WHARFDALE;* OR, THE ROSERY. BOOK II. CHAPTER VIII. THAT "misfortunes never come single," is an old, and if we test our own individual experience, we should be inclined to add, a true saying. Leaving proverbs, however, (which, by the way, are almost looked upon as vulgar things in these days) and their truth to such persons as may think it worth their while to exercise their ingenuity upon them, we shall content ourselves by relating simple facts, incidents of every day life just as they occur, willing to grant, however, that they do occasionally bear strongly in favour of the proverbialist's assumption. Never, since the arrival of Melville and his wife in England, had he been able to gain any information of his father, beyond the intelligence he had received from the Rev. Miles Stapleton and the tell-tale gossip of the villagers, which often served rather to confound than to elucidate. Bitterly as he felt the ignominy and reproach which had attached to the name of his parent, he could not suppress a lurking desire to know something at least of that parent's destiny. Although the world might condemn, and that most justly, Melville could never bring his mind to think so * Continued from p. 176, vol. 1. harshly of his abandoned father as many people often seemed inclined to convince him he ought to do. The morning following the one on which they had received the letter from Mrs. Cavendish, again brought the postman to the door. Another letter was put into the hands of the young couple, and with it came another and a severe trial. It was from Mr. Adolphus Melville, and was couched in terms at once cold, sinister, and ambiguous. The following paragraph, however, while it serves to point out an evil of a most pernicious and injurious kind, may serve also to unriddle, in some slight degree, the past conduct of the writer :— you, "Doubtless, Leicester, the poisoned tongue of the talkative and scandal-loving crowd will have attached to my name a degree of infamy and opprobrium that may tempt you almost to blush at the very thought that you should have sprung from such a sire. Be it even so I shall never humble myself so low as to frame excuses, much less to solicit pardon, for whatever may have been wrong and inconsistent in my conduct, at the hands of my own child. That my character as a minister of the gospel was bad and disreputable, I am at once willing to admit, but let me tell Leicester, and I do so that you may derive wisdom from the benefit of my experience, I first entered into holy orders not from any desire or inclination of my own, but as a matter of family necessity. As you are aware, I was the second son of a wealthy commoner, who, aping the dignities, and ofttimes the follies of the aristocracy, thought right to entail the whole of his estates on his eldest son, leaving myself and three other children comparatively penniless. His folly stopped not here. He would not allow any member of his family to mix with the commercial community, much less to seek an honest livelihood through an honest and honourable trade. We must all be brought up to one of the three professions, which are styled, par excellence, aristocratic. Unfortunately, perhaps, for me, it happened that my father had become acquainted, it matters not how, with a nobleman who had the advowson of It was a splendid living, as such things are usually termed, and an advantage not to be overlooked. Having secured the promised and necessary patronage, I, who had generally been looked upon as the most unmanageable and reckless of the family, was at once selected out as the future clergyman. Right or wrong, I was sent off to college, passed through the usual gradations of my pupillage, received my degree, and was finally ordained. I must tell you, though, I had abhorred from the very first the idea of entering into a profession which to me had ever been one of all others the least desirable. I was not, however, alone in this respect; many a young scion of a noble house I soon found was glad to make a virtue of necessity, and to play the same character as I was about to do. Many, indeed, were my college companions who might have said 'My poverty, and not my will, consents.' "To this cause, Leicester, may often be attributed the wickedness and immoralities of the ministers of the state's establishment. To conclude my narrative, I need only add, further, after some years, my eldest brother died suddenly, and I then became heir to the estates; my father, however, was still living, and a life of reckless extravagance had placed me in such a position that I was glad to keep on my profession for the sake of the income it produced. Daily, however, becoming more and more entangled, I at length found it necessary to increase, by some way or other, the means of supporting the position in life I had assumed. My father was now in a state of second childhood. Taking advantage of this, and luring by a thousand bright promises my somewhat perverse brothers to second my endeavours, I succeeded in getting executed a deed for barring the entail, and in procuring at the same time an immediate conveyance to myself of a portion of the estates. The old man shortly afterwards dying intestate, the remainder of the lands fell into my hands as heir-at-law. greater part of them were immediately sold, and the monies they produced invested for convenience in the funds. I at once increased my establishment, launched out into a thousand fresh extravagances, and spent my money, in truth, as freely and as recklessly as the most thoughtless could desire. I had then the reputation of being one of the most wealthy commoners in the county, and, so long as this reputation lasted, my professional character, though often assailed, ever remained, as far as the world was concerned, untarnished. I afterwards married, as you know, an extravagant woman,-a base, disreputable,-but no matter, no matter. Reckless riot and extravagance eventually brought their common result--ruin, beggary, and disgrace. For some cause or other, which it is needless for me to state, I was given to understand from the bishop that I had better relinquish my profession, that profession which I had entered, followed, prostituted, all for the love of money. I fear it is a common, though a heinous fault." The Thus, somewhat abruptly, concluded the paragraph. The letter, though lengthy, contained little that was calculated to throw any light upon the present position of its author. He simply stated himself to be residing in the suburbs of Manchester, but as to his reasons for having chosen that locality, he said not a word. He desired, moreover, that his letters should be addressed to him at a certain house in the town, and not at his own home. It required but little penetration on the part of Melville to discover that his father was still under the influence of that reckless and abandoned spirit which had seemed from his own admis sion to have influenced him almost from his very outset in life. To start off for Manchester; there to hunt out the abode of his miserable parent; to become the ready instrument of relief to his wants and necessities; was the first thought, the unswerving resolve, of the kind-hearted Melville; and every thing was shortly put in course for facilitating his departure. Much as the youthful painter had mixed with society, both at home and abroad, far and wide as he had extended his travels, he was as yet in truth but little acquainted with men and manners. Whatever, in the course of his observations, had struck him as noble and praiseworthy, that he had treasured up in his memory, and, hoarding it as a thing sacred and worthy of imitation, he had laid it closely, though silently, to his heart; whatever, on the other hand, had caused a thrill of horror and disgust to dart through his breast, he had at once shunned and forgotten, careless alike to its cause and its result. He had, in short, brought his inexperienced mind to contemplate with an enthusiasm so intense the brighter and better pictures of human life, that he had but little conception of its truly dark and startling realities. He had, nevertheless, a philosophical temperament, and to the natural goodness of his heart alone might, perhaps, be attributed, in no slight degree, his utopian and romantic views. To a man with a mind thus constituted, and of an excitable and enthusiastic temperament, to will is almost to perform. Dangers, vexations, and difficulties, the very contemplation of which is sufficient to startle, and even in most instances to overthrow, the most fixed resolves of an ordinary mind, are looked upon as light and insignificant trifles. While others would have stood to contemplate the difficulties, to calculate the results, Leicester Melville, following the dictates of his heart, would at once have plunged fearlessly and boldly into the stream. All was bustle and confusion within the usually quiet and undisturbed walls of the Rosery; not a moment was to be lost: that night its master was to start out on his journey. The pretty Lisette, despite her endeavours to the contrary, looked every now and then very, very, sorrowful. This was the first time Melville had ever left her side for any distance since they were married, and there was a depression upon her spirits which she could not remove. Perhaps it was very foolish, or, as the world would say, very absurd. Be it so: (the dear Lisette !) we, at all events, will not make a mockery of the tender feelings of her young heart, but rather will we pause to contemplate the thousand hopes and fears by which it was assailed. She was a very woman, and all a woman's love was hers; bereft of her one treasured idol, she would indeed have been robbed of the very light and soul of her existence, and might, with the impassioned Juliet, have exclaimed, "O break, my heart! poor bankrupt, break at once! To prison, eyes! ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here; CHAPTER IX. MANCHESTER, at all times, and viewed even under the most favourable circumstances, is a dark, dingy, comfortless place, and on a wet and lowering day it is, without exception, one of the most dirty and miserable towns, within which we ever set foot. The buge manufactories which spring up on every side, rearing their giant-like chimneys to the sky, send forth their dark volumes of smoke, and overspread the whole place with one dense and impure cloud. The streets, perhaps, with two or three exceptions, have a dull and dirty appearance, and there is an air of comfortlessness about them which cannot fail to call forth the condemnations of a stranger. True it is, there are many noble and costly erections springing up almost on every side, but these, in nine cases out of ten, from some cause or other, are robbed of half their beauties. Nothwithstanding these disadvantages, Manchester puts forth a thousand claims to our wonder and admiration. It would be impossible, we apprehend, for any one to contemplate unmoved the dense masses of his fellow creatures which here surround him on every side. All is bustle, hurry, and business,-and the whole town seems like one swarming hive of industry. An idler here can scarcely fail to feel himself out of place,-every one around him has business on his hands, and every one save himself seems irresistibly borne along in the busy vortex of commerce and labour. That "Ingenuity and perseverance overcome all difficulties," is an adage too well established to admit even the shadow of a doubt; and no town, throughout the whole of England, perhaps, we might even say Europe,-furnishes us with so many proofs, clear |