's name was mentioned. “Oh!” cried Fanny Wilding, “I was prodigiously unlucky in not being at home when Lady Belmont was married, I lost the party down at the village; and I, therefore, lost the pleasure of being introduced to Miss Vincent.” “It is a pleasure you will not have then, now,” said Anastatia. 216 THE MAN OF SORROw. “Why not?” inquired Fanny, with pre- tended ignorance. “Why not, child !” replied her confederate, “why, she is to be married next week to a Captain — Captain —— Psha' what is his name 7” “Miss Vincent married, madam l’’ said Musgrave; “I fancy not — I rather imagine you to be mistaken.” “Oh dear no,” said Miss Sensitive. “My good sir, I know several of the man’s ac- quaintance whom she has just consented to marry. He is heir to a title and seven thou- sand a-year.” “Good God you surprise me,” exclaimed the agonised Edward; “this is the first I have heard of it!” “Pray,” continued she, turning to Adolphe, who at this moment entered the room, “do you know whom Miss Vincent is going to be married to ?” “To Captain Missenden,” replied Adolphe. “Are you quite sure of what you say, sir?” asked Edward. “Quite, sir,” replied he, “perfectly sure: I know him; and he mentioned your name, as having heard it from Miss Vincent, who, THE MAN OF SORROW. 217 he said, had behaved very shabbily to you, in suffering your addresses; for she told him that you had behaved very ill to her, and that she could not even bear to hear you spoken of.” “This, sir,” said Edward, “is rather a sub- ject of too delicate a nature to be spoken of in the way you have mentioned it; and I am sure these ladies will excuse my taking my leave immediately : indeed the news has not rendered me a fit companion for any body but myself.” He immediately rose to depart, the ladies pressed him to remain where he was, but this he refused, and having left their presence cursed his ill stars at having lost the only girl he ever could love. “But was she a jilt 2— No, that could not be. Was the report true?—Yes, it must be. How was he to act? — He would go to them, and discover the real case.” This was his final determination, and he was not easily drawn from a resolution once made; for at eight o'clock he stepped into the Yarmouth mail, and set off for the town which contained all he held dear in the world. Distracted, distressed, and miserable as VOL. I. L 218 THE MAN OF SORROW. usual, our poor disconsolate hero felt him- self flying, as it were, to the arms of a girl who, if all he had heard was true, had al- ready forgotten him, and who had never loved him. This he was obliged to doubt; he knew, he was certain she did love him once, and his only fears were that her mother, con- vinced of the advantages likely to arise from the match proposed with this Captain Mis- senden, had forced her child to accept him, and had actually removed her into the country from his power, or that of any body else, who might feel inclined to rescue beauty from oppression, and innocence from tyranny. With a head distractedly full of horrid ideas, and a heart that sunk at every step the horses took on the road, Edward at length reached the spot, where all was to be decided that could constitute his happiness or miserythrough life. He inquired for the best inn, and was conducted to the Wrestlers, which is near the market-place, and faces the old and spacious church. Finding himself weary and uncomfortable, he retired to a bed-chamber, and throwing THE MAN OF SORROW. 219 himself down upon the bed, fell into a pro- found sleep, from which he was roused by the ringing of the church-bells, whose reiterated peals rattled through the air, and announced some event of joy at hand. “What is the occasion of all this ringing 7” said Musgrave to a waiter who entered his room; “Is there any news arrived ?” “No, sir—no news,” said the waiter : “it’s only a wedding, sir, that's all ; the gentlefolks have been breakfasting here, and they are gone to Leostoffe to dinner.” “What is the name of the gentleman?” in- quired Edward. “I don't know, sir, really,” said the waiter; “ for as the lady that has been living here for some time—a Mrs. Vincent— sir 53 “Vincent l” exclaimed Edward — “My God! is it possible 2–then it is true, and here will I end a life of sorrow and mis- fortune.” Saying which he seized a razor from his dressing-table, and would have instantly de- stroyed himself, if the waiter had not snatched it from his hand, and preserved him from danger. 220 THE MAN OF SORROW". “It is all over !” exclaimed Musgrave. “I cannot live—she is gone—she that I have loved best on earth. But,” continued he, “it is not too late to, follow them—no man shall ever enjoy the possession of her 1–1 alone will be her husband, and I will pursue them, challenge and destroy the villain who has torn her from me; and force her as a prize in triumph from him Which way did they go?” “To Leostoffe, sir,” replied the man; “but, for Heaven's sake, sir, don't follow them— what’s past cannot be recalled, sir, and you’ll get yourself into some trouble.” “Silence, sirrah!” cried Musgrave, in a voice of thunder; “iei, iiiese iiiiugs of uliue, and this trunk, be sent to London by the mail to night—I shall leave this immediately.” Saying which he walked into the town, where, inquiring of a boy the road to Leostoffe, he pursued it with unwearied activity. He traversed the road without being con- scious of the distance, and on reaching the place he determined not to inquire for them by name, for fear of a discovery; but having searched all the inns, and having burst in upon a party who were preparing for dinner, THE MAN OF SORROW. 221 without success, he ordered a post-chaise, and, more than ever fallen, lost, and sunk, he returned to the metropolis an outcast being; for his Harriet had forgotten him, and was married to another. Can woman be so fickle 2 Unhappy, wretched MAN of sorrow, thy life has nought of sunshine to illume its rays; grief and care have set their stamp upon thee; and, if it be possible, woe still heavier than the past now awaits thee! - vALE –VALE –VALE | END OF WOL. I. 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