‘Leave off those damnable faces and begin,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin. It was only a quotation from his favourite bard, and not an inappropriate one, but it did not sound kind.
‘It is brutal,’ murmured Margaret under her breath, and at the same time she cast a glance of ineffable pity at the victim. It was like a ray of sunshine upon a chill day, at sight of which the bird bursts into song.
‘The lines are on Chatterton,’ he began by way of prelude:—
Comfort and joys for ever fled,
He ne’er will warble more;
Ah me! the sweetest youth is dead
That e’er tuned reed before.
The hand of misery laid him low,
E’en hope forsook his brain;
Relentless man contemned his woe,
To him he sighed in vain.
Oppressed with want, in wild despair he cried,
‘No more I’ll live!’ swallowed the draught, and died.
Mr. Samuel Erin looked as if he had swallowed a draught; one of those recommended to persons suffering from the effects of poison.