So Mr. Harry Warrington, of Virginia, had his lodgings in Bond Street,
London, England, and lived upon the fat of the land, and drank bumpers
of the best wine thereof. His title of Fortunate Youth was pretty
generally recognised. Being young, wealthy, good-looking, and fortunate,
the fashionable world took him by the hand and made him welcome.
And don't, my dear brethren, let us cry out too loudly against the
selfishness of the world for being kind to the young, handsome, and
fortunate, and frowning upon you and me, who may be, for argument's
sake, old, ugly, and the miserablest dogs under the sun. If I have a
right to choose my acquaintance, and--at the club, let us say prefer the
company of a lively, handsome, well-dressed, gentleman like young
man, who amuses me, to that of a slouching, ill-washed, misanthropic
H-murderer, a ceaselessly prating coxcomb, or what not; has not
society--the aggregate you and I--a right to the same choice? Harry was
liked because he was likeable; because he was rich, handsome, jovial,
well-born, well-bred, brave; because, with jolly topers, he liked a
jolly song and a bottle; because, with gentlemen sportsmen, he loved
any game that was a-foot or a-horseback; because, with ladies, he had a
modest blushing timidity which rendered the lad interesting; because,
to those humbler than himself in degree he was always magnificently
liberal, and anxious to spare annoyance. Our Virginian was very
grand, and high and mighty, to be sure; but, in those times, when the
distinction of ranks yet obtained, to be high and distant with his
inferiors, brought no unpopularity to a gentleman. Remember that, in
those days, the Secretary of State always knelt when he went to the king
with his despatches of a morning, and the Under-Secretary never dared to
sit down in his chief's presence. If I were Secretary of State (and such
there have been amongst men of letters since Addison's days) I should
not like to kneel when I went in to my audience with my despatch-bog. If
I were Under-Secretary, I should not like to have to stand, whilst the
Right Honourable Benjamin or the Right Honourable Sir Edward looked over
the papers. But there is a modus in rebus: there are certain lines
which must be drawn: and I am only half pleased for my part, when Bob
Bowstreet, whose connection with letters is through Policeman X and
Y, and Tom Garbage, who is an esteemed contributor to the Kennel
Miscellany, propose to join fellowship as brother literary men, slap me
on the back, and call me old boy, or by my Christian name.
As much pleasure as the town could give in the winter season of 1756-57,
Mr. Warrington had for the asking. There were operas for him, in which
he took but moderate delight. (A prodigious deal of satire was brought
to bear against these Italian Operas, and they were assailed for being
foolish, Popish, unmanly, unmeaning; but people went, nevertheless.)
There were the theatres, with Mr. Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard at one
house, and Mrs. Clive at another. There were masquerades and ridottos
frequented by all the fine society; there were their lordships' and
ladyships' own private drums and assemblies, which began and ended with
cards, and which Mr. Warrington did not like so well as White's, because
the play there was neither so high nor so fair as at the club-table.
One day his kinsman, Lord Castlewood, took him to court, and presented
Harry to his Majesty, who was now come to town from Kensington. But that
gracious sovereign either did not like Harry's introducer, or had other
reasons for being sulky. His Majesty only said, “Oh, heard of you from
Lady Yarmouth. The Earl of Castlewood” (turning to his lordship, and
speaking in German) “shall tell him that he plays too much!” And so
saying, the Defender of the Faith turned his royal back.
Lord Castlewood shrank back quite frightened at this cold reception of
his august master.
“What does he say?” asked Harry.
“His Majesty thinks they play too high at White's, and is displeased,”
whispered the nobleman.
“If he does not want us, we had better not come again, that is all,”
said Harry, simply. “I never, somehow, considered that German fellow a
real King of England.”
“Hush! for Heaven's sake, hold your confounded colonial tongue!” cries
out my lord. “Don't you see the walls here have ears!”
“And what then?” asks Mr. Warrington. “Why, look at the people! Hang me,
if it is not quite a curiosity! They were all shaking hands with me, and
bowing to me, and flattering me just now; and at present they avoid me
as if I were the plague!”
“Shake hands, nephew,” said a broad-faced, broad-shouldered gentleman,
in a scarlet-laced waistcoat, and a great old-fashioned wig. “I heard
what you said. I have ears like the wall, look you. And, now, if other
people show you the cold shoulder, I'll give you my hand;” and so
saying, the gentleman put out a great brown hand, with which he grasped
Harry's. “Something of my brother about your eyes and face. Though I
suppose in your island you grow more wiry and thin like. I am thine
uncle, child. My name is Sir Miles Warrington. My lord knows me well
enough.”
My lord looked very frightened and yellow. “Yes, my dear Harry. This is
your paternal uncle, Sir Miles Warrington.”
“Might as well have come to see us in Norfolk, as dangle about playing
the fool at Tunbridge Wells, Mr. Warrington, or Mr. Esmond,--which do
you call yourself?” said the Baronet. “The old lady calls herself Madam
Esmond, don't she?”
“My mother is not ashamed of her father's name, nor am I, uncle,” said
Mr. Harry, rather proudly.
“Well said, lad! Come home and eat a bit of mutton with Lady Warrington,
at three, in Hill Street,--that is if you can do without your White's
kickshaws. You need not look frightened, my Lord Castlewood! I shall
tell no tales out of school.”
“I--I am sure Sir Miles Warrington will act as a gentleman!” says my
lord, in much perturbation.
“Belike, he will,” growled the Baronet, turning on his heel. “And thou
wilt come, young man, at three; and mind, good roast mutton waits for
nobody. Thou hast a great look of thy father. Lord bless us, how we used
to beat each other! He was smaller than me, and in course younger; but
many a time he had the best of it. Take it he was henpecked when he
married, and Madam Esmond took the spirit out of him when she got him in
her island. Virginia is an island. Ain't it an island?”
Harry laughed, and said “No!” And the jolly Baronet, going off, said,
“Well, island or not, thou must come and tell all about it to my lady.
She'll know whether 'tis an island or not.”
“My dear Mr. Warrington,” said my lord, with an appealing look, “I need
not tell you that, in this great city, every man has enemies, and that
there is a great, great deal of detraction and scandal. I never spoke
to you about Sir Miles Warrington, precisely because I did know him,
and because we have had differences together. Should he permit himself
remarks to my disparagement, you will receive them cum grano, and
remember that it is from an enemy they come.” And the pair walked out
of the King's apartments and into Saint James's Street. Harry found the
news of his cold reception at court had already preceded him to White's.
The King had turned his back upon him. The King was jealous of Harry's
favour with the favourite. Harry was au mieux with Lady Yarmouth. A
score of gentlemen wished him a compliment upon his conquest. Before
night it was a settled matter that this was amongst the other victories
of the Fortunate Youth.
Sir Miles told his wife and Harry as much, when the young man appeared
at the appointed hour at the Baronet's dinner-table, and he rallied
Harry in his simple rustic fashion. The lady, at first a grand and
stately personage, told Harry, on their further acquaintance, that the
reputation which the world had made for him was so bad, that at first
she had given him but a frigid welcome. With the young ladies, Sir
Miles's daughters, it was “How d'ye do, cousin?” and “No, thank you,
cousin,” and a number of prim curtseys to the Virginian, as they greeted
him and took leave of him. The little boy, the heir of the house, dined
at table, under the care of his governor; and, having his glass of port
by papa after dinner, gave a loose to his innocent tongue, and asked
many questions of his cousin. At last the innocent youth said, after
looking hard in Harry's face, “Are you wicked, cousin Harry? You don't
look very wicked!”
“My dear Master Miles!” expostulates the tutor, turning very red.
“But you know you said he was wicked!” cried the child.
“We are all miserable sinners, Miley,” explains papa. “Haven't you heard
the clergyman say so every Sunday?”
“Yes, but not so very wicked as cousin Harry. Is it true that you
gamble, cousin, and drink all night with wicked men, and frequent the
company of wicked women? You know you said so, Mr. Walker--and mamma
said so, too, that Lady Yarmouth was a wicked woman.”
“And you are a little pitcher,” cries papa: “and my wife, nephew Harry,
is a staunch Jacobite--you won't like her the worse for that. Take Miles
to his sisters, Mr. Walker, and Topsham shall give thee a ride in the
park, child, on thy little horse.” The idea of the little horse consoled
Master Miles; for, when his father ordered him away to his sisters, he
had begun to cry bitterly, bawling out that he would far rather stay
with his wicked cousin.
“They have made you a sad reputation among 'em, nephew!” says the jolly
Baronet. “My wife, you must know, of late years, and since the death of
my poor eldest son, has taken to,--to, hum!--to Tottenham Court Road and
Mr. Whitfield's preaching: and we have had one Ward about the house, a
friend of Mr. Walker's yonder, who has recounted sad stories about you
and your brother at home.”
“About me, Sir Miles, as much as he pleases,” cries Harry, warm with
port: “but I'll break any man's bones who dares say a word against my
brother! Why, sir, that fellow was not fit to buckle my dear George's
shoe; and if I find him repeating at home what he dared to say in our
house in Virginia, I promise him a second caning.”
“You seem to stand up for your friends, nephew Harry,” says the Baronet.
“Fill thy glass, lad, thou art not as bad as thou hast been painted.
I always told my lady so. I drink Madam Esmond Warrington's health, of
Virginia, and will have a full bumper for that toast.”
Harry, as in duty bound, emptied his glass, filled again, and drank Lady
Warrington and Master Miles.
“Thou wouldst be heir to four thousand acres in Norfolk, did he die,
though,” said the Baronet.
“God forbid, sir, and be praised that I have acres enough in Virginia
of my own!” says Mr. Warrington. He went up presently and took a dish of
coffee with Lady Warrington: he talked to the young ladies of the house.
He was quite easy, pleasant, and natural. There was one of them somewhat
like Fanny Mountain, and this young lady became his special favourite.
When he went away, they all agreed their wicked cousin was not near so
wicked as they had imagined him to be: at any rate, my lady had strong
hopes of rescuing him from the pit. She sent him a good book that
evening, whilst Mr. Harry was at White's; with a pretty note, praying
that Law's Call might be of service to him: and, this despatched, she
and her daughters went off to a rout at the house of a minister's lady.
But Harry, before he went to White's, had driven to his friend Mr.
Sparks, in Tavistock Street, and purchased more trinkets for his female
cousins--“from their aunt in Virginia,” he said. You see, he was full of
kindness: he kindled and warmed with prosperity. There are men on whom
wealth hath no such fortunate influence. It hardens base hearts: it
makes those who were mean and servile, mean and proud. If it should
please the gods to try me with ten thousand a year, I will, of course,
meekly submit myself to their decrees, but I will pray them to give me
strength enough to bear the trial. All the girls in Hill Street were
delighted at getting the presents from Aunt Warrington in Virginia and
addressed a collective note, which must have astonished that good lady
when she received it in spring-time, when she and Mountain and Fanny
were on a visit to grim deserted Castlewood, when the snows had cleared
away and a thousand peach-trees flushed with blossoms. “Poor boy!” the
mother thought “This is some present he gave his cousins in my name,
in the time of his prosperity--nay, of his extravagance and folly. How
quickly his wealth has passed away! But he ever had a kind heart for the
poor Mountain; and we must not forget him in his need. It behoves us to
be more than ever careful of our own expenses, my good people!” And so,
I dare say, they warmed themselves by one log, and ate of one dish, and
worked by one candle. And the widow's servants, whom the good soul began
to pinch more and more I fear, lied, stole, and cheated more and more:
and what was saved in one way, was stole in another.
One afternoon, Mr. Harry sate in his Bond Street lodgings, arrayed in
his dressing-gown, sipping his chocolate, surrounded by luxury, encased
in satin, and yet enveloped in care. A few weeks previously when the
luck was with him, and he was scattering his benefactions to and fro,
he had royally told Parson Sampson to get together a list of his debts
which he, Mr. Warrington, would pay. Accordingly Sampson had gone to
work, and had got together a list, not of all his debts--no man ever
does set down all,--but such a catalogue as he thought sufficient to
bring in to Mr. Warrington, at whose breakfast-table the divine had
humbly waited until his honour should choose to attend it.
Harry appeared at length, very pale and languid, in curl-papers, and
scarce any appetite for his breakfast; and the chaplain, fumbling with
his schedule in his pocket, humbly asked if his patron had had a bad
night? He had been brought home from White's by two chairmen at five
o'clock in the morning; had caught a confounded cold, for one of the
windows of the chair would not shut, and the rain and snow came in,
finally, was in such a bad humour, that all poor Sampson's quirks and
jokes could scarcely extort a smile from him.
At last, to be sure, Mr. Warrington burst into a loud laugh. It was when
the poor chaplain, after a sufficient discussion of muffins, eggs, tea,
the news, the theatres, and so forth, pulled a paper out of his pocket
and in a piteous tone said, “Here is that schedule of debts which your
honour asked for--two hundred and forty-three pounds--every shilling I
owe in the world, thank Heaven!--that is--ahem!--every shilling of which
the payment will in the least inconvenience me--and I need not tell my
dearest patron that I shall consider him my saviour and benefactor!”
It was then that Harry, taking the paper and eyeing the chaplain with
rather a wicked look, burst into a laugh, which was, however, anything
but jovial. Wicked execrations, moreover, accompanied this outbreak of
humour, and the luckless chaplain felt that his petition had come at the
wrong moment.
“Confound it, why didn't you bring it on Monday?” Harry asked.
“Confound me, why did I not bring it on Monday?” echoed the chaplain's
timid soul. “It is my luck--my usual luck. Have the cards been against
you, Mr. Warrington?”
“Yes: a plague on them. Monday night, and last night, have both gone
against me. Don't be frightened, chaplain, there's money enough in the
locker yet. But I must go into the City and get some.”
“What, sell out, sir?” asks his reverence, with a voice that was
reassured, though it intended to be alarmed.
“Sell out, sir? Yes! I borrowed a hundred off Mackreth in counters last
night, and must pay him at dinner-time. I will do your business for you
nevertheless, and never fear, my good Mr. Sampson. Come to breakfast
to-morrow, and we will see and deliver your reverence from the
Philistines.” But though he laughed in Sampson's presence, and strove
to put a good face upon the matter, Harry's head sank down on his chest
when the parson quitted him, and he sate over the fire, beating the
coals about with the poker, and giving utterance to many disjointed
naughty words, which showed, but did not relieve, the agitation of his
spirit.
In this mood, the young fellow was interrupted by the appearance of a
friend, who, on any other day--even on that one when his conscience was
so uneasy--was welcome to Mr. Warrington. This was no other than Mr.
Lambert, in his military dress, but with a cloak over him, who had come
from the country, had been to the Captain-General's levee that morning,
and had come thence to visit his young friend in Bond Street.
Harry may have thought Lambert's greeting rather cold; but being
occupied with his own affairs, he put away the notion. How were the
ladies of Oakhurst, and Miss Hetty, who was ailing when he passed
through in the autumn? Purely? Mr. Warrington was very glad. They were
come to stay a while in London with their friend, Lord Wrotham? Mr.
Harry was delighted--though it must be confessed his face did not
exhibit any peculiar signs of pleasure when he heard the news.
“And so you live at White's, and with the great folks; and you fare
sumptuously every day, and you pay your court at St. James's, and make
one at my Lady Yarmouth's routs, and at all the card-parties in the
Court end of the town?” asks the Colonel.
“My dear Colonel, I do what other folks do,” says Harry, with rather a
high manner.
“Other folks are richer folks than some folks, my dear lad.”
“Sir!” says Mr. Warrington, “I would thank you to believe that I owe
nothing for which I cannot pay!”
“I should never have spoken about your affairs,” said the other, not
noticing the young man's haughty tone, “but that you yourself confided
them to me. I hear all sorts of stories about the Fortunate Youth. Only
at his Royal Highness's even today, they were saying how rich you were
already, and I did not undeceive them----”
“Colonel Lambert, I cannot help the world gossiping about me!” cries Mr.
Warrington, more and more impatient.
“--And what prodigious sums you had won. Eighteen hundred one night--two
thousand another--six or eight thousand in all! Oh! there were gentlemen
from White's at the levee too, I can assure you, and the army can fling
a main as well as you civilians!”
“I wish they would meddle with their own affairs,” says Harry, scowling
at his old friend.
“And I, too, you look as if you were going to say. Well, my boy, it is
my affair and you must let Theo's father and Hetty's father, and Harry
Warrington's father's old friend say how it is my affair.” Here the
Colonel drew a packet out of his pocket, whereof the lappets and the
coat-tails and the general pocket accommodations were much more ample
than in the scant military garments of present warriors. “Look you,
Harry. These trinkets which you sent with the kindest heart in the world
to people who love you, and would cut off their little hands to spare
you needless pain, could never be bought by a young fellow with two or
three hundred a year. Why, a nobleman might buy these things, or a rich
City banker, and send them to his--to his daughters, let us say.”
“Sir, as you say, I meant only kindness,” says Harry, blushing
burning-red.
“But you must not give them to my girls, my boy. Hester and Theodosia
Lambert must not be dressed up with the winnings off the gaming-table,
saving your presence. It goes to my heart to bring back the trinkets.
Mrs. Lambert will keep her present, which is of small value, and sends
you her love and a God bless you--and so say I, Harry Warrington, with
all my heart.” Here the good Colonel's voice was much moved, and his
face grew very red, and he passed his hand over his eyes ere he held it
out.
But the spirit of rebellion was strong in Mr. Warrington. He rose up
from his seat, never offering to take the hand which his senior held out
to him. “Give me leave to tell Colonel Lambert,” he said, “that I have
had somewhat too much advice from him. You are for ever volunteering it,
sir, and when I don't ask it. You make it your business to inquire about
my gains at play, and about the company I keep. What right have you to
control my amusements or my companions? I strive to show my sense
of your former kindness by little presents to your family, and you
fling--you bring them back.”
“I can't do otherwise, Mr. Warrington,” says the Colonel, with a very
sad face.
“Such a slight may mean nothing here, sir, but in our country it means
war, sir!” cries Mr. Warrington. “God forbid I should talk of drawing a
sword against the father of ladies who have been as mother and sister
to me: but you have wounded my heart, Colonel Lambert--you have, I won't
say insulted, but humiliated me, and this is a treatment I will bear
from no man alive! My servants will attend you to the door, sir!” Saying
which, and rustling in his brocade dressing-gown, Mr. Warrington, with
much state, walked off to his bedroom.