John Rex, sen., Care of Mr. Blicks, 38, Bishopsgate Street Within, London.
“Why can't he write to his father direct?” said he. “Who's Blick?”
“A worthy merchant, I am told, in whose counting-house the fortunate Rex passed his younger days. He had a tolerable education, as you are aware.”
“Educated prisoners are always the worst,” said Vickers. “James, some more wine. We don't drink toasts here, but as this is Christmas Eve, 'Her Majesty the Queen'!”
“Hear, hear, hear!” says Maurice. “'Her Majesty the Queen'!”
Having drunk this loyal toast with due fervour, Vickers proposed, “His Excellency Sir John Franklin”, which toast was likewise duly honoured.
“Here's a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, sir,” said Frere, with the letter still in his hand. “God bless us all.”
“Amen!” says Meekin piously. “Let us hope He will; and now, leddies, the letter. I will read you the Confession afterwards.” Opening the packet with the satisfaction of a Gospel vineyard labourer who sees his first vine sprouting, the good creature began to read aloud:
“'Hobart Town, “'December 27, 1838. “'My Dear Father,—Through all the chances, changes, and vicissitudes of my chequered life, I never had a task so painful to my mangled feelings as the present one, of addressing you from this doleful spot—my sea-girt prison, on the beach of which I stand a monument of destruction, driven by the adverse winds of fate to the confines of black despair, and into the vortex of galling misery.'”
“Poetical!” said Frere.