And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure—by the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye, when work fails—by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights of labour, which is insolently persisted in—by the spectacle of your famished wives and little ones—by the naked walls of the wretched hovels in which the labouring population dwells—by the blinding toil of the poor seamstress—by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious aristocracy and an intolerant clergy—by the right which a despicable oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power—by the limited suffrage which leaves the millions unrepresented—by the oppressive weight of taxation laid upon the productive classes—by the sorrows which the hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery that attends upon his decrepitude—by the badge of pauperism that the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed Union-houses,—by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at rest—not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment—not to stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised world is in motion!
Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman, who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had admitted to his confidence.
“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not in which manner you can assist me.”
“Faint heart never won fair lady, my lord,” returned the old woman; “and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”
“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”
“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but, perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve you.”
“I am afraid to write to her—she would perhaps be offended to an extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to the most cruel bewilderment.
“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of sarcasm—almost of disgust.
“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true that I did pen a letter to Agnes—telling her how much I loved her and how honourable were my intentions—imploring her likewise to grant me a few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit of despair—of madness—of insensate recklessness.—I know not how to explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note—and my eyes were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I had adopted.”