" 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 to-morrow,
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."

"Faith, Miley, thou wouldst make a good little drummer or fifer!" says
papa. "Shouldst like to be a little soldier, Miley?"

"Anything, sir, anything! a Warrington ought to be ready at any moment
to have himself cut in pieces for his sovereign!" cries the matron,
pointing to the boy; who, as soon as he comprehended his mother's
proposal, protested against it by a loud roar, in the midst of which he
was removed by Screwby. In obedience to the conjugal orders, Sir Miles
went to his Royal Highness's levee the next day, and made a protest of
his love and duty, which the Prince deigned to accept, saying:

"Nobody ever supposed that Sir Miles Warrington would ever refuse any
place offered to him."

A compliment gracious indeed, and repeated everywhere by Lady
Warrington, as showing how implicitly the august family on the throne
could rely on the loyalty of the Warringtons.

Accordingly, when this worthy couple saw George, they received him with
a ghastly commiseration, such as our dear relatives or friends will
sometimes extend to us when we have done something fatal or clumsy in
life; when we have come badly out of our lawsuit; when we enter the room
just as the company has been abusing us; when our banker has broke; or
we for our sad part have had to figure in the commercial columns of the
London Gazette;--when, in a word, we are guilty of some notorious fault,
or blunder, or misfortune. Who does not know that face of pity? Whose
dear relations have not so deplored him, not dead, but living? Not
yours? Then, sir, if you have never been in scrapes; if you have never
sowed a handful of wild oats or two; if you have always been fortunate,
and good, and careful, and butter has never melted in your mouth, and
an imprudent word has never come out of it; if you have never sinned and
repented, and been a f