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 d............