My Dear Father:

Once, many years ago, in a kind of despair, you were impelled to say
that I would “never be anything but a rascally lawyer.” This, it
may be, sat upon your conscience, for later you turned me gravely
towards Paley and the Thirty-nine Articles; and yet I know that in
your deepest soldier’s heart, you really pictured me, how
unavailingly, in scarlet and pipe-clay, and with sabre, like
yourself in youth and manhood. In all I disappointed you, for I
never had a brief or a parish, and it was another son of yours who
carried on your military hopes. But as some faint apology—I almost
dare hope some recompense for what must have seemed wilfulness, I
send you now this story of a British soldier and his “dear maid,”
which has for its background the old city of Quebec, whose high
ramparts you walked first sixty years ago; and for setting, the
beginning of those valiant fightings, which, as I have heard you
say, “through God’s providence and James Wolfe, gave England her
best possession.”
You will, I feel sure, quarrel with the fashion of my campaigns, and
be troubled by my anachronisms; but I beg you to remember that long
ago you gave my young mind much distress when you told that
wonderful story, how you, one man, “surrounded” a dozen enemies, and
drove them prisoners to headquarters. “Surrounded” may have been
mere lack of precision, but it serves my turn now, as you see. You
once were—and I am precise here—a gallant swordsman: there are
legends yet of your doings with a crack Dublin bully. Well, in the
last chapter of this tale you shall find a duel which will perhaps
recall those early days of this century, when your blood was hot and
your hand ready. You would be distrustful of the details of this
scene, did I not tell you that, though the voice is Jacob’s the hand
is another’s. Swordsmen are not so many now in the army or out of
it, that, among them, Mr. Walter Herrim Pollock’s name will have
escaped you: so, if you quarrel, let it be with Esau; though, having
good reason to be grateful to him, that would cause me sorrow.

My dear father, you are nearing the time-post of ninety years, with
great health and cheerfulness; it is my hope you may top the arch of
your good and honourable life with a century key-stone.

Believe me, sir,

Your affectionate son,

GILBERT PARKER.

15th September, 1894, 7 Park Place,
St. James’s S.W.