CHAPTER LXIII. Melpomene
George Warrington by no means allowed his legal studies to obstructhis comfort and pleasures, or interfere with his precious health. MadamEsmond had pointed out to him in her letters that though he worea student's gown, and sate down with a crowd of nameless people tohall-commons, he had himself a name, and a very ancient one, to support,and could take rank with the first persons at home or in his owncountry; and desired that he would study as a gentleman, not a mereprofessional drudge. With this injunction the young man compliedobediently enough: so that he may be said not to have belonged to therank and file of the law, but may be considered to have been a volunteerin her service, like some young gentlemen of whom we have just heard.Though not so exacting as she since has become--though she allowed herdisciples much more leisure, much more pleasure, much more punch, muchmore frequenting of coffee-houses and holiday-making, than she admitsnowadays, when she scarce gives her votaries time for amusement,recreation, instruction, sleep, or dinner--the law a hundred years agowas still a jealous mistress, and demanded a pretty exclusive attention.Murray, we are told, might have been an Ovid, but he preferred to beLord Chief Justice, and to wear ermine instead of bays. Perhaps Mr.Warrington might have risen to a peerage and the woolsack, had hestudied very long and assiduously,--had he been a dexterous courtier,and a favourite of attorneys: had he been other than he was, in a word.He behaved to Themis with a very decent respect and attention; but heloved letters more than law always; and the black-letter of Chaucer wasinfinitely more agreeable to him than the Gothic pages of Hale and Coke.
Letters were loved indeed in those quaint times, and authors wereactually authorities. Gentlemen appealed to Virgil or Lucan in theCourts or the House of Commons. What said Statius, Juvenal--let aloneTully or Tacitus--on such and such a point? Their reign is over now, thegood old Heathens: the worship of Jupiter and Juno is not more outof mode than the cultivation of Pagan poetry or ethics. The age ofeconomists and calculators has succeeded, and Tooke's Pantheon isdeserted and ridiculous. Now and then, perhaps, a Stanley kills a kid,a Gladstone bangs up a wreath, a Lytton burns incense, in honour ofthe Olympians. But what do they care at Lambeth, Birmingham, the TowerHamlets, for the ancient rites, divinities, worship? Who the plague arethe Muses, and what is the use of all that Greek and Latin rubbish? Whatis Elicon, and who cares? Who was Thalia, pray, and what is the lengthof her i? Is Melpomene's name in three syllables or four? And do youknow from whose design I stole that figure of Tragedy which adorns theinitial G of this chapter?
Now, it has been said how Mr. George in his youth, and in the longleisure which he enjoyed at home, and during his imprisonment in theFrench fort on the banks of Monongahela, had whiled away his idleness bypaying court to Melpomene; and the result of their union was a tragedy,which has been omitted in Bell's Theatre, though I dare say it is noworse than some of the pieces printed there. Most young men pay theirrespects to the Tragic Muse first, as they fall in love with women whoare a great deal older than themselves. Let the candid reader own, ifever he had a literary turn, that his ambition was of the veryhighest, and that however, in his riper age, he might come down in hispretensions, and think that to translate an ode of Horace, or to turn asong of Waller or Prior into decent alcaics or sapphics, was about theutmost of his capability, tragedy and epic only did his green unknowingyouth engage, and no prize but the highest was fit for him.
George Warrington, then, on coming to London, attended the theatricalperformances at both houses, frequented the theatrical coffee-houses,and heard the opinions of the critics, and might be seen at the Bedfordbetween the plays, or supping at the Cecil along with the wits andactors when the performances were over. Here he gradually becameacquainted with the players and such of the writers and poets as wereknown to the public. The tough old Macklin, the frolicsome Foote,the vivacious Hippisley, the sprightly Mr. Garrick himself, mightoccasionally be seen at these houses of entertainment; and ourgentleman, by his wit and modesty, as well, perhaps, as for the highcharacter for wealth which he possessed, came to be very much liked inthe coffee-house circles, and found that the actors would drink abowl of punch with him, and the critics sup at his expense with greataffability. To be on terms of intimacy with an author or an actor hasbeen an object of delight to many a young man; actually to hob and nobwith Bobadil or Henry the Fifth or Alexander the Great, to accept apinch out of Aristarchus's own box, to put Juliet into her coach, orhand Monimia to her chair, are privileges which would delight most youngmen of a poetic turn; and no wonder George Warrington loved the theatre.Then he had the satisfaction of thinking that his mother only halfapproved of plays and playhouses, and of feasting on fruit forbidden athome. He gave more than one elegant entertainment to the players, and itwas even said that one or two distinguished geniuses had condescended toborrow money of him.
And as he polished and added new beauties to his masterpiece, we may besure that he took advice of certain friends of his, and that they gavehim applause and counsel. Mr. Spencer, his new acquaintance, of theTemple, gave a breakfast at his chambers in Fig Tree Court, when Mr.Warrington read part of his play, and the gentlemen present pronouncedthat it had uncommon merit. Even the learned Mr. Johnson, who wasinvited, was good enough to say that the piece had showed talent. Itwarred against the unities, to be sure; but these had been violatedby other authors, and Mr. Warrington might sacrifice them as well asanother. There was in Mr. W.'s tragedy a something which reminded himboth of Coriolanus and Othello. "And two very good things too, sir!" theauthor pleaded. "Well, well, there was no doubt on that point; and 'tiscertain your catastrophe is terrible, just, and being in part true, isnot the less awful," remarks Mr. Spencer.
Now the plot of Mr. Warrington's tragedy was quite full indeed of battleand murder. A favourite book of his grandfather had been the life of oldGeorge Frundsberg of Mindelheim, a colonel of foot-folk in the Imperialservice at Pavia fight, and during the wars of the Constable Bourbon:and one of Frundsberg's military companions was a certain Carpzow, orCarpezan, whom our friend selected as his tragedy hero. His firstact, as it at present stands in Sir George Warrington's manuscript,is supposed to take place before a convent on the Rhine, which theLutherans, under Carpezan, are besieging. A godless gang these Lutheransare. They have pulled the beards of Roman friars, and torn the veils ofhundreds of religious women. A score of these are trembling within thewalls of the convent yonder, of which the garrison, unless the expectedsuccours arrive before midday, has promised to surrender. Meanwhilethere is armistice, and the sentries within look on with hungry eyes, asthe soldiers and camp people gamble on the grass before the gate. Twelveo'clock, ding, ding, dong! it sounds upon the convent bell. No succourshave arrived. Open gates, warder! and give admission to the famousProtestant hero, the terror of Turks on the Danube, and Papists in theLombard plains--Colonel Carpezan! See, here he comes, clad in completesteel, his hammer of battle over his shoulder, with which he hasbattered so many infidel sconces, his flags displayed, his trumpetsblowing. "No rudeness, my men," says Carpezan; "the wine is yours,and the convent larder and cellar are good: the church plate shallbe melted: any of the garrison who choose to take service with GasparCarpezan are welcome, and shall have good pay. No insult to thereligious ladies! I have promised them a safe-conduct, and he who lays afinger on them, hangs! Mind that Provost Marshal!" The Provost Marshal,a huge fellow in a red doublet, nods his head.
"We shall see more of that Provost Marshal, or executioner," Mr. Spencerexplains to his guests.
"A very agreeable acquaintance, I am sure,--shall be delighted to meetthe gentleman again!" says Mr. Johnson, wagging his head over his tea."This scene of the mercenaries, the camp followers, and their wildsports, is novel and stirring, Mr. Warrington, and I make you mycompliments on it. The Colonel has gone into the convent, I think? Nowlet us hear what he is going to do there."
The Abbess, and one or two of her oldest ladies, make their appearancebefore the conqueror. Conqueror as he is, they heard him in theirsacred h
alls. They have heard of his violent behaviour in conventualestablishments before. That hammer, which he always carries in action,has smashed many sacred images in religious houses. Pounds and pounds ofconvent plate is he known to have melted, the sacrilegious plunderer! Nowonder the Abbess-Princess of St. Mary's, a lady of violent prejudices,free language, and noble birth, has a dislike to the lowborn heretic wholords it in her convent, and tells Carpezan a bit of her mind, as thephrase is. This scene, in which the lady gets somewhat better of theColonel, was liked not a little by Mr. Warrington's audience at theTemple. Terrible as he might be in war, Carpezan was shaken at first bythe Abbess's brisk opening charge of words; and, conqueror as he was,seemed at first to be conquered by his actual prisoner. But such an oldsoldier was not to be beaten ultimately by any woman. "Pray, madam,"says he, "how many ladies are there in your convent, for whom my peopleshall provide conveyance?" The Abbess, with a look of much trouble andanger, says that, "besides herself, the noble sisters of Saint Mary'sHouse are twenty--twenty-three." She was going to say twenty-four, andnow says twenty-three? "Ha! why this hesitation?" asks Captain Ulric,one of Carpezan's gayest officers.
The dark chief pulls a letter from his pocket. "I require from you,madam," he says sternly to the Lady Abbess, "the body of the noble ladySybilla of Hoya. Her brother was my favourite captain, slain by my side,in the Milanese. By his death, she becomes heiress of his lands. 'Tissaid a greedy uncle brought her hither; and fast immured the ladyagainst her will. The damsel shall herself pronounce her fate--to stay acloistered sister of Saint Mary's, or to return to home and liberty, asLady Sybil, Baroness of ------." Ha! The Abbess was greatly disturbedby this question. She says, haughtily: "There is no Lady Sybil in thishouse: of which every inmate is under your protection, and sworn to gofree. The Sister Agnes was a nun professed, and what was her land andwealth revert to this Order."
"Give me straightway the body of the Lady Sybil of Hoya!" roarsCarpezan, in great wrath. "If not, I make a signal to my Reiters, andgive you and your convent up to war."
"Faith, if I lead the storm, and have my right, 'tis not my Lady Abbessthat I'll choose," says Captain Ulric, "but rather some plump, smiling,red-lipped maid like--like----" Here, as he, the sly fellow, is lookingunder the veils of the two attendant nuns, the stern Abbess cries,"Silence, fellow, with thy ribald talk! The lady, warrior, whom you askof me is passed away from sin, temptation, vanity, and three days sinceour Sister Agnes--died."
At this announcement Carpezan is immensely agitated. The Abbess callsupon the chaplain to confirm her statement. Ghastly and pale, the oldman has to own that three days since the wretched Sister Agnes wasburied.
This is too much! In the pocket of his coat of mail Carpezan has aletter from Sister Agnes herself, in which she announces that she isgoing to be buried indeed, but in an oubliette of the convent, whereshe may either be kept on water and bread, or die starved outright. Heseizes the unflinching Abbess by the arm, whilst Captain Ulric lays holdof the chaplain by the throat. The Colonel blows a blast upon his horn:in rush his furious Lanzknechts from without. Crash, bang! They knockthe convent walls about. And in the midst of flames, screams, andslaughter, who is presently brought in by Carpezan himself, and faintingon his shoulder, but Sybilla herself? A little sister nun (that gay onewith the red lips) had pointed out to the Colonel and Ulric the way toSister Agnes's dungeon, and, indeed, had been the means of making hersituation known to the Lutheran chief.
"The convent is suppressed with a vengeance," says Mr. Warrington. "Weend our first act with the burning of the place, the roars of triumphof the soldiery, and the outcries of the nuns. They had best go changetheir dresses immediately, for they will have to be court ladies in thenext act--as you will see." Here the gentlemen talked the matter over.If the piece were to be done at Drury Lane, Mrs. Pritchard would hardlylike to be Lady Abbess, as she doth but appear in the first act. MissPritchard might make a pretty Sybilla, and Miss Gates the attendantnun. Mr. Garrick was scarce tall enough for Carpezan--though, when heis excited, nobody ever thinks of him but as big as a grenadier. Mr.Johnson owns Woodward will be a good Ulric, as he plays the Mercutioparts very gaily; and so, by one and t'other, the audience fancies theplay already on the boards, and casts the characters.
In act the second, Carpezan has married Sybilla. He has enriched himselfin the wars, has been ennobled by the Emperor, and lives at his castleon the Danube in state and splendour.
But, truth to say, though married, rich, and ennobled, the Lord Carpezanwas not happy. It may be that in his wild life, as leader of condottierion both sides, he had committed crimes which agitated his mind withremorse. It may be that his rough soldier-manners consorted ill with hisimperious highborn bride. She led him such a life--I am narrating asit were the Warrington manuscript, which is too long to print inentire--taunting him with his low birth, his vulgar companions, whom theold soldier loved to see about him, and so forth--that there weretimes when he rather wished that he had never rescued this lovely,quarrelsome, wayward vixen from the oubliette out of which he fishedher. After the bustle of the first act this is a quiet one, and passedchiefly in quarrelling between the Baron and Baroness Carpezan, untilhorns blow, and it is announced that the young King of Bohemia andHungary is coming bunting that way.
Act III. is passed at Prague, whither his Majesty has invited LordCarpezan and his wife, with noble offers of preferment to the latter.From Baron he shall be promoted to be Count, from Colonel he shall beGeneral-in-Chief. His wife is the most brilliant and fascinating of allthe ladies of the court--and as for Carpzoff----
"Oh, stay--I have it--I know your story, sir, now," says Mr. Johnson."'Tis in 'Meteranus,' in the Theatrum Universum. I read it in Oxford asa boy--Carpezanus or Carpzoff----"
"That is the fourth act," says Mr. Warrington. In the fourth act theyoung King's attentions towards Sybilla grow more and more marked; buther husband, battling against his jealousy, long refuses to yield to it,until his wife's criminality is put beyond a doubt--and here he readthe act, which closes with the terrible tragedy which actually happened.Being convinced of his wife's guilt, Carpezan caused the executioner whofollowed his regiment to slay her in her own palace. And the curtain ofthe act falls just after the dreadful deed is done, in a side-chamberilluminated by the moon shining through a great oriel window, underwhich the King comes with his lute, and plays the song which was to bethe signal between him and his guilty victim.
This song (writ in the ancient style, and repeated in the piece, beingsung in the third act previously at a great festival given by the Kingand Queen) was pronounced by Mr. Johnson to be a happy imitation of Mr.Waller's manner, and its gay repetition at the moment of guilt, murder,and horror, very much deepened the tragic gloom of the scene.
"But whatever came afterwards?" he asked. "I remember in the Theatrum,Carpezan is said to have been taken into favour again by CountMansfield, and doubtless to have murdered other folks on the reformedside."
Here our poet has departed from historic truth. In the fifth actof Carpezan King Louis of Hungary and Bohemia (sufficientlyterror-stricken, no doubt, by the sanguinary termination of hisintrigue) has received word that the Emperor Solyman is invading hisHungarian dominions. Enter two noblemen who relate how, in thecouncil which the King held upon the news, the injured Carpezan rushedinfuriated into the royal presence, broke his sword, and flung it at theKing's feet--along with a glove which he dared him to wear, and which heswore he would one day claim. After that wild challenge the rebel fledfrom Prague, and had not since been heard of; but it was reported thathe had joined the Turkish invader, assumed the turban, and was nowin the camp of the Sultan, whose white tents glance across the riveryonder, and against whom the King was now on his march. Then the Kingcomes to his tent with his generals, prepares his order of battle; anddismisses them to their posts, keeping by his side an aged and faithfulknight, his master of the horse, to whom he expresses his repentancefor his past crimes, his esteem for his good and injured Queen, and hisdetermination t
o meet the day's battle like a man.
"What is this field called?"
"Mohacz, my liege!" says the old warrior, adding the remark that "Ereset of sun, Mohacz will see a battle bravely won."
Trumpets and alarms now sound; they are the cymbals and barbaric musicof the Janissaries: we are in the Turkish camp, and yonder, surroundedby turbaned chiefs, walks the Sultan Solyman's friend, the conqueror ofRhodes, the redoubted Grand Vizier.
Who is that warrior in an Eastern habit, but with a glove in his cap?'Tis Carpezan. Even Solyman knew his courage and ferocity as a soldier.He knows; the ordnance of the Hungarian host; in what arms King Louisis weakest: how his cavalry, of which the shock is tremendous, shouldbe received, and inveigled into yonder morass, where certain death mayawait them--he prays for a command in the front, and as near as possibleto the place where the traitor King Louis will engage. "'Tis well," saysthe grim Vizier, "our invincible Emperor surveys the battle from yondertower. At the end of the day, he will know how to reward your valour."The signal-guns fire--the trumpets blow--the Turkish captains retire,vowing death to the infidel, and eternal fidelity to the Sultan.
And now the battle begins in earnest, and with those various incidentswhich the lover of the theatre knoweth. Christian knights and Turkishwarriors clash and skirmish over the stage. Continued alarms aresounded. Troops on both sides advance and retreat. Carpezan, with hisglove in his cap, and his dreadful hammer smashing all before him, ragesabout the field, calling for King Louis. The renegade is about to slaya warrior who faces him, but recognising young Ulric, his ex-captain, hedrops the uplifted hammer, and bids him fly, and think of Carpezan. Heis softened at seeing his young friend, and thinking of former timeswhen they fought and conquered together in the cause of Protestantism.Ulric bids him to return, but of course that is now out of the question.They fight. Ulric will have it, and down he goes under the hammer. Therenegade melts in sight of his wounded comrade, when who appears butKing Louis, his plumes torn, his sword hacked, his shield dented witha thousand blows which he has received and delivered during the day'sbattle. Ha! who is this? The guilty monarch would turn away (perhapsMacbeth may have done so before), but Carpezan is on him. All hissoftness is gone. He rages like a fury. "An equal fight!" he roars. "Atraitor against a traitor! Stand, King Louis! False King, false knight,false friend--by this glove in my helmet, I challenge you!" And he tearsthe guilty token out of his cap, and flings it at the King.
Of course they set to, and the monarch falls under the terrible arm ofthe man whom he has injured. He dies, uttering a few incoherent wordsof repentance, and Carpezan, leaning upon his murderous mace, utters aheartbroken soliloquy over the royal corpse. The Turkish warriors havegathered meanwhile: the dreadful day is their own. Yonder stands thedark Vizier, surrounded by his Janissaries, whose bows and swords aretired of drinking death. He surveys the renegade standing over thecorpse of the King.
"Christian renegade!" he says, "Allah has given us a great victory. Thearms of the Sublime Emperor are everywhere triumphant. The ChristianKing is slain by you."
"Peace to his soul! He died like a good knight," gasps Ulric, himselfdying on the field.
"In this day's battle," the grim Vizier continues, "no man hathcomported himself more bravely than you. You are made Bassa ofTransylvania! Advance bowmen--Fire!"
An arrow quivers in the breast of Carpezan.
"Bassa of Transylvania, you were a traitor to your King, who liesmurdered by your hand!" continues grim Vizier. "You contributed morethan any soldier to this day's great victory. 'Tis thus my sublimeEmperor meetly rewards you. Sound trumpets! We march for Viennato-night!"
And the curtain drops as Carpezan, crawling towards his dying comrade,kisses his hands, and gasps--
"Forgive me, Ulric!"
When Mr. Warrington has finished reading his tragedy, he turns round toMr. Johnson, modestly, and asks,--
"What say you, sir? Is there any chance for me?"
But the opinion of this most eminent critic is scarce to be given, forMr. Johnson had been asleep for some time, and frankly owned that he hadlost the latter part of the play.
The little auditory begins to hum and stir as the noise of the speakerceased. George may have been very nervous when he first commenced toread; but everybody allows that he read the last two acts uncommonlywell, and makes him a compliment upon his matter and manner. Perhapseverybody is in good-humour because the piece has come to an end. Mr.Spencer's servant hands about refreshing drinks. The Templars speak outtheir various opinions whilst they sip the negus. They are a choice bandof critics, familiar with the pit of the theatre, and they treat Mr.Warrington's play with the gravity which such a subject demands.
Mr. Fountain suggests that the Vizier should not say "Fire!" when hebids the archers kill Carpezan, as you certainly don't fire with a bowand arrows. A note is taken of the objection.
Mr. Figtree, who is of a sentimental turn, regrets that Ulric could notbe saved, and married to the comic heroine.
"Nay, sir, there was an utter annihilation of the Hungarian army atMohacz," says Mr. Johnson, "and Ulric must take his knock on the headwith the rest. He could only be saved by flight, and you wouldn't havea hero run away! Pronounce sentence of death against Captain Ulric, butkill him with honours of war."
Messrs. Essex and Tanfield wonder to one another who is thisqueer-looking pert whom Spencer has invited, and who contradictseverybody; and suggest a boat up the river and a little fresh air afterthe fatigues of the tragedy.
The general opinion is decidedly favourable to Mr. Warrington'sperformance; and Mr. Johnson's opinion, on which he sets a specialvalue, is the most favourable of all. Perhaps Mr. Johnson is not sorryto compliment a young gentleman of fashion and figure like Mr. W. "Up tothe death of the heroine," he says, "I am frankly with you, sir. And Imay speak, as a playwright who have killed my own heroine, and had myshare of the plausus in the atro. To hear your own lines nobly deliveredto an applauding house, is indeed a noble excitement. I like to see ayoung man of good name and lineage who condescends to think that theTragic Muse is not below his advances. It was to a sordid roof thatI invited her, and I asked her to rescue me from poverty and squalor.Happy you, sir, who can meet her upon equal terms, and can afford tomarry her without a portion!"
"I doubt whether the greatest genius is not debased who has to make abargain with Poetry," remarks Mr. Spencer.
"Nay, sir," Mr. Johnson answered, "I doubt if many a great genius wouldwork at all without bribes and necessities; and so a man had bettermarry a poor Muse for good and all, for better or worse, than dally witha rich one. I make you my compliment to your play, Mr. Warrington, andif you want an introduction to the stage, shall be very happy if I caninduce my friend Mr. Garrick to present you."
"Mr. Garrick shall be his sponsor," cried the florid Mr. Figtree."Melpomene shall be his godmother, and he shall have the witches'caldron in Macbeth for a christening font."
"Sir, I neither said font nor godmother!"--remarks the man of letters."I would have no play contrary to morals or religion nor, as I conceive,is Mr. Warrington's piece otherwise than friendly to them. Vice ischastised, as it should be, even in kings, though perhaps we judge oftheir temptations too lightly. Revenge is punished--as not to be lightlyexercised by our limited notion of justice. It may have been Carpezan'swife who perverted the King, and not the King who led the woman astray.At any rate, Louis is rightly humiliated for his crime, and the Renegademost justly executed for his. I wish you a good afternoon, gentlemen!"And with these remarks, the great author took his leave of the company.
Towards the close of the reading, General Lambert had made hisappearance at Mr. Spencer's chambers, and had listened to the latterpart of the tragedy. The performance over, he and George took their wayto the latter's lodgings in the first place, and subsequently to theGeneral's own house, where the young author was expected, in order torecount the reception which his play had met from his Temple critics.
At Mr. Warrington's apartments in South
ampton Row, they found a letterawaiting George, which the latter placed in his pocket unread, so thathe might proceed immediately with his companion to Soho. We may be surethe ladies there were eager to know about the Carpezan's fate in themorning's small rehearsal.
Hetty said George was so shy, that perhaps it would be better for allparties if some other person had read the play. Theo, on the contrary,cried out:
"Read it, indeed! Who can read a poem better than the author who feelsit in his heart? And George had his whole heart in the piece!"
Mr. Lambert very likely thought that somebody else's whole heart was inthe piece too, but did not utter this opinion to Miss Theo.
"I think Harry would look very well in your figure of a Prince,"says the General. "That scene where he takes leave of his wife beforedeparting for the wars reminds me of your brother's manner not alittle."
"Oh, papa! surely Mr. Warrington himself would act the Prince's partbest!" cries Miss Theo.
"And be deservedly slain in battle at the end?" asks the father of thehouse.
"I did not say that,--only that Mr. George would make a very goodPrince, papa!" cries Miss Theo.
"In which case he would find a suitable Princess, I have no doubt. Whatnews of your brother Harry?"
George, who had been thinking about theatrical triumphs; aboutmonumentum aere perennius; about lilacs; about love whispered andtenderly accepted, remembers that he has a letter from Harry in hispocket, and gaily produces it.
"Let us hear what Mr. Truant says for himself, Aunt Lambert!" criesGeorge, breaking the seal.
Why is he so disturbed, as he reads the contents of his letter? Why dothe women look at him with alarmed eyes? And why, above all, is Hetty sopale?
"Here is the letter," says George, and begins to read it:
"RYDE, June 1, 1758.
"I did not tell my dearest George what I hoped and intended, when I lefthome on Wednesday. 'Twas to see Mr. Webb at Portsmouth or the Isle ofWight, wherever his Regiment was, and if need was to go down on myknees to him to take me as volunteer on the Expedition. I took boat fromPortsmouth, where I learned that he was with our regiment incampt atthe village of Ryde. Was received by him most kindly, and my petitiongranted out of hand. That is why I say our regiment. We are eightgentlemen volunteers with Mr. Webb, all men of birth, and good fortunesexcept poor me, who don't deserve one. We are to mess with the officers;we take the right of the collumn, and have always the right to bein front, and in an hour we embark on board his Majesty's Ship theRochester of 60 guns, while our Commodore's, Mr. Howe's, is the Essex,70. His squadron is about 20 ships, and I should think 100 transports atleast. Though 'tis a secret expedition, we make no doubt France is ourdestination--where I hope to see my friends the Monsieurs once more,and win my colours, a la point de mon epee, as we used to say in Canada.Perhaps my service as interpreter may be useful; I speaking the languagenot so well as some one I know, but better than most here.
"I scarce venture to write to our mother to tell her of this step. Willyou, who have a coxing tongue will wheadle any one, write to her as soonas you have finisht the famous tradgedy? Will you give my affectionaterespects to dear General Lambert and ladies? and if any accident shouldhappen, I know you will take care of poor Gumbo as belonging to mydearest best George's most affectionate brother, HENRY E. WARRINGTON.
"P.S.--Love to all at home when you write, including Dempster, Mountain,and Fanny M. and all the people, and duty to my honoured mother, wishingI had pleased her better. And if I said anything unkind to dear MissHester Lambert, I know she will forgive me, and pray God bless all.--H.E. W."
"To G. Esmond Warrington, Esq., at Mr. Scrace's House in SouthamptonRow, Opposite Bedford House Gardens, London."
He has not read the last words with a very steady voice. Mr. Lambertsits silent, though not a little moved. Theo and her mother look at oneanother; but Hetty remains with a cold face and a stricken heart. Shethinks, "He is gone to danger, perhaps to death, and it was I sent him!"