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$ 2.3"
*78).o.
THE
MAN OF SORROW:
A Novel.
3.
52.2, ef',
EY THEODORE Hook, Esq. T3%. We –
º-ºrrº- d
Ҽf
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.
L O N DO N :
printed BY MOYES AND BARCLAY, CASTLE STREET,
LEICESTER SQUARE. -
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