We understand the respectful indignation of all loyal Britons when they come to read of Mr. George Warrington’s conduct towards a gallant and gracious Prince, the beloved son of the best of monarchs, and the Captain-General of the British army. What an inestimable favour has not the young man slighted! What a chance of promotion had he not thrown away! Will Esmond, whose language was always rich in blasphemies, employed his very strongest curses in speaking of his cousin’s behaviour, and expressed his delight that the confounded young Mohock was cutting his own throat. Cousin Castlewood said that a savage gentleman had a right to scalp himself if he liked; or perhaps, he added charitably, our cousin Mr. Warrington heard enough of the war-whoop in Braddock’s affair, and has no more stomach for fighting. Mr. Will rejoiced that the younger brother had gone to the deuce, and he rejoiced to think that the elder was following him. The first time he met the fellow, Will said, he should take care to let Mr. George know what he thought of him.

“If you intend to insult George, at least you had best take care that his brother Harry is out of hearing!” cried Lady Maria — on which we may fancy more curses uttered by Mr. Will, with regard to his twin kinsfolk.

“Ta, ta, ta!” says my lord. “No more of this squabbling! We can’t be all warriors in the family!”

“I never heard your lordship laid claim to be one!” says Maria.

“Never, my dear; quite the contrary! Will is our champion, and one is quite enough in the house. So I dare say with the two Mohocks; — George is the student, and Harry is the fighting man. When you intended to quarrel, Will, what a pity it was you had not George, instead of t’other, to your hand!”

“Your lordship’s hand is famous — at piquet,” says Will’s mother.

“It is a pretty one,” says my lord, surveying his fingers, with a simper. “My Lord Hervey’s glove and mine were of a size. Yes, my hand, as you say, is more fitted for cards than for war. Yours, my Lady Castlewood, is pretty dexterous, too. How I bless the day when you bestowed it on my lamented father!” In this play of sarcasm, as in some other games of skill, his lordship was not sorry to engage, having a cool head, and being able to beat his family all round.

Madame de Bernstein, when she heard of Mr. Warrington’s bevue, was exceedingly angry, stormed, and scolded her immediate household; and would have scolded George but she was growing old, and had not the courage of her early days. Moreover, she was a little afraid of her nephew, and respectful in her behaviour to him. “You will never make your fortune at court, nephew!” she groaned, when, soon after his discomfiture, the young gentleman went to wait upon her.

“It was never my wish, madam,” said Mr. George, in a very stately manner.

“Your wish was to help Harry? You might hereafter have been of service to your brother, had you accepted the Duke’s offer. Princes do not love to have their favours refused, and I don’t wonder that his Royal Highness was offended.”

“General Lambert said the same thing,” George confessed, turning rather red; “and I see now that I was wrong. But you must please remember that I had never seen a court before, and I suppose I am scarce likely to shine in one.”

“I think possibly not, my good nephew,” says the aunt, taking snuff.

“And what then?” asked George. “I never had ambition for that kind of glory, and can make myself quite easy without it. When his Royal Highness spoke to me — most kindly, as I own — my thought was, I shall make a very bad soldier, and my brother would be a very good one. He has a hundred good qualities for the profession, in which I am deficient; and would have served a Commanding Officer far better than I ever could. Say the Duke is in battle, and his horse is shot, as my poor chief’s was at home, would he not be better for a beast that had courage and strength to bear him anywhere, than with one that could not carry his weight?”

“Au fait. His Royal Highness’s charger must be a strong one, my dear!” says the old lady.

“Expende Hannibalem,” mutters George, with a shrug. “Our Hannibal weighs no trifle.”

“I don’t quite follow you, sir, and your Hannibal,” the Baroness remarks.

“When Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Lambert remonstrated with me as you have done, madam,” George rejoins, with a laugh, “I made this same defence which I am making to you. I said I offered to the Prince the best soldier in the family, and the two gentlemen allowed that my blunder at least had some excuse. Who knows but that they may set me right with his Royal Highness? The taste I have had of battles has shown me how little my genius inclines that way. We saw the Scotch play which everybody is talking about t’other night. And when the hero, young Norval, said how he longed to follow to the field some warlike lord, I thought to myself, ‘how like my Harry is to him, except that he doth not brag.’ Harry is pining now for a red coat, and if we don’t mind, will take the shilling. He has the map of Germany for ever under his eyes, and follows the King of Prussia everywhere. He is not afraid of men or gods. As for me, I love my books and quiet best, and to read about battles in Homer or Lucan.”

“Then what made a soldier of you at all, my dear? And why did you not send Harry with Mr. Braddock, instead of going yourself?” asked Madame de Bernstein.

“My mother loved her younger son the best,” said George, darkly. “Besides, with the enemy invading our country, it was my duty, as the head of our family, to go on the campaign. Had I been a Scotchman twelve years ago, I should have been a ——”

“Hush, sir! or I shall be more angry than ever!” said the old lady, with a perfectly pleased face.

George’s explanation might thus appease Madame de Bernstein, an old woman whose principles we fear were but loose: but to the loyal heart of Sir Miles Warrington and his lady, the young man’s conduct gave a severe blow indeed! “I should have thought,” her ladyship said, “from my sister Esmond Warrington’s letter, that my brother’s widow was a woman of good sense and judgment, and that she had educated her sons in a becoming manner. But what, Sir Miles, what, my dear Thomas Claypool, can we think of an education which has resulted so lamentably for both these young men?”

“The elder seems to know a power of Latin, though, and speaks the French and the German too. I heard him with the Hanover Envoy, at the Baroness’s rout,” says Mr. Claypool. “The French he jabbered quite easy: and when he was at a loss for the High Dutch, he and the Envoy began in Latin, and talked away till all the room stared.”

“It is not language, but principles, Thomas Claypool!” exclaims the virtuous matron. “What must Mr. Warrington’s principles be, when he could reject an offer made him by his Prince? Can he speak the High Dutch? So much the more ought he to have accepted his Royal Highness’s condescension, and made himself useful in the campaign! Look at our son, look at Miles!”

“Hold up thy head, Miley, my boy!” says papa.

“I trust, Sir Miles, that, as a member of the House of Commons, as an English gentleman, you will attend his Royal Highness’s levee tomorrow, and say, if such an offer had been made to us for that child, we would have taken it, though our boy is but ten years of age.”

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