“‘Duty!’ exclaimed the count—‘Duty! pardon me for repeating your word—but can it be his duty? I hope I did not pass proper bounds in speaking to him; but now he is gone, I may say to you, sir—to you, who, if I may presume to judge from your countenance, sympathize in my feelings—this is a fitter employment for an African slave-merchant than for a British officer. The whole scene which I have just beheld there on the river, on the banks, the violence, the struggles I have witnessed there, the screams of the women and children,—it is not only horrible, but in England incredible! Is it not like what we have heard of on the coast of Africa with detestation—what your humanity has there forbidden—abolished? And is it possible that the cries of those negroes across the Atlantic can so affect your philanthropists’ imaginations, whilst you are deaf or unmoved by these cries of your countrymen, close to your metropolis, at your very gates? I think I hear them still,’ said the count, with a look of horror. ‘Such a scene I never before beheld! I have seen it—and yet I cannot believe that I have seen it in England.’
“I acknowledged that the sight was terrible; I could not be surprised that the operation of pressing men for the sea service should strike a foreigner as inconsistent with the notion of English justice and liberty, and I admired the energy and strength of feeling which the count showed; but I defended the measure as well as I could, on the plea of necessity.
“‘Necessity!’ said the count: ‘Pardon me if I remind you that necessity is the tyrant’s plea.’
“I mended my plea, and changed necessity into utility—general utility. It was essential to England’s defence—to her existence—she could not exist without her navy, and her navy could not be maintained without a press-gang—as I was assured by those who were skilled in naval affairs.
“The count smiled at my evident consciousness of the weakness of my concluding corollary, and observed that, by my own statement, the whole argument depended on the assertions of those who maintained that a navy could not exist without a press-gang. He urged this no further, and I was glad of it; his horses and mine were at this moment brought up, and we both rode together to town.
“I know that Rosamond, at this instant, is gasping with impatience to hear whether in the course of this ride I spoke of M. de Tourville—and the shipwreck. I did—but not of Euphrosyne: upon that subject I could not well touch. He had heard of the shipwreck, and of the hospitality with which the sufferers had been treated by an English gentleman, and he was surprised and pleased, when I told him that I was the son of that gentleman. Of M. de Tourville, the count, I fancy, thinks much the same as you do. He spoke of him as an intriguing diplomatist, of quick talents, but of a mind incapable of any thing great or generous. The count went on from speaking of M. de Tourville to some of the celebrated public characters abroad, and to the politics and manners of the different courts and countries of Europe. For so young a man, he has seen and reflected much. He is indeed a very superior person, as he convinced me even in this short ride. You know that Dr. Johnson says, ‘that you cannot stand for five minutes with a great man under a shed, waiting till a shower is over, without hearing him say something that another man could not say.’ But though the count conversed with me so well and so agreeably, I could see that his mind was, from time to time, absent and anxious; and as we came into town, he again spoke of the press-gang, and of his poor servant—a faithful attached servant, he called him, and I am sure the count is a good master, and a man of feeling. He had offered money to obtain the man’s release in vain. A substitute it was at this time difficult to find—the count was but just arrived in London, had not yet presented any of his numerous letters of introduction; he mentioned the names of some of the people to whom these were addressed, and he asked me whether application to any of them could be of service. But none of his letters were to any of the men now in power. Lord Oldborough was the only person I knew whose word would be law in this case, and I offered to go with him to his lordship. This I ventured, my dear father, because I wisely—yes, wisely, as you shall see, calculated that the introduction of a foreigner, fresh from the continent, and from that court where Cunningham Falconer is now resident envoy, would be agreeable, and might be useful to the minister.
“My friend, Mr. Temple, who is as obliging and as much my friend now he is secretary to the great man as he was when he was a scrivening nobody in his garret, obtained audience for us directly. I need not detail—indeed I have not time—graciously received—count’s business done by a line—Temple ordered to write to Admiralty: Lord Oldborough seemed obliged to me for introducing the count—I saw he wished to have some private conversation with him—rose, and took my leave. Lord Oldborough paid me for my discretion on the spot by a kind look—a great deal from him—and following me to the door of the antechamber, ‘Mr. Percy, I cannot regret that you have followed your own independent professional course—I congratulate you upon your success—I have heard of it from many quarters, and always, believe me, with pleasure, on your father’s account, and on your own.’
“Next day I found on my table when I came from the courts, the count’s card—when I returned his visit, Commissioner Falconer was with him in close converse—confirmed by this in opinion that Lord Oldborough is sucking information—I mean, political secrets—out of the count. The commissioner could not, in common decency, help being ‘exceedingly sorry that he and Mrs. Falconer had seen so little of me of late,’ nor could he well avoid asking me to a concert, to which he invited the count, for the ensuing evening. As the count promised to go, so did I, on purpose to meet him. Adieu, dearest Caroline.
“Most affectionately yours,
“ALFRED PERCY.”