They sat long, and they drank deeply; and, while the song, the story, the jest, or the argument went round, they forgot how time and reason were flying together. It was usual for such companies not to break up until they had witnessed the election of the mayor. The heads of several of the party began to go round as well as the glass; and of this number was George Mordington. He was a youth of the most sober and temperate habits; and before he had drank off his third glass, he might have said, in the words of the song, "This is no me!" His very countenance was changed; his manner, which was, in general, backward and retiring, became bold and boisterous. Instead of his wonted silence, he was the chief orator of the company. He spoke of things of which he ought not to have spoken, and as glass succeeded glass, so did one act of folly succeed another. Some of the more sober of the company said, they "were sorry for poor Mordington—but his head could stand nothing; and," added they, "it is a pity, for he is an excellent fellow." This, however, was only the sentiment of a part of them; and as he began to exhibit fantastic tricks, and to declaim with violent gestures upon all subjects, some said that he would make an excellent mayor, and proposed that a cart should be procured. Against this proposal some of his acquaintances protested; but the idea pleased his own disordered fancy, and as the madness of intoxication increased, he insisted that the bacchanalian honour should be conferred upon him.
"Well done, George!" cried the more thoughtless of the party; "he is the king of good fellows, every inch of him!"
So saying, they rushed into the street, bearing him upon their shoulders; and amidst the shouts and laughter of men and boys, he was placed in a cart, his face rubbed over with soot, his hair bedaubed with flour, and a broomstick was placed in his hand as his rod of office.
"Hurrah! George Mordington is mayor!" was the cry upon the streets; and followed by a noisy multitude, he was paraded round the village, and, in conformity with ancient custom, delivered a speech at every public-house and baker's door in the place.
Old and young leave their pillows, to "see the mayor," as they term it, and hasten to the door or window, to witness his procession as he is hurled along. There were many who, as they perceived him, expressed regret to see George Mordington in such a situation, and said it would break his mother's heart.
But, as they passed the door of Mr Weatherly, a sudden cry was heard. It was a woman's scream of agony, and as it burst forth, the maddened shout of the multitude was hushed. It struck upon the ear of George Mordington in the midst of his madness and degradation—it entered his heart. It was the cry of his betrothed Marion. He struck his hand upon his brow, and fell back in the cart as if an arrow had entered his breast. Her voice had startled him, as from a trance, into a consciousness of his shame and folly.
"He is dead!" cried the crowd—for he fell as if dead, and in a state of unconsciousness he was conveyed to his mother's house. The poor widow wept as she beheld her joy turned into shame; and as he opened his eyes and began to gaze vacantly around, his sister said unto him, but rather sorrowfully than reproachfully, "Brother! brother! who could have thought that you would have been guilty of this?"
A groan of anguish was his only reply.
"Daughter," said his mother, "do not upbraid him; he will feel anguish enough for the shame he has brought upon himself and on us, without our reproaches."
He started to his feet as he heard her voice, he thrust his fingers in his hair, he gnashed his teeth together, and howling as one in a paroxysm of insanity, exclaimed—