the eighteenth century. The "Lamberts" rank among Thackeray's
best character sketches.

_I.--Harry Warrington Comes Home_

One summer morning in the year 1756, and in the reign of his Majesty
King George the Second, the _Young Rachel_, Virginian ship, Edward
Franks, master, came up the Avon river on her happy return from her
annual voyage to the Potomac. She proceeded to Bristol with the tide,
and moored in the stream as near as possible to Frail's wharf, and Mr.
Frail, her part owner, who could survey his ship from his counting-house
windows, straightway took boat and came up her side.

While the master was in conversation with Mr. Frail a young man of some
nineteen years of age came up the hatchway. He was dressed in deep
mourning and called out, "Gumbo, you idiot, why don't you fetch the
baggage out of the cabin? Well, shipmate, our journey is ended. I
thought yesterday the voyage would never be done, and now I am almost
sorry it is over."

"This is Mr. Warrington, Madam Esmond Warrington's son of Castlewood,"
said Captain Franks to Mr. Frail. The British merchant's hat was
instantly off his head, and its owner was bowing, as if a crown prince
were before him.

"Gracious powers, Mr. Warrington! This is a delight indeed! Let me
cordially and respectfully welcome you to England; let me shake your
hand as the son of my benefactress and patroness, Mrs. Esmond
Warrington, whose name is known and honoured on Bristol 'Change, I
warrant you, my dear Mr. George."

"My name is not George; my name is Henry," said the young man as he
turned his head away, and his eyes filled with tears.

"Gracious powers, what do you mean, sir? Are you not my lady's heir? and
is not George Esmond Warrington, Esq--"

"Hold your tongue, you fool!" cried Mr. Franks.

"Don't you see the young gentleman's black clothes? Mr. George is
there," pointing with his finger towards the topmast, or the sky beyond.
"He is dead a year sir, come next July. He would go out with General
Braddock, and he and a thousand more never came back again. Every man of
them was murdered as he fell. You know the Indian way, Mr. Frail?
Horrible! Ain't it, sir? He was a fine young man, the very picture of
this one; only his hair was black, which is now hanging in a bloody
Indian wigwam. He was often on board on the _Young Rachel_, with his
chest of books,--a shy and silent young gent, not like this one, which
was the merriest, wildest young fellow full of