CHAPTER LXVIII. In which Harry goes westward
Our tender hearts are averse to all ideas and descriptions of parting;and I shall therefore say nothing of Harry Warrington's feelings attaking leave of his brother and friends. Were not thousands of men inthe same plight? Had not Mr. Wolfe his mother to kiss (his brave fatherhad quitted life during his son's absence on the glorious Louisbourgcampaign), and his sweetheart to clasp in a farewell embrace? Had notstout Admiral Holmes, before sailing westward with his squadron, TheSomerset, The Terrible, The Northumberland, The Royal William, TheTrident, The Diana, The Seahorse--his own flag being hoisted on boardThe Dublin--to take leave of Mrs. and the Misses Holmes? Was AdmiralSaunders, who sailed the day after him, exempt from human feeling?Away go William and his crew of jovial sailors, ploughing through thetumbling waves, and poor Black-eyed Susan on shore watches the ship asit dwindles in the sunset.
It dwindles in the West. The night falls darkling over the ocean. Theyare gone: but their hearts are at home yet a while. In silence, with aheart inexpressibly soft and tender, how each man thinks of those he hasleft! What a chorus of pitiful prayer rises up to the Father, at sea andon shore, on that parting night at home by the vacant bedside, wherethe wife kneels in tears; round the fire, where the mother and childrentogether pour out their supplications: or on deck, where the seafarerlooks up to the stars of heaven, as the ship cleaves through the roaringmidnight waters! To-morrow the sun rises upon our common life again, andwe commence our daily task of toil and duty.
George accompanies his brother, and stays a while with him at Portsmouthwhilst they are waiting for a wind. He shakes Mr. Wolfe's hand, looksat his pale face for the last time, and sees the vessels depart amid theclangour of bells, and the thunder of cannon from the shore. Next day heis back at his home, and at that business which is sure one of the mostselfish and absorbing of the world's occupations, to which almost everyman who is thirty years old has served ere this his apprenticeship. Hehas a pang of sadness, as he looks in at the lodgings to the little roomwhich Harry used to occupy, and sees his half-burned papers still inthe grate. In a few minutes he is on his way to Dean Street again,and whispering by the fitful firelight in the ear of the clingingsweetheart. She is very happy--oh, so happy! at his return. She isashamed of being so. Is it not heartless to be so, when poor Hetty is somelancholy? Poor little Hetty! Indeed, it is selfish to be glad when sheis in such a sad way. It makes one quite wretched to see her. "Don't,sir! Well, I ought to be wretched, and it's very, very wicked of me ifI'm not," says Theo; and one can understand her soft-hearted repentance.What she means by "Don't" who can tell? I have said the room was dark,and the fire burned fitfully--and "Don't" is no doubt uttered in oneof the dark fits. Enter servants with supper and lights. The familyarrives; the conversation becomes general. The destination of the fleetis known everywhere now. The force on board is sufficient to beat allthe French in Canada; and, under such an officer as Wolfe, to repair theblunders and disasters of previous campaigns. He looked dreadfully ill,indeed. But he has a great soul in a feeble body. The ministers, thecountry hope the utmost from him. After supper, according to custom, Mr.Lambert assembles his modest household, of whom George Warrington maybe said quite to form a part; and as he prays for all travellers by landand water, Theo and her sister are kneeling together. And so, as theship speeds farther and farther into the West, the fond thoughts pursueit; and the night passes, and the sun rises.
A day or two more, and everybody is at his books or his usual work. Asfor George Warrington, that celebrated dramatist is busy about anothercomposition. When the tragedy of Carpezan had run some thirty ortwoscore nights, other persons of genius took possession of the theatre.
There may have been persons who wondered how the town could be so fickleas ever to tire of such a masterpiece as the Tragedy--who could not bearto see the actors dressed in other habits, reciting other men's verses;but George, of a sceptical turn of mind, took the fate of his Tragedyvery philosophically, and pocketed the proceeds with much quietsatisfaction. From Mr. Dodsley, the bookseller, he had the usualcomplement of a hundred pounds; from the manager of the theatre twohundred or more; and such praises from the critics and his friends, thathe set to work to prepare another piece, with which he hoped to achieveeven greater successes than by his first performance.
Over these studies, and the other charming business which occupies him,months pass away. Happy business! Happiest time of youth and life,when love is first spoken and returned; when the dearest eyes are dailyshining welcome, and the fondest lips never tire of whispering theirsweet secrets; when the parting look that accompanies "Good night!"gives delightful warning of to-morrow; when the heart is so overflowingwith love and happiness, that it has to spare for all the world; whenthe day closes with glad prayers, and opens with joyful hopes; whendoubt seems cowardice, misfortune impossible, poverty only a sweet trialof constancy! Theo's elders, thankfully remembering their own prime,sit softly by and witness this pretty comedy performed by their youngpeople. And in one of his later letters, dutifully written to his wifeduring a temporary absence from home, George Warrington records how hehad been to look up at the windows of the dear old house in Dean Street,and wondered who was sitting in the chamber where he and Theo had beenso happy.
Meanwhile we can learn how the time passes, and our friends are engaged,by some extracts from George's letters to his brother.
"From the old window opposite Bedford Gardens, this 20th August 1759.
"Why are you gone back to rugged rocks, bleak shores, burning summers,nipping winters, at home, when you might have been cropping ever so manylaurels in Germany? Kingsley's are coming back as covered with 'em asJack-a-Green on May-day. Our six regiments did wonders; and our horsewould have done if my Lord George Sackville only had let them. But whenPrince Ferdinand said 'Charge!' his lordship could not hear, or couldnot translate the German word for 'Forward;' and so we only beat theFrench, without utterly annihilating them, as we might, had Lord Granbyor Mr. Warrington had the command. My lord is come back to town, andis shouting for a Court-Martial. He held his head high enough inprosperity: in misfortune he shows such a constancy of arrogance thatone almost admires him. He looks as if he rather envied poor Mr. Byng,and the not shooting him were a manque d'egards towards him.
"The Duke has had notice to get himself in readiness for departingfrom this world of grandeurs and victories, and downfalls anddisappointments. An attack of palsy has visited his Royal Highness; andpallida mors has just peeped in at his door, as it were, and said,'I will call again.' Tyrant as he was, this prince has been noble indisgrace; and no king has ever had a truer servant than ours has foundin his son. Why do I like the losing side always, and am I disposed torevolt against the winners? Your famous Mr. P----, your chief's patronand discoverer, I have been to hear in the House of Commons twice orthrice. I revolt against his magniloquence. I wish some little Davidwould topple over that swelling giant. His thoughts and his language arealways attitudinising. I like Barry's manner best, though the other isthe more awful actor.
"Pocahontas gets on apace. Barry likes his part of Captain Smith; and,though he will have him wear a red coat and blue facings and an epaulet,I have a fancy to dress him exactly like one of the pictures of QueenElizabeth's gentlemen at Hampton Court: with a ruff and a square beardand square shoes. 'And Pocahontas--would you like her to be tattooed?'asks Uncle Lambert. Hagan's part as the warrior who is in love withher, and, seeing her partiality for the captain, nobly rescues him fromdeath, I trust will prove a hit. A strange fish is this Hagan: his mouthfull of stage-plays and rant, but good, honest, and brave, if I don'terr. He is angry at having been cast lately for Sir O'Brallaghan, in Mr.Macklin's new farce of Love A-la-mode. He says that he does not keer todisgreece his tongue with imiteetions of that rascal brogue. As if therewas any call for imiteetions, when he has such an admirable twang of hisown!
"Shall I tell you? Shall I hide the circumstance? Shall I hurt yourfeelings? Shall I set you in a rage of jealou
sy, and cause you to askfor leave to return to Europe? Know, then, that though Carpezan islong since dead, cousin Maria is for ever coming to the playhouse. TomSpencer has spied her out night after night in the gallery, andshe comes on the nights when Hagan performs. Quick, Burroughs, Mr.Warrington's boots and portmanteau! Order a chaise and four forPortsmouth immediately! The letter which I burned one morning when wewere at breakfast (I may let the cat out of the bag, now puss has such aprodigious way to run) was from cousin M., hinting that she wished meto tell no tales about her: but I can't help just whispering to youthat Maria at this moment is busy consoling herself as fast as possible.Shall I spoil sport? Shall I tell her brother? Is the affair anybusiness of mine? What have the Esmonds done for you and me but winour money at cards? Yet I like our noble cousin. It seems to me that hewould be good if he could--or rather, he would have been once. He hasbeen set on a wrong way of life, from which 'tis now probably too lateto rescue him. O beati agricolae! Our Virginia was dull, but let usthank Heaven we were bred there. We were made little slaves, but notslaves to wickedness, gambling, bad male and female company. It was notuntil my poor Harry left home that he fell among thieves. I mean thievesen grand, such as waylaid him and stripped him on English highroads. Iconsider you none the worse because you were the unlucky one, and hadto deliver your purse up. And now you are going to retrieve, and makea good name for yourself; and kill more 'French dragons,' and become agreat commander. And our mother will talk of her son the Captain, theColonel, the General, and have his picture painted with all his starsand epaulets, when poor I shall be but a dawdling poetaster, or, if wemay hope for the best, a snug placeman, with a little box at Richmondor Kew, and a half-score of little picaninnies, that will come and bobcurtseys at the garden-gate when their uncle the General rides up on hisgreat charger, with his aide-de-camp's pockets filled with gingerbreadfor the nephews and nieces. 'Tis for you to brandish the sword of Mars.As for me, I look forward to a quiet life: a quiet little home, a quietlittle library full of books, and a little Some one dulce ridentem,dulce loquentem, on t'other side of the fire, as I scribble away at mypapers. I am so pleased with this prospect, so utterly contented andhappy, that I feel afraid as I think of it, lest it should escape me;and, even to my dearest Hal, am shy of speaking of my happiness. What isambition to me, with this certainty? What do I care for wars, with thisbeatific peace smiling near?
"Our mother's friend, Mynheer Van den Bosch, has been away on a tour todiscover his family in Holland, and, strange to say, has found one. Miss(who was intended by maternal solicitude to be a wife for your worship)has had six months at Kensington School, and is coming out with ahundred pretty accomplishments, which are to complete her a perfectfine lady. Her papa brought her to make a curtsey in Dean Street, anda mighty elegant curtsey she made. Though she is scarce seventeen,no dowager of sixty can be more at her ease. She conversed with AuntLambert on an equal footing; she treated the girls as chits--to Hetty'swrath and Theo's amusement. She talked politics with the General, andthe last routs, dresses, operas, fashions, scandal, with such perfectease that, but for a blunder or two, you might have fancied Miss Lydiawas born in Mayfair. At the Court end of the town she will live, shesays; and has no patience with her father, who has a lodging in MonumentYard. For those who love a brown beauty, a prettier little mignonnecreature cannot be seen. But my taste, you know, dearest brother,and..."
Here follows a page of raptures and quotations of verse, which, out ofa regard for the reader, and the writer's memory, the editor of thepresent pages declines to reprint. Gentlemen and ladies of a certain agemay remember the time when they indulged in these rapturous follieson their own accounts; when the praises of the charmer were for everwarbling from their lips or trickling from their pens; when the flowersof life were in full bloom, and all the birds of spring were singing.The twigs are now bare, perhaps, and the leaves have fallen; but, forall that, shall we not,--remember the vernal time? As for you, youngpeople, whose May (or April, is it?) has not commenced yet, you need notbe detained over other folks' love-rhapsodies; depend on it, when yourspring-season arrives, kindly Nature will warm all your flowers intobloom, and rouse your glad bosoms to pour out their full song.
The Virginians Page 68
