rs. Esmond Warrington in a letter
from her younger son, created so deep an impression in that lady's mind,
that she narrated the anecdote many hundreds of times until all her
friends and acquaintances knew and, perhaps, were tired of it.

Our gentlemen went through the Park, and so towards the Strand, where
they had business. And Mr. Lambert, pointing to the lion on the top of
the Earl of Northumberland's house at Charing Cross, says:

"Harry Warrington! your brother is like yonder lion."

"Because he is as brave as one," says Harry.

"Because I respect virgins!" says George, laughing.

"Because you are a stupid lion. Because you turn your back on the East,
and absolutely salute the setting sun. Why, child, what earthly good can
you get by being civil to a man in hopeless dudgeon and disgrace? Your
uncle will be more angry with you than ever--and so am I, sir." But Mr.
Lambert was always laughing in his waggish way, and, indeed, he did not
look the least angry.

CHAPTER LXII. Arma Virumque

Indeed, if Harry Warrington had a passion for military pursuits and
studies, there was enough of war stirring in Europe, and enough talk in
all societies which he frequented in London, to excite and inflame him.
Though our own gracious Prince of the house of Hanover had been beaten,
the Protestant Hero, the King of Prussia, was filling the world with
his glory, and winning those astonishing victories in which I deem it
fortunate on my own account that my poor Harry took no part; for
then his veracious biographer would have had to narrate battles the
description whereof has been undertaken by another pen. I am glad, I
say, that Harry Warrington was not at Rossbach on that famous Gunpowder
Fete-day, on the 5th of November, in the year 1757; nor at that
tremendous slaughtering-match of Leuthen, which the Prussian king played
a month afterwards; for these prodigious actions will presently be
narrated in other volumes, which I and all the world are eager to
behold. Would you have this history compete with yonder book? Could
my jaunty, yellow park-phaeton run counter to that grim chariot of
thundering war? Could my meek little jog-trot Pegasus meet the shock of
yon steed of foaming bit and flaming nostril? Dear, kind reader (with
whom I love to talk from time to time, stepping down from the stage
where our figures are performing, attired in the habits and using the
parlance of past ages),--my kind, patient reader! it is a me