HlBRARYQc 

 
 HIMSELF HIS WOBST EM 
 
 
 
 PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 
 
 "The scorn and wonder of our days." POPE. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALFRED P. BROTHERHEAD, 
 
 LIUKAUIAN. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 B. LIPPINCOTT & CO 
 1871.
 
 Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
 
 WILLIAM BROTHERHEAD, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA t 
 COLLINS, PRINTER.
 
 I DEDICATE THIS 
 MY FIRST WORK 
 
 TO 
 
 flUear 4F atljer cmfc iflotljer: 
 
 AND ALSO 
 TO 
 
 Samttcl OTroft, (Esq. 
 
 A9 A SLIGHT TOKEN OF ESTEEM 
 
 FOR HIS 
 
 UNSULLIED HONOR 
 
 AND 
 INTEGRITY, 
 
 AND AS A 
 
 GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 OF HIS 
 
 UNVARYING KINDNESS 
 
 TO MY FATHER. 
 
 83685 
 
 (3)
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THIS, my first book, is presented to the 
 public with the usual forebodings of all 
 authors. All I claim for it is a fair and can 
 did perusal, and an impartial criticism. For 
 the historical data I must thank various and 
 many historians; for all else I am responsible. 
 
 A. P. B. 
 
 BROTHERHEAD'S LIBRARY: 
 
 205 SOUTH THIRTEENTH STREKT. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, January 1, 1871.
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE STORM LONDON, 1703. 
 
 ' I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds 
 Have riv'd the knotty oaks ; and I have seen 
 The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
 To be exalted with the threatening clouds : 
 But never till to-night, never till now, 
 Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 
 Either there is a civil strife in Heaven ; 
 Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 
 Incenses them to send destruction." 
 
 JULIUS C.ESAR, I. in. 
 
 " So when an angel, by Divine command, 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land 
 (Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed)." 
 
 TIIE CAMPAIGN. 
 
 A DEEP silence reigns over London, and although it 
 wants but an hour of midnight, the quietness feels too 
 intense even for so late an hour. The moon hangs in 
 the centre of the ragged clouds, lurid and red, totally 
 unlike its usual radiant light and mellow color; thin 
 Hficlen clouds scud swiftly before it, and, for a time, 
 dim its glow, making it dull and copperish until they 
 pass. The heavens in every part present an unusual 
 appearance; an opaque, light-colored mist floats be 
 tween the sky and the earth, and dims the brilliancy 
 of the few stars that cluster around the sun of night. 
 It is, however, beginning to break; wide crevices already 
 yawning and cracks opening, the huge clouds show their 
 threatening ranks, piled mountain high, and filled with
 
 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 the thunderbolts of Jove's great armorer, Vulcan.' 
 People afterwards said that this mist formed itself into 
 the semblance of an immense angel, whose wings covered 
 the half of the city, and whose face was lowering and 
 angry. Be that as it may, they had scant time to 
 notice it before the lightning began ; its quick, sharp, 
 blinding flashes push out in bold relief the torn clouds 
 and vaporous banks whence it comes ; the low rum 
 bling thunder moans its solemn accompaniment, and 
 the air grows more stifling, sticking in the throat, 
 as do the sulphurous blasts from the depths of ./Etna, 
 or the mouth of Apollyon. At the corners of the 
 streets, on the old-time roomy porches, and on the 
 sheltered stoops of the coffee-houses and taverns, stand 
 or sit groups of anxious people conversing in sub 
 dued, awe-stricken tones on the unusual signs in the 
 firmament ; they look constrained and uneasy, as though 
 they feel the awful shadow of this coming event. 
 
 Now, there being a momentary cessation of both thun 
 der and lightning, they breathe more freely and begin to 
 hope that after all the storm may blow over; scarcely, 
 however, have they time to exchange their whispered 
 thoughts ere a quicker, but more sustained, more blind 
 ing flash deprives them almost of sight, making them 
 see things " as through a glass darkly," and the thunder 
 meanwhile crashing out a sublimely grand symphony. 
 Globes of pink fire coruscate simultaneously in 
 parts of the heavens, whirling around for a few seconds 
 with inconceivable velocity, bursting with a sharp re 
 port, and filling the air with millions of fiery fragments 
 which saturate the atmosphere with an unnatural, suf 
 focating smell. Meteoric flashes scintillate around, 
 mother Nature appearing to be working herself up to 
 an angry, revengeful mood. 
 
 Great, heavy drops patter sullenly on the dry pave-
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHAETON'S CAEEEE. 9 
 
 ment, and leave clots of mud where they fall in slow 
 succession. Again for a few minutes there is a cessation. 
 
 Once more they hope that the storm will blow over 
 and break elsewhere ; but, with a wilder, heavier crash 
 than its predecessors, the thunder roars aloud and the 
 tempest begins in real earnest. The Storm-God shrieks 
 with fierce, savage joy as he bursts in all his might 
 upon the devoted city palace and cottage, church and 
 gaming hell alike he shatters in his mad career. 
 
 Bolts upon bolts leap from cloud to cloud, and hiss in 
 very terror at their own appalling deadliness, as they 
 rive and rend in their swift passage to the earth. 
 
 The Thames, now a seething mass of muddy billows, 
 rushes and boils over its banks with strange violence, 
 dashes its waves even into Westminster Hall, and 
 floods the city with its cold, slimy torrent; London 
 Bridge meanwhile threatening momentarily to fall asun 
 der, and precipitate itself from its piers into the angry 
 flood which swirls and eddies beneath it like an immense 
 maelstrom. 
 
 In Saint James' Park whole avenues of noble elms 
 are uprooted, and lie prostrate far away from their for 
 mer positions, a part of the palace has been struck 
 by lightning, and hurled to the ground with an all-de 
 stroying force and impetuosity, while the same power 
 has killed its human victims by the score a happier 
 fate, to be sure, than that of those who were maimed and 
 wounded by flying signs, falling walls, and the large 
 hailstones which now begin to add their terrors to the 
 dreadful scene ; down they come ! rattling on the many 
 roofs like volleys of musketry ; the wind whirls them in 
 all directions; glass is flying about, and hundreds of 
 persons are knocked senseless by these frozen bullets 
 hmied from on high. 
 
 The leaden coverings of the church and houseroofs are
 
 10 HIMSELF HIS -WORST ENEMY; 
 
 rolled up like ribbons and as quickly unrolled by the 
 howling wind, as it shifts and careens to all quarters 
 in the same instant. 
 
 The terror-stricken people close their eyes in fear and 
 trembling, and cover their pale faces with shaking hands 
 to screen the dread sights from their view. They cower 
 in groups, scarcely knowing which to fear the most, the 
 enormous hailstones, the forked lightning ricochetting. 
 and hurtling about their ears, or the thunder-claps which 
 set their heads whirling and their ears hujnming. 
 
 The tumult is beyond all conception ; it is as though 
 all hell had again rebelled against the Divinity, and were 
 trying to scale the summit of the heaven which they had 
 forever lost. 
 
 Houses and churches are falling in all directions, 
 adding to the din and confusion and sending up clouds 
 of dust, and in many cases myriads of sparks, which 
 the pouring rain soon quenches. 
 
 Amidst this mad struggle of the elements can be seen' 
 a group of terrified men, crying babes, and sobbing 
 women, who cling together in the middle of the street 
 waiting in terror for the storm to cease, so that they 
 can return in sa/ety to homes which they have for 
 saken for fear of the lightning which strikes and levels 
 so many of the taller houses ; the while a courtly gallant 
 surveying the huddling crowd with a look of supercilious 
 pity and proud disdain. He is dressed in a cloak and 
 doublet of gray velvet, lined with pale blue, the outside 
 is covered with deep bars of black lace, silken hose cover 
 his well-shaped legs, and his shoes are made in the latest 
 mode and fastened with small diamond buckles. His body 
 is erect and soldierly, and his haughty bearing betrays 
 his patrician origin. His hat, very wide in the brim, 
 is looped up on one side with an aigrette of brilliants, 
 the other drooping over the right cheek and leaving it in
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 11 
 
 deep shadow ; it is rakishly cocked and hides half of a 
 handsome, wicked face, adorned with the peaked beard 
 in the style of Yandyck. He looks, as a girl close by 
 him says, " Every inch of a rakehelly ruffler." 
 
 Hearing the remark, he turns to her with a smile, and 
 says, reprovingly, " How now, Mistress Impertinence ! 
 art frightened at old Tom "Wharton ? S'bodkins! Once 
 was a time when a pretty girl would have given him a 
 better reception than cold words and sour looks !" And 
 he extends his hand in order to raise her face to the 
 light and scan her features more plainly. 
 
 Thomas Wharton was born in the times of the Cove 
 nanters, his father being a sour, rigid old Calvinist, 
 and a firm believer in Cromwell and his Ironsides. His 
 boyhood was passed amid a dismal set of sombre, psalm- 
 singing roundheads, half preachers, half soldiers, firm 
 believers in the church-militant and the sanctity of their 
 own persons. 
 
 Growing older and gradually breaking loose from such 
 associations, of course a decided reaction took place, and 
 in the London of the Restoration he became such a liber 
 tine, scapegrace, and blasphemous wit that he shocked 
 even the wildest of such a dissolute crew of Cavaliers as 
 never England boasted before, nor wishes to boast again. 
 Ribald and profanely witty in his conversation, impious 
 and insolent, he fought so often, coming unscathed out 
 of so many duels that he attained the reputation of 
 bearing a charmed life. Utterly shameless, the barbed 
 arrows of his assailants' tongues he shot back, with a 
 jeer at their impotence. Being a "Whig of the most viru 
 lent type, he is as true as steel to the party he supports 
 with his talents and his genius. He even carries his pro 
 clivities into his sports, and often at a race-meeting, when 
 a well-known Tory had put his horse in to win, down 
 would come Wharton's " Careless" or his bay gelding,
 
 12 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 for which the Grand Monarch had in vain offered a fabu 
 lous price. 
 
 As an electioneerer he is invincible; Buckinghamshire 
 is all his own, besides various other counties, which he 
 always canvasses in person, and by his good humor, 
 unmatchable impudence, and affability, he always leaves 
 his opponents far in the lurch. 
 
 At this time he is well advanced in years, but is still 
 possessed of all the buoyancy of youth, a dangerous 
 quality to those about him, when you add to that the 
 thorough knowledge of state affairs and party secrets he 
 has gained during his long experience in the political 
 arena. His intrigues were formerly the dread of every 
 honest citizen or jealous Cavalier in London, and even 
 now an uxorious husband would rather see Moloch in 
 his house than old Tom Wharton with his flattering 
 speeches and expressive glances. His temper is imper 
 turbable to the last degree, and he can pink his opponent 
 with the same grace and coolness as he eats buttered 
 whiting at the tavern in Clare Market. " He had never 
 given a challenge, had never refused one ; had never taken 
 a life, and yet he had never fought without having his 
 antagonist's life at his mercy." 
 
 He is a steady frequenter of the Saint James Coffee 
 House, where his opinion is always listened to with 
 great attention, and where his eagle eye is always on the 
 young patricians, and if he notes one who he thinks 
 might be useful to his party, he is sure to secure him 
 by his adroit flattery and his consummate diplomacy. 
 Honest Tom, as he is familiarly called by his associates, 
 is a strong Whig pillar ; and this is the man who has 
 favored the world with a son worthy of himself, the fam 
 ous Philip, Duke of Wharton, of whom more hereafter. 
 
 At the instant Lord Wharton caught hold of the 
 shrinking girl there was a loud crash, and a large gabled
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 13 
 
 mansion, which stood a few yards below them, was 
 levelled to the ground by a stroke of lightning; the crowd 
 swayed to and fro in alarm, and amid the incidental con 
 fusion she elbowed her way into it, and escaped from his 
 pleasantries. 
 
 He laughs aloud at their terror, occasionally scream 
 ing out, so as to be heard above the roar of the wild 
 tempest, a blasphemous remark or an impious jest, until 
 they begin to stare at him with a mixture of awe and 
 fear, and shrink from him as though he were pest- 
 stricken ; and now he stands alone and prominent amid 
 a circle of blanched, gaping faces. 
 
 Here a 'prentice lad, in dirty woollen cap and smirched 
 ruff, dries his tears with his greasy fustian sleeve or his 
 greasier hand. There an artificer's pretty wife 'draggles 
 her skirts in the dirty pools, and glances occasionally 
 at the " wicked lord" who is so bold amid all this crash 
 and ruin ; her fine cambric ruff, lace cuffs, and the pretty 
 velvet cap perched on her brown hair are limp and dis 
 ordered with the combined effects of rain and sundry 
 hailstones which struck her when they first began to 
 rattle down. Now my lord turns quickly on his heel, 
 and cautiously picks his way through the falling debris 
 towards Whitehall. The street he passes through is a 
 fair sample of all London at this moment ; narrow, 
 crooked, and ill-paved. Shattered signs, broken coaches 
 and carts lumber the way ; fallen houses cover the pave 
 ment and kennel with their ruins ; the water runs almost 
 knee deep, and is as cold as ice, from the hailstones. 
 Lord Wharton looks for a chair to carry him to his des 
 tination, but even the carriers have gone home to see to 
 the safety of their wives and children. He twirls his 
 beard and strides resolutely on, with the muddy water 
 wetting his silken hose, ruining his rapier and velvet 
 small-clothes; but he is a philosopher in these little 
 2
 
 14 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 things, and pleasantly hums " Lillibullero bullan a la," 
 the famous doggerel generally accredited to him. 
 
 He has proceeded but a short distance when a girl's 
 form becomes dimly perceptible through the gray curtain 
 of rain ; he quickens his step and exclaims, " Egad ! the 
 hussy hath a good shape; I'll e'en speak with her!" 
 She is evidently aware that he is pursuing her, and 
 she considerately slackens her pace until he reaches her 
 side, then she turns to him and says in a sweet, though 
 rather bold voice, " Good-night to ye, my lord, rabbit 
 
 me if ." She happens to see his face while the 
 
 lightning plays with unusual brilliancy; she stops sud 
 denly as if spellbound, and then cries in a bitter 
 anguish-stricken tone, "Oh God! Tom You?" Then 
 her utterance became choked, she ran away from him 
 with great precipitancy, and drew her hood low over 
 her face. He made an effort to stop her, but she eluded 
 his grasp ; and now she is lost to view. 
 
 " S'blood I This is strange ! A pest on the jade to run 
 away ere I saw her face. 'Tis a pretty one, I '11 be 
 bound, or she would not have been so chary of showing 
 it ; and to call me Tom, plain Tom ! Egad, she must 
 have known me before ; her voice hath a familiar ring 
 now I think on't, but I cannot for the life of me recall 
 where I have heard it. Jupiter Pluvius ! how it pours." 
 
 Let us follow the object of his thoughts. She does 
 not run far before she bounds up the steps of a gaudily 
 painted house and raps quickly with her knuckles ; the 
 door is at once half opened, and a husky voice exclaims, 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "Nellie," she answers, impatiently; the door-chain 
 clangs heavily on the floor, and she totters in, wet and 
 dirty. Her face, though pale and not over clean, is 
 pretty and expressive ; but in her bright eyes there is a 
 wild, hunted look which ill-accords with their azure hue.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 15 
 
 She goes up stairs, entering a close dark room in the 
 back part of the house, and lights a dirty tallow candle, 
 which she places on the table ; now she goes towards a 
 small trundle-bed where lies a pink, flaxen-haired boy, 
 whose pure breath comes softly through his little open 
 lips, on which she imprints a passionate kiss ; the 
 wild look leaves her eyes, and in its place a glorious 
 radiance a mother's love conquers all other feelings. 
 She gathers him up very closely, and strains him to her 
 bosom. " My poor babe, I must deny myself even the 
 consolation of your innocence and your darling prat 
 tle ; father will keep you for my sake, for the little Nellie's 
 sake who was once his only joy." Her tears fall thick 
 and fast, while outside the storm still continues with 
 scarcely any apparent diminution. The room is bare 
 and gloomy ; it has but one ornament in it a withered 
 bunch of wild violets under a dusty glass case.
 
 16 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 "He 's a downright pest in all sorts of ways." 
 
 MELEAGER. 
 
 THE Wharton estate is situated in the loveliest part 
 of picturesque Buckingham. The castle is venerable and 
 romantic. A spacious terrace surrounds it on every 
 side, luxuriantly beautified with the wanton musk rose, 
 myriads of lime-blossoms, the sweet-smelling haw 
 thorn; and interspersed in artistic profusion are cupids, 
 fauns, dryads, and floras, most of which are draped 
 with the delicate tendrils of the sweetbrier which cling 
 lovingly to their gleaming limbs. The rusty creaking 
 vane, the fluted chimneys of moulded bricks are quaint 
 and bygone, smacking of the Elizabethan period and 
 its customs. Inside are long broad rooms ; winding 
 passages, dim hallways hung with stamped leather, or 
 panelled in black oak which is decorated with heraldic 
 devices. The low ceilings are interlaced with heavy 
 rafters of some dark wood, whose gothic corbels are 
 shaped into fantastic .grinning faces. 
 
 In the hallways, on the head of the stairs and between 
 the mullioned windows, stands stiff and stern the armor 
 of the Wharton warriors, which adds to the air of an 
 tiquity which surrounds the castle and its adjuncts; 
 truly meriting its venerable air, for it was built by the 
 second Baron Wharton about the middle of the sixteenth 
 century. The round, castellated towers which adorn 
 either end were added later to give greater defensive and 
 offensive powers in times of forays and maraudings, 
 of which the whole front shows many traces in broken
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. It 
 
 buttresses, undermined walls, and splintered gateways. 
 A moat, once filled with stagnant water, which was 
 formerly crossed by a drawbridge, is now filled up and 
 transformed into an odorous garden; this adds a 
 glowing loveliness to a picture which might otherwise 
 have been too sombre. In the middle of the hall is a 
 massive stairway wide enough for a dozen bowmen to 
 walk abreast without jostling one another. It is highly 
 polished, and elaborately carved like its surroundings. 
 
 Down it are descending two persons; one of them is 
 the Lady "Wharton, who is tall and handsome ; her car 
 riage is very stately; she bears herself haughtily, as 
 becomes the female representative of a high and noble 
 family ; like her .husband she is a Whig, and, to show her 
 politics to all the world, she has stuck two conspicuous 
 patches on her right cheek. Her eyes rest on her com 
 panion, who walks by her side with all the dignity and 
 grace of a courtier of twenty years' standing. He has 
 scarcely seen frmrteen summers, but he might easily pass 
 for much older. He is tall, well-shaped ; his hair is parted 
 in the middle, falling on his shoulders in thick natural 
 curls ; in front it is cut low on his forehead, and brushed 
 smooth ; his eyes beam with liveliness, wit, and good 
 humor, with just a perceptible trace of arrogance in them, 
 bred doubtless by the servile attendants who are ever 
 ready to obey every nod and beck of young master 
 Philip. His mouth is the most attractive feature about 
 him ; it can bestow the most persuasive and endearing 
 smile ; it can curl itself into a spiteful bow, and bandy 
 caustic wit and biting repartees with any dame or cava 
 lier who chooses to play with such keen weapons. His 
 nose is a trifle sharp at the extremity, but large at the 
 base; and his complexion surpasses in brilliancy the 
 vaunted skin of any court belle in London. His chin 
 
 rather detracts from his manliness ; it would be perfect 
 2*
 
 18 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 in a girl, but for a man it is too feminine, and shows a 
 lack of stability or principle, or both. 
 
 Young as he is he can boast unusual parts ; in classics 
 and belles-lettres he is better posted than is many a 
 pedantic professor in a provincial college ; in politics, 
 diplomacy, and the use of the rapier he has been in 
 structed by my lord, who saw his aptitude for learning, 
 appreciated his talents and ambition, feeling proud of 
 him, with his handsome face, his reckless courage, and his 
 various accomplishments ; among these he is remarkable 
 as a linguist, for he has already thoroughly mastered the 
 chief European language, as also Latin and Greek. 
 
 lie looks up at his mother with a caressing smile, and 
 says, "My lady mother, why do you always get so 
 mightily angered if I but look kindly on sweet mistress 
 Margery ? Sure she is as proper a girl as your ladyship 
 did ever see." 
 
 Her lips curl contemptuously as she replies, "Why, 
 my little Whig, do'st imagine that I could stoop so low 
 as to fret myself because my son deigns to smile on an 
 awkward country girl ?" 
 
 " Nay," he replies in some heat, " you are misled in 
 thinking her an awkward rustic ; she is the daughter of 
 General Holmes, whose family vaunts good blood and a 
 score of quarterings, though their revenue is small ; and, 
 I pray you, call me not Whig ; I hate its very sound ; 
 Tory and high church sound more pleasantly in my ears, 
 Wharton though I am I" 
 
 He stops in some confusion, for spite of his bold 
 words he stands in awe of his stately mother ; she looks 
 at him in surprise and mortification for a moment, then 
 says in cold, measured tones, " My son, I can dispense 
 with your company; leave me !" He makes a deep obei 
 sance and attempts to kiss her hand, but she waves 
 him away, exclaiming, "No, Philip, not from a Tory!" He
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 19 
 
 blushes scarlet, turns quickly on his heel, and walks 
 proudly along the hall towards the gamekeeper's lodge. 
 
 Her eyes follow him with a troubled, wistful expres 
 sion in them. " I fear he will be as his father was before 
 him, and as they say he is yet, wild and reckless. I would 
 rather see him in his grave than see him a profligate 
 and a bully, or, worse than all, a traitor to our party. 
 He is so headstrong, so extravagant, and contrary, that 
 if my lord is one thing, Philip is sure to be the other." 
 
 She sits wearily down in the large, high-backed oaken 
 chair, near to the painted window which represents a 
 thrilling incident in the life of one of her husband's 
 ancestors, Baron Godfroi "Wharton. It is in reference to 
 a duel he once fought. He had entered the lists against 
 an unknown knight who had grossly insulted him, and 
 then challenged him to the combat a Voutrance, on foot 
 or on horse, with spear or with sword ; they fought, and 
 the Baron was the victor; he was just about to dispatch 
 his adversary with a thrust of his misericordia through 
 the bars of his helmet, when his hand was tightly griped, 
 and a voice whispered in his ear, " Desist I most puissant 
 of chevaliers ; he is thy son, whom thou didst discard 
 so cruelly some year or so agone!" So his life was 
 spared; when he recovered, they lived on terms of amity 
 until death parted them. 
 
 She is looking at the scene depicted on the glass in 
 all the hues of the rainbow. " I wonder whether they will 
 ever fight against each other ? Philip is excitable, and 
 my lord is not slow to anger. But I must go and steep 
 Granny Leedsie's feverwort ; she will need it to-night." 
 
 She rises gracefully, walking slowly to the refectory 
 or herb-room to discharge her charitable duties, and also 
 to have ah eye to the servants. 
 
 Philip stalked into the lodge with a sullen air, quiver 
 ing lips, and eyes bright with suppressed tears, and
 
 20 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY} 
 
 demanded peremptorily of the stripling who was engaged 
 in polishing a long yew bow which looked as if it might 
 take a Goliath to handle, "Where is Shem?" He did 
 not give him time to answer, but again ejaculated, 
 "Quick! Begone! send him here." And he waved his 
 small white hand with a gesture worthy of Louis or my 
 Lord Chesterfield. The boy darted out of the door like 
 a deer " uncovered," startled by master Philip's rough 
 manner, generally so gracious to all the dependents. 
 
 "Mornin', Master Philip," says Shem Throck the 
 gamekeeper v as he darkens the door with his broad 
 shoulders, and touches his cap respectfully. He is a good 
 type of the bluff, courageous Englishman of the lower 
 class ; his quick brown eyes are full of conviviality and 
 fun. 
 
 He throws a keen glance at Philip, and continues, "Art 
 sick, sir? Thou dost not look ower weel this mornin'." 
 
 'Without noticing his interrogatory, Philip says, 
 *' Shem, my crossbow ! and select me a few good shafts, 
 well feathered and true." 
 
 Shem executed his commands, and asks, " Shalt want 
 we along ?" 
 
 "No, I would rather go alone: if my lord inquires 
 unent me, tell him I have gone a shooting, and will 
 not return till late. Hast seen Mistress Margery in the 
 -Chase or the dingle, Shem ?" 
 
 "Nay! Master Philip, I did na see her at either of 
 they two places; m'appen I mought have, if I had 
 looked hard eno' down by Rooksnest ; she is often there 
 abouts," and a twinkle shot out of his eye as he turned 
 to the window and hung his crossbow on its accustomed 
 Peg. 
 
 Philip steps out and walks swiftly towards the forest, 
 and he is soon lost to sight among the thick hedges and 
 bushes.
 
 OB, PIIILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 21 
 
 Shem has his eyes on him, and chuckles knowingly, 
 " Little game he wants, I trow, or his memory would no' 
 be so bad as to forget his gamebag forbye ; I think my- 
 sel' that Mistress Margery has mair to do wi' his hunting 
 the day than e'er the pretty pheasant or the swift red deer, 
 though he has shafts for both. Weel, weel, his young 
 blood is hot and springsome, but an' I were he, I suld 
 think twice ere I braved my lord's scowl once ; I ken his 
 lordship is sorely against him meeting her as he does. 
 Philip was aye wilfu', and some day there will be sair 
 greeting and wet een for his sake, for all his winnin' 
 tongue and his bonnie face." He ceases his soliloquy, 
 and proceeds to affix to his door two otter heads and a 
 long-toothed, foam-flecked head of a veteran fox, the 
 spoils of the morning. The stout oaken planks are al 
 most covered with similar trophies, some fresh and moist, 
 others dry and hard ; most of them have been caught or 
 shot by Shem ; but still there are many of Brad's trophies 
 there also, his father having made him a skilful woods 
 man and a cunning hunter. 
 
 He stops his work for a moment, and abstractedly 
 lets his arm drop to his side ; a perplexed expression 
 ruffles his usually placid countenance; suddenly he roars 
 out in stentorian tones, and with his hand to his cheek 
 as if about to give the view-halloo, " Brad away ! Brad 
 away 1" " Away away" echoes in every direction, and 
 repeats itself in varied tones in wood and marsh, mere 
 and loch. 
 
 He appears in obedience to the paternal call a heal 
 thy, rosy-cheeked, sinewy lad, who springs rather than 
 walks into the lodge, flushed and panting. He stands mo 
 tionless and quiet, awaiting the commands of his father, 
 whose voice had penetrated far into the woods where he 
 had been tracking for otters on the edge of the lake. 
 
 " Brad," he growls in a gruff voice which his genial
 
 22 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 face belied, for it is one of his notions that if his son 
 found out how tenderly he loved him he might become 
 unruly and fractious, and take advantage of it, so that 
 he always shows him a stern front and no favor ; but 
 unfortunately Brad had long ago discovered this trait, 
 and humored his father accordingly. 
 
 " Go down to Rooksnest, just this side o' t' Weird's 
 cave; thou 'It find the young master mark whether Mis 
 tress Margery be wi' him. If she is, come back at once, 
 an' mind! no bow-twangin' ; thou mightst be heard. 
 Go!" As Brad set off at a long, swinging pace, he 
 continues, " and bless you, my boy " 
 
 "Ay, Shem, ye may well say bless him, for he is the 
 core o' my heart, the varra apple o' my e'e," burst in his 
 g"ood wife as she shuffles in at the doorway, her hands 
 grasping the corners of her apron, while on her broad 
 shoulders hangs a confused mass of wet fishing-tackle, 
 cords, hooks, and the rest of the paraphernalia with 
 which his lordship had been thinning the scaly denizens 
 of the mere over the low hills. 
 
 "It 's thee, is it?" Shem stolidly replies; for, like most 
 of his class, he considers "womenfolk" good for no 
 thing but to obey their husbands, particularly if said 
 husbands happen to be gamekeepers. 
 
 " Ay, it 's me. His lordship wants you to clean an' 
 mend the tackle weel, an' put it away carefu' like, so 
 that it will not rust." 
 
 Debbie Throck is the cook at the castle, and she seems 
 well fitted for her office and its onerous duties. She is 
 robust and comely, albeit red and a trifle sooty, for she 
 has been busily engaged all the morning in cooking a 
 dinner to please the palates of the gentlefolk who are 
 to dine with his lordship to-day. She still grasps the 
 corners of her apron, and a vast sigh heaves the ex 
 panse of her bosom as she says: " Ah! Shem, to think
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 23 
 
 o 't, all the gude things that mun be sarvcd at table 
 the day " 
 
 "TJmph!" interpolates Shem. 
 
 "Stewed broth, wheaten flummery, an' hotchpot to 
 begin on." 
 
 He licks his lips and frowns slightly. 
 
 " Then marrer puddings and quakin' puddings ; then 
 collops, veal toasts, and roasted partridges." 
 
 Shem is plainly becoming angry, but still she pursues 
 her tantalizing catalogue. 
 
 " To finish up wi' custards, caraway cakes, an' pear 
 puddings, besides the syllabubs, suckets, and " 
 
 " Stop thy rantin' noise, fule 1 What need to tell me o' 
 all these when I can touch naught but a bit o' dry ven'- 
 son, or happen a roasted partridg.e?" 
 
 A demure look twinkles in her eyes, which he seems 
 familiar with, for he encircles her stout waist with his 
 arm, and growls quite amiably, " Come, dame, I know 
 thou hast summut for me: come what is it ?" 
 
 " Go away, Shem ; dost see how ta rumples my pinner 
 and a' that 's in it ?" 
 
 He at once transfers his arm from her waist to the 
 apron, which, he observes, contains something bulky. 
 
 " Ha' done, now ; thou 'It spoil all 't syllabub if thou 'rt 
 not more carefu'." 
 
 So saying she gives him a peep at the contents of it. 
 
 He lifts them out carefully one by one samples of 
 the dishes for the company and arranges them neatly on 
 his ash sideboard. His eyes sparkle as he discovers fresh 
 tidbits at every incursion, and as he lifts out the last, 
 an orange sucket, he gives her a sounding kiss in sheer 
 gratitude, and then says, in a shamefaced sort of a 
 manner, " Now, dame, they may want thee up at the 
 kitchen." She seems to think so too, and sallies to 
 wards her own quarter ; but, before she left, she said
 
 24 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 coaxingly, "Shem, be kind to the lad; don't be over 
 cross wi' him, will ye ?" " All right, Debbie ; I can ma 
 nage," he replied in a confident tone ; but whether he 
 referred to Brad or the delicacies on the sideboard she 
 was doubtful. 
 
 We will leave Shem arranging the fishing tackle, and 
 watch his son's conduct in his new position a spy an 
 office he hates and despises. He had said to himself, as 
 he left his father, that if he did happen to see those for 
 whom he searched, he would not let a soul know aught 
 about it but himself; in fact, he had inwardly deter 
 mined not to find them if he could help it.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " She rose, she sprung, she clung to hia embrace, 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
 Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony ; 
 Her long fair hair lay flashing o'er his arms, 
 In all the vrildness of dishevell'd charms." 
 
 MEDORA. 
 
 "Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair." 
 
 GENE YEA. 
 
 A FEW yards beyond the cultivated portion of the 
 Wharton estate is a clump of trees, which has borne from 
 time immemorial the name of Rooksnest, on account 
 of the myriads of noisy rooks that have built their nests 
 amid the leafy boughs, and cawed and bred in bold se 
 curity since the birth of the first Baron of the Wharton 
 line. To the right is a dripping, unwholesome den, which 
 penetrates nearly fifty feet into the solid rock; it is 
 known all the country .around as the "Weird's Cave." 
 The tradition in regard to it runs that, over one hundred 
 and twenty-five years ago a wizard, or one who passed for 
 such, lived here, who never left his lair unless misfortune 
 or death threatened the Wharton family. On such occa 
 sions he would totter out and bring with him some rude 
 symbol to typify the kind of misfortune that was boding. 
 
 The old Baron had held him in great respect, and in 
 a degree even stood in awe of him, until one day when his 
 eldest born was leaving the castle with an armed retinue 
 to go to the crusades, the wizard prophesied his sudden 
 death, which so enraged him that he at once hung him 
 from the battlements with the sneering remark that " as 
 3
 
 26 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 he was so ready to foretell others' deaths, i was a pity 
 he did not know thetime and place of his own and thus 
 escape." The weird had replied solemnty, " My death 
 will not prevent his; he will follow me ere the sun grows 
 yellow in the west." And, sure enough, they brought 
 his son back with his feet to the door and a Lochaber 
 axe-cut across his young head ; he had been killed in a 
 brawl with a hostile retinue scarcely a mile from the 
 castle. 
 
 There is not a man in the county who cares to pass 
 by the cave at night, or even to wander too near it in day 
 time, there are so many treacherous holes and slippery 
 places around and about it. Philip alone had once exa 
 mined its interior, and brought out as a trophy a flint 
 hatchet of uncouth make, deeply cut in quaint characters ; 
 it now hangs on the wall in the banquet-room, where 
 it is regarded with awe by the wondering tenantry and 
 the servants. 
 
 Close by the cave begins a narrow, sequestered alley 
 way, reaching far away into the forest ; along its sides 
 grow in profusion many varieties of vine-flowers, the 
 modest lavender and the delicious sweetbrier, which 
 shed their refreshing perfume on the air; above, the 
 patriarchal trees keep silent watch and ward, lest too 
 much sun dispel the soothing, transparent darkness 
 which they throw over the scene ; they form an intricate 
 roof of glorious fretwork through which blue patches 
 of sky are now and then perceptible when the south wind 
 rolls through the long green aisle and tosses the limbs 
 to and fro, making the cheery sunlight dance in quick 
 measure on the ground and flash between the rustling 
 leaves which sigh at the gentle tumult. 
 
 The yielding turf, here green, there dun or black, 
 forms a fitting carpet for the dainty feet of the lovely 
 girl, who stands so quiet; her high-heeled brode-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 27 
 
 quins are of pale amber silk, with coquettish bows 
 trinjhied with white and gold lace ; in the centre of each 
 is set a small stone, which glows and sparkles very 
 prettily ; and, truly, she seems to admire them herself, 
 for her eyes are fixed intently on them, as she stands with 
 one charming little hand resting against the low, droop 
 ing boughs of an old oak. But why she should tremble, 
 as she certainly does, and breathe so quickly as to cause 
 her young bosom to rise- and fall so tremulously, demands 
 a stronger reason than the idle inspection of the most 
 elaborate slippers, or the prettiest French bow, affords. 
 She looks like a picture from Lety, with its languor 
 and wantonness transformed into purity and innocence. 
 
 Her hair diffuses a subtle perfume while the wind 
 blows it to and fro and toys caressingly with the golden 
 tresses ; a trustful, devoted expression dwells in every 
 feature of her face, and fills her eyes, which are as 
 blue as the sapphire and as bright as a fresh dew- 
 drop. Her brows are light brown and delicately curved, 
 her complexion as fresh as the flowers in May. Her 
 figure is very girlish, and shrinks sensitively from the 
 hand which rests on her waist, a piece of officiousness 
 she hardly knows whether to pout at or to reward with 
 a glance ; but the struggle is not long, love conquers, and 
 she lays her blushing face on her lover's shoulder, whilst 
 he, with face suffused with happiness unspeakable, gently 
 strokes her soft hair, kissing it with a vehemence that 
 tells its own tale. 
 
 " Look up, sweetheart," he says, in low murmuring 
 tones. " Look up, that I may read in your eyes whether 
 your love can fathom mine." 
 
 She bends her head back, looking him fairly in the 
 eyes with such a look of passionate devotion that his 
 head turns around with the sight, and a giddiness for 
 the moment overpowers him ; he lowers his face nearer
 
 28 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and nearer to hers, and drinks in her every beauty in an 
 intoxicating draught, until her eyes close in ecstatic joy. 
 
 Here in the dim light, and amid the sweet perfumes 
 of the wild flowers, their breaths mingle and send 
 Cupid's arrows stinging through all their veins. 
 
 "Margery, love, my own, why do you tremble? If 
 
 there did happen to be anybody espying us ." She 
 
 started, but Philip soon reassures her by a never-failing 
 method in such cases. 
 
 " They might compare me to a gerfalcon flown at a 
 dove ; one would not think you were a soldier's daugh 
 ter." 
 
 " Philip," she replies in a hurt manner, and with a 
 little quiver of her red lips, "you call me a coward; I 
 am when our love is concerned ; in aught else, try me, 
 and you will find I am still a Holmes." 
 
 " Tut, darling, I was but joking." 
 
 She looks at him long and earnestly, as if a new thought 
 had struck her. "Philip, will you always love me as 
 now? I know that if you should ever grow to hate me, 
 or even if you should ever fail to love me above all 
 others, it would break my heart." 
 
 He looks tenderly at her, and replies, "Margery, if 
 all England's beauties but I'll recite you a few lines of 
 a great dean's poem which will tell you in better words 
 than mine what you already know." 
 
 A half thought forms in her mind to deny the possi 
 bility of the dean speaking*better or even as well as her 
 Philip, but she fears to offend him, and he recites in a . 
 low voice Swift's " Receipt to Form a Beauty," a sonnet 
 on Mrs Biddy Floyd, which is ingenious and witty. 
 In the last line he said " Holmes" instead of "Floyd," a 
 change which destroyed the rhyme, but added to its 
 truthfulness, in Philip's opinion at all events. 
 
 As he finishes, she enunciates demurely, yet with an
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 29 
 
 anxious expression, "Lord Wharton!" His face grows 
 pale and angry, and he makes no answer except to strain 
 her more tightly in his arms. Apparently he hears some 
 body in the bushes, and he steps hurriedly to the place 
 whence the noise comes. He looks carefully around; 
 there is no one in sight, and he can hear nothing except 
 a mellow whistling in the distance which he recognizes as 
 Brad Throck's ; he returns to his frightened sweetheart 
 and says regretfully, " 'Tis time for us to part, and 
 Margery, if by any chance your father does find out our 
 meetings, you will always find a trusty fellow in Maldran 
 Gudru the gypsy." 
 
 " Oh ! Philip, I always feel afraid when he is about, 
 his eyes are so black and treacherous ; he never looks 
 me in the face, I would be afraid to trust him." 
 
 " You are childish, little one. Why should he betray 
 us?" he replies, in a chiding tone. 
 
 She answers, rather timidly, and with a downward 
 look, " I fear me he is more faithful to your father than 
 to you." 
 
 He laughs incredulously, as he well knows the power 
 of his fascinating qualities over most people, and keeps 
 them bright by constant use. 
 
 To explain the secrecy of their meetings, it is neces 
 sary to recount circumstances which happened some time 
 before. 
 
 Margery and Philip from their infancy had been play 
 mates and inseparable companions ; as a natural conse 
 quence a mutual love had taken possession of them, 
 which grew stronger and deeper as they grew older; this 
 Lord Wharton with his usual penetration had noticed, 
 and noticed with some uneasiness ; accordingly, he deter 
 mined to put an end to their further companionship, 
 fearful lest Philip might balk his future intentions by 
 declining to espouse the noble dame he had secretly se- 
 
 3*
 
 30 HIMSELF HIS WOEST ENEMY; 
 
 lected for him an alliance with whom would strengthen 
 his political influence, and also still further enrich his 
 overflowing coffers. His first measure was to forbid 
 Philip ever to see her again in private ; his second was 
 to converse with her ladyship in a loud tone about the 
 insolence of a Holmes wishing to ally herself with his 
 family. The servants as a matter of course heard the 
 remarks, which in a short time reached the ears of the 
 irate General, who was so incensed at the arrogance of 
 his neighbor that he peremptorily forbade Margery ever 
 to speak or correspond with Philip again. So matters 
 stand diplomacy and experience against love and inno 
 cence ; the old, old tale on which so many changes have 
 been rung, and will be rung until the sun ceases to rise 
 and the world to revolve. 
 
 To resume, Philip replies excitedly, " Let them find us 
 together ; let them send their spies to watch our slightest 
 movements ; if the worst comes to the worst, there are 
 other places in the world besides Buck's 1" 
 
 She looks pained at his words, and replies in a pleading, 
 soothing manner: "Please don't, dear I could never 
 consent to leave my poor old father alone and desolate; 
 mother is in the kirkyard, now, and I am the only one 
 he has to love or be loved by now." 
 
 "Then leave me," he says abruptly; nevertheless, he 
 continues to hold her closely to him ; she is pained and 
 perplexed ; her blue eyes grow brighter as she nervously 
 twitches the long points of her laced sleeves. 
 
 "We will not talk about it, Philip dear, will we?" she 
 says, after a short interval. " I will tell you about my 
 visit to Queenie, and what she " 
 
 " Wait a bit, Margery; now tell me wBat you went to 
 see her for?" 
 
 She answers him with a sweet smile on her lips, and
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 31 
 
 without the slightest hesitation, " I thought you might 
 be there." 
 
 " I thought so," he replies, rather egotistically. 
 
 "Well, she seemed very angry and excited when I 
 entered, and she showed me the portrait of a very pretty 
 girl, who she said had been a great friend to her when 
 she was a little child; she said that a noble gentleman 
 had done this girl a great harm, and that if he did not give 
 her enough money to support herself on until she died, 
 she, Queenie you know, would avenge her. I asked 
 her his name, but she replied, with such a curious smile, 
 Philip! that I might learn it soon enough, and she 
 was silent for a long while ; then said suddenly, ' Mistress 
 Margery, Master Philip was here yest're'eu, and I read 
 him his fortune.' " 
 
 " Yes, I recollect she did tell me a heap of wonderful 
 things but proceed with your tale, sweetheart." 
 
 " ' His life,' she said, and I almost hate her for it, ' will 
 be an expiation of another's sin, his path will be crossed 
 by one of his own race, and he will never know peace 
 until the expiation is accomplished.' " 
 
 He laughs as he listens to the wild recital, and feels 
 glad to think that Margery should become so excited at 
 the gypsy queen's foolish words. 
 
 " Oh, I forgot," she resumed, " Queenie told me the 
 
 girl's name ; it was Nelly Nelly I forget the last, 
 
 but it is no matter, is it?" as if she dreads displeasing 
 him. 
 
 *' I' faith, no. What should I want to know about Nelly 
 unknown or anybody else when I have you, sweetheart?" 
 She looks happier, and a brighter light illumines her eyes 
 at his fond words. I 
 
 Brad returned to %e lodge and dutifully told his 
 father that he had been unable to see Mrs. Margery, 
 but had seen Master Philip, who was tracking for deer
 
 32 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 in the forest and seemed rather unlucky. He was an 
 swered in this strain by the suspicious Shem: "I'll be 
 bound, thou glamourin' skipjack, that thou looked not 
 too hard for either; like enow thou 'st been trackin' 
 thy own game Meg Busbie, wi' her finicky gewgaws an' 
 her flighty ribbons an' graces ; I knaw weel what thou 'rt 
 after, so don't stop glowerin' there like a deer in a covert, 
 but set thee down an' eat th' dinner ; for th' mun be rare 
 an' hungry." He took his plate and helped him with a 
 wooden spoon to an immense quantity of hot pease and 
 pudding, and a glass of bubbling, humming mead. 
 
 Brad smiled covertly, and proceeded to refresh his in 
 ner man, an operation for which he was always ready. 
 He had the reputation of being the strongest, healthiest 
 lad on the estate, and of course it took a deal of food to 
 keep his appetite down ; in fact, when he was smaller, the 
 chaplain, a learned man, had playfully christened him 
 " Omnivorous Brad ;" a cognomen which still sticks to 
 him; but it has been corrupted by his comrades into 
 "Nevereat," which rolls off the tongue more easily than 
 its ponderous origin.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 33 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Don John. I heard him swear his affection. 
 Bora. So did I too ; and he swore he would marry her to-night. 
 Don John. Come, let us to the banquet." 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. II. i. 
 
 THE Wharton banqueting-hall is fully a hundred feet 
 long and about half as wide ; at both ends glow two deli 
 cately-stained, deeply-embrasured windows, which reach 
 from the shining floor to the groined ceiling. On either 
 side is a large fireplace set in with Dutch tiles, which 
 are painted in stiff, quaint designs; each fender is 
 guarded by stone dogs, one of which has had half its 
 nose chipped off, probably in some bygone brawl of 
 Cavaliers and Covenanters. 
 
 The ponderous sideboards are carved with bacchana 
 lian subjects, satyrs, vine-leaves, and the jolly Bacchus, 
 who disports himself in attitudes free and wanton, while 
 the grinning satyrs and the dancing fauns keep time 
 with pipe and feet. 
 
 The walls are panelled, and decorated in a fanciful 
 manner with pictures that have reference to feasting and 
 gayety all except one, a portrait which hangs over the 
 high mantel ; it is the full-length figure of a stern, 
 gloomy, straight-haired Cavalier ; in his right hand he 
 holds a Bible, the left grasps a long, bell-mouthed petro- 
 nel ; it is old Sir Philip, the father of the present Lord 
 Wharton. One of his eyes is shot out, and in its place 
 is a round, jagged bullet hole ; it was his loving son 
 who had maltreated it in this manner after he had re-
 
 34 HIMSELF HIS "WORST ENEMY J 
 
 ceived a lesson in obedience from him -when he was 
 young and insubordinate to the authorities that were. 
 
 Lord Wharton often tells the occurrence with many 
 a laugh and jest, and avers that he keeps it there as a 
 Roman of old did his skeleton, to remind him of the 
 shortness of life, and the wisdom of enjoying the pass 
 ing hour. 
 
 The table is set with all the ceremony and profusion 
 usual on such occasions, and the serving-men and the 
 carvers await the advent of the guests to begin pro 
 ceedings. They have not long to wait ; the doors fly 
 open swiftly and noiselessly; "Wharton and his guests 
 stroll in, laughing noisily, and exchanging free jests 
 and stinging repartees. Carelessly resting his hand on 
 Wharton's shoulder, and, to judge by the twinkle in his 
 eye, retailing a famous bit of court-scandal or town-talk, 
 is the nobleman, whose arrogance, vanity, and venality 
 have long since passed into a proverb. He has passed 
 over fifty years of intrigue, politics, and turmoil, but, 
 to judge by his smiling face and his jovial manner, one 
 would never imagine that in that time he had been con 
 tinually involved in the wildest schemes and the most 
 daring villanies ; he is of medium height, and dressed with 
 scrupulous care in a costume of black velvet, with laced 
 and slashed satin trunks. On his breast glitter and tin 
 kle the many orders of which he is a member; most of 
 these he has acquired by acts which any courtier might feel 
 too modest to own ; he is known as Charles Montague, 
 Earl of Halifax, Dryden's parodist, and the author of a 
 poem on the death of Charles II., which procured him 
 the friendship of the powerful Earl of Dorset, as well as 
 an introduction to Will's coflee-house, with its attendant 
 profligacy and cold-hearted libertinism. 
 
 Here is the venerable Lord Somers, whose long-flow 
 ing wig, calm, sedate face, and magisterial air give him
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 35 
 
 a look of quiet dignity which well befits the representative 
 of so many high posts and honors, and one who single- 
 handed coped with fourteen distinct charges, as false 
 and as dangerously sophistical as Belial himself could 
 possibly devise, brought against him by cunning and 
 powerful enemies, and overthrew them all. 
 
 Close by him is a tall, large-chested, robust man, 
 dressed in plain black ; his features are strongly marked 
 and manly ; his keen blue eyes penetrate and scrutinize 
 everything and everybody ; a sarcastic smile hovers 
 about the corners of his mouth; and as he converses 
 with the gentlemen near him he speaks quickly, and 
 snaps his thumbs energetically, as if the subject under dis 
 cussion were of great interest. You possibly recognize 
 him ? Dean Swift 1 What sad memories of poor Stella 
 and Vanessa does that name recall! Did he never think 
 regretfully of the unhappiness he had caused ? The first 
 so trustful and devoted, who gave him the name by which 
 he always wished her to call him ; once he was happy 
 only when she was by his side, commanding him in 
 girlish pettishness, " Presto, come and tell me what this 
 is," or " Darling Presto, you must take me to the fields 
 to-morrow." The other so reserved and haughty to all 
 others, yet so humble and loving when he was with her. 
 The man who could thus fill the hearts of two such 
 women with undivided love must have possessed a 
 power of fascination which he did not always choose to 
 exert, or else he certainly would not have had so many 
 enemies as he did have, even with all his vile caustic 
 lampoons, his party squibs and satires. 
 
 It may seem strange that Swift is here, whose Tory 
 propensities and personal animosity towards his host 
 are well known, but he is an erratic being, and this 
 is possibly one of his freaks; or just as likely, his pre 
 sence may be ascribed to the workings of his astute host,
 
 36 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 who has always regretted his attachment to the Tory inte 
 rest ; however, be it as it may, he is always welcome among 
 those who appreciate wit and learning, even if the wit is 
 directed against themselves, and the learning is of rather 
 a truculent nature. The remainder of the guests are 
 Whig notabilities, or those who their designing enter 
 tainer intends shall be, if it lies in his power so to make 
 them. 
 
 The conversation at table is rather freer than I care 
 to chronicle, so loose are the morals and So depraved 
 the ideas of the gentlemen of this period. 
 
 After a reasonable time has been allowed for the dis 
 cussion of the well-furnished table, "Wharton rises and 
 proposes the following toast : " Her sacred Majesty and 
 the party which supports her!" 
 
 "Umphl" sneers the genial dean. "Pity she can't 
 support the party; but ." His, the only voice that did 
 not join in the cheer, is drowned in the din. 
 
 Montague, who has heard Swift's sneering remark, 
 rises, and as soon as the noise abates, he says meaningly, 
 " Gentlemen, I have a toast to propose which 1 am sure 
 will mightily please all that are here." He holds his 
 goblet poised in his jewelled hand. " To Cervantes and 
 Rabelais as original writers, and to Lady Somerset as a 
 true woman." 
 
 It is a common charge of the dean's enemies that he 
 plagiarized from these two authors a lie, for his was a 
 genius that only borrowed from itself, but still any 
 mention of the ridiculous charge sorely vexes him. 
 Lady Somerset is his bitter enemy, so it is plainly to be 
 seen that the Earl intended the toast for his especial 
 benefit, especially as they are not on the best of terms. 
 
 The Dean drained his goblet in company with the 
 others, and is now standing erect and looking straight
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 37 
 
 at Montague, with his blue eyes scintillating ominously. 
 Again he fills his goblet. 
 
 "My Lord Montague, it ill becomes you above all 
 others to touch on so delicate a subject as stealing 
 you, who were once Chancellor of the Exchequer I As 
 for the Duchess of Somerset, I respect her as an enemy, 
 but would hate her as a friend." He raises his goblet. 
 " To the memory of Cervantes, Rabelais, and the Duchess 
 of Somerset" (he bows obsequiously), " and to yourself, 
 and any other gentleman who wishes to take it to him 
 self." 
 
 He drains his goblet, and turns it bottom upwards on 
 the table. There is a hush of expectancy, and all eyes 
 are turned on the Earl. He is as white as a sheet, and 
 plays nervously with the scented curls of his French 
 peruke. 
 
 Wharton, seeing a brawl impending, rises, and says 
 calmly : " Gentlemen, I pray your attention for a few 
 minutes, and I will recite to you what pleased me vastly 
 when I read it ; I think it will please you too. It is 
 a selection from a poem by that marvellous clever 
 fellow, Gay." 
 
 With graceful gestures, and in a loud, sonorous voice, 
 he reads : 
 
 " Far in Cythera stands a spacious grove, 
 Sacred to Venus and the god of love ; 
 Here the luxuriant myrtle rears her head, 
 Like the tall oak the fragrant branches spread ; 
 Here Nature all her sweets profusely pours, 
 And paints the enamell'd ground with various flowers; 
 Deep in the gloomy glade a grotto bends, 
 Wide through the craggy rock an arch extends. 
 The rugged stone is cloth'd with mantling vines, 
 And 'round the cave the creeping woodbine twines." 
 
 All listen attentively, thankful for their entertainer's 
 kindly tact in preventing a quarrel at table. 
 4
 
 38 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Swift's countenance beamed with delight while it was 
 being read, for Gay is one of his few favorites, and he is 
 now loud in his praises of its excellences. 
 
 Comments on the poet's style and sentiments pass 
 around the board ; some favorable, others unfavorable ; 
 the latter unfortunates the Dean attacks with spirit, and 
 vindicates every word or line carped at or ridiculed. 
 
 Lord Somers, who has for some time been the centre 
 of an engrossed admiring group, is about to speak, and 
 rises slowly to his feet ; but, unfortunately, at this in 
 stant, a rich harmonious tenor trolls out the famous 
 Jacobite song of " Charlie over the "Water." 
 
 All listen in blank amazement, and several instinc 
 tively lay their hands on their rapiers ; some tarn 
 to see whence comes the treasonous refrain. Still it 
 rings high and clear above their astonished heads, until 
 Wharton looks up, and starts with surprise and anger. 
 All eyes follow the direction of his, and lo! high up 
 in the embrasured window, with his head touching the 
 groined arch, and his feet supported by the heavy mould 
 ing, stands, or rather clings, his son Philip, the destined 
 prop of the Whigs. 
 
 He looks down on the astonished guests with a mock 
 ing smile on his lips, and finishes his song with a merry 
 laugh, and a pert request to Swift to throw him an 
 orange. He, fully alive to the humor and spiciness of 
 the affair, tosses one up to the young scapegrace ; he 
 catches it deftly in his loose hand, and lays it on the 
 ledge of a grotesque corbel, directly under his feet. This 
 done, he places his heel on it, and crushes it with such 
 hearty good-will that the juice and pips go flying about 
 the room and on the table. 
 
 " Long live the Hanoverian rats," he cries satirically, 
 and adds in earnest tones, " and God help poor King 
 Jamiel"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP .WHAETON'S CAREER. 39 
 
 lie begins to descend from his perilous position, and 
 finally bounds in safety to the floor. He bows grace 
 fully, and stands erect and confident, as though he a^aaits 
 the reward which surely must follow so good an action 
 as he has just performed. 
 
 lie knows well that his father's sentiments, and also 
 the sentiments of his guests, with one or two exceptions, 
 are eminently loyal, and obnoxious to the claims of the 
 Pretender, or James III., as his adherents call him. 
 
 Wharton says, in a stern, suppressed voice : " Philip, 
 seat yourself!" lie does as he is commanded, and set 
 tles himself in a chair close to Swift, with the finical 
 affections of a beau as to whether his rapier hangs 
 correctly, or the skirts of his satin coat crease elegantly. 
 He pulls his lace ruffles daintily over his hands. These 
 slight details satisfactorily arranged, he looks at his 
 father, and lifts his eyebrows interrogatively. 
 
 " Philip, you must either retract what you have said, 
 and drink to the health and prosperity of her sacred 
 Majesty, and to the eternal perdition of the Pretender 
 and his cause, or, by God ! I'll disown j^ou. Make your 
 choice quickly, and in the presence of these gentlemen 
 whom you have insulted." He stops abruptly ; his lips 
 tightly compressed, and his hands twitching violently. 
 
 Philip is about to answer him with hot, angry words, 
 but Swift breaks in : " My lord, mayhap Master Philip 
 does not wish to drink ; I, for one, would be satisfied if 
 he but admitted that he was not in earnest." 
 
 The rest of the guests declare the same ; and Whar 
 ton, who fears that he might refuse to drink the toast, 
 wisely acquiesces, and chokes down his wrath. 
 
 Philip rises and says, with an affectation of perfect 
 sincerity : " Gentlemen, I candidly acknowledge to you 
 that I did not mean all I said." He adds in alow tone, 
 which none hear but Swift: "And that part is 'Long 
 live the Hanoverian.' "
 
 40 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 He turns to his father and says respectfully : " Is it 
 your wish that I retire?" He nods his head, and Philip 
 saunters slowly out. As he passes the orange he grinds 
 it again with his heel, and mutters " Nassau seesaw ; 
 it may be my turn next." 
 
 Ere long the company disperse, and leave my lord 
 to the companionship of his thoughts, which are appa 
 rently not of the most pleasant nature. His brow is 
 knit and furrowed, and his face is troubled. His capa 
 cious mind is taxed to its utmost limit for schemes to 
 ruin the ascendency of the Tories, who, with Harley at 
 their head, give him g'reat uneasiness by their bold 
 movements and subtle machinations, which, together 
 with the unfavorable popular opinion of the "Whigs, in 
 consequence of the trial of Dr. Sacheverell for his ser 
 mons concerning the doctrine of passive obedience; gave 
 the Tories many advantages. The Whigs are under the 
 direction of Godolphin, whose egregious blunder was so 
 hurtful to his party. At the conclusion of the trial bon 
 fires were lighted, and his name was shouted with cheers 
 and acclamations ; while Godolphin's met with groans 
 and hisses. These same riotous proceedings were re 
 peated on the expiration of his sentence, and it seems 
 inevitable that Harley will now carry things with a 
 high hand; while at the ear of majesty itself whispers 
 the Tory tool handsome, fascinating Mistress Abigail 
 Masham, who has superseded the vixenish Sarah, 
 Duchess of Marlborough, who had herself made Mis 
 tress Abbie lady of the bedchamber, whence she has 
 worked herself into the love of her royal mistress. 
 Wharton muses regretfully over his part} r 's lost power, 
 and the defeat of their pet measure the continuance 
 of the war with France, which, had it been carried on, 
 would certainly have brought the Bourbon rule in Spain 
 to a conclusion.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WIIARTON'S CAREER. 41 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Theseus. "Our proposed hunting shall he set aside." 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. III. I. 
 
 Puck. " Yet but three ? Come one more." 
 
 MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. III. n. 
 
 PHILTP is going a deerstalking to-day with Shem and 
 his son. He is a keen sportsman, and loves dearly to 
 send a whizzing shaft clean home to the feather in the 
 noble game as it in vain strives to outstrip the messenger 
 of death which springs with a twang from the strong 
 ashen bow. 
 
 It is early morn, and the sun is yet entangled in the 
 branches and limbs of the forest, and has still the heavy 
 dew to drink and the rolling mist to scatter. 
 
 All three are on horseback. Philip and Shem are con 
 versing anent slots and scents, and counters, and such 
 like jargon of the hunting field. Brad canters respect 
 fully behind with the crossbows and ropes to pack the 
 carcass, with, and he also keeps the hounds in leash who 
 are fresh and unruly. 
 
 The lair is empty, but the shape of the buck's body is 
 plainly discernible in the flattened grass. Shem makes 
 a motion to jump from his horse, but Philip anticipates 
 him, and, laying his hand on the recent bed, exclaims 
 in loud tones, " It is warm, Shem ;" and his eye betokens 
 his satisfaction. 
 
 Shem scans it narrowly, and replies, " Ay, he is none 
 far away." The hounds find the scent, and begin to 
 whimper and strain in their leashes ; but a stern " Back 1 
 4*
 
 42 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 back! Soft I softl" from Brad quiets them at once, and 
 they stand like statues heads outstretched and nostrils 
 distended. 
 
 Philip is just about to order Brad to unleash the 
 hounds, when a black-eyed, weather-rusted gypsy thrusts 
 aside the bushes near the lair, bows low to Philip, and 
 places a note in his hands. He is one of a gang that 
 Lord Wharton allows to live unmolested on his estate, 
 and to whom he occasionally gives a feast in his kitchen 
 which kindnesses have so endeared him to the impres 
 sionable Ishmaelites, that they would do anything to 
 please him. 
 
 Philip offers to reward him, but he, shaking his head, 
 retires as silently as he came. 
 
 Philip recognizes the superscription on the letter as 
 Margery's writing. Bidding Shem to wait a moment, 
 he breaks the seal with glad eagerness. He is half 
 afraid to learn the contents for fear something evil has 
 happened to her. He spreads the little, scented sheet, 
 and reads in a low tone. 
 
 " My own darling PHILIP : Love, my own, I will be at 
 Rooksnest at midday. I have no time to write any 
 more, so good-bye. Your true MARGERY. 
 
 HOLME GRANGE." 
 
 
 He calculates what time he has left for the chase, and 
 
 finds that he will have to start for the trysting-place 
 before they could hope to run the buck down, for Shem's 
 experience -declares it to be full-grown, and one which 
 would lead them a long chase ere he would consent to 
 stand at bay to receive a huntsman's keen, glittering 
 knife deep in his panting side. So bidding them good- 
 speed, he turns back to Rooksnest, his heart bounding 
 in anticipation of the meeting with his bonnie Margery. 
 He tries to sing, but for very joy he cannot, and the
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON's CAREER. 43 
 
 words are choked and indistinct. Taking the missive 
 from his pocket, he re-reads it, to be sure that his eyes 
 had not deceived him. He has not seen her for a whole 
 week, nor has even had a line from her until to-day. He 
 has not even been able to write to her, so closely has she 
 been watched by her offended father. How she can get 
 out to meet him he cannot surmise ; nor does he care ; if 
 only she is there, he will be content. 
 
 He is now within a few yards of the Holmes' Estate, 
 which is contiguous to his father's. Thinking he hears, 
 above the rustle of the trees and the purling of the brook 
 which runs close by, voices in angry discussion, one of 
 which resembles his father's, he presses forward to see 
 who they are that converse in so high a tone. A thought 
 decides him to peer through the trees hiding the dispu 
 tants from his view. 
 
 A sickening sensation chills his blood as he perceives 
 his father and General Holmes standing face to face, 
 their eyes flashing, and speaking in angry tones. Little 
 Margery leans trembling against a neighboring tree ; her 
 hands are clasped on her throat, and her face pales and 
 flushes alternately. Her eyes are fixed on the angry men 
 with a pleading, pitiful expression that goes straight to 
 Philip's heart. 
 
 As he gazes fascinated on a scene which fills him with 
 the liveliest apprehension, the General says, in an ex 
 cited manner, " My lord, your charges are false, and at 
 some other time" he glances at his daughter, who turns 
 her eyes on the ground " I will prove my words, either 
 at the sword's point, or in any way most agreeable to 
 your lordship!" 
 
 " General," Wharton replies, in icy, cutting tones, and 
 with punctilious gestures, " whenever and wherever you 
 please." He raises his hat to Mistress Margery and 
 bows lowly to her father.
 
 44 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip determines at all hazards to interfere, and if 
 possible prevent the duel which he sees must take place 
 if they part in this manner. He is aware of his father's 
 aversion to both the General and to Margery to him for 
 his politics, and to her for Philip's love towards her ; 
 and he dreads his father's masterly use of the rapier, 
 feeling sure that he would not lose such an opportunity 
 as the duel presented, to place an impassable barrier be 
 tween their union. Throwing himself at his father's feet, 
 he cries, "Spare him for her sake! I could not live 
 without her!" 
 
 Wharton looks down on his son with surprise and 
 vexation depicted on his countenance. 
 
 " Philip, rise at once I cease this masquerading ! How 
 came you here ? Methinks your chase of the wild deer 
 has not been a long one, since you have had time to quarry 
 other game so successfully." He twitches his thumb 
 in the direction of Margery, who has fallen senseless. 
 
 " Father, spare me ! If you but knew how madly I 
 love her, you " 
 
 " Tut, tut ; let her be your light-o-love ; but never let 
 it be said that a Wharton stooped to a Holmes. Why, 
 man, an eagle never mates with a crow" he answers in 
 a low tone. 
 
 Philip springs to his feet, and looks him boldly in the 
 face as he replies, "My lord, Mistress Holmes is as 
 proper a woman as was ever begot in our house and 
 more " * 
 
 He is interrupted by Margery, who has recovered from 
 her swoon. She stands between them, with her back to 
 her lover, and says to Wharton, with a sob that shakes 
 her from head to foot, " My lord, I give him up forever. 
 I '11 try to hate him for his own sake. You will be a 
 friend to my father ?" 
 
 My lord stares in astonishment, and allows her to
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 45 
 
 lead him to the General. Beginning to see how matters 
 stand, and convinced, in spite of himself, that the girl is 
 in earnest, he extends his hand to the General, and says 
 persuasively, " General, allow me to apologize for the 
 hasty expressions I made use of in our conversation. It 
 is folly for us to quarrel like raw school-boys." 
 
 Holmes' face brightens as he grasps the hand of the 
 wily diplomat, and he energetically protests that it was 
 all his fault in being so hasty. 
 
 As soon as Margery sees they are friends again, she 
 endeavors to dart down the path leading to Holme 
 Grange, but Philip intercepts her, and clasps her securely 
 around the waist, demanding, in excited accents, to 
 know the meaning of the previous scene. 
 
 " Unhand me, Philip, for Heaven's sake I" Her fur 
 ther utterance is checked by a torrent of tears, which 
 threaten to end in hysterics. 
 
 Philip is amazed at her language, and silently mourns 
 over the fickleness of woman ; but soon all his sympathy 
 is aroused by the evident pain she is in. Leading her 
 to a broken rustic seat, made of a huge tree which had 
 been cut down and sawed into many portions, he sits 
 down beside her, while his eyes show his perplexity and 
 vexation. 
 
 " Philip, my own, I cannot give you up." 
 
 " Give me up ? What mean you, Margery ?" he replies 
 in wondering tones. 
 
 Her conversation with his father had been carried on 
 in so low a tone that he had not heard her words. 
 
 " It means, dearest, that you can do with me whatever 
 you will, forever and ever!" Her soft white arms wind 
 about his neck, and her lips meet his with a passionate 
 kiss. 
 
 " Only a love quarrel after all, Margery, eh ?" 
 
 " No," she replied in serious tones, " it was no quarrel
 
 46 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 at all. I'll tell you all about it I was at Rooksnest 
 
 before the tiine, and was waiting for you at the very spot 
 where you saw me, when I met father, who asked me 
 oh, so crossly where I was going, and what. I did alone 
 in the forest, for he had forbidden me to leave the house 
 without an attendant, as you know. I could not answer 
 him, I was so afraid. But Lord Wharton, who happened 
 to be in the same part of the grounds, and must have 
 heard him, said, ' Sir, if she is unable to tell you, I can 
 doubtless do so ;' and to my terror and surprise he read, 
 in icy, cruel tones, that quite froze my blood, every word 
 of the letter I had written you 1" 
 
 Philip starts, and feels for her letter ; it is safe in his 
 pocket. " Maldran has betrayed us ; a curse on the 
 knave!" he mutters. 
 
 " Then angry words passed between them ; and if I had 
 not placed my hand on father's sword, I am sure there 
 would have been bloodshed and between them !" She 
 shudders, and clings closer to Philip. 
 
 " Margery, sweetheart, I will find Maldran, and if he 
 has done us this foul turn, I'll stab him in his camp, the 
 black-hearted villain !" 
 
 " Please don't, Philip ; those gypsies might do you 
 some harm." 
 
 He laughs scornfully at her fears, and is about to 
 scout such an idea ; but she turns her head, and says 
 quickly : 
 
 " Hush ! Yes, it is my father. Quick, Philip, hide 
 yourself until he passes. If he sees you, it might anger 
 him again. Quick 1 he is coming this way. Hide your 
 self, and I will be in my room before he overtakes me." 
 
 He draws her to him, and well, she looks happier after 
 the embrace. 
 
 Like the zephyr now she flies, swift and noiseless to
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 47 
 
 hide herself in her own little room, and think over the 
 day's doings. 
 
 Philip has scarcely concealed himself when the General 
 strides by with a firm, commanding step, the plumes on 
 his hat, and his long hair dancing and tossing in the 
 breeze which sighs gently through the tangled branches 
 overhead, and swirls the dead leaves round and round 
 in swift circles of brown and yellow, scarlet and green. 
 
 During the time that his lordship and the General 
 had been left together, the former had employed his time 
 in flattering and endeavoring to sound the latter, to see 
 whether he was in possession of any secrets of the liar- 
 ley administration ; but the General either knew nothing 
 or else was too old a soldier to be caught even with the 
 well-baited hooks which his lordship sent out for him to 
 seize. So drawing his gray velvet cloak about his 
 shoulders, Lord Wharton called to Philip to follow him. 
 He was surprised to find that his son had disappeared. 
 He scowled, and said, " I was a dolt to trust the pretty 
 wench, for all her pleading. eyes and innocent ways. Why 
 I should have done so surprises me. To trust a girl's word, 
 after my experience of them !" And he smiled scorn 
 fully. "A good impulse probably. Mighty few have 
 found their way to me lately, and I shall take care it is 
 the last. Curse me! She give up Philip? Possible. 
 Philip give her up ? Never ! He is too much like my 
 self in such things." And the courtly sinner chuckled 
 knowingly. " If he had more sense, and a trifle less of 
 what he calls ' honor,' she might have been his own long 
 ago, sans Hymen. S'blocd! if I was not his respected 
 father, I would certainly advise him on that point my 
 self." A malicious smile curls his lips as he says: 
 " Shem will do ; I'll to him." And he proceeded in the 
 direction of the keeper's lodge.
 
 48 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY} 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " fork- God for his mercy ! What treachery is here ?" 
 
 KING RICHARD II. 
 
 " Ursula. The pleasantest angling is to see the fish 
 
 Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, 
 And greedily devour the treacherous bait ; 
 
 So angle we for Beatrice ;" 
 
 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. III. i. 
 
 SHEM had scarcely finished his luncheon and begun to 
 talk with his son on the glorious run they had, of the 
 feints and doublings of the old buck, of the high wall on 
 the moor which they had taken flying, and to approve 
 the gallant manner in which Brad had sheathed his knife 
 clean to the haft as the desperate beast stood at bay with 
 horns lowered, feet pawing, and back bristling, ere a 
 quick, sharp rap sounds at the door, and footsteps grate 
 on the ground in front of the lodge. 
 
 " Don't be asleep, lad ! open the door !" Shem cries ; 
 but, before Brad can get there, the latch is lifted and 
 Lord Wharton enters and nods pleasantly to Shem ; he 
 tells him that he would like a short conversation with 
 him at once ; turning to Brad, he says shortly, " My 
 lad, you may amuse yourself in the chase for a half 
 hour ;" and he points to the door. 
 
 Brad, only too willing to leave so high and mighty a 
 presence as soon as possible, walks shamefacedly to the 
 door. 
 
 Shem scratches his curly head, and wonders what his 
 lordship wants to see him for, " rebeck him ! may be to 
 arrange a good hunt, or to chide him for some fault."
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 49 
 
 His lordship takes the old arm-chair, close by the lat 
 tice window, through which a wide sweep of beautiful 
 and romantic landscape can be seen, and tells Shem to 
 seat himself also. He knows the sturdy upright nature 
 of his gamekeeper, and knows that, in order to have his 
 cordial co-operation in the vile job he is about to broach 
 to him, he will have to glaze it over with sophistry and 
 dazzle his understanding by varnishing it with words 
 beyond his comprehension. He begins in a careless, 
 matter-of-course manner. " Shem, it lies in your power 
 to do me a service, which I know you will do, not only 
 to please me, but to have a hand in so good a joke your 
 self." 
 
 Wharton looks at him as if he expects him to say 
 something ; Shem, however, bewildered by his master's 
 condescension, answers not a word, but appears grave 
 and embarrassed, and shifts his legs and arms about un 
 easily, looking the very embodiment of awkwardness. 
 He did not dare to refuse my lord's command to seat 
 himself, although at the same time he thought it a sad 
 breach of good manners to do so. 
 
 Wharton continues : " This is what I mean. You are 
 aware that Master Philip has a liking for pretty Mistress 
 Holmes, and he thinks that I know vastly less about it 
 than I do ; so, in order to enjoy a mighty good joke at 
 his expense ah 1 ha ! I want you, when next you see 
 him, to mention her name, and cautiously insinuate that 
 you think him fondly foolish for not running away with 
 her to London, where she can be all his own !" 
 
 Here Shem is about to ejaculate eomething, but he re 
 strains himself, and reddens to the roots of his beard. 
 
 " I will pretend to know nothing about it until the 
 
 last moment ; then, to prevent any scandal attaching to 
 
 her " He narrowly watches Shem's face, and smiles 
 
 inwardly as he notes his relieved look, and surmises that 
 
 5
 
 50 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 the first part of his plan alarmed him for Margery's sake, 
 whom he loves next to Brad and his falcons. " I say, to 
 prevent any scandal attaching to her, I will stop the 
 proceeding, and none will be the wiser but ourselves. If 
 you would not like Master Philip to know that you 
 have a hand in the affair, of course I will never tell him. 
 I will not insult you by offering you a reward, for I 
 know there is not a Throck living who would not feel 
 happy to fulfil my wishes ; but if you should like ' Queen 
 Anne,' who is, as you know, by ' Careless' out of ' Light 
 ning,' you are welcome to her, and she is as fine a colt as 
 there is in all Buck's." 
 
 Shem can scarcely sit still, so elated is he at his mas 
 ter's present, for it is one of the best horses in the stable, 
 and one for which he has sighed time and again. 
 
 "My lord, I thank ye kindly. Ye could ha' given 
 me nowt I wad prize so highly as ' Queen Anne.' As 
 for the favor, it was your lordship's mind to jest wi' me 
 a bit, for well ye knaw whether or no I wad' or wad' not 
 do such an a thing, if only out on' love for a bit o' jol 
 lity." He reddens again as he proceeds : " Excuse me, 
 your lordship, but ye are sure that no harm can come 
 out on it to either o' the young folks ?" 
 
 " No, no, Shem ; you are getting nervous, timid." 
 
 My lord rises, walks to the door, and bids him " good 
 bye" in a suave, conciliating manner, his scabbard point 
 scattering the white sand which the care of the gudewife 
 had swept into squares on the red tiled floor. 
 
 " Nervous ! that 's what the gentle folks, more so, the 
 women part be. It 's French, I knaw, and modish, 
 so I 'm no' nervous ; but I wad sair blame mysen if aught 
 I did suld bring sorrow to wee, gowden-haired Margery, 
 for she is mair an angel than a child o' earth. It was 
 once before that my lord wanted to knaw whether mas 
 ter Philip was wi' her down by Rooksnest! Queen
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 51 
 
 Anne I rebeck me ! My heart jumps wi' joy. Sure my 
 lord must mean well ? Of coorse, of coorse." 
 
 If Shem had had his eyes at the door, he might have 
 seen Brad standing there in a listening attitude, but his 
 ideas were so taken up with the colt that he had thoughts 
 for nothing but its glossy coat, its great speed, and its 
 docility.
 
 52 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "King. We'll put the matter to the present hush, 
 
 Good Gertrude ; set some watch over your son." 
 HAMLET THE DANE. 
 
 THE day is drawing to its close. The sun is falling 
 through a sea of fire, glowing in wondrous hues and mazy 
 colors unspeakably lovely and sublime. Vast masses of 
 white clouds float and billow in detached fragments 
 snow-banks in the blue ether through which long qui 
 vering rays dart fiery streaks that are mellowed to a 
 pearly-pink in their struggle to pierce them through. 
 
 The spot we are on commands an extensive view of 
 the wildest and most glorious part of the country. Here 
 we can revel in all the varieties of an English landscape, 
 and feast on such views as Claude or Hobbema would 
 have thoroughly enjoyed. The moors and the fells ; the 
 valleys and the hills ; the bounding mountain torrent, 
 tumbling and rumbling over its rocky bed ; and the more 
 placid stream winding through forest and meadow all 
 have a beauty that can only be appreciated by the keen 
 observer and the lover of the beautiful in nature. 
 
 Far off, beyond the reach of bow-shot, can be traced 
 the graceful outlines of a noble buck, his antlercd head 
 tossed proudly back ; the hawk's shrill cry grates above, 
 as it circles with quickening rapidity over the nest 
 of its frightened prey, and from the meadows beyond 
 comes a faint, nutty smell as of dying flowers and ripen 
 ing fruit.
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 53 
 
 As the vivid tints of the expiring day grow dimmer, 
 lurid lights as of bonfires flicker and gleam in the depths 
 of the woodland. There let us go, being careful to avoid 
 the deep, silent tarns whose waters are icy cold and 
 clear, and the deep gulches whose treacherous sides are 
 covered with luxuriant foliage and thick vines with 
 many-hued berries. 
 
 We reach an open space where a curious scene presents 
 itself, whose rich tones, deep shadows, and picturesque 
 accompaniments would require a Poussin's color to 
 depict. The great, majestic trees raise their heads to the 
 sky, and throw glancingly off the silvery be.ams of the 
 rising moon which essay to break through their inter 
 weaving branches. In the centre of two or three dingy, 
 tattered tents, and as many rickety hovels, stands the 
 gypsy queen's abode, rather larger, and outwardly cleaner 
 than its companions. On the summit waves a small 
 yellow flag adorned with Oriental characters and symbols ; 
 it is weather-stained and ragged, looking a fit standard 
 for the motley group who flourish under its shadow, and 
 at present sprawl in ungainly attitude around the fire. 
 At the largest of these the evening meal is cooking in a 
 large iron kettle, which hangs between two green boughs, 
 simmering and bubbling noisily, while its aromatic smell 
 of herbs, meats, and condiments diffuses itself about. 
 
 At the smaller fires are stalwart men, big-limbed and 
 ruffianly ; women with long, black hair falling in tangled 
 masses on their bare shoulders ; and half-naked babes 
 and children, who warm their feet in the welcome heat, 
 and crow jubilantly at the rising sparks. 
 
 At the entrance to the camp is a tall, muscular vaga 
 bond, who stands stolidly at his post, surveying the 
 hotch-potch kettle with listless eyes. It is Nanar, the 
 most cunning tinkler the best wrestler in the count}', 
 and his queen's favorite besides. See ! he raises his head 
 
 5*
 
 54 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and cranes his neck as if to catch a far-off sound. Sud 
 denly throwing himself full length on the ground, he 
 places his ear to it. Listening attentively for a few 
 minutes, he springs lightly to his feet, and cries in a 
 low, but penetrating whisper, "Wha's there?" Almost 
 immediately he receives the answer, " You have a quick 
 ear, Nanar." The voice appears to reassure him, for he 
 assumes his former position with scarcely a look at the 
 intruder, merely pulling his forelock as a sign of respect 
 to a superior. 
 
 The flames of the fires show us Lord Wharton ! an 
 odd, unlikely place for him to visit at this time of the 
 evening. Stamping the thick dew off his shoes, he 
 brushes the wet leaves and twigs from his cloak, 
 draws it tightly around his shoulders again, and steps 
 quickly to the queen's tent, where a password admits him 
 at once. The little room is feebly lighted by a short, 
 clumsy candle which sputters and gutters complainingly 
 in its rude holder two nails hammered slantwise into the 
 table, and pushed tightly against the soft tallow. 
 
 The queen is a tall, handsome woman. Her face is 
 peculiar and strongly marked ; her eyes are blue-black ; 
 her brows are well curved, but thick and heavy ; eye 
 lashes very long ; her skin is as dark as the darkest of 
 her tribe ; and her lips are full, and rather sensual. 
 Greeting her visitor with a respectful smile, she points 
 to a stool close beside her, on which she requests him 
 to be seated. She reclines on a pile of soft deer-skins, 
 looking careless and languid ; indeed, her attitude show 
 ing a spirit of coquetry and wantonness, exhibits scarce 
 enough dignity for the ruler of such a turbulent, unruly 
 set as are outside. But, under this apparent "easiful- 
 ness," she has an iron will that can awe the roughest, the 
 most mutinous of her followers, if it is necessary for the 
 sake of law and order, and she can scourge them with
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 55 
 
 words as keen as their own knives, and be as imperious 
 as ever was Cleopatra or good Queen Bess. 
 
 Wharton lays his hat and cloak on the table, and re 
 plies, in answer to her inquiries anent his health. " How 
 is it with thee, my bonnie queen ?" " As well as ever, 
 my lord, thanks to the good man." He adds " And 
 just as bewitching." Laughing at his compliment, she 
 says: "My Lord, ye will drink wi' me ere I ask you 
 anent the business that brings you here though wel 
 come ye be, whether ye come on business or pleasure." 
 " Sooth," he answers, " the pleasure is for myself alone j 
 the business for myself and others." A meaning smile 
 crosses his face as he says this. She notices the expres 
 sion on his lips ; but her eyes give no indication that she 
 is attending to anything but the filling of a pewter pot 
 with an aromatic wine, yellow as amber, and as clear as 
 crystal. This operation finished, she hands him the pot 
 with a hand which, though brown and dusky, is as per 
 fect in contour as ever painter dreamed of or poet im 
 agined. On its index finger sparkles the signet ring 
 used by the tribe as a means of message carrying which 
 insures the identity of the wearer. 
 
 " Queenie," says Wharton, as he raises the wine to his 
 lips, " to yourself, a true descendant of Jockie Faa and 
 the dark-eyed beauties of the East." Tossing it off, he 
 returns her the empty pot. Replacing it and the liquor 
 bottle in the closet behind her couch, she turns to him, 
 and says gravely : " Now, my lord, what can the gypsy 
 queen do for ye or yours? Speak, and let the moon 
 be my witness, I will do it willingly, be your wishes good 
 or bad, true or fause 1" 
 
 Crossing her hands on her bosom she awaits his 
 reply. 
 
 " Well, to begin with, I wish to leave this purse with 
 you, half of its contents for yourself, and half for Mai-
 
 56 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 dran." So saying, he tosses a well-filled purse on her 
 lap. She does not even glance at it, but remains as 
 motionless as a statue, keeping her eyes steadilj- on 
 his face. He resumes : " And I would see Maldran ere 
 I go, to give him further instructions how to act during 
 my stay in London." She lifts a small silver whistle 
 from her neck, and blows a piercing call on it. The 
 summons is answered like magic ; the door opens, and 
 the gypsy enters, greasy with his unfinished supper; 
 saluting his queen, he looks towards Wharton with an 
 inquiring look. 
 
 Says the queen in the Rommany dialect : " Maldran, 
 my praw, his lordship wishes to patter wi' ye anent his 
 going awa' ; chee, chee, and you will know." " Baurie 
 Raunie, I listen," he replies sullenly. But the money 
 she hands him creates a palpable difference in his feel 
 ings, as his brightening countenance evinces. 
 
 Wharton, who seems desirous of leaving, says hurriedly, 
 "Maldran, I am going to London, and I want you to 
 watch Master Philip and Mistress Holmes while I am 
 away. Take note of all their actions, so that I may 
 know how they behave when I am not near. If anything 
 important happens, send a messenger with the news at 
 once to Christopher Catt's, Fountain Tavern, in the 
 Strand." Drawing a seal-ring from his finger, he pro 
 ceeds : " This will be his token." 
 
 Maldran nods his approval, takes the ring, and secretes 
 it in a pocket of his dirty leather breeches, which he has 
 worn until they are as black and as shiny as satin, and 
 takes his departure. 
 
 "Wharton is about to follow him, but the queen ex 
 claims quickly, " Wait, my lord ! I have a word to say 
 to you ere you go!" He drums impatiently on the 
 table, and looks surprised at her request. " 'Tis a story 
 I can tell in a few minutes, for all a life's wrong is con-
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREEIU 57 
 
 taincd in it : I was a little girl once, and I committed a 
 great sin against our laws I need not tell you what it 
 was. I was sentenced to banishment frae our tribe ; but 
 a sweet lady interceded for me wi' her tongue and her 
 gowd, and " 
 
 " What is all this to me ? I have no time to waste on 
 childish fooleries," he cries angrily, laying his hand on 
 the latch. 
 
 Springing from her couch like a fawn, she places her 
 back against the door, and replies: "More than you 
 think, my lord. Hear me out! I say she interceded 
 for me, and procured my pardon. From that moment I 
 became her debtor for life. Now listen ! Her name was 
 Nelly Valentin ! You ruined her. She is now in Lon 
 don, a starving, shame-stricken outcast. You must send 
 her enough money to keep her from want until she dies, 
 or I am your enemy for life." 
 
 Her eyes are glittering and angry now, while her teeth 
 show white through her half open lips. "Wharton red 
 dening with anger at her audacity, and, unable to control 
 himself, strikes her on the face with the back of his 
 hand, cutting a little gash in her cheek with his diamond 
 ring. She involuntarily puts her hand on the cut, but 
 takes it away instantly, opens the door, and says calmly, 
 " Go, my lord ; you and the gypsy queen are enemies." 
 He laughs scornfully, and steps out, past the fires, 
 through the swarthy groups, and into the darkness of 
 the forest. 
 
 "'A God's blood," he mutters, "what a tigress I It is 
 strange how she could have discovered my frolic with 
 Nelly ! But I must hie me home, or her ladyship will 
 wonder at my absence on the eve of my departure." * * 
 
 It is now time to explain how it was that Lord Whar 
 ton, General Holmes and poor Margery should have
 
 58 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 both happened to be in an unfrequented part of the 
 grounds at the same time. It was in this % manner: as 
 soon as Margery had given Maldran the message to Philip 
 he took it to Wharton, by whom he was employed as a 
 spy on the lovers. Wharton read it, copied the contents, 
 and then instructed the faithless rascal to take it to its 
 proper destination. He then sat down and wrote in a 
 feigned hand to General Holmes, telling him that his 
 daughter was to meet Philip in the woods at noon; he 
 signed the letter " A Friend." He waited until nearly 
 the time she had appointed for the rendezvous, and sent 
 the letter to him by a disguised servant. He then took 
 his way to Rooksnest and awaited with malignant plea 
 sure the fiasco which he knew must ensue, and which he 
 hoped would at one blow break up the relations between 
 the lovers. How it turned out we know.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 59 
 
 CHAPTER Yin. 
 
 " There 's some exception, man an' woman ; 
 But this is gentry's life in common." 
 
 THE TWA Doss. 
 
 " My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 
 My heart is sair for somebody; 
 I could wake a winter night 
 For the sake of somebody." 
 
 "Mr HEART IS SAIR, I DARB NA TELt." 
 
 HOLME GRANGE fronts on a clear, swift stream, which 
 is lined on the other side with drooping water grasses and 
 showy river-weed Philip's Stream, Margery calls it, as 
 with heart and eyes engrossed by the one object she sees 
 her ideal in all things around or about her. The house 
 is surrounded by a large garden laid out in the Eliza 
 bethan style, with sprucely cut hedges and intricate 
 pathways whose sides are clustered with all the flowers 
 that are in season. The " drive" from the gate to the 
 stables is adorned with marble fountains, whose Ruben- 
 esque nymphs and Cupids pour streams of water on the 
 gold and silver fish disporting themselves in the basin. 
 
 The old hall was built in the Tudor days, and the effect 
 produced on the educated mind while surveying it is a 
 feeling of true admiration and delight. The roof is of a 
 high pitch, and it is chastely beautified with delicate 
 tracery. Arched beams protect a row of small stone 
 figures, which stand over the main entrance and seem the 
 
 O / 
 
 guardian angels of the house and its pertainings. The 
 square mouldings over all the windows and doorways 
 have the family quarterings cut on them an arm erect,
 
 60 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and clutching in its hand a dagger, on a field gules, and 
 surrounded by the legend " Soyez Tranquylle" in old Nor 
 man letters. The long Gothic windows are minutely 
 panelled, and reflect in parti-colors the cloud-flecked sky 
 and the waving, rustling trees. 
 
 The General's stalwart figure can be seen, and the 
 jingle of his spurs heard, as he walks by the side of his 
 daughter, talking to her in a tone of parental reproof, 
 to which she listens with downcast countenance and eyes 
 suffused with tears that momentarily threaten to fall on 
 the dainty pink hood which she twitches so pettishly. 
 He speaks to her in a kindly manner : " Margery, hinny, 
 I desire above all things your happiness, and for yours 
 I would willingly sacrifice my own ; but in this case I 
 am determined. His lordship does not wish the match, 
 nor do I think that, with all Philip's talents and his un 
 usual forwardness, he would make you a true, faithful 
 husband. I distrust your geniuses !" 
 
 Margery does not answer him, but her lip quivers, and 
 her hands tightly clutch her trailing dress. He looks at 
 her with pitying sympathy, and heartily regrets that 
 Master Philip is forbidden by his father to betroth him 
 self to his bonnie daughter, both for her sake and his 
 own, for the alliance would be honorable and politic 
 especially in these times, when it is now Tory, now 
 Whig, who make the laws and break them at their plea 
 sure, and it is well to have a friend on both sides if pos 
 sible. 
 
 While the father is occupied with his thoughts, 
 Margery lifts her eyes to his face to see whether he 
 really is as firm in the cruel resolve as his speech be 
 tokened; and now, as he turns to her to renew the 
 conversation, he finds her sweet face upturned and close 
 to his, with lips half parted, and such a pleading ex 
 pression in her azure eyes that he impulsively ejaculates:
 
 oa, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 61 
 
 " Bless you, little one ! If I could help you in this, God 
 knows I would, natheless his lordship's insolence to me; 
 but I am as helpless as yourself!" 
 
 Margery clasps her hands excitedly, and cries in a 
 joyful voice, " Then you will let me meet him at Rooks- 
 nest sometimes?" and stops abruptly, with a vague 
 idea that she has said something bold and unmaidenly. 
 
 The father looks perplexed again, and answers firmly : 
 " No, Margery. If he cannot take you for weal or woe, 
 he shall not have you at all. Besides, darling, you are 
 too young yet. Save us ! scarcely fourteen, and wants 
 to marry ? What is the world coming to, now-a-days ? 
 It would be very wrong in you to see him alone under 
 these circumstances ; and all that I can allow you at 
 present, is to close my eyes while forbidden letters are 
 flying to and fro." 
 
 After this unexpected outburst, Margery is thankful 
 for even so small a privilege ; for is not a letter from him 
 the next best thing to his own dear self? 
 
 The General, almost regretting his permission to allow 
 her to correspond with Philip, mutters : " Even that is 
 more than the jade ought to do under such circum 
 stances." Margery, hearing him, her cheeks pale with 
 apprehension, and anxious to avoid discussion on so 
 dangerous a topic, kisses him good-bye, and runs in to 
 be suitably attired for the rustic wedding which is to 
 take place to-day in the village Will Happun and Nanny 
 Prevent being the happy couple who are to be united 
 in the "holy bands of matrimony;" and as they are 
 dependants of General Holmes, he and Margery have 
 graciously promised to superintend the ceremony, and 
 also to give the bride a handsome " tocher." She skims 
 along the odorous path, up the high marble steps, across 
 the veranda, through the low window opening on it, 
 and finally bursts almost breathless into her own pretty 
 6
 
 62 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 room, her cheeks flushed and her hair dishevelled with 
 the air and the exercise. " Nanny ! Nanny ! where are 
 you?" Margery calls, and at the summons the future 
 bride enters to dress her young mistress for the last 
 time. She is a comely, rosy-cheeked, small-waisted lass, 
 whose well-turned ankle and neat foot are cased in clocked 
 silk stockings and bright red brodequins, whose heels are 
 skilfully shod with brass so that they will click-clack 
 properly when she walks up and down the chapel aisle, 
 the first as a maid, the second as a wife. 
 
 " 'Sooth, Nannie, you look mighty pretty to-day," says 
 Margery with a smile. 
 
 Nannie turns as red as her shoes, and replies with a 
 demure air, "Please ye, Mistress Margery, that's how I 
 want to look, for Will's sake." 
 
 Margery thinks how curious it is that she has always 
 that thought in her own head whenever she is going to 
 see Philip, and a confused idea of the universality of love 
 crosses her mind. 
 
 " That is right, Nannie," Margery utters with a grave, 
 motherly air ; and the next minute she laughs outright 
 at the wonderfully solemn accents in which she had 
 spoken. She resumes : " Quick ! or Will may have to 
 wait for you at the chapel door, and that is unlucky, you 
 know." 
 
 At once the girl sets deftly to work, and removes the 
 light coif holding Margery's hair in its place. Whilst 
 she is gently passing her hands through the silky mass, 
 a tap is heard at the door, and she ceases her pleasant 
 duty to inspect the intruder. It is one of the brides 
 maids soon to be a bride herself, by the way curty- 
 headed, merry, frolicsome Meg Busbie, the possessor of 
 a dangerous pair of hazel eyes, dancing with fun and 
 mischief, and of a trim little waist and swelling bosom. 
 There are a charming demureness and an air of restrained
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 63 
 
 vivacity about her at the present moment which are foreign 
 to her ; she curtsies low to Margery, and remains quiet 
 until my lady of thirteen say fourteen is ready to 
 speak to her, which will be as soon as she lets fall the 
 golden coil she holds between her red lips. 
 
 Dear reader, as all weddings resemble one another in 
 important particulars, and as the above differs in no 
 wise from the general rules, with your permission I will 
 allow your imagination to finish this otherwise abrupt 
 chapter, and turn to Philip and his doings.
 
 64 HIMSELE HIS WORST ENEMY 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " King. If it should prove 
 
 That thou art so inhuman 'twill not prove so 
 And yet I.know not thou didst hate her deadly" 
 
 . ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 
 
 WHEN Philip returned to the castle, after the occurrence 
 at Rooksnest, he had felt greatly disinclined to face his 
 father's penetrating eye or hear his sarcastic remarks ; 
 but when they sat down at table, my lord never even 
 mentioned the subject ignored it entirely. He was too 
 politic and far-seeing to hazard any more " scenes" until 
 he saw how the project which was now in hand turned 
 out. If it failed, then he had determined he would send 
 Philip abroad for a year or two, to complete his educa 
 tion under the guidance of some Protestant Whig who 
 could control his actions and put a check on his turbu 
 lent spirits. 
 
 My lady and Philip are at present in the blue room, 
 so called on account of the color of its tapestry and 
 its hangings. She sits in a high, straight-backed chair 
 of ebony, inlaid, and fancifully worked in mosaic around 
 the sides and on the arms. Her dark velvet dress is 
 profusely trimmed with black lace, and her glossy hair 
 is dressed in the foot-high mode peculiar to the time. 
 On her right cheek are the inevitable two patches one 
 a crescent, the other a star. 
 
 She looks admiringly on her beautiful son, who is 
 seated at her feet on a low foot-rest, studying over a 
 speech which he has just finished declaiming before a 
 large company of people who are guests of my lord's,
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 65 
 
 and for which he was loudly applauded. He is boldly 
 giving his opinion of it, and criticizes it with a rare judg 
 ment in one so young. He sneers at the falsity of this 
 expression, the bad rhetoric of that, and condemns its 
 style in unmeasured terms of contempt and scorn the 
 while his mother wonders what he will be in future when 
 he is so talented now ? 
 
 She says, in a deprecating manner, but withal a gleam 
 of maternal pride in her eyes : " Phil, dear, you must be 
 wrong ! Why, faith ! it was written and spoken by as 
 clever a speaker as ever thrilled the Commons, and it is 
 considered mighty fine by all who have either read it or 
 heard it delivered except yourself!" 
 
 " Mother," he answers with kindling eyes, " under 
 favor, I care not who liked it, or who disliked it, I still 
 have my own opinion, and I will keep it, despite them 
 all." 
 
 She sighs as she thinks of the dangers his quick, vola 
 tile temperament will surely lead him into if it is not 
 governed more strictly, and she has a faint idea that she 
 ought to reprove him ; however, not caring to irritate him 
 further, quietly says : " My son, it is now time for you 
 o practise with Monsieur Vitesjambe ; so I will bid you 
 good-day." 
 
 Philip kisses her respectfully, and turns to leave the 
 room, when a better impulse induces him to turn and 
 pick up the speech which he had thrown on the floor in 
 his previous anger. Placing it on the table beside her, 
 he leaves the room without a word, and proceeds to the 
 maitre-de-danse to be perfected in the various dances in 
 vogue. 
 
 The courtly minuet, the lively coranto, and the javotte, 
 as well as the proper way to enter and leave a room, the 
 bow and the congee, Philip practises under the diligent 
 attention of Monsieur Vitesjambe, a dried-up dapper 
 
 6*
 
 66 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Frenchman, whose affected strut brings forcibly to the 
 mind ludicrous visions of pin-wire and strained catgut. 
 In truth even his ordinary steps are regulated with the 
 nicety and precision of one whose whole soul is in his 
 art or his heels. Monsieur Yitesjambe was forced to 
 fly from France that is, Paris on account of his 
 pecuniary affairs, in which he had been swindled by 
 treacherous friends ; and he is never tired of talking and 
 gesticulating about La belle France et le Grand Mo- 
 narque. And his voice I Voltaire, give me a name for it ! 
 Our English "crackling" might do; but the French 
 petillant is better, and expresses better what I mean. 
 Although openly professing Whig sentiments, he is at 
 heart a Tory, as far at least as he is interested in Eng 
 lish politics ; and Philip owes it partly to him and partly 
 to his own reckless spirit of opposition, that he is ad 
 verse to his father's principles, for his vivid imagination 
 and his chivalrous sympathies were awakened by the 
 Frenchman's tales of the royal exile, who was thrust 
 from his throne by an ugly, phlegmatic Dutchman, who 
 could not speak the language of the people he governed, 
 and whose sad-colored raiment had been the ridicule of 
 his court. Philip even carries his resentment to Anne 
 for her continued usurpation of her brother's throne, and 
 often says that if he ever has the power, he will once 
 more restore their inheritance to the Stuarts. 
 
 After an hour's practising, Monsieur Yitesjambe de 
 clares the lesson to be over, and Philip pays a visit to 
 Shem Throck to converse with him about hunting, 
 hawking, and other outdoor sports. When he enters the 
 lodge Shem is busily engaged in feeding a pair of ger 
 falcons perched on the frame beside him, for he is a 
 master-falconer as well as gamekeeper ; although the 
 position is a comparative sinecure, for hawking is not 
 now so fashionable as it was in the days of Queen Bess,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 67 
 
 when, if an imputation was cast on the courage of one's 
 falcon-gentle or Barbary, it was as necessary to draw 
 Bilboa and fight to the death for its honor as for one's 
 own. 
 
 Shem has just come in from the stream, where he has 
 been flying his pet falcon-gentle at the wild fowl, and in ex 
 cited accents details to the admiring Philip his courage 
 ous deeds. " Kestrils and Sacers I When I cast her off 
 aloft she reet deftly plumed her bird, an' twice remewed 
 it from the river I Then she took her at the souse an' 
 struck her down wi' a rousin' prod ! 'Fackins 1 Master 
 Philip, it were a goodly sight !" He ceases, to look admir 
 ingly at the falcon, while with half-closed eyes he points 
 out its various beauties to his attentive listener. " Look 
 ye, Master Philip," he exclaims ; " see her wide nostrils, 
 an' her big black e'en an' e'elids 1 What a roun' head an' 
 a thick blue beak she has ! An' did ye ever afore see 
 such broad shoulders an' long wings ?" 
 
 "Never," replies Philip heartily. 
 
 Shem continues: "An' the other is a beauty too, I 
 warrant ye ! She is as sma' as the tiniest o' them a'." 
 
 " She is, indeed," says Philip. " And her red plumes 
 betray her species ; she is a fine Barbary." 
 
 " She is that, Master Philip ; she comes from a far-awa 
 country, hundreds of miles away, they tell me." 
 
 " Yes, Shem, from the Levant, where I will go some 
 day to see the long-bearded Turk mumble over his Koran, 
 which he considers quite as good as our Bible." 
 
 " God help us 1" cries Shem, with uplifted hands. 
 " Not that I am ower righteous mysen, but it 's fearful !" 
 
 Smiling at his- horror, Philip begins to tease the 
 falcons, which snap playfully at his fingers. While thus 
 engaged, Shem casts a quick glance at him, and says 
 carelessly : " If I be no too free, Master Philip, it seems 
 queer to me that wi' a' your love for Mistress Margery,
 
 68 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 you don't run awa' wi' her ; then ye see ye could ha' her 
 a' to yoursen, for " 
 
 Philip's face is ashen pale as he interrupts Shem, and 
 says in quick, angry accents : " Stop, Shem, I know 
 what you are going to say ; but that you are too in 
 nocent to comprehend the black-hearted villainy there 
 is in my lord's scheme, 'fore God! I would sheathe 
 my dagger in your throat I" 
 
 Shem, speechless with surprise, stares like one bereft 
 of his senses, as well he may. At the first outburst 
 he instinctively placed his hand on the haft of his hunt 
 ing-knife. 
 
 Philip looks at him closely for a few seconds, and pro 
 ceeds in a gentler manner than before : " Good, faithful 
 Shem, let me tell you the whole of this vile project. 
 I '11 lay bare my father's treacherous meaning. You 
 think it is a mere joke to amuse my lord a harmless 
 jest. His real design is that I shall run away with Mar 
 gery to London. Once there, he thinks I will cer 
 tainly ruin her, and keep her as my dishonored mistress. 
 But I tell you, Shem, that when Margery goes to London 
 with Philip Wharton, she goes as his intended wife." 
 
 Shem shudders as he hears the details, and sees how 
 near he has been towards compassing the destruction of 
 his "wee Margery." "Eh! my soul! if I had done it!" 
 he exclaims in thankful tones ; and he watches his young 
 master, who paces the room in a frenzy of rage. Well 
 is it that my lord is not at home, or there would be such 
 commotion at the old house as had not been seen since 
 the days of the olden moss-troopers. 
 
 Philip's blood boils as he goes over in his mind the 
 well-planned details of the cunning scheme. Shem breaks 
 the silence by saying, " Ye are sure, Master Philip, that 
 ye are no' wrang i' your thoughts ?" 
 
 " Shem," he replies angrily, " I was told of it by an
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WKARTON'S CAREER. 69 
 
 honest, true-hearted lad who overheard every word of the 
 conference. I will tell you his name, but you must keep 
 it a secret ; it is Brad Throck !" 
 
 " Bless the beggar !" Shem exclaims. " If I had 
 known that the young loon was so close till us, I 'd ha' 
 put his ear out o' kelter, I warrant ye. But it 's a' for 
 the best I trow!" 
 
 " Yes, Shem, it is all for the best," Philip replies ; and 
 he looks abstractedly out of the window, while the keeper 
 plays with his hoods and jesses. 
 
 " Good e'en to ye, Shem," Philip says so abruptly as 
 to cause Shem to start from his seat, and he walks out 
 and strides swiftly towards Rooksnest, with bitter, un- 
 filial thoughts in his heart, and with a firm determination 
 ever after to run counter to his father's wishes, and to 
 thwart his purposes whenever he can. 
 
 6*
 
 70 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY: 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Pierre. A council 's held hard by, 
 
 There I '11 lead thee. 
 
 But be a man ! for thou 'rt to mix with men 
 Fit to disturb the peace of all the world, 
 
 And rule it when it 's wildest. " 
 
 VENICE PRESERVED. 
 
 WE are now in the room sacred to Whigs and Whig- 
 gery, mutton-pies and politics. The atmosphere is redo 
 lent of the fumes of wine and the fragrant Orinoco, 
 whose smoke fills the lungs and calls up visions of Tur 
 key and the colonies. The walls are almost covered with 
 portraits of celebrated belles and toasts, nearly all of 
 them the work of Godfrey Kneller. Around one side 
 runs a row of walnut shelves whereon are the glasses of 
 the previous year, on which, according to custom, the 
 name of the lady who was the toast of that year is en 
 graved. In the centre of the room is a large, circular 
 table covered with wines and edibles, at which are seated 
 a goodly company of noisy, laughing cavaliers, whose 
 gay costumes, slashed doublets, and scented cloaks, 
 curled wigs, and knightly orders make a brave display 
 as they lounge about in careless, graceful attitudes. 
 
 Here an irritated politician exposes to his attentive 
 listener the crafty schemes of the arch Tory Harley, and 
 expatiates at length on Mistress Masham's alarming 
 ascendency at court. 
 
 There is a group of dissolute, reckless gallants. 
 Among them the licentious Congreve ; his mouth wide 
 open in boisterous merriment, uncovering a set of teeth
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 71 
 
 which many a beau envies him ; he exclaims, in a ring 
 ing, manly voice : " Egad ! gentlemen, I tell you that 
 Mistress Middleton must be our next toast, or revie me, 
 I '11 " 
 
 " Congreve, man! stop your unearthly clatter," cries 
 the proud Duke of Somerset. " You once said, ' Music 
 hath charms to soothe the savage beast ;' so I prithee, 
 quiet, or I '11 give you an air on my viol ;" and making 
 a motion as though he intended to play. Congreve ex 
 claims, in assumed terror : " Hold ! My lord, I am 
 dumb ; for truly I would rather keep my tongue between 
 my teeth for a whole year than hear yon thing screeching 
 its direful lays." 
 
 Opposite to Congreve are three keen-eyed, watchful 
 cavaliers, engaged in deep discussion ; they whisper in 
 low, guarded tones, and frequently cast stealthy glances 
 about them as if they are fearful of being overheard. 
 And well they may be, for they debate on no less a ques 
 tion than the feasibility of totally overthrowing and de 
 stroying the party now governing England. 
 
 The group consists of My Lord Wharton, whose face, 
 usually placid, is gloomy and anxious; Charles Mon 
 tague, Earl of Halifax, who blows balls and rings of pun 
 gent smoke from his Indian bowl, with a grace peculiar 
 to .himself in fact, at "Will's, and among the men about 
 town, he is considered a mighty fine smoker ; lastly, 
 and least in point of rank, is the architect and dra 
 matist Sir John Yanbrugh, whose indecent writings and 
 immoral doings once aroused the ire of the righteous 
 Collier, who scourged him in such a scathing style that 
 directly after he wrote a moral epic comedy entitled 
 " ^Esop," which, as might have been expected, was hissed 
 off the boards of Drury Lane ; he is an eccentric genius, 
 and has passed his, life, as he once averred, "in sinning 
 

 
 72 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and repenting." The reader will recall the couplet 
 written on him by Dr. Evans in allusion to his heavy, 
 solid style of architecture : 
 
 " Lie heavy on him, Earth, for he 
 Laid many a heavy load on thee." 
 
 His face is handsome, but haggard and pallid, the conse 
 quence of his riotous, exciting life. 
 
 In answer to a question put by Yanbrugh, Wharton 
 replies angrily : " Yes, John, it was Sarah Marlborough's 
 waspish tongue which stung Harley and Abbie in, and 
 ourselves out." 
 
 The country is at present in a state of great political 
 agitation. \ Rancorous violence and malignant speeches 
 are the order of the day. In no previous times did 
 pamphlets and " broadsides" exercise such an influence 
 as they do now. Formerly a man's sayings were con 
 fined to the few who heard him, and their influence went 
 but a little way beyond his own immediate circle ; but 
 now, where Earl Somers, or Cowper, or Wharton, or any 
 other able speaker enunciates a telling speech, it goes 
 from London to Liverpool, and to all the country around, 
 in the form of a pamphlet, which is widely distributed 
 by zealous partisans and would-be officials, who know the 
 effect that might be produced by a single good speech if 
 read and appreciated. 
 
 Far back in 1TOT, Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, 
 had unlucky woman brought to court a poor relative, 
 Mistress Abigail Hill, and procured for her the post of 
 bedchamber-woman to the queen, who was so greatly 
 pleased by her good nature and unassuming love, that 
 she began to contrast the poor relative's engaging dispo 
 sition with the vixenish, arrogant temper of her patroness 
 a temper the queen knew and greatly feared. In con 
 sequence, the influence of Sarah declined considerably, 
 and despite her strenuous exertions to retain her old
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON's CAREER. 73 
 
 ascendency over " Mistress Morley," as her majesty per 
 mitted herself to be called by her, " Mistress Freeman" 
 slid slowly but surely down the royal scale. Once rid 
 of her, the queen determined never to give her a chance 
 to resume her old despotism ; so, from that time, Mistress 
 Abbie Hill, or, as she soon afterwards became, Mistress 
 Masham, gradually gained more and more power over 
 her royal mistress, until she now stands the acknowledged 
 favorite. Haiiey, who is her kinsman, influenced her 
 mind very much, and consequently the Whigs were 
 ousted from power, and himself and his party installed 
 in their place. 
 
 But enough of these dry details. We will return to 
 the worthy members of the kit-cat whom we left so un 
 ceremoniously. 
 
 Montague, who listened attentively to Wharton's re 
 mark, replies, " My lord, I agree with you. Pity 'tis ; 
 but Mistress Abbie governs her majesty, and Harley 
 governs Mistress Abbie a bad state of affairs for us, 
 eh ? Curse me I" 
 
 " The Laard presarve us from the wicked Moabitess !" 
 whines Montague, clasping his hands on his breast, and 
 turning up the whites of his eyes. 
 
 At this, Yanbrugh laughs aloud ; but Wharton ex 
 claims impatiently : " 'S 'blood, my Earl of Halifax, be 
 serious ! We discuss affairs of moment, and can spare 
 little time for jack-pudding pranks !" 
 
 Montague's face sobers instantly, for he respects and 
 indeed almost fears his crafty, unscrupulous friend. 
 
 Wharton mutters: "If we could but reinstate Sarah! 
 But 'tis impossible ; the shrew has ruined us for a time, 
 at least, with her haughty airs and her arrogant capri- 
 ciousness." 
 
 Vanbrugh interpolates meaningly, " Bribery !" 
 7
 
 74 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " Ay," adds Montague ; " a few golden plaisters would 
 better us, I warrant." 
 
 Wharton elevates his eyebrows contemptuously as he 
 replies, " Begin with Harley !" 
 
 These three words settle all discussion on that point, 
 and it is not mentioned again. 
 
 A loud clapping and pounding on the table draw their 
 attention to Congreve and the gentlemen opposite. Con- 
 greve is strutting with mincing steps and affected gestures 
 across the lower end of the room ; speaking with such 
 a laughter-provoking drawl that even Wharton smiles as 
 he looks at him, and says aside : " The light-hearted 
 knave!" He is ridiculing the gait and manners of the 
 most insufferable coxcomb in London Sir Evelyn Pier- 
 point and he hits off his girlish voice and his strained 
 gestures in a really clever manner. 
 
 "Gad!" he cries, "Tore Gad! I was most mightily 
 astounded that my Lady Betty did not succumb on 
 sight ; for 'pon my soul, I had exercised almost half my 
 attractions! And stars and garters! Where I, Sir 
 Evelyn Pierpoint, fail, let no man try or, trying, fail 
 ignobly, Gad !" 
 
 This wind-up sets the whole company in a roar of 
 uncontrollable laughter the words dropped so trippingly 
 from his lips, and his eyes ogled them so conceitedly. 
 The spice of truth in the caricature renders it doubly 
 amusing, so much do we all enjoy the sight of a ridi 
 culed neighbor, especially if the ridicule falls on those 
 points on which we are untouchable, or so consider our 
 selves. 
 
 Wharton, turning to his companions, says in amused 
 despair : " Gentlemen, it is worse than useless for us to 
 converse on serious topics at present. Let us leave 
 them for another time, and help to laugh at or with 
 roistering, careless Congreve!"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 75 
 
 Yanbrugh, nothing loath, joyfully assents ; of course 
 Montague follows his leader. 
 
 "A toast! A toast! hurrah!" Glasses clink noisily, 
 and every hand pounds loudly on the table. Wharton 
 rises and says : " Gentlemen, let us all drink ' Long life 
 and prosperity to her majesty, and perdition to the 
 warming-pan prince !' " 
 
 The toast is received with acclamations, upturned 
 glasses, and elevated noses. Now there are sundry calls 
 for "more lights and the card-tables," and the attentive 
 host enters with a bow and a smirk. Christopher is 
 short, stout, and servile ; his eyes are like twin specks 
 in a good potato small and reddish ; but there is a 
 twinkle of humor and good-fellowship in them notwith 
 standing. His nose is a Liliputian carrot, with an up 
 ward tendency. 
 
 " Yes, my noble gentlemen in a minute. Diggory I 
 Sam ! You dogs ! Quick ! the tables for my lords ; 
 more lights and did you say more wine and punch, my 
 lords?" He is answered affirmatively and backs out 
 again with more bows and smirks ; reappearing in a few 
 minutes with a bowl of foaming, lemon-scented punch, 
 followed by Sam and Diggorj'- with sundry cases of wine 
 and bunches of candles in their arms. 
 
 In a very short time the noise and confusion subside, 
 and nearly all present are absorbed in the chances of the 
 games they are playing ombre, basset, whist, or gleek. 
 
 At one table are Halifax, Wharton, and Yanbrugh 
 pitted against one another at gleek ; and when Wharton 
 or Halifax pla3 T s there are always interested lookers-on. 
 Says Halifax to Wharton : " My lord, I '11 vie the ruff." 
 
 Yanbrugh rejoins, " Faith, I '11 see it !" 
 
 Wharton adds, " I '11 see it and revie it !" 
 
 Wharton, who is a skilful, practised gamester, raises
 
 76 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 the stakes so high that Yanbrugh says with a curse, " I'll 
 not meddle with it longer. Poor devils like myself must 
 not risk over three figures," and he ceases to play. Ac 
 cordingly, the contest now lies between the other two. 
 
 It must be known that Halifax is a player of no mean 
 calibre, and is not to be despised by any player, however 
 skilful. He asks, " Two thousand did you say my 
 Lord ?" 
 
 Wharton replies carelessly, "Tour would be more in 
 teresting." 
 
 Halifax nods his head, and they play on. 
 
 The words two thousand and four thousand at once 
 draw the other players from their tables to watch the 
 contest between the two whose stakes have so quickly 
 reached such formidable proportions ; all cluster around 
 and intently survey these veteran gamesters. 
 
 "Wharton deals, and turns up the ace. " Tib !" he 
 calls : " fifteen to my score." 
 
 Halifax smiles, and congratulates him on his good 
 fortune. 
 
 After this, the stakes grow gradually higher until 
 Wharton says, " My lord, if you do not object, we will 
 raise it to fifteen thousand sans revenge; one game 
 either way it turns ?" 
 
 A murmur of astonishment runs around the table. 
 The offer is a bold one, for at present Halifax stands the 
 higher. He looks doubtful for a moment, but finally 
 says, in an indifferent, half-attentive manner, " An' you 
 wish it, my lord ?" His eyes, however, betray the tumult 
 in his heart ; and when his cards are given him, the in 
 tensity of his gaze is almost frightful. 
 
 Vanbrugh says with a laugh to Congreve : " It was 
 well I retreated. Faith ! Where would I have been 
 now ? eh ?"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 77 
 
 His words are interrupted by Halifax, who slowly 
 rises, and asks him in a tranquil manner for the pen 
 which is on the escritoire : he gives it to Halifax, who 
 scribbles an order in favor of Lord Wharton for fifteen 
 thousand guineas ! 
 
 7*
 
 78 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTEK XI. 
 
 "I think on thee in the night 
 
 When all beside is still 
 And the moon comes out, with her pale, sad light, 
 
 To sit on the lonely hill ! 
 When the stars are all like dreams, 
 
 And the breezes all like sighs, 
 And there comes a voice from the far-off streams, 
 Like thy spirit's low replies !" 
 
 T. K. 
 
 THE two large rooms in the Wharton mansion that 
 are kept for special or state occasions are now filled with 
 a large number of patrician dames and cavaliers, all 
 apparelled in their brightest. White and pink tapers, 
 perfumed with delicate scents, dispense a mellow, moon- 
 like lustre, which adds greatly to the beauty of the guests ; 
 while low strains of music float about and die away 
 through the open windows. 
 
 Many couples stroll slowly from end to end and back 
 again flirting, laughing, or feigning love for amusement. 
 Others, older or more sedate, sit about in groups and 
 talk of her majesty's illness, the last pattern in bonelace, 
 the state of politics in France, the best cure for the 
 vapors, or Mademoiselle Scudery's last divine romance, 
 which fills only two folio volumes ! 
 
 Fans are in great request less, we opine, on account 
 of the heat, than for the purpose of tapping attendant 
 beaux coldly, lovingly, or reprovingly ; a science culti 
 vated with great assiduity by all who set themselves up 
 for belles.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 19 
 
 Let us listen to the conversation carried on by the 
 couple who walk by us. To judge by their serious coun 
 tenances and grave demeanor, it is of great import. 
 
 " Most true, Mistress Robsarte ; the corranto is in the 
 main superior to the Javotte ; in that I agree with you 
 entirely ; but as to the minor question of the three tips 
 and a half turn with the left foot, in preference to the 
 four glissades, I would disagree with you had I but the 
 boldness." 
 
 Whereupon they are more solemn than ever, and walk 
 consequentially past, out of earshot. 
 
 Again, a couple of cavaliers come toward us, quietly 
 laughing and twirling the waxed ends of their moustaches, 
 which, by the way, are cut in the Italian fashion. Says 
 the older of them : " Tut ! my lord, it had been better 
 if I had touched his heart at the first passado, instead of 
 shilly-shallying with him for fifteen minutes, and then 
 sending him to a parson and six feet of earth, with the 
 conceit in his mind that he was a good swordsman." 
 
 So goes the world. Subjects that are not worth the 
 breath we spend on them, or the ink that we waste in 
 writing about them, are talked of and written about with 
 a solemnity and seeming profundity worthy of the solu 
 tion of the Sphynx ; while such light trifles as life and 
 death are laughed at, and handled with a smile and a 
 jest. 
 
 Philip, standing by the lattice window which looks 
 out on the garden, gazes abstractedly on the assemblage, 
 while his thoughts are far away, as his motionless coun 
 tenance and his vacant eyes evince. He ponders drearily 
 over his love, and wonders whether he will ever be per 
 mitted to enjoy it without a drawback. Anon thoughts 
 of her devotion surge up in his heart, and he grows 
 angry with himself for allowing ideas so saddening to 
 take possession of his mind.
 
 80 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Lady Wharton, who is performing her hospitable 
 duties, and receiving the guests with her usual high-bred 
 courtesy, now and then casts a glance at Philip and 
 seems irritated at his taciturnity and retirement, for she 
 has prepared this party especially. for his enjoyment, and 
 to show to the guests how well her Philip can dance, sing, 
 and speak. In these accomplishments he is far beyond 
 his years, and is a match in the lists of love for any 
 London courtier, much more for the beaux of Buck's, 
 who, though refined and well-bred, lack Philip's power 
 of phrase turning and his audacity ; they do not possess 
 his quickness of repartee and his comprehensive observa 
 tion which tell him at a glance how to comport himself 
 in matters that require delicacy or boldness, denial, 
 equivocation, or agreement. In such arts he can be per 
 fect when he chooses; but his innate recklessness, his 
 love of praise, and his rollicking dare deviltry often lead 
 him and others into situations embarrassing to the last 
 degree. Fortunately for himself, however, in such cases, 
 he generally manages to come off scot-free leaving his 
 companions to flounder about in the slough of mistakes, 
 exposed to the scornful glance of an offended beauty, 
 whilst he basks in her kindest smiles. 
 
 The last guest has received my lady's congratulations, 
 and she crosses over to Philip, who starts impatiently 
 and ejaculates in a decidedly unpleasant manner, 
 " Well ?" 
 
 To this monosyllabic interrogation she replies : " Philip 
 dear, do get rid of your gloominess ; it only keeps you 
 from enjoying yourself; while your mother cannot be 
 happy while her son mopes in a corner like an owl in a 
 barn ; it is not like his usual behavior." 
 
 " Mother," he replies, " I am sick of this riotous gayety 
 and confusion. I would rather be alone. I do not feel
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 81 
 
 fit for company to-night ;" half turning his back to her 
 he looks moodily out of the window, as though to put 
 an end to the conversation. 
 
 " Lovesick!" she murmurs with a knowing smile, and 
 bethinks her of a plan to rouse him a little a plan which, 
 with her knowledge of his weak point, is sure to succeed. 
 She says, as if speaking to herself, "Aha ! I see my lord 
 of Dale monopolizes the fair glances of Mistress Haw- 
 thorndon, and, faith, she seems greatly taken with him I" 
 
 Philip turns his head towards the couple apostrophized : 
 my lady notices the movement, and returns satisfied 
 to her seat, confident that her words have piqued his 
 vanity, for it is well known that he once laid a wager 
 that he could rival this same Lord Dale in Mistress 
 Hawthorndon's affections whenever he chose, and, 
 although she knows of this same insolent wager as well 
 as any one else, his speech is so insinuating and honeyed 
 that she is powerless to repulse him, and sometimes 
 hopes the wager may result in his really loving her, and 
 terminate in an alliance into which she would be only too 
 happy to enter, although he is two years younger than 
 herself. 
 
 Philip arranges his curls and settles his cuffs ; smooths 
 his cravat, pushes his rapier into a more elegant posi 
 tion, and walks slowly towards Lord Dale and his part 
 ner. He addresses her in an euphuistic strain, and 
 bestows a cold nod on her cavalier : " Fair Mistress 
 Alice," he says, with a truly refreshing impudence, " I 
 now claim the promise you gave me a se'nnfght ago !" 
 Extending his arm, which she takes with a slight hesita 
 tion, and at the same time bowing to Lord Dale, he 
 coolly remarks, " My lord, Mistress Hawthorndon can 
 now dispense with your company, as I claim an engage 
 ment with her which is doubtless prior to any that you 
 may have!" The deserted beau leaves her with ill-con-
 
 82 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 cealed chagrin, and casts a spiteful look at his rival. 
 Philip is not in the least discomposed, but gracefully 
 leads Mistress Alice to the upper end of the room, 
 where he strengthens the influence which he boasts that 
 he is able to exercise over any woman with a heart capa 
 ble of the tender passion. 
 
 My lady observes the success of her ruse, and after a 
 time calls Philip to her, and gives him some directions 
 in regard to the music. Returning to Mistress Alice, he 
 excuses himself on the score of business, and leaves 
 the room to attend to his mother's commands. 
 
 Mistress Alice is very pretty, vivacious, and sprightly. 
 Her hair is cut short in front, and dances in tiny ringlets 
 almost to her eyes, which fashion, together with her un 
 covered bosom and arms, gives her the appearance of 
 one of those beauties of Lely, who might have exchanged 
 small talk and scandal with his majesty of blessed mem 
 ory. 
 
 ********* 
 
 Philip walks slowly along by the spiny, scarlet-flowered 
 hawthorn hedges, and lets thoughts of Margery wander 
 through his brain, dreaming of happiness as he swears 
 to himself that she shall yet be his wife, spite of all ob 
 stacles; but his "chateaux en Espagne" are suddenly 
 shivered to fragments by a stealthy noise as of some 
 one treading softly behind him. Drawing his rapier, 
 he turns quickly on his heel, and lo ! the figure of a tall 
 brawny man confronts him ! 
 
 " In Satan's name ! who are you, that you follow me 
 so closely ? Answer me at once, fellow ! or I '11 give you 
 a taste of cold steel in your stomach I." cries Philip, 
 angrily. 
 
 " Master Philip," replies the rough, harsh voice of the 
 gypsy Maldran, " I was but goin' to the camp." 
 
 " Oh ! it 's you, Maldran, is it ? I have wanted to see
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 83 
 
 you for some time ! I have a question or two for you to 
 answer ere we part;" he still keeps his rapier drawn 
 and pointed threateningly at Maldran's neck, while his 
 brow lowers and his voice is ominous. 
 
 " Yes, Master Philip," he replies". 
 
 " Fellow ! Mistress Holmes some time ago gave you 
 a letter to carry to me I This letter you first carried to 
 my father 1 Answer me at once, and truly did you 
 not?" 
 
 He answers sullenly : " I did, for his gowd were too 
 strong for a poor gypsy to resist, and " 
 
 "Enough!" interrupts Philip ; "get out of my sight 
 while you are alive, and never again cross my path, or 
 you and your whole treacherous tribe shall be cudgelled 
 off the grounds j" and he stamps his foot in suppressed 
 rage. 
 
 Maldran, muttering something between his teeth, 
 strikes off at a quick pace in the direction of his camp. 
 
 Philip continues his walk, and, consciously or other 
 wise, he approaches Holme Grange. Where the heart 
 lieth, do the feet turn. " Why should Maldran happen to 
 be so close to the mansion at this hour of the night ? and 
 why should he have been so close to me^ are questions 
 that arise as he treads on the soft gorse and kicks the 
 fallen leaves and boughs about with vicious energy. 
 Vague suspicions that the gypsy is employed by .his father 
 to watch his actions flit through his mind ; but he can 
 scarcely think such baseness possible. Anon thoughts 
 of London, and its sights and fascinations enwrap him, 
 and his heart beats high as he foresees how he will some 
 day astonish even London's btase cavaliers with the 
 beauty of his Margery, and force the sickly court 
 beauties to envy her for her rosy cheeks and her pure 
 complexion ! Anon the bare possibility of some one 
 taking her away from him chills his blood and makes 

 
 84 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 him uneasy and restless. But in a short time he smiles 
 confidently as he recalls her undisguised love for him, 
 and exclaims, " Bah ! Philip Wharton can hold his own 
 in anything ; from a stramazorm or a stoccata " and he 
 fingers his rapier significantly " to a fight for a woman's 
 love !" 
 
 He has gradually approached so close to the Grange 
 that he can see into the large hall where the General 
 often sits in the evenings ; and a hungry, wistful look 
 lights his eyes as he perceives Margery sitting alone in 
 the low balcony scarce a score feet away from him! 
 A single taper lights up the hall, for it is late, and every 
 body has retired save Margery. Her face is turned away 
 from the light, and she seems to scrutinize the very spot 
 where her lover lies concealed. She looks aweary and 
 troubled, and her chin rests in her little hand, while her 
 lips are pressed closely together. Once in a while a 
 smile flickers on her lips and dies away in the sad depths 
 of her eyes. Philip can no longer restrain himself, 
 he advances boldly towards her; but she does not see 
 him until he is almost close enough to touch her ; when, 
 with a low cry, telling of her intense relief and enjoyment, 
 she flies into tys arms and has to indulge in a few 
 womanly sobs before she can- control herself enough to 
 say, " Philip, darling ! I wanted to see you so much to 
 night; it seems as if God has heard my prayer, and 
 you have come;" and she lifts her lips to him with a 
 wild look in her eyes. He caresses her tenderly, and 
 eagerly, asks, " Why, Margery, sweet ! why are you so 
 agitated ?" 
 
 She does not answer him, but her renewed sobs almost 
 madden him. Again he demands, " Tell me quickly, 
 sweetheart ; what ails you that you are so sad this 
 evening ? There is some trouble, I fear 1" 

 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 85 
 
 Scarcely able to articulate, she cries: "Philip, they 
 are going to send me away from you!" 
 
 " Who are going to send you away from me ?" he cries 
 in thick, hoarse accents, and holds her closer the while. 
 
 " Father!" is all she can answer. 
 
 " Furies !" he mutters ; " what shall we do ?" 
 
 She replies, in a broken voice : " Let us fly together, 
 Philip ; let us leave this place ! I will give up all for you ! 
 Do with me as you will 1" 
 
 He is perplexed and troubled beyond measure until a 
 ray of hope breaks in on him, and he says, " Tell me, 
 darling, when is the time fixed for your departure." 
 
 " I know not ; my father but told me that ere long he 
 would send me to Italy ; but whether he means to-mor 
 row or a year hence, I know not ; for my heart nigh 
 burst at the news ; and I could not trust myself to ques 
 tion him!" 
 
 Her words reassure him, and he replies cheerily : " Let 
 your tears wait awhile, then, lassie ; we must not meet 
 trouble half-way ; and, darling, cease your violent grief; 
 you will certainly do yourself some harm ! 4 All's well 
 that ends well,' and the end may yet be as we wish." 
 
 She smiles at him through her tears, and feels, now 
 that he is with her, that all must be right ; and she sits 
 chatting in his arms a long, long while before they can 
 leave each other to get the night's rest which is necessary 
 even for lovers.
 
 86 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " A wanton ohaos in my breast raged high, 
 A wanton transport darted in mine eye ; 
 False pleasure urged, and every eager care, 
 That swell the soul to guilt and to despair." 
 
 CBABBE'S " MIRA." 
 
 WE turn to events a year later than those recorded in 
 our last chapter, merely intimating that Margery's fears 
 of a separation from her lover were justified only too soon, 
 for the day after her meeting with him her father sent 
 her post to London, thence to set out for Italy. Leaving 
 Philip in great dismay and grief, she, poor girl ! felt bad 
 enough ; but she had no other resource than to obey, as 
 she was closely watched by her father, who feared that 
 she might do something foolish and ill-advised if she was 
 not looked after with a careful eye. 
 
 Everything after that went on as usual at the castle. 
 Philip employed his time as best he could in hard stud}', 
 in hunting, hawking, flirting with Mistress Hawthorn- 
 don, and in other amusements, but longed continually for 
 the return of his lost love. 
 
 Margery has returned from her travels as beautiful as 
 ever, and just a trifle more womanly and polished by her 
 sojourn in the sunny south. 
 
 Suppose we go to the old try sting-place and see 
 whether we can find any traces of her or her gladdened 
 lover. Listen ! We can hear a manly voice exclaiming, 
 in low, murmuring tones, " Margery, sweet I long, wearj r , 
 weary months have dragged along since you and I last 
 met here ! Has time altered you from my true heart of
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 87 
 
 oldeii times ? If it has never mind telling me so but 
 a curse on time and on him who took you from me !" 
 
 As he finishes, his voice is irregular and broken. Her 
 answer is surely enough to reassure the most uxorious 
 lover. 
 
 " Philip, my own, time and life are nothing to me, 
 save when you are with me 1" 
 
 There is a long silence after this, until he says, in a 
 serious, determined manner: "Margery, we must part 
 no more ! Come with me to London, where we will be 
 united beyond fear of separation except by death." 
 
 She grows pale as she listens to a proposal of so 
 decided a nature, and whispers, " Your father and mine." 
 
 "A god's will!" he exclaims, fiercely. "Let them do 
 as they wist, if you come. But I see ; you are like all 
 the rest a short absence, and all is forgotten I Once you 
 would have gone with me to the end of the world ; now, 
 London is too far!" He speaks in a bitter, reproachful 
 manner, which cuts her like a knife. 
 
 She answers him in two words only: "Oh, Philip!" 
 but in them he reads her consent, and proceeds in ex 
 cited, happy eagerness : " Ta-morrow then, darling, we 
 will go ! Meet me here at nightfall ; we can reach Lon 
 don in a few hours, and leave the rest to me ; I will 
 manage everything rightly !" 
 
 Tears fill her eyes as she kisses him good-night with a 
 fervor telling him how truly she is all his own to do 
 with as he wishes. 
 
 After a night of feverish spells of broken sleep, Philip 
 wanders uneasily about the house and through the 
 garden and stable, and finally saddling " Careless," rides 
 swiftly through the avenue of old Elms, passes Rooks- 
 nest, and surveys with a fond regret all the many 
 spots endeared to his memory. However, a few hours' 
 hard riding soon restores his spirits, and makes him feel
 
 88 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 that he is ready to do and dare all to call Margery his 
 wife. 
 
 He has packed up over night all that he will need in 
 the shape of clothing, arms, money, and a hundred other 
 little things of more or less importance ; and he has also 
 written an explanation of his conduct to his father, in 
 which he tells him that General Holmes is entirely igno 
 rant of the whole proceeding. 
 
 To Philip's great joy, the day begins to draw to its 
 close; never has day seemed so long to him as this; 
 it wants now but an hour of the time appointed for the 
 meeting. He can wait no longer; striding to the 
 stable, where he has the two swiftest horses in the stud, 
 ready saddled and bridled, he quietly leads them to 
 the door. Here he hesitates a minute ere he springs 
 into the saddle, and looks towards his mother's room. 
 "God bless you, mother!" he mutters, in a trembling 
 voice, and he is off like a shot down towards Rooksnest. 
 
 Margery awaits him, with hood and wimple on, tearful 
 but hopeful ; and he kisses her with many and many a 
 passionate embrace ere she is mounted on her pillion. 
 
 Away they fly through the forest gloaming, swiftly 
 and noiselessly, for their horses' hoofs fall so soft on the 
 springy sod, that naught is heard but the jingle of Philip's 
 spurs and his rapier clinking against the stirrup. They 
 arrive safely in London without let or hindrance, and a 
 new world is open to their young minds. 
 
 Philip is cognizant of the fact that they are both too 
 young to hope to be married in the orthodox manner ; 
 he knows, however, that there are clerical prisoners living 
 within the Rules of the Fleet who are poor, unscrupu 
 lous, and characterless, whose marriages are nevertheless 
 held true and valid in the eye of the law. There he de 
 termines to go with a pocketful of guineas to stop incon-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 89 
 
 venient mouths which might impertinently question them 
 relative to their ages or their names. 
 
 They take lodgings at the Blue Bell, where the bust 
 ling landlady soon has a warm supper ready for them, 
 which neither feels overmuch inclined to eat ; they are 
 both nervous and excited, and Margery is so dazed and 
 bewildered that she can scarcely speak. 
 
 As soon as the meal is finished, Philip says to the 
 landlady, in an assumed careless manner, " I pray you, 
 Dame ! how may we get to the Fleet without much loss 
 of time. They say it is very amusing to strangers to 
 see the sights about there." He is too new to London 
 life to know that such a question is enough to turn all 
 eyes on him and his companion; fortunately, however, 
 there is no one near enough to hear him, beside the land 
 lady, except, indeed, the bar-maid, who, quickly looking 
 up, grins significantly at the unsuspecting couple. 
 
 " Truss me I I were sure ye were baith frae the 
 cob'ntry," cries the landlady in a loud voice. 
 
 Philip replies, with a haughty stare which causes her 
 broad face to flush, "S' blood, jade! attend to your 
 kitchening, and meddle not with the affairs of your 
 betters! Either answer my question, or begone and 
 send some one who can I" 
 
 The landlady curtsies deprecatingly, and answers 
 humbly, " My lord, ya mun tak a chair to get there; I '11 
 ca' Pat and Dermont, who can carry ye there, as quick 
 as e'er a horse that rins." And she leaves the room to 
 execute her mission, while Philip, though anxious and 
 troubled himself, consoles his future wife with endearing 
 and hopeful conversation. 
 
 When the chair comes, Philip calls the carriers aside, 
 and tells them of his design, whereat they wink, stick 
 their tongues in their cheeks, and generally show him 
 that they know all about such delicate matters ; and they 
 
 8*
 
 90 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY ; 
 
 shoulder their burdens, and trot at a long, swinging pace 
 towards their destination. Turning, as they near the 
 confines of the Fleet, Dermont asks Philip whether he 
 prefers any particular parson to splice them. Philip 
 replying in the negative, leaves the choice with the 
 carrier, wherefore he replies, " 'Troth ! thin we '11 take 
 ye till the Horseshoe and Magpie ! Sam Turenall is as 
 good a clark as any, and Dick Wildair is a roarin' par 
 son." Philip agrees, and in a few minutes they come to 
 a halt, the door is opened, and the carriers obsequiously 
 help them out. 
 
 Philip and Margery hesitatingly enter the bar-room, 
 the usual place for Fleet marriages, and are huskily 
 welcomed by a fat, frowsy, blear-eyed imitation of Sile- 
 nus, who, by instinct, knowing what they want, wheezes 
 out, " Wildair ! ye're wanted here." The door of the 
 public bar opens, and the parson enters. He is a good 
 specimen of a licentious dissipated clergjonan of this 
 quarter ; he holds a. greasy, dog's-eared p*rayer-book in 
 his hands, and affects a devout look, but the effort is a 
 sad failure. 
 
 Philip smiles as he compares him with the venerable 
 pastor at home ; and Margery, in spite of her fears, is 
 amused at his appearance. 
 
 Without entering into minute particulars of the mar 
 riage formula, which was mumbled and slurred over as 
 soon as possible, let it suffice to say they are now man 
 and wife. 
 
 A rather laughable incident occurred at the close of 
 the ceremony, which is worth mentioning. The parson, 
 in accordance with his custom, was about to imprint a 
 chaste kiss on Margery's blushing cheek, when Philip 
 interposed his hand to shield her from the profanation, 
 and received the smack of a pair of swollen, unctuous lips 
 on it a diversion which caused the holy man to redden
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 91 
 
 a trifle, while the host and the carriers roared delightedly 
 at his discomfiture. Philip said nothing, however, but 
 gave him a liberal douceur, out of which the carriers 
 received a shilling ; he then led his wife to the chair, and 
 directed the carriers to return to the Blue Bell.
 
 92 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " Jubilate ! I am loved ; 
 Now am I like a little queen, 
 And very pleasant 'tis, I ween ; 
 Whatsoe'er I do or say 
 Seeinetli right and good alway." 
 
 ELIZ. YOWATT. 
 
 "0 Nature ! we a' maun yield to thee." 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 ONCE more they are alone in the cheery little room 
 allotted to them. Margery is full of vague terrors and 
 doubts which she scarcely knows how to define, and says 
 distractedly, " Philip, do you oh ! what will father think 
 of me ? What will he do ? It will break his heart ! I 
 have been so cruel to him I" 
 
 Philip consoles her, and replies manfully, " Cheer up, 
 wifie ! All will be well in time, be sure ; and ere long 
 our fathers will be better friends than ever. There is no 
 real cause for trouble. We will remain here awhile, and 
 then return home. I know that all will be right, and 
 then we will all live together and be as happy as the day 
 is long!" 
 
 Margery smiles at the happy picture he has drawn, while 
 her woman's prescience tells her that the odds are against 
 them, and she shudders as Lord Wharton's cruel face 
 passes before her mind's eye, and she involuntarily recalls 
 dark stories of his crafty determination, and his utter 
 lack of principle, which had reached her even in the 
 seclusion of Holme Grange ; and she fears that his power
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 93 
 
 may wrest Philip from her again. Her own father, she 
 knows, will gladly welcome her home even after such a 
 flagrant disobedience of his orders as she has been guilty 
 of in running away with Philip. The artful beauty, con 
 scious of her power over him, knows that the old warrior 
 cannot withstand the tears and entreaties of his only 
 daughter, 
 
 Philip's thoughts are of the most mixed and startling 
 character ; will his father pursue him ? or mayhap dis 
 own him? But that, he proudly thinks, cannot harm 
 him : for are there not in this great city fifty things at 
 which he can make, at least enough to keep them both 
 from starving ? " Separate us 1" he cries ; " Pah 1 I feel 
 myself a giant when Margery is the stake to be fought 
 for ! God forfend I should ever draw steel on my father ; 
 but " And he coughs ominously, and says, in a bold, 
 confident tone, " Well, Margery, we will not fret about 
 it. If needs must, we can live by our own exertions 1" 
 
 " What can we do ?" she asks, with a demure glance 
 at him, as if she knows that the question will pose him. 
 He looks perplexed, for a moment, and laughs good- 
 humoredly as he declines to answer the question ; and 
 he closes her mouth by a process commendable in such 
 cases, in which process, by the way, she assists him right 
 deftly. 
 
 The next day Philip proposes a walk to view the 
 wonders of the metropolis, to which she of course assents, 
 and they are now gazing with eager eyes at the strange 
 sights presented to their view. Immersed as he has been 
 in the seclusion of the country, Philip has never thought 
 that he should see so vast a number of houses, or mix in 
 such a beehive of busy pedestrians, who jostle and swarm 
 about in countless multitudes. 
 
 They peep into the china-stores and bric-a-brac shops, 
 and mutually smile at the grotesque josses and uncouth
 
 94 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 images ; and Philip, who has read about such things 
 before, imparts information concerning them to his 
 young wife. She listens admiringly to him, and wonders 
 at his vast and varied knowledge . But I am sorry to 
 state that, on several occasions, when she requests an 
 explanation of something which he knows no more about 
 than she, he draws largely on his imagination, his pride 
 not allowing him to betray his ignorance. 
 
 He buys numerous trinkets for her ; in most cases pay 
 ing far more for them than they are worth, owing to 
 his ignorance of their value, and the adroitness of the 
 sellers, who notice his rusticity, and cheat him accord 
 ingly. Once or twice his natural shrewdness tells him 
 that such is the case, but he disdains to bandy words 
 with a tradesman, and so pays all demands with the air 
 of a czar with all the Indies at his nod and beck. 
 
 Now they come to Temple Bar, with its sooty, black 
 ened gateway of Portland stone. Margery shivers in 
 affright as Philip calls her attention to the traitors' 
 skulls whitening on the poles above the arch ; and he 
 tells her about the vast processions which have passed 
 through these muddy gates, and how the doors have 
 been barred against the King until the herald sounded 
 a parley, to all of which she listens with intense interest, 
 meanwhile counting the many lumbering carriages that 
 rumble noisily by ; she had never before seen so many 
 together. 
 
 Whilst they have been admiring Temple Bar and its 
 adjuncts, they have not noticed the gradual approach of 
 a swaggering cut-purse, dressed in a suit of faded taw- 
 driness who now suddenly clutches at the little package 
 which Margery holds, and makes off with it at great 
 speed. Philip starts to pursue him, but Margery pre 
 vents him, and beseeches him not to leave her alone. 
 " She can better spare the trinkets than lose him." A
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 95 
 
 few who have seen the occurrence, gather about them, 
 and officiously advise Philip to go to the nearest magis 
 trate, describe the rascal and offer a reward for his de 
 tection ; declining their advice, however, he tries to walk 
 away unperceived, as he is not desirous of attracting 
 too much attention, for Margery's sake, who begins to 
 be frightened at the crowd which is gathering and 
 thickening. Various remarks pass around, and a few 
 persons begin to praise Margery's beauty and her fresh 
 ness, for a face so pure and innocent as hers is seldom 
 seen in jaded London. A gang of mischievous Arabs 
 and pseudo-beggars begin scrambling and pushing about 
 in all directions, in order to excite the testy, and thereby 
 create a fight, which is always looked upon by them as a 
 treat of the highest order. 
 
 Two gallants, ruffled and dressed to the tij!> of the 
 mode, and scented with pulvilio and honey-sweet, brush 
 rather nearer to Margery than Philip thinks consistent 
 with good manners, particularly as they severally favor 
 her with a long stare, that makes her shrink closer to 
 him ; so, placing himself quickly in front of her, he 
 catches the foremost dandy by the nose, tweaking him 
 so fiercely as to cause him to scream with pain, at which 
 the crowd roar and yell with a deafening noise, and 
 cries of, " A fight ! a fight ! form a ring fair play !" are 
 heard on all sides. 
 
 Margery swoons in affright, and Philip supports her, 
 while he cries, in a voice trembling with rage : " What 
 now, Sir Malapert ? Out of my road, or I '11 run you 
 through, and spoil a hangman's carcass I" He draws 
 his rapier as quickly as he can under the circum 
 stances ; the tweaked cavalier does the same, and their 
 blades meet with a harsh, rasping sound. Philip is so 
 excited and desperate that he does not care for conse 
 quences, and determines to essay his father's famous
 
 96 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 passado in carte, a sure and fatal lunge; when cries 
 of "The watch! the watch ! 1" burst from several by 
 standers ; his opponent, sheathing his rapier at once, 
 mingles with the crowd, and is soon safe from detec 
 tion. Philip, however, less conversant with city life 
 and its stratagems and usages, still holds his blade on 
 the offensive. In a minute a hand is roughly laid on his 
 arm, and he is told in a gruff voice to " sheathe his slit- 
 bully, and take up his march to the round-house!" 
 Seeing the futility of resistance, he puts up his rapier, 
 and points to Margery, who lies senseless in his arms. 
 The watchman looks at her a moment, and mutters, in 
 a low voice, " A pest on the trull ! We mun carry her, 
 I doubt na!" Philip, who has heard part of his speech, 
 replies sternly, " What say you, fellow, touching my 
 wife ?" The man's manner changes as he replies, " Ah ! 
 my lord, that alters matters. Zounds ! I don't know 
 what to do wi' her ;" and he pulls his chin in perplexity. 
 " I think I can help you to a solution of the difficulty," 
 Philip says significantly, and he wisely drops a sovereign 
 into the custodian's dirty, knotty hand. The effect is 
 instantaneous, and the former grim official is now a 
 truckling servant, who, at Philip's suggestion, yells 
 vociferously for a chair, into which he helps him to seat 
 Margery, who is scarcely restored from her swoon ; 
 Philip springs in after her, and once more they re 
 turn to the Blue Bell without any serious mishap, 
 Philip fuming at his ill-luck in getting into a brawl so 
 early in his London life, and Margery still hysterical, 
 and requiring a deal of consolation and many caresses 
 before she fully recovers from her fright. 
 
 Philip, whose appetite is now sharpset, orders the land 
 lady to prepare them a dinner, which in due time is set 
 on the table, with all the ceremony of which the one 
 waitress is mistress, for it is not every day that the Blue
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 97 
 
 Bell has customers who pay so liberally and profusely as 
 does Philip. Veal pies, baked larks, and mutton pottage 
 fill the little table, and send an appetizing odor about 
 the room, and even Margery, who cannot live on 
 cupid's fare altogether, deigns to test the delicacy of a 
 lark's breast, and "just a wee crumb of veal-pie," at 
 Philip's urgent solicitation.
 
 98 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY} 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 So judged the acrid and the austere, 
 
 And they whose evil heart 
 Incline them in whate'er betides, 
 
 To take the evil part. 
 
 But others, whom a kindlier frame, 
 
 To better thoughts inclined, 
 Preserved, amid their wonderment, 
 
 An equitable mind. 
 
 ALL FOR LOVE. 
 
 THE flight has been discovered at both Castle Whar- 
 ton and Holme Grange, and all is confusion and dismay 
 Lady Wharton has despatched 1 a messenger with an 
 explanatory note to Lord Wharton, in which she be 
 seeches him to come home immediately; while she 
 scarcely knows what she intends to say or do when he 
 shall arrive, knowing how fearful will be his passion at 
 the turn affairs have taken. 
 
 General Holmes is wonderstruck at his daughter's 
 wilfulness, and vows that she must have acquired a 
 pretty spirit of independence during her tour abroad, to 
 prompt her to leave him and fly to London with her 
 lover. He regrets the step she has taken, but is some 
 what comforted by a confident feeling that when she 
 does return it will be as Philip Wharton's wife. Never 
 theless, he has written to his lawyer in London, di 
 recting him to search for the runaways, and send him 
 intelligence of their doings. 
 
 When her ladyship fully realized the news, a chill 
 struck to her heart ; and she was put to bed, burning in
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 99 
 
 a high fever, produced by thoughts of the meeting which 
 she knew must come, ere long, between father and son, 
 and which she intensely dreaded. Then recollections of 
 her husband's baffled schemes, and her son's fiery, reck 
 less temper, boiled through her throbbing head, and she 
 groaned at the future trouble whose dark wings even 
 now cast a shadow over the house. 
 
 The servants and dependants, congregating in knots 
 in the chambers", the scullery, and the stables, whisper 
 of my lady's illness and Master Philip's behavior, and 
 all concur in the opinion that there never was a better 
 matched couple in the world than Master Philip and 
 Mistress Margery. Shem, who abstractedly plumes the 
 ger-falcon on his wrist, says to Peggy, the housemaid : 
 " Aweel ! I allus thought it 'ud end i' this way ; forbye 
 they were never easy like except in ane anither's com 
 pany ; an love laughs at bolts or bars, ye ken. I re 
 member when I was younger by twenty years than I am 
 now afore Debbie war my wife that old grandame Nest- 
 bin said to me wi' a shake o' her skinny finger, ' No ! 
 Shem Throck, ye canna hae her ; sho'os a deal too good 
 for 3*6 or the likes of ye !' Ah ! ha \ the varra next neet 
 Debbie an' me were spliced by t' ould parson, an' I gave 
 him a shillin' for his trouble. Ay ! ay ! Love laughs at 
 bolts!" And Shem shakes his head sagely as he delivers 
 himself of this profound and original thought. 
 
 " Body's alive !" replies Peggy, "thoif'rt no' comparin' 
 thy sen wi' the young master ?" 
 
 He answers her with a withering look, and words that 
 must cut her, to judge from her expression, as he retorts, 
 " Mistress Peggy, it 'ud beseem ye better to bide a wee 
 bit an' get the experience o' one older but mebbe not 
 so much as yersen," which diplomatic allusion to her 
 advanced age for single-blessedness, effectually silences
 
 100 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 her, and she walks sulkily back to her task of scouring 
 stew-pans and kettles. 
 
 " Hood me, wench," laughs Shem, as he notices her 
 discomfiture,"! but fooled wi' ye! Sure ye '11 no' get 
 mad wi' me for a bit o' nonsense ?" This apology appears 
 to mollify her, for she mixes again in the general talk of 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Brad, who stands near the crockery-laden sideboard, 
 close to Mistress Debbie, boldly volunteers, " I think 
 Master Philip did no mair than reet in rmning awa', an' 
 well I like his darin' !" 
 
 " Hold thy tongue, saucebox," roars Shem, astounded 
 at his son being so audacious as to give such a free vent 
 to his opinions, even when he agreed with him ; he pro 
 ceeds, " Hae mair respect for the hand that feeds us a', 
 an' keep yersel to yersel ! Mayhap ye '11 try the same 
 thing yersel, some day?" 
 
 This produces a titter through the kitchen, which 
 causes Brad's red cheeks to assume a decidedly scarlet 
 color, as he replies, rather doggedly, " I might do worse 
 nor rin awa' wi' pretty Meg Busbie ! I think so, at any 
 rate," and with this parting shot the incensed Brad leaves 
 the room in disgust. 
 
 The stable boy, a bow-legged, pimply-faced, red-haired 
 lad, standing outside on the lawn, stares with lacklustre 
 eyes on the " company" within, and drawls out in pul 
 ing, heavy accents the news that " My loard's two best 
 horses be gone, Careless an' Queean Anne ! wi' their 
 bridles, saddles, and a'. What 's more, my la'as best 
 pillion be gone, an' I 'm afeared to tell her la'aship 
 o 'it !" 
 
 " Out on ye," cries Debbie ; " what cares my lady 
 about a pillion or sae ? Master Philip is mair i' her 
 mind now than a' the dirty pillions i' the stables !" 
 
 This scornful rejoinder raises his wrath, and he re-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 101 
 
 plies, with an injured stutter, " Mistress Debbie, oi can 
 tell ye that a guid horse an' pillion is often better nor the 
 woman that rides her, wha's naught to recommend her 
 but a red face an' a clackin' tongue ! Now, then 1" 
 
 Her reply is imperious : " Hold thy tongue, gallows- 
 bird ! An' recollect ye are near the kitchen, now, an' 
 not in filthy stables an' among muck an' straw! So hold 
 thy tongue !" And she turns her back to him to end the 
 discussion. 
 
 Shem, walking to the door, starts towards the Lodge. 
 Let us precede him, and once more peep into its mys 
 teries of hunting gear and sportsman's implements. 
 Brad is sitting on the floor; his head rests against 
 the wall, and he is absorbed in a brown study, which 
 is interrupted by the entrance of his father, who, slowly 
 walking to his accustomed seat, says to Brad, who is 
 now looking out of the window: "Brad, did ye knaw 
 aught about the rinning awa' afore it happened?" And 
 he looks searchingly at him as he asks the question. His 
 reply is clear and distinct, and has truth's clear ring 
 sounding in its every syllable, " No, father 1 I did not, 
 on my honor I" 
 
 Shem is satisfied, and he resumes, " Rebeck me ! but 
 I never thought Master Philip was in earnest when he 
 tould me anoe in this varra room that if Mistress Mar 
 gery did go to Lunnon wi' him, she suld go as his woife I 
 He has kept his word, an' the worst I fear now is that 
 my lord may find him out and stop him ere he can be 
 married there. It 'ud be a sair thing for wee Mistress 
 Margery to go to Lunnon a maid, an' come back wi'out 
 bein' a wife! Master Philip is reckless, an' he is a 
 Wharton!" 
 
 Brad says nothing, but whistles " Lillibullero" at the 
 window, and inhales deep, strong breaths of the breeze 
 which has to pass over Meg Busbie's house before it 
 
 9*
 
 102 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 reaches the Lodge, by which time it gains a certain fra 
 grance perceptible only to himself. Suddenly he starts 
 and strides out of the door in such a hurry that wary 
 Shem determines to have a look at his proceedings. He 
 peeps out of the window, and, as he expected, sees Meg's 
 pretty face over the hawthorn hedges, and catches a 
 glimpse of her neat cap and fluttering ribbons as they 
 dance and wave in the breeze. 
 
 Brad walks quickly towards her and exclaims : " Oho ! 
 Meg, I was sure you were coming this way, for as I 
 looked out of the window scarce a minute ago, I saw 
 two butterfliqe sailin' companywise, an' I knew it was a 
 lucky sign 1" 
 
 She replies, in a coquettish manner, " Brad, you told 
 me that once afore ! Are ye sure that ye are not telling 
 a wee bit o' a lee ? for I never see two pretty-wings a 
 mating when ye come to see me !" 
 
 He replies, " Well, Meg, we '11 no' discuss the ques 
 tion, as my lord says ; but what errand have ye to the 
 castle?" 
 
 " None for ye, be sure," she replies ; " I have some 
 lace ruffles for Master Philip." 
 
 " Master Philip ?" he cries. " Don't ye knaw that he 
 has rin awa' to Lunnon wi' Mistress Holmes ?" 
 
 Meg is so taken aback that, as she afterwards de 
 clared, "she was that startled that if Brad had nae 
 pit his arm aroun' her waist, she must hae fallen !" 
 Brad is fully equal to the emergency, in fact seems to 
 enjoy the whole proceeding. Now Meg is in her glory 
 " such a bold thing to do ! So romantic," and plies him 
 with question after question until she knows as much as 
 himself, and with woman's shrewdness, surmises more. 
 
 Thus stand affairs in Bucks.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHABTON'S CAREER. 103 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "Just when we think we've found the golden mean 
 The diamond point, on which to balance fair 
 Life and life's lofty issues weighing there, 
 With fractional precision, close and keen, 
 Thought, motive, word and deed there comes between 
 Some temper's fret, some mood's unwise despair, 
 To inar the equilibrium, unforeseen, 
 And spoil our nice adjustment !" 
 
 M. J. PRESTON, " EQUIPOISK." 
 
 ENGLAND'S last Stuart is no more hurried to her 
 grave by the cabals and intrigues of two virulent, selfish, 
 parties, each struggling for the supremacy. She died at 
 a most auspicious time for the partisans of the Hano 
 verian dynasty and the Protestant succession, for, 
 during the last year of her life, her feelings had become 
 strongly enlisted in favor of her brother, the Chevalier, 
 which sympathy had been taken advantage of by the 
 intriguing Jacobites in order to secure to him the acces 
 sion when she was dead. But, as I said before, her 
 decease at a time when Bolingbroke's plans were imma 
 ture, frustrated all attempts in that direction, and at 
 once transferred the balance to the Whigs ; and Harley, 
 Bolingbroke, and Mistress Abbie were forced into semi- 
 obscurity, with the odium of the termination of the 
 French war and the treaty of Utrecht hanging over 
 them like a pall, while the dominant party were praised 
 to the skies for their diplomacy in accomplishing a work 
 which had baffled and worried the ablest statesmen of 
 the three preceding reigns namely, the union of Eng 
 land and Scotland.
 
 104 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 The Augustan Age, with its hosts of able writers, its 
 pure, humorous " Spectator," and its many literary lumi 
 naries, is no more. The first Hanoverian has brought 
 his gross tastes, his dull brutality, and his fat, ugly, 
 mistresses to Saint James, besides having an eye to his 
 boon companions and advisers, who look on England as 
 a land to be despoiled for their especial benefit. I almost 
 forgot to mention that he has a wife, who came with the 
 rest of the court the unfortunate Sophia Dorothea. 
 The family quarrels and dissensions of the royal family 
 are too notorious to deserve more than a passing notice. 
 The ministry is composed of Halifax, Cowper, Stanhope, 
 Sunderland, and other eminent Whigs, Robert Walpole, 
 who primarily filled a low position, is now more fully appre 
 ciated, and has attained the high eminence of First Lord 
 of the Treasury. Such are the men who hold office under 
 the degraded Othello who imprisoned Philip von Konigs- 
 mark in the Castle of Ahlden for thirty-two years, for a 
 suspected intrigue with" his truly beloved Sophia. 
 
 Lord Wharton, jubilant at the unexpected good for 
 tune that has befallen his party, can scarcely contain 
 himself for joy. He is now Marquis of Wharton and 
 Lord Privy Seal in the ministry, where his unequalled 
 parliamentary tactics secure him respect and admiration. 
 One blight, however, sobers his happiness the thorn of 
 the rose; it is the news of Philip's elopement with Mar 
 gery, who, he fears, is by this time his daughter-in-law, for 
 the news has only reached him to-day the second after 
 the occurrence. Philip's action is a great blow to him, 
 and his heart aches and his head grows hot, as he reviews 
 the ad vantages- that might have been secured to his family 
 through Philip's alliance with the powerful house which 
 he had selected for that honor. Alas, it is now too late ! 
 
 He knows that Philip will reveal himself ere long, 
 either in London or in Buck's, and then he determines
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 105 
 
 to send him out of his sight, on the continent, where, 
 with a due consideration of his volatile, capricious tem 
 perament, he can be made as polished a scholar and as 
 staunch a Whig as circumstances will permit. 
 
 It is in the Kitcat room that Lord Wharton muses 
 thus over the unfilial conduct of his recreant son, and 
 thoughts of him fill his mind with chagrin and sorrow. 
 His dreams oi Philip's future greatness and his hopes 
 that he would one day be the respected head of the party 
 of which he is a mainstay, are now vanishing. The 
 door opens and Vanbrugh strolls in, humming " Marlbo- 
 rough s 'en va en Guerre" with a jaunty air. Noticing his 
 despondent attitude, and his obliviousness of the pre 
 sence of his friend, Yanbrugh taps him on the shoulder. 
 Wharton raises his head with a displeased expression on 
 his face, but Vanbrugh 's laughing, brown eyes force him 
 to be good-humored against his will, and he exclaims, 
 " Peace, you Goth ! I am cynical, misanthropical !"' 
 
 " Goth yourself, Sir Timon," replies Yanburgh ; " we'll 
 have a bowl of Kit's best punch. It will aroint the 
 vapors. As for being cynical, I trow that I have as 
 much right to that disposition as yourself, for the huzzy 
 Malborough swears that she will never pay me my claims 
 on her for the house. Faith, if she does not, my creditors 
 will tremble, and all Jewdom will be in an uproar. Ugh !" 
 he ejaculates with an expression of loathing, "how 
 abhorrent to my feelings it is to have the dirty paw and 
 black-rimmed nails of a bum-bailiff Shylock tap me on 
 the shoulder. Have you ever felt the sensation, my 
 lord ?" he queries, laughingly. 
 
 " No," replies Wharton, adding, in a bitter tone, " but I 
 have felt a worse sensation within a mighty short time." 
 
 " Possible ! What may that be, if the question is 
 not impertinent?" 
 
 Wharton replies briefly, " A wilful son !'
 
 106 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 "S'blood! yes, I did hear something about Philip's 
 escapade. Tell me all about the affair, I beg, if it is not 
 private I" 
 
 " If it was, Vanbrugh, faith ! I doubt your power of 
 unquestioning. However, as it will soon be food for 
 London scandal, I '11 even tell you ; it will take but a 
 dozen words. The lad ran off with a Mistress Holmes, 
 a country squireen's daughter, of course against my 
 wishes c'est tout /" His face grows gloomy and stern 
 again as he finishes. 
 
 " A trifle like your own freaks when younger, my lord ! 
 except that with you, it never ended in hymen, as they 
 say Philip's has ta-ta," he exclaims ; leaving my lord to 
 honor Kit with a visit and so test the purity of his Nantz. 
 
 As soon as Wharton received the intelligence of the 
 elopement, he sent a lawyer to inspect the registers of 
 the Fleet-parsons, to see whether they were married 
 there. The search was disappointingly successful, and 
 for a small fee, the lawyer received a copy of the docu 
 ment, which Wharton stuffed into his pocket with a 
 fierce oath. 
 
 His heart is savage as he muses over Philip's mean 
 alliance, and he "is so absorbed in his thoughts that 
 he does not notice the approach of a servant until 
 he is respectfully addressed, " My lord, a letter for 
 your lordship I" He lifts it off the salver, and starts 
 violently as he recognizes^ Philip's handwriting. Break 
 ing the seal, he smooths the crisp paper on the table, and 
 reads it with close attention : Philip tells him that Mar 
 gery is now his wife, and the object of his deepest love 
 at which part my lord mutters, " Cursed idiot !" and it 
 now depends on his father whether he shall return to 
 Buck's or remain in London ; and he hints that it matters 
 little whether or not his father disowns him altogether. 
 The tone of the letter is cool and haughty, and is
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON r S CAREER. 107 
 
 written in a spirit of careless indifference which cuts to 
 its reader's heart. He considers long and seriously over 
 Philip's communication, and notes his defiant attitude in 
 every word. He knows that, if he disowns him, Philip 
 will necessarily go to ruin in a very short time, and he 
 has no wish to create further topics of scandal and incur 
 the odium that will surely attach to him if he pursues 
 harsh measures. 
 
 Lord Wharton resolves to go and see Philip at the 
 address which he has given in the letter. Rising, he leaves 
 the room, and sets out at a rapid pace toward the Blue 
 Bell, which is about a half mile from the club-house. 
 
 In reply to his inquiry of the bar-maid, he is told that 
 " Mister Wharton and his lady are both up stairs." He 
 asks to be shown up, and says, " My name is Mr. John 
 son I" Leading the way up, she announces, " Mr. John 
 son, sir;" and Wharton enters. It is dusk, and the 
 father enters unrecognized. Philip begs him to be seated? 
 and asks his acceptance of a glass of canary, which he 
 silently refuses. In spite of his chagrin, the father is 
 amused at the part which he is performing in so laugh 
 able a play. Before him is his son, not yet sixteen, and 
 married to a girl a year younger than himself against 
 his express orders ; while he, the father of the first, sits 
 unknown to them in the same room. The situation 
 touches his sense of the ridiculous so keenly that while 
 he can scarcely keep from laughing outright, he is at the 
 same time bitterly angry and sore at their doings. 
 
 " Your business with me, sir ? My time is rather occu 
 pied, at present, with matters of pressing importance !" 
 
 " Oh, well ! if it is of very pressing importance, 
 Master Philip, I will call at your convenience !" cries my 
 lord, in loud, mocking tones, that make Margery ejaculate 
 a little shriek of terror and even force his son to turn 
 pale. Although Philip had in a manner prepared him-
 
 108 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 self for a meeting, still his father's sudden appearance 
 takes him aback, for he had not the slightest suspicion of 
 the identity of his guest when he entered, and he is struck 
 dumb. 
 
 " So I Philip ! you are married, eh? It was unkind of 
 you not to let me know about your intentions. I would 
 have taken great delight in giving away the bride I 
 I " Feeling that his anger is fast gaining the mastery, 
 he stops for a moment, and resumes in graver, sterner 
 tones: "Master Philip, for the present you had better 
 remain in London, and I think as no doubt you will 
 agree with me on consideration that 'your wife' had 
 better return to Buck's for a short time. Think on what 
 I have said. If you would like to hear my reasons for 
 my wishes, come to that address !" giving him a card with 
 the words, " Marquis of Wharton, Kitcat Club, Fountain 
 Tavern, Strand," scrawled on it ; he leaves the room with 
 out another word, and repairs to the club-room to spend 
 the night in drinking and gaming.
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 109 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 Omnia vincit amor ; et nos cedamus amori ? 
 
 VlBGIL. 
 
 As his father's footsteps die away up the street, 
 Philip exclaims to Margery, " Did I not tell you that all 
 would be right ? See ! my father is now appeased, and 
 all that remains is for the General to follow in his steps ; 
 then we can return to Buck's and live in happiness !" 
 
 Margery replies, " My own Philip, I mistrust his lord 
 ship ! Forgive me for the words 1 But he looked so 
 stern and cold ; and did you notice ? He said never a 
 word to me ;" and her eyes fill with tears of wounded 
 sensibility. 
 
 Her emotion affects him, and he replies warmly, " What 
 need we care, Margery, if all the world forsake us ? We 
 have each other. Now listen to my programme. I will 
 to my father, and hear what he advises. If his advice 
 chimes with our wishes, we will obey him. If it does not, 
 we can " 
 
 He stops to consider on what they will do, but appa 
 rently comes to no definite conclusion, for he says no 
 more on the subject, but proposes that they go io the 
 theatre, a proposition to which she gladly assents ; and 
 so, instead of discussing a disagreeable subject, they go 
 to Drury Lane to see the mimic heroes and heroines, 
 kings and queens strut their hour on the Thespian boards. 
 Margery is both pleased and shocked at the play 
 pleased by the tender romance, the deep passion and 
 gorgeous paraphernalia of the loving heroine and hero ; 
 10
 
 110 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and shocked by the coarse language and free jests of 
 some of the performers, part of which she cannot fail to 
 understand ; and not being accustomed to them, like the 
 regular habitues, her scarlet cheeks attest her wounded 
 modesty at each fresh allusion, until she begins to attract 
 the attention of some of the blase dames sitting near 
 them, who are patched, powdered, and scented to the 
 last degree. Philip enjoys it all with infinite gusto, and 
 his appreciative laugh sounds again and again at the 
 repetition of every spicy saying or highly-flavored allusion. 
 He is charmed with this first glimpse of London life, and 
 determines to see it more fully ere long. The play is 
 Nick Howe's " Fair Penitent," and the character of 
 Lothario Richardson's " Lovelace" pleases him im 
 mensely, while Margery's sympathies are exclusively 
 enlisted in favor of the ruined Calista. 
 
 After they have returned to their room at the Blue 
 Bell, and as they are eating a light supper, Philip says, 
 " Sweetheart, I will see my lordly father to-morrow and 
 arrive at a full understanding as regards his position 
 towards us." 
 
 Margery replies in an anxious manner, " Do not anger 
 him, Philip dear, or speak too haughtily ; for until we 
 are all friends again, I shall feel unhappy, for I have been 
 the cause of all this trouble." 
 
 He replies, " Tut-tut ; if you value my love, dearie, 
 never say another word about such absurdities ! Why, 
 what would have become of me if you had not been my 
 own true love, when I begged you to fly with me and be 
 my wife ? And never was I so happy as when we were 
 joined forever by that drunken, tattered Fleet parson. 
 My benediction on him, if it will do him any good! 
 
 " And the best and the worst of this is 
 
 That"neither is most to blame " 
 * * * * * *
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. Ill 
 
 The next morning Philip attires himself in his azure 
 velvet suit, and dons his drooping hat the one whose 
 long pearl plumes dangle on his shoulder and buckles 
 his jingling spurs on his square-toed shoes ; then sling 
 ing his rapier on his thigh, he helps Margery into the 
 chair which waits for them, and finally enters himself. 
 In a short time they arrive at the Fountain Tavern, and 
 are accosted by Kit, who looks admiringly at the hand 
 some boy, and bows deeply as he enters the door. 
 
 Says Philip, " Is my Lord "Wharton to be seen ?" 
 
 Kit rejoins, " Yes, my lord ; his lordship instructed 
 me to send you up to him as soon as you came." 
 
 Philip is ushered up stairs, and directly finds himself 
 in the room which he has so often heard about as the 
 sanctum of wits, beaux, and statesmen. His father, who 
 is writing at a low table in a corner by the fire, does not 
 rise, but bids him " Good morning" in a curt tone, and 
 waves him to a seat, but Philip's gorge rising at the au 
 thoritative gesture, he declines the silent command, and 
 lounges carelessly around the room. He admires Knel- 
 ler's beauties, looks at the engraved goblets, and in 
 wardly sneers at the emblems of whiggery decorating the 
 walls, ceiling, and the tables. On a small card table which 
 stands beneath Anne's portrait, is a glass case, contain 
 ing a lock of dark, wiry hair; below it is a placard on 
 which is written 
 
 " A look of hair from the head of his most gracious majesty 
 KING WILLIAM III." 
 
 A profane idea strikes him to raise the case, and make 
 some ridiculous alteration in the lettering of the placard, 
 or to filch the lock, or to do something irreverent to it, 
 for he hates the memory of the taciturn, phlegmatic 
 "William ; but a side glance at his father, who has been 
 watching his movements, at once dispels all thoughts of 
 his intentions ; still, even with his keen eyes on* him,
 
 112 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip curls his lips scornfully, and mutters, loud enough 
 to be heard, "Pah! the big-breeched Dutchman." My 
 lord's eyes blaze, and his brow contracts, as he catches 
 this loyal exclamation ; but he says nothing, and resumes 
 his writing. 
 
 Philip waxes restless and impatient, and at last says 
 testily, "My lord, tempus fugit! and, under favor, I 
 would like to finish my business, if you are at liberty." 
 
 The cold, cynical tone in which Philip speaks, cuts 
 Wharton to the quick, and he looks at him, and replies 
 in an injured manner, " My son, I will not keep you very 
 long with one you seem to hate so much !" 
 
 As Philip meets his gaze, he feels for the first time 
 contrite and repentant, and suddenly determines to be in 
 future a better son, and obey his father in all that 
 he asks ; he discovers also that he is loved with all a 
 parent's love, more, far more than he deserves. He ex 
 claims, in a thick voice, " Father, you can trust me in 
 future ! Be a friend to my Margery, and do with me as 
 you will ;" and extends his hand. His father presses it 
 in his with a cordial grasp, and his eyes grow brighter as 
 he exclaims : " Let bygones be bygones, Philip ; and if 
 you obey me in all things as you have promised you will, 
 we can once more live happily together !" 
 
 After a short conversation, Philip asks, with some 
 hesitation, " What do you advise us to do under these 
 circumstances ?" 
 
 He replies, " Philip, I still think it better that Mar 
 gery should return home, and yourself also, in order 
 to explain matters there. After that, return to me at 
 once, and we will discuss your future travels, for you 
 know as well as myself that it is necessary to the educa 
 tion of a gentleman that he should be thoroughly ac 
 quainted with foreign manners and usages, and also be
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 113 
 
 somewhat familiar with their politics, all of which enable 
 a man to bear himself properly in the eyes of the world." 
 
 Here Philip smiles, and thinks to himself that he is a 
 master of that art, at any rate. 
 
 " And when you have been away a year or two, you 
 will welcome Margery with the greater fervor for your 
 long absence from her !" 
 
 Philip looks a little gloomy and doubtful at this, which 
 his lordship noticing, adds, in a matter-of-course manner, 
 " If you find that she is really essential to your happi 
 ness, after a trial of a month or so in Paris and the Low 
 Countries, you can easily write home, and I will send her 
 on to you !" 
 
 With his usual prescience, Lord Wharton sees that in 
 time Philip's affection will cool, and he is sure that when 
 his son is surrounded by the frail beauties of the conti 
 nental cities, his fond recollections of Margery will be 
 effaced by their allurements and their artful tongues, for 
 he greatly fears that Margery will strengthen his Tory 
 proclivities, in her romantic, womanish sympathy for the 
 Pretender, and he determines to strain every nerve to 
 make him a staunch Whig and a Protestant, and for that 
 purpose he intends to look about him for some one who 
 will be able to control him and instil into him the good 
 seed that will ripen to the advantage of the Whig party. 
 
 Philip, finally overcome by his father's arguments, 
 promises to do as he wishes in all things, with the pro 
 viso, that his travels shall not begin for a couple of 
 months, and that Margery shall stay with him in Lon 
 don. Wharton gladly acquiesces in this plan, for the 
 longer the young couple are together the more the de 
 fects they will find in each other a knowledge which may 
 produce a mutual satiety and dissatisfaction between 
 them I Moreover, he can regulate their domestic life to 
 a certain extent, and he sees a very easy way of creating 
 
 10*
 
 114 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 a bad feeling between them, although at the same time 
 his scheme will certainly do Philip a deal of harm. But 
 he consoles himself with the Jesuitical maxim, " The end 
 justifies the means." A short outline of his plan may 
 not be unacceptable. 
 
 There are in London two or three notorious societies 
 of demoralized young scapegraces, who consider that 
 ruining a woman and then running her husband or lover 
 through the body for his insolence in interfering, is quite 
 a laudable action ; and boast of their shamelessness and 
 profligacy as if they are cardinal virtues ; and the way 
 in which they make the night hideous with their ribaldry 
 and obscenity is a disgrace to the city. No man is safe 
 from their skilful rapiers ; no woman safe from their 
 wiles or violence. They designate themselves Mohocks 
 or Spitfires, and are the scourge of London's honest 
 cits, who curse and fear them. These patrician bravos 
 stab a man to death in the most gentlemanly manner ; 
 and then, if the hue and cry become dangerous, they find 
 a refuge in Thieves' Sanctuary, and laugh at the puny 
 efforts of the law to apprehend them. 
 
 It is into this reckless society that Wharton deter 
 mines to throw his son, in order that ill-feelings may 
 arise between him and his wife, for Margery will naturally 
 feel aggrieved at the amours, intrigues, and late hours 
 which Philip will be, in a measure, forced into in such 
 company, and will remonstrate with him. The result is 
 plain to him. Philip's love will fade away and with it 
 the influence of his wife. Thus, in ^i short month, he 
 may gain more power over his son than he has ever had 
 before. My lord, be it remembered, is no great enemy 
 to the Mohocks, for among them are many men of high 
 birth and great wealth. 
 
 So his father kindly agrees to all his son says ; and 
 it is arranged that in a month's time, Philip will leave
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 115 
 
 England with a tutor who is to be selected by his father. 
 Wharton rises and embraces him, and bids him adieu 
 with an apology for the state affairs that prevent him 
 from indulging in a longer conversation. 
 
 Philip tells Margery of the result, while they are 
 riding home, and she cries bitterly when she learns that 
 their honeymoon is to be so short. He agrees with her 
 that it will be "vastly unpleasant," and continues, "but 
 you know I intend to send for you at the end of a 
 month I" This communication comforts her a little, and 
 she converses in more cheerful tones about the future, 
 and is pleased bej-ond expression at his lordship's re 
 conciliation. 
 
 As Philip draws her nearer to him and looks tenderly in 
 her pure eyes, he says, " Wifie, he tells me that whilst I 
 remain in London, he wishes me to associate for a time 
 with a party of gentlemen who can enlighten me on many 
 matters, which are essential for me to know regarding 
 city life; for you know that I am a trifle ignorant on 
 some points !" Here she looks at him with a smile, as 
 though to deny such a disparaging statement ; but he 
 continues, " This may take me away from you a little ; 
 but for both our sakes I must learn the properest way 
 of holding myself; manners here are so different from 
 those of dear, quiet Bucks I" 
 
 She acquiesces with a troubled sigh, and they talk of 
 Rooksnest, and Elm Avenue, and of her father, who, by 
 the by, is to be in London to-morrow a recollection that 
 causes her to blush even to her shoulders, which glisten 
 like veined Parian under the soft lace thrown modestly 
 over her bosom.
 
 116 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Othman. There fled the guilty soul ! 
 
 VIII. BARBAROSSA. 
 
 Zanga. Is this Alonzo? Where "s the haughty mien? 
 Heavens, how pale ! 
 And art them dead ! 
 
 VII. THE RETENGE. 
 
 ALL England is ablaze with the news of Earl Mar's 
 " hunting match" in the Highlands, and the later tidings 
 of the battle at Dunblane, where he met with a check by 
 the Duke of Argyle. During the action, the right wing 
 of the Highlanders had become so excited that they 
 broke their ranks, and swooped on Argyle's left wing 
 with irresistible impetuosity ; and hewed them down with 
 deadly two-handed sweeps of their broad claymores and 
 their long Lochaber axes, the while screaming harsh, 
 Gaelic war cries ; but they receive a terrible retribution 
 in the utter rout and destruction of the clans on the left 
 of Mar, who, although Stewarts, Mackenzies, and Came- 
 rons, were tumbled over like sheep by Argyle's veterans 
 and almost to a man destroyed. 
 
 Lord Lovat, who was in command of the castle of 
 Inverness, and who has hitherto borne the reputation of 
 being a staunch adherent of the Pretender, has surren 
 dered it without a struggle, and in England Preston has 
 followed suit. It is the same Lord Lovat who afterwards 
 sneered, as he mounted the scaffold' that expiated his 
 villanies, " God save us ! Why should there be such a 
 bustle about taking off an old gray head from a man who 
 cannot get up three steps without two assistants !" And
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 117 
 
 now Mar's army begins to melt away very perceptibly, 
 for the scum, which was ready enough to side with a 
 rising cause, now, like rats, desert the sinking ship. 
 The brave Earl sat in his camp-tent, and mused over the 
 events of the last few days, and he began to grow dis 
 heartened by his misfortunes, when the news reached him 
 that "King James III." had landed at Peterhead, and 
 was on his way to visit him. His heart bounded within 
 him as he exclaimed, " Thank God for this ! I could wish 
 no better news, short of hearing that he held his own 
 again ;" and the soldier bowed his head and wept. 
 
 Wharton, busier than ever with his political and do 
 mestic affairs, and absorbed in his many schemes and 
 intrigues, gave never a thought to Him who nips all 
 intrigues, ruins all schemes, and sends their fabricator to 
 his last account. His benevolent design of placing Philip 
 amid the select society which he had chosen for him, and 
 also his scheme to estrange him from his child-wife, have 
 failed, not because he lacked either the will or the power, 
 but because death struck him with his chill arrow and 
 sent him unassoilzied to the eternal shades. He died in 
 great agony and remorse a few days after his conference 
 with his son : with friends and servants about him, but 
 neither his son nor his wife to wipe the death-dew from 
 his face and lips, and kiss him good-bye forever. His 
 last words were, " Philip send him to me ! my boy is 
 " and the death rattle forced him to finish the sentence 
 in heaven or . 
 
 Philip is promenading Vauxhall's shady avenues with 
 Margery, or rather was, for they are now sitting at a 
 little, bowlegged, rustic table in one of the alcoves, 
 eating cheese-cake and syllabub dishes that are quite 
 a la mode. As Philip is about to call for another plat 
 ter of cake and 'bub, a messenger brings the news of 
 his father's death. Margery turns pale, and looks anx-
 
 118 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 iously at Philip, who seems cool and collected, and puts 
 some few questions to the bearer of the news, and rewards 
 him for his trouble. Then turning to Margery, he says 
 gravely, ." This is a sad ending to our day's pleasuring, 
 Margery! Let us go home;" and they return to their 
 chair. 
 
 During the ride home, he scarcely speaks a word, and 
 seems immersed in thought. Margery, who has hardly 
 seen Lord Wharton a do2en times, grieves chiefly for 
 Philip's sake, for she thinks that she appreciates his posi 
 tion by changing places with him and by thinking of her 
 own father as dead instead of Philip's ; and tears burst 
 from her eyes at the thought. 
 
 Philip now hurries to the side of his dead father, and 
 looks sadly on all that remains of the great Whig states 
 man. He drops a great tear on his brow, which courses 
 slowly adown his cheek, enters his open lips, and rests 
 between them on his white, clenched teeth, quivers there 
 an instant, and disappears. 
 
 "Egad!" he exclaims, "it had pleased me better to 
 see you once more ere you had left me forever; how 
 ever, God or the Devil hath decreed otherwise, and 
 faith I '11 not repine at the decree, whoever put it forth. 
 Now I am my own master, Philip, Earl of R.athfarnham 
 and Marquis of Catherlough ! but not as yet First Lord 
 of the Treasury;" and an exultant smile crosses his 
 boyish face. Anon thoughts of his dead father rise 
 in his mind. Kneeling down by the bedside, he grasps 
 his cold, right hand, and breathes a prayer to Heaven ! 
 after which he steps softly out and leads Margery in to 
 look on the man who once conspired so cruelty against 
 her happiness. But all is forgotten in the dread Pre 
 sence ; leaning over the corpse she kisses his cold fore 
 head, and breathes a heartfelt prayer for the future sal 
 vation of her husband's father.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHABTON'S CAREER. 119 
 
 Philip leads Margery out again, and closes the door 
 after her. He asks of the servants, whom he dismissed 
 at his entrance, and whom he now recalls to renew their 
 care of the body, whether his lordship left any orders for 
 him ; whereupon his former secretary replies, " No, my 
 lord, his lordship died so suddenly that he had no time 
 to say anything, except to call on your name !" 
 
 " Say you so ?" he replies ; " I did not think his death 
 had been so sudden -that is all!" Leaving the death 
 chamber, he goes to Margery, to whom he says, " I must 
 send the sad intelligence to my mother at once, and she 
 can be here by to-morrow evening." 
 
 So saying, he sits down and hastily scrawls a letter 
 to her, signing it " Wharton, Earl of Rathfarnham and 
 Marquis of Catherlough," but, on second thought, runs 
 his quill through them and blots them out ; and the 
 death-summons goes post-haste to Bucks.
 
 120 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ' ' From the tower, 
 
 Heavy, slow, 
 Tolls the fun'ral 
 
 Note of wo. 
 
 Sad and solemn, with its knell attending 
 Some new wand'rer, on the last way wending." 
 
 SONG OF THE BELL. 
 
 " REBECK me !" growls Shem, " I want ye to do as ye 
 like, Brad, if ye will get wedded till her; I canna say but 
 I think Meg's a good lass. Debbie can gie ye pots an' 
 pans for your kitchen, an' ye can hae my place as head 
 falconer ! a varra guid start for a young couple ; but ye 
 mind I think ye 're a fuil a' the same for bein' in such a 
 hurry to leave home so airly ; but o' coorse ye do as ye 
 please. Ye hae my consent, an' your mither's, I knaw, 
 wull not be denied. She war aye a fuil where you were 
 concerned, an' in my mind, aye wull be !" 
 
 After this unusually lengthy peroration, Shem becomes 
 flustered and slightly shame-faced, and thinks that he was " 
 rather maudlin and soft in talking so familiarly with his 
 son about his approaching marriage with Meg Busbie; 
 so, to take off any appearance of undue mildness that he 
 may have been guilty of, he adds, grumly, " An' a pest 
 on the fuilish pair o' ye 1" an observation which I firmly 
 believe he repents of as soon as he makes, for he kicks 
 the dog away from his seat, and recalls her with a low, 
 coaxing " Down, my brach 1 down," and she crouches 
 again and licks the boot that kicked her. 
 
 Brad, who looks cheerful and handsome in his best
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 121 
 
 suit, smiles as he watches his father's manoeuvres, and 
 finally cries, " Well, good-bye, dad ! I will be in wi' Meg- 
 gie. If you want me, sound the horn, and I will return 
 at once ;" and, with a step as light and springy as a 
 panther, he steps out on the greensward in all the blithe- 
 someness of a pure conscience and requited love. He 
 has put the momentous question to Meggie, and after a 
 dozen different refusals according to the general custom 
 of women in such cases, who half fret a man's life out in 
 order to experience the keen, trembling delight of hearing 
 and refusing an offer of marriage as many times as pos 
 sible has been accepted, all the preparations have been 
 made, and the wedding is to take place this very day. 
 
 He strikes off in the direction of Dame Busbie's cottage, 
 and is running like one of the wild red deer which he has 
 so often shot, when the deep- voiced bell in the round-tower 
 clangs an alarming summons far and near, and he stops 
 and stands as still as a statue. Clang ! Clang ! ! Clang ! ! ! 
 boom out the slow and measured strokes. Brad knows 
 that the large bell is never rung except at a birth, death, 
 or marriage of some of the family, and his heart is full 
 of a vague, uneasy sensation, as of some impending danger. 
 
 Clang! Clang.!! Clang! ! L 
 
 Quickly retracing his steps, he looks into the lodge ; 
 it is empty. Now he catches a faint, confused murmur 
 like the sound of summer waves on the seashore, or 
 of many people whispering or talking in a low voice ! 
 Then a long, woman's wail comes to his ears from the 
 direction of the castle, thither he runs with all his 
 speed, and there hears the story of my lord's death told 
 in hurried, awe-stricken tones. The women folk are crying, 
 and the men are grave and sorrowful, for despite his 
 wickedness and his profligacy, Wharton was a kind, good- 
 humored master to them all ; and if some of them could 
 recollect a daughter or a sister who owed her shame to 
 11
 
 122 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 him, the recollection is drowned in pity for his fate: 
 dying alone in London, neither his wife nor his son to 
 close his eyes and pray with him for his future redemption. 
 
 When the news was conveyed to her ladyship, she had 
 fallen into strong convulsions, and was carried stiff and 
 senseless to her bed. 
 
 Most of those who are assembled before the castle are 
 attired in their gayest dresses and their chapel-going 
 clothes in honor of Brad's wedding, for he is a great 
 favorite amongst them on account of his good nature and 
 his generosity. But here a lad and there a lass can be 
 seen unpinning a gay rosette or a fluttering ribbon and 
 then hiding it from view in a pocket or a bosom, for 
 they all know that the wedding will not take place this 
 day. As for poor Brad! he is a double mourner, for 
 at one blow he loses a good master and an expectant 
 bride. 
 
 Mistress Meggie is here in all her wedding finery, her 
 eyes are full of tears and her lip trembles pitifully 
 whether most at Lord Wharton's death, or the stoppage 
 of her marriage, I know not. Brad glides to her side, and, 
 unobserved by the crowd, puts his arm around her trim 
 waist and presses her side sympathizingly. She seems 
 to take little heed of his actions, and does not offer the 
 slightest resistance to his caresses, but exclaims in a 
 low, half-crying voice, " Oh, Brad, how unlucky I I am 
 sure we will never be married now ; it is so unlucky for 
 a death to come betwixt a marriage 1" 
 
 " Don't say so, Meg !" he exclaims. " It makes my 
 heart ache." 
 
 Meg replies, affectionately, " Well, Brad, I winnsj say 
 it, then, but I am afeared sometimes that I might lose 
 you dearie 1" 
 
 His hands clasp more tightly around her waist, and
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 123 
 
 he feels his heart grow bigger and bigger in his throat, 
 until it chokes his utterance so much that like a sensible 
 lad he deems silence better than speech, but looks vol 
 umes out of his sunny, hazel eyes, and she seems satis 
 fied. 
 
 " "Well," he thinks to himself, " if our love is enough 
 for man and wife, it will keep a fortnight." 
 
 Dame Throck, who is talking .to Betty, says, " Yes, 
 an' I recollect that yest're'en' a crow flew three times 
 aroun' the tower, an' then pecked for nigh ten minutes 
 agan the rim o' the bell. I knew sumraut evil would 
 befa' the house afore the year war' out !" and the by 
 standers shiver as they listen to her doleful tale. " TJgh, 
 I feel a grue," says one impressionable gossip. Another 
 adds, " I knew his lordship war goin' to happen summut, 
 for I dreamed o' a weddin' last neet, an' that is allus a 
 sure sign o' evil." So they go on. 
 
 Shem, who is in a rather isolated position, calls Brad 
 and Meg to him, and says, in a low voice, " Of coorse the 
 weddin' will no come off the day; it is a sad thing 
 that prevents it ; but the Lord does it a' for the best ;" 
 and he turns away to hide his emotion by scowling 
 fiercely at two little children who look up at him with 
 streaming eyes, crying because others cry, and without 
 the remotest idea of the reason of their grief. 
 
 Clang I clang 1 clang ! 
 
 "Heavy, slow 
 Tolls the fun'ral 
 Note of woe." 
 
 Lady Wharton has lain for two whole hours, scarcely 
 breathing, and more dead than alive. When she does 
 awake it is to realize to the fullest extent her misery and 
 her loss, while her thoughts revert to Philip whom she 
 has not seen since his mad escapade, and she trembles as 
 she wonders whether she will be able to control him now
 
 124 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 that her husband is no more ; she feels that she will not, 
 and is sick at heart. 
 
 A servant enters, who exclaims, " My lady, General 
 Holmes wishes to see you ?-" 
 
 She replies, "Admit him! this is no time for cere 
 mony !" And she orders her maid to arrange the pil 
 lows behind her so that she can recline in a sitting posi 
 tion. 
 
 The General enters with a soft step, and a sorrowful 
 expression smooths his worn face. He salutes her re 
 spectfully, and says, " My lady, words are useless. That 
 I deplore his loss, you must know, particularly at this 
 time, when we might have been drawn nearer together in 
 friendship and interest." 
 
 She does not speak, for her heart is too full for speech, 
 and she presses his hand thankfully. He gulps down an 
 obstruction in his throat, and busies himself in arranging 
 his waistcoat, whose creases seem to displease him, to 
 judge by the pertinacity which he exhibits in smoothing 
 it and pulling it awry. Now he plucks at his mous 
 taches, bites them abstractedly, and at last he blurts 
 out, with a reddening face, " My lady, you are not angry 
 at Margery ?" 
 
 " No, General," she replies, plaintively, " though I 
 opposed the match, yet, as it is now accomplished, I say 
 with all my heart, God bless them and keep them both 
 happy, for Margery is a sweet, lovable girl, and was al 
 ways vastly to my liking ; I hope and trust that Philip 
 will be steady and keep out of vicious company." And 
 she sighs as she finishes. 
 
 " You are going to London, my lady ?" 
 
 She replies, " Yes, General ; and can I venture to ask 
 you to accompany me ? Will it put you to much incon 
 venience?" 
 
 He replies energetically, " M} T lady, there is nothing I
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 125 
 
 would prize more than to have the honor of attending 
 your ladyship to London or anywhere else!" 
 
 He is delighted at the request she has preferred, and 
 feels himself a greater man now that her ladyship re 
 poses so much confidence in him as to desire him to ac 
 company her on her journey. 
 
 She says, " We will set out to-morrow, then, if I can 
 leave my room, and Oh, Tom," she cries as her thoughts 
 revert to her lonely position, " why did you die ? I feel 
 so desolate now that both my husband and my son have 
 left me 1" 
 
 Holmes, unused to such scenes, does his best to con 
 sole her, but feels his utter inability to cope with a dis 
 tressed woman. "My lady, moderate your grief; it is 
 useless ; you cannot bring him to life again ! Egad, 
 though, that is the very reason that you do grieve ! But, 
 egad, I '11 stop talking, for I only make matters worse. 
 It was ever a hopeless job to console a woman!" 
 
 She smiles faintly as she notices his evident embar 
 rassment, and dismisses him by saying, " Well, General, 
 I will not detain you any longer. If I am able to go to 
 morrow, I will send a messenger to the Grange to let you 
 know." 
 
 Glad to escape, the General bows low, and leaves her 
 apartment. 
 
 The next day she felt well enough to start, and in due 
 time they arrived in London without any casualty. 
 
 11*
 
 126 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 But where began the change ; and what's my crime? 
 The wretch condemn'd, who has not been arraign'd, 
 Chafes at his sentence. Shall I unsustain'd, 
 Drag on love's nerveless body through all time? 
 I must have slept, since now I wake. Prepare, 
 You lovers, to know love a thing of moods ; 
 Not like hard life, of law. 
 
 GEO. MEREDITH. 
 
 THEY are now on the threshold of his lordship's town- 
 house, and Lady Wharton is so weak and agitated that 
 the General is forced to put his arm around her to 
 keep her from falling to the ground. They are quickly 
 announced by the attentive hall-porter, and in a moment 
 she is in Philip's arms, and is crying bitterly. She is 
 too overcome to speak for a time, and can do nothing 
 but hold Philip around the neck and sob and sigh 
 piteousl} 7 . 
 
 Margery's little hands are both clasped in her father's 
 camp-hardened palm, while she looks shyly at my lady, 
 who, noticing her hesitancy, exclaims with an emphasis 
 which shows that she appreciates her feelings: "My 
 daughter, come to a mother's arms!" and she turns to 
 Margery with a loving light beaming in her saddened 
 eyes. Margery, overjoyed at her words, embraces her 
 fervidly, and the aged dame and the budding woman are 
 friends through the medium of sorrow and joy sorrow, 
 keen and piercing for a husband's and a father's loss ; 
 joy for a disobedient son's return. 
 
 Her Iad3 r ship finally performs the sad, painful duty of
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WIIARTON'S CAREER. 127 
 
 looking on the inanimate form of her departed husband, 
 after which she retires to her room, heartsore and 
 fatigued, to pray to the Almighty to give her strength 
 enough to support her great affliction. 
 
 Philip, Margery and the General gather together to 
 exchange news and to talk of home and its familiar 
 objects; Holmes, in reply to an observation by Philip,! 
 says: "No, Philip; I fear that her ladyship will not' 
 long survive your father's death. When she received 
 the sore tidings, she was attacked with strong con 
 vulsions, and for over two hours she was not expected 
 to live!" 
 
 Philip whitens with fear at the prospect of such an 
 event, and replies in a shaken voice, " God help me if she 
 dies too 1 Sometimes I think that I have been the cause 
 of his death, and the thought weighs heavy on me. My 
 mother must not die yet ; I cannot bear it until I have 
 shown her how much I regret my wild conduct and reck 
 less behavior while he was living!" 
 
 Margery, frightened at his appearance, moves closer to 
 him, and lays her hand on his arm with a look of sym 
 pathy; but turning his face away from her, he gently 
 removes her hand, and a curious expression of suppressed 
 dislike momentarily disfigures his features. She notes the 
 gesture with love's keen eyes, and a heart sickness comes 
 over her as she tries to think that she must have been 
 mistaken in imagining that he looked on her with aver 
 sion. Alas ! the first cloud has come between them a 
 cloud from which peers a dead father's look of upbraiding 
 and reproach. The General has watched Philip's beha 
 vior, and too truly reads its meaning ; but keeping his 
 thoughts to himself, he draws Margery to his side, and 
 casts a searching side glance on her face, which is troubled 
 and anxious ; and they are all silent, and not a sound is
 
 128 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 heard but the slow, monotonous tick-tack of the old clock 
 which stands on the landing outside. 
 
 Philip, anxious to break the dreary silence, which 
 begins to harass him with its painful quietude, asks, in an 
 uninterested voice, " General, has Brad Throck married 
 Meg yet? They were to be united a week ago so I 
 understood." 
 
 Holmes answers in as vacuous a manner, " No, they 
 were going to be married the day that we received the 
 news of his death, which sad event, of course, put an end 
 to their festivities." 
 
 " Yes," he replies ; and again there is dreary silence. 
 
 Margery once more shrinking close to Philip, impul 
 sively throws her arms around his neck, and says, while 
 the tears rain down her cheeks, " Philip, darling ! do not 
 look so strange at me. I know that your heart must 
 ache. Philip, have I done aught to offend you ? I " 
 
 " Margery," he replies regretfully, " you are too good 
 for me. I feel hard and cruel, now ; yet withal I am sad 
 and conscience-stricken." 
 
 Her quick perception solves his enigmatical words;" 
 she turns from him with a heart too full for speech, and 
 falls into her father's arms with a low, broken sob, and 
 whispers, " Oh, father, he hates me for his father's sake I 
 Hold me tightly. I cannot bear to look him in the face 
 again -he hates me;" and her body shivers from head to 
 foot. 
 
 " General !" Philip exclaims in a sharp, strained voice, 
 " I pray you excuse my departure. I have business out 
 side ;" and with these words he leaves the room. 
 
 When his footsteps have died away in the distance, 
 the General says to Margery, " My daughter, tell me 
 truly. Do you love Philip as much now as you did 
 before your marriage ?" 
 
 She replies in a passionate voice, but without lifting
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 129 
 
 her head from his breast, " Father, why do you ask such 
 a question ? Such love as mine never diminishes, it 
 grows greater by its food ?" 
 
 The General seems as if he would have answered her, 
 but thinks better of his purpose, and keeps his words 
 between his teeth. 
 
 " He has grown tired of her possession has sated 
 him, and he now regrets his step in time he may hate 
 her ! God help thee, Margery ! It will kill thee. Thou 
 wert never made for rough speech or cold looks !" 
 
 Dra'wing her on his knee as in olden times at the 
 Grange, he strokes her hair and cheeks until she falls 
 asleep with a long, deep sigh ; while his own weari 
 ness produces the same effect on him. And he has a 
 dream, and in his dream he thinks his child has died, 
 and he awakes with a great start, causing his " little 
 girl" to cling more tightly to him, and nestle her bonnie 
 face closer to his shaggy beard, while her rosy lips half 
 open as though she listens to a distant sound. The 
 soul is freer when its case is inert and asleep, and can 
 often foresee events which are unknown to the wakened 
 mind. Does she foresee her future ! Would it be better 
 if she could ? 
 
 When they meet at table in the morning, Philip is 
 affable, but restrained, while the general conversation is 
 naturally tinctured with a grave sadness. He seems re 
 gretful for his treatment of Margery the previous even 
 ing, and is now devoted and attentive to her, which 
 Holmes perceives with glad feelings and a relieved mind. 
 Her ladyship is pallid and tearful, the consequences of a 
 night passed in sleepless sorrow and uneasy thought, 
 and she seldom joins in conversation with the others. 
 
 During the day Philip gives orders regarding the 
 funeral, which is to take place to-morrow with due pomp 
 and splendor 
 
 *******
 
 130 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 The chamber is crowded with the dead man's friends, 
 many of the mighty ones of London chiefly members 
 of the Whig party, who come to have a last lool^on the 
 man who first in all England welcomed William the Third 
 on his landing, and who had since led them to so many 
 victories by the power of his able tongue, his subtle rea 
 soning and his Ciceronian eloquence. 
 
 Charles Montague, who will also be laid in his grave ere 
 the bones of his former friend are bared by the worms, 
 stands by the side of the glittering coffin, and says 
 gravely to Vanbrugh, as though he feels the nearness 
 of his own dissolution, " I doubt that I '11 long survive 
 him ; so, egad, Van ! you may shortly have the pleasure 
 of looking on me, as I at present look on dear, old, honest 
 Tom." 
 
 " S'life," replies Vanbrugh ; "we can ill afford to lose 
 another good man and true ; we are weak enough already. 
 One such defection from our ranks is enough for one 
 while, I trow I" 
 
 Philip entering at this moment, is warmly greeted 
 by the visitors, who sympathize with him, and express 
 their condolences with his loss in words and actions. He 
 is dressed in sombre black, a long crape veil is attached 
 to his right arm, and he has also a neckcloth of the 
 same material, which gives a pallidity to his skin that 
 is ghastly and startling. His mother, who walks beside 
 him, is covered from head to foot in the trappings of 
 death, and tears are bursting from her eyes. Her grief 
 is not for comfort or sympathy, and so all feel with an 
 intuitive knowledge. 
 
 Philip leads her to her room, and kisses her tenderly ; 
 when he has closed the door, she says, in an anxious 
 manner, " Philip, dear, for your own sake as well as 
 mine, avoid those men, Vanbrugh and Lord Halifax.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 131 
 
 They are too dissolute and too old for one of your 
 years." 
 
 He draws himself up haughtily, as he replies, " Philip 
 Wharton, though young in years, needs not their adven 
 titious aid to make him all men's equal, and the superior 
 of most." 
 
 She does not reply to this outburst, but looks fixedly 
 at him for a minute, and says sadly, " Good-night Philip, 
 and God keep you from harm !" 
 
 Philip bows and returns at once to Yanbrugh, with 
 whom and Halifax he converses of many things. 
 
 All day the room is crowded with visitors coming and 
 going. All day long the rumbling coaches draw up be 
 fore the door, and titled dames and famous men go and 
 come. 
 
 Margery, who is with her father in a retired corner 
 near the head of the coffin, surveys with curiosity or 
 respect the owners of the famous or infamous names that 
 are continually announced in measured accents by the 
 pompous, powdered lackey who keeps out curious in 
 truders. 
 
 The funeral next day was gorgeous and solemn ; 
 plumes waved, horses pranced, sable streamers fluttered 
 in the air, and all the details and ceremonies that are 
 essential to a noble's funeral were there. All that now 
 remains of the great Whig is a fresh, earthy mound and 
 an imposing tablet with its " Hie jacet Thomas Whar 
 ton", with a long array of virtues which he never pos 
 sessed, and never a word of the vices which he did 
 possess. Truly, sinners while we live, the world, thank 
 ful for our demise, almost canonizes us when we die. 
 
 A curious incident occurred just before the coffin lid 
 was screwed down, which I hope it is not amiss to men 
 tion. Two burly carriers set their chair down in front 
 of the door, and handed out of it a lady dressed in deep
 
 132 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 mourning. Her face must have once been very beautiful, 
 but it had become wrinkled and disfigured by care or 
 trouble. There were great hollows in her cheeks caves 
 wherein lurked despair and melancholy; and her large 
 eyes were wild and haggard. Pushing the guardian 
 lackey aside, and walking swiftly down to the corpse, 
 she kissed its pale lips and laid a bunch of dusty, withered 
 violets on its shroud, she then left as silently as she 
 came, without vouchsafing a word to any one. Her face 
 somewhat resembled that of the girl whom Wharton had 
 once met many years ago during the storm of 1703! 
 The company stared at her abrupt entrance, and won 
 dered at her singular action, but no one interfered with 
 her by word or deed.
 
 OR. PHILIP DUKE OF WHABTON's CAREER. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " Now is the time that rakes their revels keep ; 
 
 Kindlers of riot, eneiniea of sleep. 
 His scattered pence the flying \ickerflings, 
 
 And with the copper shower the casement rings. 
 Who has not heard the Scourer's midnight fame? 
 
 Who has not trembled at the Mohock's name? 
 Was there a watchman took his hourly rounds 
 Safe from their blows, or new invented wounds?" 
 
 GAY'S TRIVIA. 
 
 "Here is the devil and all to do with these Mohocks!" 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 ST. DUNSTAN'S clock has just struck one. The moon 
 diffuses a glorious light, and the many-storied houses 
 throw deep shadows over the streets. All is quiet, and 
 a solemn, thought-inspiring tranquillity broods over the 
 city, disposing the mind to the consideration of high 
 and important topics when suddenly a loud shout, fol 
 lowed by noisy laughter and obscene curses, breaks in 
 on the stillness of the night. A crowd of drunken, 
 brawling rufflers sally out of a tavern, which is notorious 
 as being one of the stopping places of the most ruffianly, 
 drunken, and cruel of all associations, the Mohocks, 
 many of whose members are of high birth and famous i' 
 the state, but whose innate depravity has reduced them 
 to the level of a Fijian. 
 
 These are the Mohocks who now desecrate the night's 
 calm beauty with their infernal orgies. They take their 
 name from a tribe of red men, who are natives of the 
 colonies. Their leader is invariably the worst one of 
 their worthy company ; his title is Taw-Waw-Eben-Zan- 
 12
 
 134 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Kaladar, Emperor of the Mohocks, and he regulates 
 their actions and proceedings with absolute powers and 
 unquestioned authority. They are nearly all dressed in 
 the extreme of the fashion. Velvet cloaks laced to a 
 miracle, silken hose, ostentatious ruffles, long plumed 
 hats, and wide, lace collars are common to them all. 
 Some hold a black satin mask or vizard in their hands, 
 and a few have them on their faces. Two or three are 
 flourishing their glittering rapiers above their heads, and 
 occasionally pound on the shutters of the houses which 
 they pass ; and woe to the man, woman, or child who 
 dares to remonstrate. They would be in imminent peril 
 of their lives, for the crew are mad drunk and reckless. 
 
 The leader, whose forehead is adorned with a golden 
 crescent, which is gummed to the skin, lifts his hand and 
 at once there is comparative silence. "My lords and 
 gentlemen members of the Chosen Band ! This night 
 Philip Wharton, Earl of Rathfarnham and Marquis of 
 Catherlough, a new member of our honorable company, 
 must exhibit his valor and dexterity by either tipping 
 the lion, or doing a sweater on such person or per 
 sons as we may meet to-night; or, as in case pro 
 vided, pay a penalty of one hundred guineas. Have I 
 said well ?" 
 
 The noisy approval which greets his speech shows that 
 all are satisfied, and content to abide by his words. 
 
 To those who do not understand the terms " sweater" 
 and '' tipping the lion," I will venture a short explanation. 
 The " sweaters" operate in parties of four, five, or six. 
 Surrounding their unfortunate victim, they form a circle 
 with swords drawn and pointed toward him. They 
 then begin to prick and prod him with the sharp points 
 until they are tired of the sport, or until they think 
 it is dangerous to continue the sport any longer. " Tip-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 135 
 
 ping the lion" means to slit the nose, or to bore out the 
 eyes with the knuckles. 
 
 Such are the amusements of the society into which 
 Philip has been introduced by Yanbrugh, who kindly vol 
 unteered to guarantee his character as a gentleman when 
 he proposed him. In 1112, a royal proclamation was 
 issued " to rout the association and arrest the members," 
 but it was of no use; for the judges who should have 
 enforced the law and brought the villains to justice, had 
 in many cases, friends who were themselves Mohocks. 
 Shad well's observation is doubtless familiar to you ; but 
 I quote it because it gives a very accurate idea of the 
 terror which this club inspired. "A man cannot go 
 from the Rose Tavern to the Piazza once, but he must 
 venture his life twice." 
 
 Philip, reeling and staggering in drunken uncertainty, 
 replies to his chiefs address with grandiloquent gestures 
 and in a husky and indistinct voice : " Most mighty Em 
 peror, I swear that the first human being who crosses 
 our path, 6r violates the air of Drury Lane with his 
 pestiferous carcass, shall suffer by my hands any penalty 
 that you may adjudge demme I" Whirling his rapier, 
 with a rapid turn of his flexible wrist, he brings it grace 
 fully to the salute. The consummate skill with which he 
 performs this difficult movement would be creditable to 
 a professed maitre d'armes. 
 
 " Bravo, egad, well done !" screams Lord Catachresis, 
 delighted with his new confrere. 
 
 " Hist !" hiccups the Emperor, " I hear a step. Fall 
 back, gentlemen 1 Leave my lord to deal with this daring 
 invader of our nocturnal rights!" 
 
 With these words and an injunction to Philip he 
 retreats into the darkness of a shadowed doorway, the 
 rest follow his example with more celerity, and noise- 
 lessness than one would think possible in such a rackety
 
 136 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 set ; while Philip is left alone to accomplish his first duty 
 in his character of a Mohock. 
 
 The unsuspecting pedestrian, who is coming rapidly 
 toward him, is a man of medium size, and strong, heavy 
 "build. As the clear light of the full moon strikes on his 
 features, Philip discovers, much to his surprise, that he 
 is his father's former secretary, Geoffrey Scribset! 
 " Curse the luck ! The fellow will recognize me, to a 
 surety I" Philip exclaims, as he pulls his hat down over 
 his eyes to hide his face as much as possible. 
 
 He is now within a couple of yards of him, and Philip 
 calls to him in a feigned voice, " Halt ! knave ! where goest 
 thou at this hie hour of the night? St. Dunstan's 
 has tolled this quarter or more. Speak!" and he draws 
 his sword arm back in a striking position. 
 
 Geoffrey is no coward, but the sudden challenge 
 frightens him, and the sharp point against his throat 
 makes him start back in dismay; unarmed as he is 
 he sees no way to better his condition than calling for 
 help, which he does, in stentorian tones, " Help ! Watch ! I 
 Murder ! ! !" 
 
 In an instant he is griped from behind, and the 
 doughty Catachresis gags him with his fist, whispering 
 in his ear, " Silence, or you are a dead man. We are 
 the Mohocks I" The poor secretary turns pale with fear 
 as he hears the dreaded name, for he has once before 
 been maltreated by this same crew of precious scoundrels. 
 Lord Petronelle, a pallid but fine-looking man, now 
 comes on the scene, and whispers to Catachresis, who 
 releasing Geoffrey, nods significantly to Philip to put 
 the usual questions to the prisoner before he is tor 
 tured. But Geoffrey, who has watched an opportunity, 
 suddenly trips Petronelle who falls with a thud of his 
 head against the cobble-stone and attempts to run. 
 Philip, quick as thought, grasps him by the scuff of the
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 137 
 
 neck, and endeavors to secure him. In the struggle his 
 hat falls off, and Geoffrey recognizes him and exclaims : 
 " Lord Wharton ?" " Yes, hoddy-peck ;" he replies, 
 nettled at his discovery. " Is there aught remarkable 
 hie in that ?" and he shakes him fiercely, for he is both 
 sinewy and muscular. 
 
 The advent of the rest of the crew interrupts any 
 answer that he may have made, and in an instant he is 
 the focus of a dozen bristling rapiers which goad him 
 almost to madness. Geoffrey clenches his teeth, and 
 looks his tormentors calmly in the face, until Philip, 
 whom his cool endurance begins to shame, cries, " Come 
 gentlemen, I think we may let him go now. He is well 
 punished for his late hours and his insolence to my 
 Lord Petronelle ; and I '11 warrant that he behaves him 
 self better in future." Accordingly they each give him 
 a final prick and sheathe their stained rapiers. 
 
 Poor Geoffrey is about to stagger home, when Philip 
 stops him, and slipping a well-filled purse into his hand, 
 says, "Master Scribset: prithee, what is the cause of 
 your being abroad at so late an hour?" 
 
 " My lord," he answers, as he slyly pockets the peace- 
 offering, " my lady sent me out to question of your lord- 
 ship's whereabouts." 
 
 Philip's eyes sparkle as he asks, " Which * my lady ?' " 
 
 Geoffrey reulies, " Please your lordship, her la'aship, 
 your wife !" 
 
 " Umph ! Go home again and give her my compli 
 ments. Tell her of everything that has happened every 
 thing, mark you ! or I '11 thrash you to-morrow with my 
 own hands. Tell her also that the next man who comes 
 to seek me as if I were a truant school-boy, will not 
 only be sweated, but will get a short shrift and a long 
 sword !" and turning his back on the secretary his face 
 
 12*
 
 138 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY ; 
 
 becomes purple with passion and a sense of offended 
 dignity. 
 
 His listening companions cheer him and pat him on 
 the back for his independence. They now proceed to 
 wrench the knockers off the doors, tear down signs amid 
 storms of hurras and curses, and do all the mischief 
 they can imagine, until the Emperor cries in a loud voice, 
 " Away ! Away ! hide yourselves the patrol 1" 
 
 All disappear with wonderful rapidity down the dark 
 alleys, which are plentiful in this neighborhood, all save 
 Philip, who not as yet au fait in all of the stratagems 
 of his confreres, stands irresolute, and bewildered at 
 their sudden disappearance. The foremost of the patrol 
 lays his hand on Philip's shoulder, and cries, " I arrest 
 you, in the king's name !" 
 
 " Deil take you and the king," replies Philip, as he 
 springs back, draws his rapier, and stands on the defen 
 sive ; but second thoughts decide him to run ere they 
 can close in on him, and at once he bolts down one of 
 the alleys through which the others escaped. 
 
 He hears the hue and cry that, is raised, but out 
 distancing all his pursuers, he arrives at the mansion 
 flushed and bewildered. When he enters the drawing- 
 room, he is dismayed at finding Margery there, who has 
 waited for him until she has fallen asleep ; she is curled 
 in the large armchair formerly belonging to his dead 
 father. Her hands are on one of the arms, forming a 
 pillow for her head, and her breath is slow and regular, 
 she looks so child-like, so innocent and pure that all of 
 Philip's former affection for her which I regret to say 
 has been slowly but surely waning comes back to him, 
 and he presses his wine-heated lips on hers with a pas 
 sionate kiss. 
 
 " Philip," she murmurs in her sleep, " My darling!" 
 
 A loud knocking at the outer door echoes through the
 
 OE, PIIILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 139 
 
 hall, and awakes her. When she sees PhiHp before her, 
 she puts her hands over her eyes for a moment as though 
 dazed at his appearance, and exclaims, " How you 
 frightened me, Philip ! I was dreaming of 3 r ou. I 
 thought that we were both back in dear Bucks and at 
 Rooksnest ! and I thought that you had the old look in 
 your eyes which used to please me so and which I seldom 
 see now : why " she stops suddenly, for she sees the 
 frown gathering on his face, and adds abruptly : " Oh, I 
 know, dear. You have so much business to fret you, now 
 that your father is dead, that you have no time for me ; 
 but I do not care so long as you really love me." 
 
 He nods his head in an intensely grave manner, but 
 says nothing, for he feels the wine fumes rising in his 
 head, and dares not risk an answer. 
 
 Margery, who has seen her father under the effects of 
 wine at many a dinner and supper, at once divines that 
 he has been drinking, and she asks him whether it would 
 not be better for him to retire; and he assents with 
 drunken gravity. As they are ascending the stairs, the 
 butler, a crusty, purplish old man, bursts into the room, 
 and exclaims in terrified accents, " Lord have mercy on 
 us I My lord, Master Scribset has been waylaid and well- 
 nigh killed by the Mohocks ; he is all covered with 
 blood;" and after this wonderful piece of intelligence 
 he bows, and leaves hurriedly. 
 
 " Poor man I" exclaims Margery, turning pale with 
 terror. "Attacked by the Mohocks 1 Who are they, 
 Philip ?" 
 
 " What should I know about them ?" he demands an 
 grily ; " there is a company of very proper hie gentle 
 men who call themselves by a somewhat similar name ; 
 but whether these are the same that attacked Scribset, I 
 know not and care less." His testy tone brings tears to 
 her eyes, and she asks no more questions.
 
 . 
 
 140 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Geoffrey Scribset has roused the whole house with his 
 cries, and all the servants are sympathizing with him as 
 he relates the tale of his troubles and shows, as proofs of 
 his veracity, his many wounds and his torn clothes. He 
 does not criminate Philip, but apostrophizes the whole 
 of the lawless troop as a "cowardly, guzzling set of 
 murdering swash-bucklers and bullies."
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 " I aince fell in love wi' a sweet young thing, 
 A bonny bit flower o' the wilder'd dell ; 
 Her heart was as light as a bird on the wing, 
 And her lip was as ripe as the moorland bell." 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 " Zara. As I could wish j by Heaven, I'll be reveng'd." 
 
 CONGREVE'S MOURNING BRIDE. 
 
 THIS day Brad is determined that he will wed pretty 
 Meg despite all obstacles and remonstrances ; and told 
 his father so the previous day. Shem wanted at least 
 six months to elapse before the ceremony should take 
 place, but the impetuous Brad has overruled all his 
 objections on the score of ill-timed gayety and frolicking 
 by promising to have the momentous affair conducted 
 with quietness and very little merry-making. 
 
 Shem is in the lodge conferring with Debbie anent the 
 wedding tocher which the young people are to have. 
 Says Debbie : " I mun gie the lad what I can, for he '11 
 have none too many o' this world's goods to begin life 
 on I Let me see. Ye say, Shem, that he is to have thy 
 post o' head falconer ? That 's summut, to be sure 1" 
 
 "Ay, lass. It 's more than I began the world on. 
 D'ye recollect, Debbie, we wed on five shillin's, a bed 
 stead wi' out coverings, an' a cradle, wi' m' appen a few 
 pots an' pans, an' we have got along well enough. 
 Brad is a defty, clever lad, an' he '11 manage a' reet I 
 doubt not." 
 
 Debbie replies, " Ay, ay ; he '11 do reet, never fret ; he 
 was allus a steady-like lad."
 
 142 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 As Shem must have his little growl, he answers, " Lit 
 tle thanks to ye, Debbie, for keeping him steady. If I 
 had not been about to keep him in bit order, I 'd not like 
 to think what might hae come of him wi' a' they easiful 
 an' saft ways wi' him. It 's a wonder that he has na 
 come to harm afore this !" 
 
 She replies good-humoredly, but with a slight flush, 
 " Out on ye, Shem ! Ye knaw better than that." 
 
 " Weel, Debbie," he returns, " we '11 not quarrel about 
 him ; get yersen ready, an' we '11 trudge to t' chapel." 
 
 At this juncture Brad enters with a sorrowful mien, 
 and eyes welling with restrained tears. Debbie looks 
 keenly at him as she asks, " What now ? Who 's been 
 crossin ye ? Ye look like a draggled hen." 
 
 "Ay! speak out, Brad; what's the matter?" chimes 
 in Shem, and taking a seat, he begins to nurse his leg 
 while he waits for an explanation of Brad's sudden 
 change from his previous blithesomeness to his present 
 dispirited appearance. 
 
 " She says she winna be wedded !" bursts out from 
 Brad with a noise of something between a sob and a sigh. 
 
 "Winna wed! What does the jade mean!" Shem echoes. 
 " Winna wed ! Ye willing ! What torn-foolery is this ?" 
 
 Thus gently questioned, Brad tells his piteous tale to 
 his sympathizing hearers. 
 
 It seems that Dame Busbie, who was nurse to the old 
 lord, had told Brad when he called on her to make the final 
 preparations, that Meg should not be married to him 
 until this day three months on account of my lord's recent 
 death. In vain has he promised that the wedding should 
 be conducted very quietly, and has even declared that he 
 would allow no dancing or singing. All was useless. 
 The old dame was obdurate, and Brad was forced to 
 return home almost broken-hearted at this second cruel 
 stroke of fate.
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 143 
 
 " Go ye to Dame Busbie, and try to persuade her, 
 Dad," cries Debbie. "Ye can do more wi' her than any 
 one else hereabouts ;" and she finishes in ireful accents : 
 " Mak' t' ould fool do as Brad wishes I" 
 
 Shem grumbles, but acquiesces, and crushing his 
 forest-cap hard down on his head, he starts for Meg's 
 abode, which is about ten minutes' walk from the lodge. 
 
 Brad awaits his return with burning impatience, and 
 yet dreads it, lest he too may be unsuccessful. This 
 idea he endeavors to ignore altogether, but it -will persist 
 in cropping up again and again, turning him almost 
 crazy, for he dearly loves the girl, and would give the 
 whole world besides to call her his wife. Debbie fusses 
 about arranging and disarranging Shem's hunting gear 
 and his fishing tackle with a recklessness which is almost 
 appalling, considering Shem's irascibility and his dread 
 of any one meddling with his affairs. 
 
 At last Shem's tread is heard, Brad turns pale, and 
 Debbie stands stock still with her lips firmly closed, 
 and her eyes fixed on Brad. Shem enters slowly, seats 
 himself in silence, removes his cap, lays one knee gravely 
 over the other, and finally, with many prefatory admoni 
 tions to Brad anent the folly of being in a hurry, says : " I 
 went there, and after a bit talk o' the weather wi' t' dame, 
 I hinted what we wanted." At this important part of 
 the recital, he gives a pitcher to Brad, and orders him to 
 go down into the vault and to fill it with the best October. 
 Brad obeys and returns with a marvellous quickness. 
 Shem's eyes twinkle as he notices his impatience, and he 
 resumes his story, " After I plagued her a bit aboot it, 
 she said that ye might wed one anither if " Here he 
 stops to drink a draught of the bubbling ale. " If there 
 is not too much merry-makin' or noise." 
 
 Brad, leaping to his feet, gives a view-halloo which 
 makes the old rafters ring again, and he proceeds to hug
 
 144 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 first the stolid Shem, and then his more impressionable 
 mother, who is so happy that she must needs cry to 
 relieve her feelings. 
 
 I will not inflict a description of the wedding on you, 
 but merely mention that everything passed off pleasantly, 
 and that Brad received the post of head falconer from 
 his father with proper thankfulness for the gift. 
 
 Brad and Meg are standing together to the right of 
 the chapel and are conversing in the strain usual under 
 such circumstances, when they are suddenly startled by 
 the deep, harsh tones of Maldran Gudru, and find him 
 close beside them. 
 
 " Mistress Meg," he says, " may the moon look down 
 wi' a lucky light, on your pretty face to-night, an' on 
 yours too, Master Brad. Could ye give the poor gypsy 
 a few pennies to drink to the health o' the first born ?" 
 
 Meg blushes, and is so indignant at the man's impu 
 dence that she scarcely knows whether she is standing on 
 her head or her heels ; pulling out her little silk-netted 
 purse, however, she gives him a couple of pennies, which 
 gratuity Brad generously doubles ; whereupon he invokes 
 the blessings of the moon and all the starry host upon 
 them, and turns to go, but stops again and inquires : 
 " Master Brad, did his lordship leave a message for the 
 queen wi' any o' ye afore he died?" 
 
 Brad and Meg both answer negatively, and Maldran 
 walks away in the direction of the camp. 
 
 As the happy couple no doubt prefer silence and their 
 own company to ours, we will now turn our attention to 
 Maldran and his proceedings. He taps at the queen's 
 door, and enters with a lazy air. She is lying in her old 
 place, and she looks at him inquiringly with her black, 
 eloquent eyes. Maldran scowls as he replies, " He died 
 wi'out sayin' a word about ye, either by word o' mouth 
 or by way o' writin'."
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WIIARTON'S CAREER. 145 
 
 A frown furrows her olive brow, and her full red lips 
 press close together as she replies, " So be it. When 
 he struck me for daring to shame him for her sake, I 
 told him that it would take a thousand pounds of his 
 gold to clear his mark from my cheek 1 gold for her who 
 starves in London. Maldran, hear my oath ;" rising from 
 her lounge she stands erect, and utters in low, vindictive 
 accents : " I swear, on my royal oath, that his son shall 
 sulfer for his father's sins unless he pays me my de 
 mand 1" 
 
 Maldran bows his head as she draws from her breast 
 the symbol of the gypsies' religion, which she kisses, as 
 does Maldran also. 
 
 " You can go," she says, and Maldran leaves the room. 
 
 " Poor Mistress Nelly little thought that her kindness 
 to me when I was a wee bairn, who thought of nothing 
 but the pretty flowers and the wild forest, would be re 
 collected these many yea,rs ; but my memory for a kind 
 word and a cruel one has ever been good. A favor done 
 me or an insult given me, I ne'er forget. When I think 
 that he was her ruin, and think too of her being a 
 starved, pointed-at outcast in London, my blood boils, 
 and I feel wicked enough to kill him." She lifts her 
 hand and passes it gently over a small cicatrice on her 
 cheek which mars the beauty of its smoothness. " His 
 son shall rue that day, and his soul will writhe as it feels 
 my vengeance on his darling ;" and the fiery, vengeful 
 girl grits her teeth in very anger. Her naturally violent 
 temper is rendered still more ungovernable by the power 
 which she wields as queen of her tawny band. In mo 
 ments of great excitement she is subject to fearful par 
 oxysms of" rage, which almost tear her frame asunder, 
 and then woe to the follower who crosses her will or dis 
 obeys her slightest command. "I would forego my 
 revenge," she continues, " to make her comfortable ! 
 13
 
 146 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 I '11 send a message to the young lord. If he obeys my 
 commands, I '11 forgive the past ;" sounding her whistle, 
 Maldran enters. 
 
 "Maldran, go to London at once! Find the young 
 lord and give him this message ;" she makes known to 
 him the details with which we are already acquainted. 
 " If he agrees, take the money to this house." She 
 hands him a piece of dirty, greasy paper whereon are 
 the words Nelly Valentin and also her address. " Tell 
 her that it is from a friend, but mention no names. If 
 his lordship refuses my offer, return at once." Dismiss 
 ing him with an imperious gesture, she closes her eyes.
 
 OR, PIIILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 147 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Philto. my son ! 
 
 I would not have you with the profligate 
 
 Hold any conversation, in the forum 
 
 Or in the street. The manners of this nge 
 
 I know - bad men would fain corrupt the good, 
 
 And make them like themselves. Our evil manners 
 
 Confound, disorder everything 
 
 Ly sildcs. This prudence, as a buckler to my youth, 
 I ever had : 
 
 PLANTER'S TREASURE. II. n. 
 
 GENERAL HOLMES, who has taken up his quarters with 
 Philip for the present, is in the front parlor of the house, 
 looking out of the window, and watching the numerous 
 passers-by. He looks on with an amused air at the 
 strained gestures and dandified grace of Sir Welle Knee- 
 bend as he pays his devoirs to his fair companion, and 
 loads her with euphuistic compliments and honeyed 
 speeches. 
 
 " Pardie, fair Mistress Allstile ! Believe me when I 
 tell you that you are the Venus of my thoughts, the 
 Aphrodite of my dreams, and if Cupid will tip his shafts 
 in the fire of your eyes, can I help it if they rankle in 
 my heart ?" 
 
 She favors him with a pleasant smile as she replies, 
 " As I am virtuous, sir, you are pleased to flatter me to 
 day." And she manoeuvres her fan with the most dan 
 gerous adroitness, artfully leading him on to give her 
 more of his newest compliments and well-turned periods. 
 
 The general is interrupted in his observations of Lon-
 
 148 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 don life, as compared to his own quiet home, by a pair 
 of little, soft hands which clasp tightly over his eyes, 
 while a pair of fragrant, dewy lips press his scarred and 
 bearded cheek. 
 
 " Good-day, father mine. Truty, I think }^on pretty 
 girl, who trips so lightly on the pave, must have be 
 witched you. I made noise enough when I entered, but 
 you never even turned your head 1" 
 
 " I was thinking about something, Margery, and I be 
 came too absorbed to pay attention to anything else, I 
 suppose." 
 
 Pushing a low stool close to his feet, she sits down 
 on it, and rests her chin on his knee, while her eyes look 
 up to his face; they have lost the old look of perfect 
 happiness which once glowed in them and diffused its 
 light over her. 
 
 " Well, father," she begins, "'you desired to have a long 
 talk with me to-day. I am all ready now, so pray pro 
 ceed 1" and a saucy look sparkles for a moment in her 
 eyes. She adds, by way of parenthesis, " I do trust that 
 there is nothing disagreeable coming?" 
 
 " Daughter," he replies, gravely, " I know that the 
 topic will be disagreeable to you; but it is one which 
 must be faced sooner or later ; therefore, the sooner the 
 better. Never let the enemy flank you when you can 
 attack him in front! a good maxim, my dear!" He 
 coughs once or twice to clear his throat, and resumes : 
 "It is about Philip that I would speak, hinny!" At 
 these words she buries her face in her hands, and is very 
 silent. " I have observed a sad change in his demeanor 
 toward you of late. He has not only grown indifferent 
 and careless, but he has often treated you with a cutting 
 cruelty which I will not allow!" Margery shakes her 
 head in denial, but will not raise her face. " His con 
 duct has become the talk of London, and it is confidently
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 149 
 
 reported that he is one of the ringleaders of the Mohocks 
 a vile rabble who cut, maim, and insult whom they 
 wish in perfect security. It is a well-known fact that his 
 losses at the gaming table are immense, which losses neces 
 sitate his raising money among the Jews who invariably 
 get cent per cent. If he persists in this course, or con 
 tinues to neglect you any longer than this week back to 
 Bucks you shall go !" He notes how her fingers press 
 tightly against her temples, and his heart yearns for her. 
 Altering his tone of command for one of entreaty, he 
 adds, " You will do as I wish, hinny ?" 
 
 She shivers slightly, but no answer comes from her, 
 and he feels the hand which touches his own grow cold 
 and deathlike. He raises her head, and to his great 
 alarm sees that she ie lifeless and still. " Peggy ! ho, 
 Peggy!" he calls in loud tones, but before the servant 
 can enter, my lady herself sweeps in and cries : " Heavens, 
 General ! What is the matter ? What ails Margery ? 
 What have you done to her ? As I live the poor thing 
 has fainted I" 
 
 In answer to her questions, he replies distractedly : " I 
 believe I have killed her ! I told her that if Philip did 
 not in future treat her more like a wife and less like a 
 quean, she must go back again to Holme Grange. Look 
 at her ! His conduct has made her grow thin and pale, 
 and I know that if he continues his brutal treatment of 
 her much longer, it will not be long ere I shall lose my 
 darling. The thought almost crazes me !" 
 
 Lady Wharton, turning pale, falls into a chair close 
 by her, and cries in stifled accents which seem wrung 
 from her heart, " Philip, Philip ! she will not be the only 
 victim," she adds abruptly, " General, I love Philip more 
 than mj^self, far more, and you can understand my feel 
 ings when I can tell you that I think that your advice 
 to poor Margery is good ! Philip my tongue almost 
 
 13*
 
 150 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 palsies as I say so is already worse than half the 
 rufflers in town. I have had spies who have informed 
 me of his movements of his disgraceful intrigues and 
 insolent demeanor to high and low ; and I have listened 
 to their accounts with an aching heart. Time and again 
 I have tried to reclaim him ; but he invariably repulses 
 me with a ribald jest or an impious execration. God ! 
 it cannot be long ere I am laid with my husband." 
 
 The General's eyes flash as he listens to a mother's 
 detail of her son's crimes and blasphemies ; and he ex 
 claims sternly, " Put him under the control of some one 
 who can master him. Send him away from London and 
 its associations. While he is amid such a crew as the 
 Mohocks, he can never come to anything creditable 
 either to himself or us." 
 
 She replies in a firm voice, " Thank you for the sug 
 gestion, General ; he shall go !" 
 
 Holmes, satisfied that she will follow his advice, re 
 joices accordingly, and replies, " When Philip returns, 
 I will tell him of my purpose, and see what effect it has 
 on him !" 
 
 Margery has recovered from her swoon, and she weeps 
 silently. Poor child ! she is too heart-sick and wearied 
 to offer any opposition to her father's words. Suddenly 
 she raises her head as though she hears a well-known 
 foot approaching, and looking alternately at her father 
 and Lady Wharton, she gasps, " Philip ! he is coming!" 
 The door is thrown open with a crash, and Philip enters. 
 His clothes are all awry, and his tangled curls hang in 
 matted bunches on his torn and rumpled collar ; one of 
 his shoes lacks its buckle, and the plumes of his hat are 
 broken and muddy. He looks sullen and haggard, but 
 an amused smile flits across his face as he exclaims, 
 " Que le Diable ! here 's a pretty spectacle for a gentle 
 men to view. Let me cast you, i' faith !" he begins in a
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 151 
 
 drawling voice : " Scene first. Room in my own house. 
 Characters : General Surlysides stern, and angry. Mis 
 tress Prettypouts, his daughter tearful but shrewish! 
 Umph I My Lady of the Goodson imperious, but weak- 
 minded ; and last, though not least : Philip, her model 
 son good-natured and obliging, but ill-used by the other 
 characters. Umph ! Time uncertain. Draw up the 
 curtain ! The prompter's bell has tinkled." Taking 
 a chair, he twirls it around two or three times, and 
 finally seats himself on it, with his face to its back, which 
 is the approved fashion at the Highway, an inn ' of un 
 enviable notoriety as the resort of thieves, gamblers, and 
 rooks. 
 
 Holmes, giving Margery in charge of her ladyship, 
 desires her to leave him to deal with Philip alone, to 
 which she accedes, and they leave the room without a 
 glance at Philip, who looks on with a smile on his lips 
 and a sneer in his eye. " Hoity-toity" he exclaims, and 
 turns his attention to Holmes, who says in a stern manner, 
 " My lord, it is high time that we arrive at a mutual un 
 derstanding. Of late your conduct to my daughter has 
 been such as I will not brook. You treat her as though 
 she were your light-o'-love, and not your innocent, loving 
 wife. I have heard of your brave deeds in Drury and the 
 Strand, and also of your reckless gaming and your 
 profligacy, which must in time lead you to destruction 
 and ruin. "Where are all your nights passed ? I doubt 
 not that you would be ashamed to tell me where you 
 spent last night?" 
 
 He is interrupted by a flourish of Philip's hand as he 
 rises, and says, in a cool, irritating manner: " Hark ye, 
 General ! your most monstrous curiosity shall be gratified* 
 Last night I passed in a mighty pleasant manner at 
 Dollie Hawke's. Various gentlemen and myself honored 
 her house with our presence. We played several games
 
 152 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 at whist, and s'blood, I regret to say I lost a few hundred 
 guineas. After that we walked Drury and Newgate till 
 we were tired. After but you have had enough, Gene 
 ral, eh?" and he laughs heartily. 
 
 Holmes replies, "My lord, you are not fit to have 
 charge of my daughter. I shall take her back to Holme 
 Grange, and there she shall remain until I hear better 
 accounts of you than at present ! Good-morning." And 
 he leaves Philip to think over the turn which affairs have 
 taken. 
 
 Now the door opens again, and his mother enters. 
 Whistling a prolonged note, he runs his fingers through 
 his hair. "Egad!" he exclaims; "another battery to 
 open fire." 
 
 " Philip," says her ladyship, in a voice which compels 
 his attention, " what I purpose saying to you, and why 
 I say it, require no explanation, nor need you offer any 
 resistance to my wishes ; for you must do as I desire 
 you. Ere this week is out you will be under the charge 
 of a tutor who will take you abroad in order to teach 
 you to be a gentleman, a Whig, and a Protestant. You 
 have ample time to make all your preparations in the 
 three days which are allowed you ere your departure. 
 Do you understand me ?" 
 
 " Yes, I think I do," he replies, awed by her deter 
 mined manner and the steady look which she concen 
 trates on his face. "You are rather peremptory, but 
 what can I do ? che sard sard." 
 
 Surprised at her easy victory, she goes to him and 
 kisses him with a renewed confidence in his nature, and 
 she leaves the room with a pleased expression on her 
 face. 
 
 " Scylla and Charybdis without a choice. At one blow 
 I lose Margery, and am sent abroad with, most probably,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 153 
 
 a long-haired, prick-eared, shambling pedant, of whose 
 didactic propensities I shall have the advantage. At 
 any rate, the rose of my thorns is that I can get to the 
 place where England's anointed king lies perdu," and 
 he strikes up in a low key 
 
 " The king shall hae his ain again I"
 
 154 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER XXIH. 
 
 Queen. " I know your projects and your close cabals." 
 
 THE EARL OF ESSEX, I. I. 
 
 King. "Q, Qormaz! 0, Alvarez ! jstop not here." 
 
 XIMENA, I. i. 
 \ 
 
 THE chevalier had received Earl Mar at Fetter- 
 esso with great kindness and affability, and had then 
 taken up his march to the royal palace of Scone. There 
 he expected to find a large and well-disciplined army ; 
 instead, he saw crowds of unarmed vagabonds who were 
 rioting and drinking with a sublime indifference to the 
 orders which had been circulated among them. James's 
 soul was not big enough to encounter such a grievous 
 disappointment, and he re-embarked at Montrose, dis 
 pirited and hopeless. He landed at Gravelines after -a 
 short voyage, and thence he travelled to Saint Germains. 
 
 He was tall and slimly built ; his countenance was 
 tinged with a gloomy cast, and the Stuart frown was oft 
 bristling in his brows. His presence was imposing and 
 kinglike, but his lack of energy, his vacillating mind, and 
 his distrustful nature belied his looks. The outside 
 white marble and fair to the view the inside corruption 
 and decay. 
 
 His first step was most unwise and impolitic, and sur 
 prised at once friends and enemies. Even his sympa 
 thizing half-brother, the Duke of Berwick, admitted that 
 " he must have lost his reason to dismiss the only Eng 
 lishman he had that was able to manage his affairs ;" and 
 he spoke highly of his able management and his astute
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 155 
 
 policy in directing matters. The dismissal of Boling- 
 broke, which occurred about a year after his disgrace at 
 the Hanoverian court, was occasioned partly by his 
 incautiousness in speaking of state secrets and his irre 
 verent fashion of ridiculing the grand pretensions of the 
 miniature court, and partly by other indiscretions. At 
 any rate, he was deposed from his office, and the seals 
 were transferred to the gallant Earl of Mar. 
 
 James then proceeded to Avignon, where he held his 
 court hard by the Palace of the Popes a sombre Gothic 
 pile of the twelfth century, which was raised high upon 
 the bold rock of Doms. In one of its dripping dungeons, 
 deep down in the solid rock and dark as Erebus, was 
 once immured the Roman Tribune, great Rienzi. It was 
 in Avignon, the favored, also that Petrarca first saw that 
 Laura of Noves, who is as real to our senses as though 
 she stood before us now. 
 
 Bolingbroke was intensely piqued at his disgrace, and 
 he at once renounced all connection with the Jacobite 
 cause, and, it is affirmed, made overtures to my Lord 
 Stair for a pardon. To the Queen-mother, who had cir 
 cumspectly sent him a kindly letter to inform him that 
 "his dismissal had taken place without her knowledge 
 and consent," his answer was prompt and curt : " I am 
 now a free man, and may my arm rot off if ever I draw 
 sword or pen again for your son!" Thus the chevalier 
 created a new and powerful enemy at a time when he 
 was in the direst need of friends. 
 
 In England the leaders of this ill-omened rebellion 
 reaped to the utmost their reward for their attachment 
 to the Pretender. Many minor officers underwent a 
 short court-martial and were summarily shot ; whilst the 
 more prominent were escorted to London with fifes and 
 drums playing a " triumphal march" to grace their 
 " public entry." They were all tied with their arms
 
 156 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 behind their backs, not even excepting Forster, the Par 
 liament member a stern, cold man, whose face was 
 granite, and who held his back as stiff as steel as he 
 scowled on the yelling crowd who pelted him with eggs, 
 apples, and dead cats, after the chivalrous custom of the 
 mob at all times. In the House of Lords were im 
 peached the Earl of Derwentwater, first cousin to the 
 Pretender and a Roman Catholic, either of which cir 
 cumstances was enough to behead him during the fearful 
 excitement which prevailed in London ; and the Earls of 
 Nithisdale and Carnwath, both of whom narrowly escaped 
 the axe; and various other nobles with whom history 
 has more to do than romance. 
 
 In the Commons some of the staunchest Whigs inclined 
 their ear to mercy, and regretted the necessity of robbing 
 England of her noble families ; but Sir Richard Steele, 
 who had risen and moved some milder measures than 
 the rope or the axe, was violently attacked by Walpole, 
 who cut about in such a slashing style that " Literary 
 Dick" almost swooned to find what a villain he had been 
 almost an abettor of rebels and parricides ! Walpole 
 saw the necessity for a terrible example, and he was 
 merciless, determined that the disaffected should, be 
 taught an example which would never be forgotten. 
 ****** 
 
 Philip slowly saunters down Pall Mall, dressed in a 
 suit which makes many a dandy's heart fill with envy as 
 he ruffles by, scented, curled, and pomatumed. In his 
 right hand he carries a thin malacca switch or whip 
 whose head is of gold and incrusted with diamonds. 
 With it he gingerly taps a little girl who carries a bundle 
 of clothes which have just undergone the laundress' 
 operation of cleansing, signing her out of his way with a 
 condescension which is simply overpowering. 
 
 As he arrives in front of that resort of wits, fools, and
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 151 
 
 quidnuncs, the Smyrna Coffee House, he halts at the 
 door for a short time, takes his snuff-box from the 
 pocket of his azure satin waistcoat, opens its jewelled 
 lid with a twist which excites the admiration of the 
 bystanders, and delicately titillates his nose with the 
 aromatic powder taking especial care, by the way, that 
 a few grains shall fall on his snowy lace bosom. 
 Entering with an easy grace, he lays a guinea on the bar, 
 and entirely waives his claim to any change, while he 
 looks around at the various idlers who lounge at the bar 
 or sit in groups at the tables. " Ah ! Swift, how d' ye 
 do?" and he nods across the room to the Dean, who is 
 drinking coffee with Mat Prior at the centre table, which 
 is reserved exclusively for distinguished guests. 
 
 "Ah! Wharton, how d'ye do?" Swift irascibly re 
 torts ; he is nettled at his rather insolent bearing and 
 the apparent condescension of his manner. 
 
 Philip, walking up to the table, extends his snuff 
 box, which favor the Dean reciprocates, and after the 
 delicate operation of inhaling it is accomplished, Swift 
 says, " My lord, I hear that you are to be shipped off 
 on your travels shortly. Let me see ! what is the name 
 of your future governor?" 
 
 Philip angrily replies, " Governor ? Demme, sir, secre 
 tary secretary I" 
 
 " Well, then, secretary," replies the Dean with an ill- 
 concealed smile. 
 
 " To-morrow I set out for Geneva. My secretary's 
 name is Monsieur de Savatte, a right worthy Frencher." 
 
 Swift cries in affected alarm, "Save me! For your 
 mother's sake, I hope that his principles have been An 
 glicized?" 
 
 A few of the bystanders titter at this remark, for in the 
 time that he has been in London, Philip has contrived to 
 let everybody know how widely different are his views from 
 14
 
 158 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 those of his mother's both as to religion and politics. He 
 feels the thrust, and hears the titter ; but he coolly 
 replies, " No, my dear Swift ; I understand that he is still 
 too French to believe in the creed of which you are one 
 Ghristianly expounder ; but he is a Calvinist and a loyal 
 gentleman." He turns his back on the Dean as he says 
 this, and facing the group who have clustered near him, 
 he exclaims in a scornful voice, " In what low hole am I 
 that I can see in one lump such a pack of snuffling curs 
 as ye? S'life! but that my sword has been in good 
 blood, I 'd e'en have a few passadoes at ye for my amuse 
 ment !" 
 
 Instantly cries of " Stab him ! knock him down ! cud 
 gel hun !" are heard from those who are more concealed 
 from view. Drawing his rapier, Philip whirls it once 
 above his head, a motion which makes the nearest shrink 
 from him in affright, and he stands on the defensive in 
 expectation of an attack ; those who surround him, how 
 ever, are chiefly men of peace poetasters, small wits, and 
 literary hacks and none of them offer to molest him. 
 Looking at them for a moment, he bursts into a hearty 
 laugh, and curses them soundly for a pack of cowards. 
 When he has finished his tirade, he shows his back to 
 them, and sheathes his blade with a vicious snap. What 
 now? Mat Prior springing quickly to Philip's side 
 elevates his thick cane above his head parallel- wise. No 
 sooner has he done this when thwack! falls a heavy 
 cudgel on it with such force as to make the protecting 
 stick flatten Philip's hat over his eyes. 
 
 Directly he turned his back on the titterers, one 
 cowardly fellow aimed a blow at him which would have 
 certainly broken his head if Prior had not diverted its 
 destination, and returned the compliment by levelling the 
 would-be hero to the ground. The landlord now pushes
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 159 
 
 in and swears, if order is not restored, that he will give 
 the alarm and have them all arrested. 
 
 Philip thanks Prior for his good service, and asks the 
 favor of a bottle of wine with him, of which he also in 
 vites Swift to partake; but the worthy Dean declines, 
 and pleading an engagement in St. James' Park, he 
 leaves them to discuss it alone. 
 
 " It was a lucky ward-off which saved my skull that 
 time, Mr. Prior ! Allow me : ' Your health and success.' " 
 And the glasses clink together before they are emptied. 
 
 "Thanks, my lord," replies Prior. "You spoke of 
 going abroad. Do you design travelling in France at 
 all?" 
 
 "Yery probably I shall. I should like to see Paris 
 vastly well." 
 
 " Avignon is not far from there ?" adds Prior, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 "Well, even Avignon has its sights," replies Philip 
 with a smile, which his companion returns. " How is it 
 with yourself and the government now, Mr. Prior ? All 
 quarrels settled?" 
 
 " Yes, my lord, and I am thankful for it. My long 
 confinement seriously impaired my health." He refers 
 to the two years during which he was kept a prisoner in 
 his own house. 
 
 "S'life!" replies Philip, "I'd have run away long 
 before two years expired or a week either, or else I 'd 
 have fired my prison. But I must leave you ! Bye-bye ! 
 I am off for the park and a bit of fresh air." And 
 paying his bill, he goes out. 
 
 He has not strolled along very far when he encounters 
 his friend, Sir Harry Hautefort, whose arm he takes and 
 they walk off together: ogling the fair dames as they 
 pass, or criticizing the dresses of the fops and cavaliers.
 
 160 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Sir Harry unluckily steps on a loose stone just as a glis 
 tening beau is passing him, and the mud spirts in a dirty 
 stream on his pink silk stockings. The injured cavalier, 
 laying his hand threateningly on his rapier, scowls at 
 the author of his misfortune, but pursues his way in 
 silence, while Philip recites, in a tone loud enough to be 
 heard a dozen yards off, the following consoling couplet : 
 
 " Oh, bear me to the paths of fair Pall Mall ; 
 Safe are thy pavements ; grateful is thy smell ! 
 
 Those who have seen the occurrence enjoy a laugh at the 
 expense of the spattered gentleman, who, however, does 
 not deign to notice Philip's audacity in thus making him 
 a public jest. 
 
 " Faith !" says Sir Harry, "if I had been in his posi 
 tion, and he in mine, it is my calm opinion that he would 
 have received a kicking for his carelessness." 
 
 Philip laughing, and directing his attention to a couple 
 of well-known Whig noblemen who are conversing to 
 gether a short distance from them, says, " Harry, drop 
 a few yards behind me, and mark the row I '11 raise in St. 
 James!" 
 
 Accordingly, Sir Harry lags behind, while Philip ad 
 vances to within a few feet of the gentlemen whom he 
 had pointed out, and with a few prefatory flourishes he 
 begins to sing in a loud voice : 
 
 The king shall hae his ain again 
 
 All stop and turn in surprise as they hear this trea 
 sonous refrain sung in broad day, and in the most fre 
 quented part of the park. Still Philip continues his 
 song, while the bewildered Whigs look with horror on 
 the daring gallant who thus openly defies them. 
 
 Sir Harry takes himself off as soon as he sees how 
 matters are going, and he is now ensconced behind a
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'8 CAREER. 161 
 
 tree at some distance from Philip. The crowd is rapidly 
 thickening, still Philip is unmolested, and still his song 
 is heard. But now cries of "Papist! traitor! rebel 1" 
 begin to sound from some of the angry spectators. Sud 
 denly the crowd opens and falls back, and the guard 
 appears. Their captain walking straight to Philip, 
 demands his sword, and informs him that he is under 
 arrest. Philip stopping his song, exclaims, " My sword ? 
 You '11 get it in your vitals if you interrupt me again !" 
 and making a grasp at its hilt, he attempts to draw it ; 
 but the officer, striking his hand, knocks off Philip's grip, 
 and drawing it out himself, he commands his men to 
 "lay hold of the prisoner." Philip, seeing the utter 
 futility of resistance, spitefully finishes his song, and 
 says, half to himself and half to the officer of the guard 
 
 " The Earl he drew out half his eword ; 
 The guard drew out the rest !" 
 
 Luckily for him, the justice before whom he is taken 
 happens to be Jacobitish in his principles, and has a 
 predilection for the bonnie king who never got his own 
 again ; so that he is merely reprimanded and mulcted in 
 the sum of five guineas for creating a public disturbance 
 and then discharged, neither a wiser nor a happier man, 
 but with an idea that home is the right place to favor 
 with his presence after his late wise actions, 
 
 No sooner has he entered than her ladyship desires his 
 attendance in the drawing-room, and thither he goes. 
 The occupants are my lady and a tall, cadaverous, 
 pedantic-looking man, whose lantern jaws give an unna 
 tural length to his pinched face. His rusty, cropped 
 wig is pulled down too much in front, for it nearly covers 
 his bushy eyebrows ; his dress is faded and sombre, and 
 it has scarce an inch of lace or edging on it from his 
 collar to his square-toed shoes. Poverty-stricken learn- 
 
 14*
 
 162 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 ing betrays its presence in his every motion or gesture, 
 in every seam and band about him. Philip's first 
 thoughts are, " This must be Monsieur de Savatte. 
 S'life! what a scarecrow! I shall have to dress him 
 decently before I '11 be seen with him in public. What 
 an air of Calvinistic morality incrusts his antique person ! 
 Even his buttons are precise and formal, and his shoes 
 are actually devoid of buckles I 'Sooth, I have an aver 
 sion to the man already." 
 
 Her ladyship introduces this personage to Philip as 
 his future governor, with many commendations of his 
 learning and research, which he acknowledges by a stiff 
 bow. Philip shakes hands with M. de Savatte, and says, 
 in incisive accents, " Monsieur de Savatte, I wish you 
 to distinctly understand that in future you are in my 
 employ as private secretary, not as governor. I object 
 to the latter title decidedly." 
 
 M. de Savatte replies, with a gesture of surprise, " My 
 lord, may I ask why the worthy title of governor is ob 
 noxious to you ?" 
 
 Philip says blandly, " Of course, I object on the 
 score of veracity. The title governor would be an un 
 truth, for you will never govern me, though you may 
 advise me." 
 
 M. de Savatte extends his hands in amazement at 
 hearing such rebellious words from his future pupil, and 
 turns to his mother with a look of inquiry. Greatly 
 mortified at Philip's words, she forces a smile as she 
 replies, "Philip often says more than he means; he 
 does " 
 
 But Philip ruins her palliative by saying, " In this 
 case, though, I said less than I meant, Monsieur!" 
 
 A lackey entering at this instant, hands a letter to 
 Philip, who, bowing apologetically to my lady and M. de
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 163 
 
 Savatte, goes to the window to read it. He looks per 
 plexed and mystified, as though he cannot comprehend 
 the meaning of the letter. Finally he throws open the 
 window, and calls down to the man, who awaits his 
 answer, " Here, fellow, take your precious scrawl back to 
 your mistress, and tell her that I never honor dead men's 
 drafts. Leave, now, and never trouble me again about 
 matters of which I am as ignorant as the king himself!" 
 So saying, he throws the letter out of the window, and 
 once more addresses himself to his future tutor. " We 
 start to-morrow, I suppose. Where is our first stopping 
 place? Paris, or Geneva, or where?" 
 
 M. de Savatte replies, with a stiff jerk of his body, 
 " Geneva was mentioned by her ladyship as the best 
 place for the instillation of the right principles into your 
 mind 1" 
 
 " Ah I" Philip adds with an incredulous look. 
 
 My lady, who begins to fear that Philip's insolence 
 may create difficulties which will be hard to adjust if the 
 conversation is prolonged, now bows the learned man 
 out, with an injunction to be all ready by the morrow, 
 to which he replies, " I have only to pack a few books 
 my classics and metaphysics, and then I am ready." 
 
 As the door closes after him, Philip begins to criticize 
 his looks and his speech ; but his mother, good-naturedly 
 defending, beseeches her son to pay great attention to 
 M. de Savatte's teachings, and to profit by his learning. 
 
 " Rely on me," he replies with a sudden twinge of 
 conscience : " Hereafter I '11 try to be less rackety in my 
 actions. I fear that I have been the cause of many a 
 sad day and night with you 1" 
 
 She replies : " My son, I cannot deny it ; but if you 
 will conduct yourself better in future, you will be the 
 cause of more happiness to me than ever you have been 
 misery."
 
 164 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip kisses her affectionately, and a pang of remorse 
 touches him as he sees how wan and worn she looks. 
 Poor woman ! as she kissed her darling " good-bye," 
 the next day, she was heavy at heart, and felt an indis 
 tinct foreboding that she would never see him again.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTOiN'S CAREER. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Chremylus. Phoebus protect us ! Gracious deities ! 
 
 Why, what the mischief has this fellow met with? 
 
 Chremylus. Hey day ! whom have we here ? 
 
 ARISTOPHANES' "PLUTtrs." 
 
 PHILIP and M. de Savatte land in safety after an 
 uneventful voyage, during which Philip's conduct has 
 been most exemplary, and has agreeably surprised his 
 governor, who thought he had caught a tartar when he 
 saw him for the first time ; and in the letter which he 
 wrote to Lady Wharton, the tutor gave her a glowing 
 account of her sdn's actions. 
 
 They do not tarry long in any of the towns or princi 
 palities through which they pass, except in a small 
 electorate on the road to Hanover, where Philip insists 
 on stopping for a whole day despite the remonstrances of 
 M. de Savatte. He has seen a pretty German flower- 
 girl pass before the window of his room, and has at 
 once taken a violent fancy for her ; he replies to his im 
 patient governor, " Monsieur, she is lovely, divine ! I 
 must see her again even if it is only for five minutes ! 
 Such^a sensation as admiration is not to be sneered at, 
 sir, in my blase condition." 
 
 " Eh bien, my lord ! as you wish ; but the sooner that 
 we arrive at Geneva, the better." 
 
 Philip finally agrees not to remain here longer than to 
 day, whether or no he sees the flower-girl again. He 
 occupies his time in going to court and raising a flutter
 
 166 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 among the punctilious princelings and the court dames 
 who are all agog to see the son of the great English 
 nobleman, whose reputation has extended even to this 
 dull region. He is feted, caressed, and greatest honor 
 of all decorated with an order of knighthood, which he 
 is assured by the courtiers will insure him respect in any 
 quarter of the globe, to which modest assertion he replies, 
 " My lords, I do not value the ribbon the worth of a 
 groat on that account. My name is a warranty of 
 respect, as you all know ;" and he feels a trifle offended; 
 nevertheless, he is quite proud of his decoration, and 
 wears it in a prominent place on his waistcoat lapel. 
 
 Philip does not find his flower-girl, however, as he has 
 forgotten all about her by the following morning ; M. de 
 Savatte does not recall her to his memory, and they set 
 out for Hanover, " England's royal nursery," arriving in the 
 capital safe and sound. For two or three days they stop 
 at the best hotel which the town boasts, when they receive 
 an invitation from a German nobleman, who places his 
 house at the disposal of the young lord. Philip accepts 
 the invitation, and he and M. de Savatte are now the 
 guests of Count von Erschlief. 
 
 Philip and his host are together in a bright, sunny 
 room, which faces the Platze, whose linden trees are 
 agreeable to the eye and fragrant to the smell. In gut 
 tural German, Yon Erschlief questions, " How are poli 
 tics in England, my lord? The mails are so irregular 
 that I am often behindhand with outside news ?" 
 
 In his own estimation, the count is a great politician 
 . skilful, sapient, and shrewd, but in truth he is as 
 dunderheaded a German as ever waded through musty 
 tomes of metaphysics or dabbled in abstruse philosophies. 
 He is short and stout, and his fat cheeks fall in unctuous 
 layers from his lacklustre eyes to his neck. M. de Sa-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'8 CAREER. 1GT 
 
 vatte is in the back part of the room, where stands a 
 small library of books and MSS., and he is so absorbed 
 With its treasures that he ignores everything else. 
 
 " My dear count," replies Philip with a mischievous 
 look, " I am rather ignorant of affairs in England at 
 present myself; but it is confidently reported that 
 Madame Robethon is in high favor with his majesty, 
 and moreover that she has turned high Tory, i'faith 1" 
 
 The count stares at him in surprise, and, after a mo 
 ment's silence, he splutters out, " Mein Gott ! is it so ? 
 This is news indeed !" To which Philip nods affirma 
 tively, with a countenance of regretful solemnity and a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 To fully understand the ridiculous nature of Philip's 
 assertion, it is necessary to know that Madame Robethon 
 is a Hanoverian lady of low rank, who has a body so 
 squat and a voice so disagreeably coarse and croaking, 
 that she has been christened at court by the cognomen 
 of Madame Grenouille.* Her principles are "Whig to a 
 proverb. Taking his departure, after the above astound 
 ing intelligence, Philip leaves the count in a most un 
 enviable state of mind on account of the vexatious aspect 
 of affairs in London. 
 
 M. de Savatte has remained so absorbed in the trea 
 sures he has found, as to miss entirely the conversation 
 which has taken place at the other end of the room. 
 Philip looks towards him and smiles at his rapt gesticu 
 lations. The tutor is grasping in both hands an immense 
 vellum-bound folio, which is protected at the corners with 
 wide strips of tarnished brass ; he has not taken the trou 
 ble to go to the table and lay it there for easy inspection, 
 but he has placed his right foot on his left knee, thereby 
 forming a projection on which the folio reclines, and he 
 
 * Frog.
 
 168 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 cranes his neck in a painful manner in order to peruse 
 the top lines. His countenance is serious and earnest. 
 " Right, right," he exclaims ; " Cato in his time knew of 
 three kinds of myrtle to wit, the white, the black, and 
 the Conjugala, so called haply of wedlock or marriage, 
 and peradventure it may !" Philip leaning over to see 
 what it is that interests him so much, reads on the top 
 line, the title : " Plinie's Naturall Historic." 
 
 " Parbleu, Monsieur ! Plinie seems to engage both 
 your eyes and ears. I have romanced most wonderfully 
 for the last half hour, and have not been once corrected!" 
 
 The studious pedant raises his head in bewilderment, 
 blushes and apologizes : " My lord, pardon my rude 
 ness, I pray you. I was so interested that I recked not 
 of time or place !" 
 
 " All right," Philip carelessly replies ; " I feel as though 
 .1 should enjoy a promenade to-day. The weather is 
 glorious. Will you accompany me ?" 
 
 The tutor replies, " My lord, your wishes are my com 
 mands 1" 
 
 "Provided the wishes are of the right sort!" adds 
 Philip. 
 
 Monsieur pays no attention to this remark, but 
 launches at once into enthusiastic praise of Pliny and 
 his works, proceeding in learned jargon to explain his 
 system until Philip impatiently tells him to drop the sub 
 ject and walk out with him. 
 
 Whilst they are out, Philip casts his eye on a fine 
 English stallion, whose coat is as glossy and smooth as 
 satin and as black as ebony. The rider bestrides the 
 horse with the ease and grace of a practised horseman, 
 extorting an exclamation of pleasure from Philip, who 
 appreciates his thorough command over the animal. 
 Regardless of his total ignorance of the equestrian, 
 Philip advances towards him and raises his hat, a salu-
 
 OE, PIIILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 169 
 
 tation which the rider returns, at the same time checking 
 his horse. 
 
 " I beg a thousand pardons, sir, for this intrusion," 
 says Philip ; " I am Lord Wharton of Rathfarnham and 
 Catherlough." 
 
 " And I, my lord," replies the stranger, " am Sir 
 Geoffrey Mountairy." 
 
 Philip resumes in an abrupt manner, " Sir Geoffrey, I 
 have a desire to purchase your horse. It pleases me 
 mightily. Will you sell it ?" 
 
 " Really, my lord," Sir Geoffrey replies, taken aback 
 at the strange proposal, but, as he is rather reduced in 
 circumstances at present, willing to dispose of the animal 
 if a good price were offered; "hitherto the desire has 
 never entered my mind, nor do I particularly wish to sell 
 him ; but if you will promise to treat him well, I may 
 be induced to part with him I" 
 
 Philip hurriedly replies, " I will give you any sum 
 you may deem him worth five hundred guineas !" 
 
 Sir Geoffrey, rejoicing at the mention of so large a price, 
 closes with the offer at once. 
 
 M. de Savatte in vain argues and expostulates. Philip 
 is deaf to reason, and tells his tutor, with a sprinkling of 
 oaths, " I will have the horse, cost what it may 1" and 
 resumes to Sir Geoffrey : " Send him to Count von Ersch- 
 lief 's, and I will give you a draft on London." 
 
 Sir Geoffrey replies that he will go thither at once, if 
 Philip so wishes ; to this proposition Philip agrees, and 
 he hurries his angry governor off home again to await 
 the distinguished arrival. 
 
 In due time the stallion comes, and of course, receives 
 its meed of admiration and praise. The count is highly 
 pleased with him, and declares that it is a horse fit for 
 the Czar, an opinion in which Philip concurs. 
 
 Philip is in his room glancing through an abstruse work 
 15
 
 1TO HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 on the law of nations, which he comprehends as thorough 
 ly, after two or three industrious readings, as an ordinary 
 mind would after a month's hard study; for with a 
 memory wonderfully retentive, he combines reasoning 
 faculties of no common order. Throwing the book from 
 him with a disdainful gesture, he exclaims, " Tut ! Sa 
 vatte told me to devote at least a day to the study of the 
 polemical introduction. Ah, ha ! I would wager heavy 
 odds that I already know his theories better than him 
 self 1 when he Eh? come in!" he cries in response to a 
 low tap at the door. 
 
 M. de Savatte" enters with a lugubrious expression on 
 his dried features. He holds in his hand a letter whose 
 edging is black an inch deep a sign that death has 
 robbed some one of a friend or a relative. Philip turns 
 a trifle pale as he takes the letter, and when he sees his 
 own quarterings on the black seal, it almost falls through 
 his trembling fingers. M. de Savatte considerately 
 leaving him alone, softly closes the door after his exit. 
 Philip reads a few lines, and his hand crushes the paper 
 with a convulsive grasp. 
 
 " Mother, mother 1 I am all alone now ! God ! Why 
 did you die?" 
 
 His tears patter on the paper thick and fast as he re 
 sumes the perusal: "Your property will be taken in 
 charge by trustees appointed as by law. You will be 
 allowed an income of 2000 per annum, until you are 
 of age !" " Trustees, eh ? cent per centums," he mut 
 ters; "a charge of twelve shillings for their care of a 
 guinea ! Mother ! mother I" he cries in a savage, bitter 
 manner ! " A curse on the fate which robbed me of 
 you ! Mother is dead ? dead ? My head whirls so I can 
 not comprehend 1" 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 He awakes next morning gloomy and taciturn. M.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 171 
 
 de Savattc observes his moodiness, and justly ascribes 
 it to the ill news which he has received, for a document 
 has been sent to him from the trustees authorizing him 
 to retain his position as tutor to his lordship. At break 
 fast few words pass between them, but when Philip has 
 finished he says, in a low voice, " Monsieur, to-day I begin 
 a new course of life. I shall eschew Toryism, and be the 
 Protestant which my which I ought to have been 1" 
 
 Monsieur nods assentingly, and with rather a mysti 
 fied air, for he has not known Philip's proclivities for 
 Jacobitism and the Scarlet Lady. 
 
 All the morning Philip is obedient and attentive to 
 the instructions of his really talented tutor, but towards 
 evening he becomes the same irrepressible pupil as before, 
 and instead of working out some knotty problem, or 
 construing some difficult passage, laughs the questions 
 away with a clever pun, or an amusingly inappropriate 
 question, causing his troubled tutor a world of thinking 
 to answer. 
 
 Early the following day they depart for Geneva, 
 where Philip is to remain until he shall have completed 
 his education.
 
 172 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Clean. With all speed I fly 
 
 SOPHOCLES. 
 
 Clean. One word at parting I have left your service. 
 Who follows me, believe, will prove a knave 
 Still greater than myself. 
 
 ARISTOPHANES. 
 
 PHILIP is far better pleased with his new quarters than 
 he thought he would be. At present he. is lazily saun 
 tering through the jeweller's region in company with M. 
 de Savatte, and he examines with great interest the rare 
 workmanship which is displayed in their watches, rings, 
 and bracelets. Gennaro Lemontri's shop he admires 
 most of all, and in return for Gennaro's kindly attention 
 to him during his inspection of the trays of costly gems, 
 Philip purchases three tiny watches, beautifully chased 
 and enamelled, and seven.or eight sparkling rings, besides 
 various other knicknacks, amounting, as the bill declares, 
 to 850 guineas and 15 shillings, in English money. Gen 
 naro generously throws off the latter item, and Philip, 
 giving him an order for the amount, requests him to send 
 the purchases to his lodgings. 
 
 Philip surveys the rapid torrent of the Rhone, as it 
 dashes under the bridges connecting the several parts 
 of the town, with a vivid appreciation of the beatity of 
 the scene. The glaciers of Chamouni, and Mont Blanc 
 the mighty, fill him with indescribable feelings. M. de 
 Savatte, whose varied knowledge is always useful, regales 
 his charge with romantic stories of the passes of the 
 Tete Noire, and the dangerous foot-paths of the Col du
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 113 
 
 Geant, which lead into beautiful Piedmont : and he thrills 
 him with graphic accounts of the terrible crevasses of the 
 Mer de Glace, that are so deep and green and cold. 
 
 Philip thinks that he would like to live here forever, 
 and he is sure he will never tire of Geneva, asking him 
 self, " Can there be a more beautiful place in all the world 
 than this city of frozen beauties ?" He proposes a walk 
 about the environs, to which Monsieur assents ; before 
 they have got fairly under way, they are joined by a friend 
 of Philip's Sir Edgely Warely with whom he has be 
 come acquainted among the riotous crew of the Mohocks, 
 who asks permission to make one of his party, a request 
 which Philip gladly grants. 
 
 Although Sir Edgely has openly professed Whig sen 
 timents in England, he has been viewed with suspicion 
 by that party ; indeed, there are some who have not 
 hesitated to insinuate that he maintains a treasonable 
 correspondence with the exiled court, and that he is a 
 disciple of the Scarlet Lady. These charges, however, 
 have never been substantiated, and as he is clever, witty, 
 and handsome, he has always mixed in tolerable society. 
 Mayhap his dexterity with the rapier and his quickness 
 to avenge an insult or a slur, have tended to make ques 
 tioners or accusers wary in their actions. 
 
 " Are you in Geneva permanently, my lord ?" 
 
 " Yes," replies Philip. " This is my resting-place for 
 a year or so." 
 
 " Under favor, my lord, may I ask who is M. de Sav 
 I really forget his name ;" adding, with a laugh, "he looks 
 like an ossified epitome of learning!" 
 
 " Oh ! M. de Savatte ? He is my secretary !" 
 
 After a short conversation on minor topics, the beauty 
 of the surrounding scenery, and the odd dresses of the 
 Germans, Sir Edgely says carelessly, but with a quick, 
 15*
 
 174 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 comprehensive glance at Philip ; " Eh 1 my lord, oranges 
 once more top the gallant oak I" 
 
 Philip replies hotly, " Yes ; poor Jamie met a crushing 
 defeat both on the field and in the house, when two such 
 gentlemen as Derwentwater and Kenmure were eased of 
 their heads to delight a pack of gaping cursl" 
 
 A curious, triumphant-like smile lights up his compan 
 ion's face as he replies, "Ay, my lord. When King 
 James heard the news, he came as near crying as a king 
 can." 
 
 Philip starts as he hears the Pretender called by his 
 Jacobite title, and says musingly, " I should like well to 
 go to Avignon to note how James and his courtiers com 
 pare with our head and his creatures at home." 
 
 "Compare!" returns Sir Edgely; "the thought is 
 absurd ! England's best blood is with his sacred majesty, 
 and all that are chivalrous and brave enough are with 
 their true king awaiting but an opportunity to follow 
 him to his stolen kingdom, there to reap the reward of 
 their loyalty and affection ; and those who have cringed 
 to the Dutch glutton and his vrows shall be banished the 
 kingdom root and stock !" 
 
 M. de Savatte, who has been engaged in the examina 
 tion of some pieces of rock or spar a few yards away, 
 catching a few words of Sir Edgely's reply, bustles 
 towards his pupil, fearful lest the stranger may be a 
 Jacobite agent on the lookout for converts. Sir Edgely 
 noticing his approach, however, adroitly turns the con 
 versation to more general topics, and descants admir 
 ingly on the grandeur of the scenery and its chastening 
 effect on the mind. 
 
 In a little time Sir Edgely announces his intention of 
 leaving ; before doing so, however, he slyly slips a small 
 packet into Philip's hand which closes on it immediately.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTOtt'S CAREER. 1T5 
 
 After this, he returns to town, whither Philip and Mon 
 sieur soon follow. 
 
 Arriving at the hotel, Philip waits until his tutor is 
 engrossed in the contents of a musty volume called " A 
 true accounte of ye Dryads and Hamadryads." He then 
 takes the packet from his pocket to inspect it. He finds 
 a ribbon within it about six inches long ; its color is red, 
 with a white space in the centre whereon is depicted the 
 chevalier holding a sponge in his right hand to signify 
 that if he ever regains his kingdom, he will wipe off the 
 public debt, which debt is the cause of much bitter feel 
 ing in England, and affords a great rallying cry for the 
 Tories. Around the sides runs the legend "For our 
 wronged king and our oppressed country." Attached 
 to the silk by a gold pin made in the shape of an oak- 
 leaf, is a white cockade. Philip's heart beats quickly as 
 he unpins it, and he exclaims, with a glance at Monsieur, 
 " It smells Mar-ish !" He holds it in his hand a moment 
 as if in consideration. Finally picking up his coat, he 
 puts it on. Now he proceeds to attach the cockade to 
 the right breast, pinning the ribbon on his inner coat. 
 Thus attired he consults the glass. The adornments 
 do become him ! The pink lapels of his waistcoat do 
 not accord with the red ribbon as well as they might 
 have done ; but taking the effect all in all, it is satisfac 
 tory ; and for variety's sake he avows himself high Tory 
 and Jacobite. 
 
 It is early morning, and the sun's rays scarcely glint 
 on the waters of the Rhone. Philip leaves his room, 
 and walks to the stable, where his new purchase munches 
 the straw in lazy contentment ; stepping into the stall, 
 he pats the stallion soothingly on the side. " Oho, my 
 beauty, you belong to a Wharton now. To-morrow you 
 will belong to even a greater than he a Stuart!" The 
 animal whinnies and paws as though he understands him,
 
 116 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and half turns his head to lay his nose on the shoulder 
 of his new master : " Yes, to-day decides me. I '11 go to 
 Avignon, and leave that crusty curmudgeon of a pedant 
 to get along without me. Faith ! the separation will not 
 kill him. His books are more to his taste than I am, 
 parbleu !" 
 
 Laughing noisily as if at the contemplation of a good 
 joke, he resumes : " I '11 leave him a companion suited to 
 his nature i' faith I" 
 
 He steps out at a rapid pace as though he suddenly 
 bethinks him of an important commission. Yesterday 
 he saw a party of itinerant Savoyards who had with 
 them a led bear, which danced and capricoled to the 
 rude music of their rustic pipes ; and he noticed them 
 as they entered a small cabaret in the lower part of 
 the town. Towards this cabaret he goes. He opens 
 the door, and steps inside, to the surprise and joy of 
 mine host, who seldom sees a gallant of such feather 
 enter his humble place ; he is almost too overcome 
 to reply to Philip's question, "Are the Savoys who 
 exhibit a bear about the streets lodging here?" after 
 a short pause, he replies, " Yes, milord, I will call them ;" 
 and he bawls to them in the peasant patois to come down 
 stairs immediately as milord wishes to see them. Turning 
 to Philip he asks him whether the bear shall come also, 
 to which he replies with a smile : " Of course ! that is the 
 animal which I most desire too see." The order is re 
 peated, and shortly Master Bruin is heard treading 
 heavily down the stairs, and he flumps into the bar in 
 company with his masters. 
 
 Philip tells them that he wishes to purchase their ani 
 mal, but they are so sleepy that they can scarcely com 
 prehend him. However, when he thrusts a handful of 
 guineas in the hand of the foremost of them, and grasps 
 Bruin's chain, they seem satisfied, for they nod their ac-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 177 
 
 quiescence in a thankful manner, and slowly reascend to 
 their sleeping place. 
 
 Philip marches triumphantly along the still-deserted 
 streets, while his prize follows meekly after, his long, 
 scuffling strides compelling Philip to proceed at a mighty 
 brisk pace. As he draws near to his lodgings, he calls to 
 one of the three lads who have joined him on the way, 
 and tells him to hold the animal until he returns. The.lad 
 looks at Bruin distrustfully, but as the bear is muzzled, 
 and appears tolerably peaceful, he agrees, keeping a re 
 spectful distance from him withal. Philip stepping care 
 fully inside, indites the following polite epistle to his 
 unsuspecting governor, who reposes soundly in bed and 
 has never a thought of the scene which will greet him 
 when he enters the beloved library. 
 
 " Most erudite and omniscient governor : No longer 
 able to stand your inquisitorial ill-usage, I leave you. 
 However, that you may not want company, I have left 
 you a bear as the most suitable companion that could be 
 picked out for you. 
 
 Your long-bearing pupil, 
 
 PHILIP WHARTON. 
 To M. DE SAVATTE." 
 
 Philip, chuckling maliciously as he folds and seals it, 
 lays it in a prominent pigeon-hole on the escritoire, 
 where Monsieur will be sure to see it at a glance. 
 Now he packs his most portable things, and puts them 
 under his arm ; the coat and waistcoat which he wears 
 are those that are so loyally decorated. He returns to 
 the future companion of Monsieur, and rewards the lad 
 who has held it during his absence, promising him an 
 additional gold piece if he will lead it into the library 
 and leave it with an old gentleman who will enter there
 
 ITS HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 in a few minutes. The boy gives the promise, and re 
 ceives the gratuity. 
 
 In order to enjoy the joke to its fullest extent, Philip 
 stations himself at the latticed window of the library. 
 He knows Monsieur's regularity in his movements, and 
 momentarily expects him to enter. 
 
 " S' life 1 he comes," cries Philip. 
 
 The tutor enters and gazes at the note with inquiring 
 eyes, and slowly, deliberately puts on his horn-rimmed 
 spectacles. Breaking the seal, he examines the writ 
 ing; his brow knits, and his lips compress and open 
 alternately. Turning around as if at some interruption, 
 he opens the door : Philip almost chokes with laughter 
 as he sees him jump back in affright. The grinning 
 urchin leads the bear into the middle of the room, and 
 before its astonished occupant has a chance to speak 
 to him he is gone. Monsieur looks first at his shaggy 
 guest and then at his letter, while Bruin rears himself on 
 his hams, and rubs his ears and his nose with a comical 
 clumsiness ; Monsieur compromises matters by entrench 
 ing himself behind the wide table and keeping a wary 
 eye on the enemy whilst he reads the letter. Philip can 
 surmise what his sensations are by the varied expressions 
 of his face during the perusal, and he enjoys the affair 
 hugely. 
 
 " Sapristi ! I must decamp, or else I '11 be caught," he 
 mutters, and with a farewell look at his governor, he 
 repairs to the stable where his stallion " King Jamie" is 
 ready saddled and bridled.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Saladin. Here is a windfall, truly ! Is there more 
 To come ? 
 
 LESSING'S "NATHAN THE WISE." 
 
 Withal the king 
 
 With his thin, anxious face and pale, 
 Sat leaning forward through the tale, 
 
 MORRIS' "THE MAN BORN TO BE KINO." 
 
 PHILIP is at present wandering alone through the 
 streets of Lyons in order to have a look at anything 
 amusing or interesting, for wherever he goes he invari 
 ably sees everything that is worth seeing; and as he 
 has heard of the ancient Chapel de Notre Dame de Four- 
 vieres, he determines to have a survey of it ere he leaves 
 the city. This chapel is not remarkable for its grandeur 
 or beauty ; on the contrary, it is very plain and modest ; 
 its richly stained windows alone redeem it from a charge 
 of ugly bareness. 
 
 Philip stands in front of the light-flooded altar and 
 takes in at a glance all the gorgeous paraphernalia of 
 the Romish creed ; and a feeling of solemnity and awe 
 strikes his senses ; yet vague, troubled doubts rise in his 
 mind at the sight, and the prejudices of other days surge 
 in his hea'rt. 
 
 He turns to leave, but a sudden change in his feelings 
 decides him to remain, and kneeling reverently before the 
 altar he breathes a prayer it is his first in the house of 
 the Pontiff of Rome. He rises and seats himself on one 
 of the low stools which stand near the confessional. " I 
 wonder if my mother looks down on me now ? If so,
 
 180 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 she will think I am a most dutiful son ; Jacobite and 
 Papist the one from principle, the other from fancj r or 
 conviction ? At all events the one seems to have led 
 to the other, so that I '11 e'en call it a sequence of con 
 sequences." Hearing a footstep behind him, he looks 
 around to see who the new-comer is ; it is Sir Edgely 
 Warely. 
 
 "My dear fellow!" cries Philip, "on my life I am 
 glad to see you ! However did you manage to scale this 
 holy height ?" 
 
 Sir Edgely, who looks as surprised as Philip, replies, 
 " Well, my lord, I chanced to be in the neighborhood, 
 and so I thought I would pay Notre Dame a visit, and 
 recite a few pater nosters for the benefit of my soul!" as 
 .he finishes, he glances at the decorations pinned on 
 Philip's coat. Philip notices the direction of his glance, 
 and says : " Let me thank you for these, Sir Edgely ;" 
 and he points to the ribbon and the cockade. Sir Edgely 
 starts as if surprised, and exclaims, " My lord, I was 
 sure that your heart was true to his majesty ! Do you 
 intend to go to Avignon, where the court is to be held for 
 the present?" 
 
 Philip looks perplexed as he answers, " In truth, I 
 know not how he would receive the son of the great 
 Whig leader ! No, I will not go. I '11 write a letter to 
 him, and proffer my allegiance ! Sir Edgely, do you 
 intend to go there ? If you do, let me beg you to be my 
 messenger." 
 
 " I am going thither," he replies. 
 
 " Good ! You will take a stallion which I have bought 
 especially for his majesty, and present it to him with my 
 compliments ?" 
 
 Sir Edgely, eagerly replies, " My lord, I am only too 
 glad to be able to oblige you. I will set out at once." 
 
 Philip replies, " We must first retrace our steps to
 
 Oft, PHILIP DUKE OF WIIARTON'S CAREER. 181 
 
 town, and I will write the letter ; then off you go with 
 lightning speed to our gracious master 1" 
 
 Philip writes the letter, and the Jacobite agent sets 
 out post for Avignon to carry in the adherence of this 
 most important ally. Philip awaits an answer in great 
 impatience, and can scarcely sleep all night. The next 
 day he is notified that a gentleman is awaiting him in the 
 bar-room. He dresses himself in the violet-satin suit 
 which is slashed with amber-colored silk and heavily 
 laced, attaches the ribbon and cockade to his breast, 
 takes a final look in the glass to curl his embryo mous 
 taches properly, and then walks down stairs in a flutter 
 of excitement to see the royal emissary. He observes a 
 tall, broad-shouldered cavalier who is attired quite as 
 gayly as himself, and who is resting one arm on the oaken 
 bar, while the other clasps the waist of the pretty serv 
 ing-maid, whose face is as red as a peony. He is speak 
 ing to her in the French patois, and calls her by many 
 fond names. He turns as Philip enters, and favors him 
 with a haughty stare, which is returned with one even 
 haughtier and more insolent; but the girl explains 
 matters by saying, "Milord Wharton Milord Win- 
 ton!" 
 
 The stranger's attitude changes at once ; extending 
 his hand to Philip, he says, "My lord, allow me to 
 apologize for my boorish conduct ; for which I shall 
 never forgive myself. My name is George Seton, Earl 
 of Winton." 
 
 Philip is pleased at James' condescension in sending 
 a peer to meet him, and he cordially responds to the 
 compliments which Seton delivers with the grace and 
 affability for which his lordship is noted. His face is a 
 picture of careless, jovial good-humor and nonchalance ; 
 his tawny moustaches surmount a mouth that is deli- 
 16
 
 182 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 cate enough for a woman ; and his eyes betoken a cheery, 
 hopeful disposition. Mad George, as he is called in Lon 
 don, for his many odd freaks and escapades, engaged in 
 the last insurrection in England, and was sentenced to 
 death despite the clever defence which he made, and the 
 manifold tricks by which he tried to evade the law. 
 During his trial, the high steward Lord Cowper, having 
 overruled his casuistical objections with much asperity, 
 he replied with scornful emphasis, " I hope you will do 
 me justice, and not make use of Cowper-law ; as we say 
 in our county hang a man first, and then judge him !" 
 He managed to escape, however, by sawing the bars of 
 his cell with a file which one of his light-o'-loves a Mis 
 tress Wilsome threw into his window at midnight, after 
 the warden had gone his rounds. Before the insurrec 
 tion he had lived for some time with a blacksmith in 
 France in the capacity of bellows-blower and odd-jobber; 
 and during tnat time he did not hold the slightest com 
 munication with his family, nor did he send for a penny 
 of the vast revenues which he inherited, and which are 
 now confiscated by the government. 
 
 Philip plies the emissary with questions relative to the 
 chevalier and his surroundings, waiting impatiently for 
 him to disclose the royal message with which he has been 
 intrusted. 
 
 " My lord," says Seton, " his gracious majesty has 
 done me the honor to appoint me as your conductor. He 
 has expressed his royal desire to see you at court ; and 
 has also authorized me to express to you his thanks for 
 the superb horse which you presented to him. If you 
 are ready to set out, we may as well be off for Avignon 
 at once." 
 
 " With all my heart," cries Philip, joyfully. 
 
 James reclines in his chair of "state with dignity and 
 grace, and as he extends his hand for his new adherent
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 183 
 
 to kiss, he looks a proud Stuart from head to foot. 
 Philip rises at his request, and makes a low obeisance, 
 retiring backward until he stands by the side oi the 
 Earl of Wiiiton, who is engaged- in a serious flirtation 
 with Mistress Arual Dolling, a beauty of sixteen sum 
 mers, who has been spoiled and petted until she is as im 
 perious and exacting as an eastern despot. Her figure 
 is small, but plump, and in all her motions she is as 
 graceful as a fawn. Her complexion is bright and fair, 
 and she owns a pair of azure eyes which swim in co 
 quettish expressiveness. On the left side of her dim 
 pled chin are two round patches, and the curled, pouting 
 lips above seem made expressly for love's kisses to die 
 upon. 
 
 Philip is introduced to her, and at once the fickle beauty 
 bestows all her attention upon him, shamefully neglect 
 ing " Mad George," who lifts his eyebrows, and smiles 
 deprecatingly, as if to say, " All right as you please 
 it is your nature, and you cannot help it !" Philip exerts 
 himself to please her ; and his well-modulated voice, his 
 wit, and his vivacity keep her in a state of piqued plea 
 sure and half-admiration of a man who dares to cross 
 words with her, and even come out the victor, while pro 
 testing his defeat, and begging for quarter. It seems that 
 her laughter disturbs his majesty, for he taps significantly 
 on the arm of his chair, and contracts his brow in a frown. 
 Hiding her face behind her sandal-wood fan, she makes 
 a roGue" of defiance at him, which amuses Philip beyond 
 measure. " S'life !" he says, in a low voice, " I am so 
 angry at your le*ze-majestd that I must e'en let Seton 
 into the affair;" turning to the earl, who has been 
 scanning the assembled demoiselles and courtiers with a 
 critical eye, he says, " Come, my lord, you desolate us 
 by turning your back on us so coldly. Give Mistress 
 Dolling and myself the benefit of your conversation 1"
 
 184 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " Transfix me ! but I '11 do so right willingly ; more for 
 my own sake, though, than for yours." 
 
 James, who has been conversing in low whispers with 
 Earl Mar, who seems to have pressed some subject to 
 which he is averse, finally consents, and Mar, after beg 
 ging permission, steps to Philip's side, and whispers in 
 a low tone, which none overhear except Seton and Mis 
 tress Dolling, " My lord, allow me to unofficially announce 
 to you that his most gracious majesty designs to confer 
 upon you the title and privileges of Duke of Northum 
 berland. I have the honor of first congratulating your 
 grace !" shaking his hand cordially he returns to James, 
 who has watched the proceedings from under his eyes 
 with a half-dissatisfied look. 
 
 Philip is overjoyed at this new sign of the royal favor, 
 and his blood tingles with loyalty and devotion to James, 
 who is, in this instance, wise against his will, through the 
 diplomacy of Mar, who sees that Philip may be of great 
 use in furthering the designs of the exiled court. Philip's 
 whole mind now centres itself on the idea of doing some 
 thing to show that he appreciates the honor which has been 
 shown him ; but all at once this idea flies to the winds at 
 the recollection that he has left his prettiest snuff-box in his 
 room at Lyons, and he determines to return for it imme 
 diately, and get back again in time to take an active part 
 in Jacobite politics or battles. He whispers his intentions 
 to Seton, who stares at his affection for a trifling snuff 
 box ; and excuses himself to Mistres Dolling, who is highly 
 offended that he can leave her for anything in the world, 
 so high an opinion does she entertain of herself. 
 
 James beckons to Seton to come to him, an order 
 which he obeys, and stepping behind his chair he awaits 
 patiently any commands that may be given him. After 
 finishing his discourse with Mar, James turns his atten-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 185 
 
 tion to Seton, saying, with a kindly smile, " Where 
 found you our new subject, my lord ?" t 
 
 " In a dirty cabaret in the lower section of Lyons, 
 your majesty." 
 
 "And how did he express himself at our message?" 
 
 " He was overjoyed, your majesty, and seemed to feel 
 the great honor bestowed upon him." 
 
 James nods his head sagaciously, and says, " We have 
 finished with you, my lord." At this Seton retires from 
 the presence and renews his flirtation with Mistress Doll 
 ing, who welcomes him with an enchanting smile. 
 
 James, leaning over to Mar, inquires t " Think you it is 
 possible that the heroic Winifred of Nithisdale will be at 
 our court to-morrow ? 'Faith we would like to see the 
 woman who is so ingenious as to have deceived the 
 veteran gaolers of our London Tower ! Have you the 
 particulars of the affair ? It is said that you have re 
 ceived despatches from England lately containing a de 
 tailed account of her husband's escape? We would 
 enjoy its recital." 
 
 " Your majesty, it will giv6 me great pleasure to tell 
 all I know of the subject," and he relates his story, which 
 reads more like a romance than a stern matter-of-fact 
 recital, in which a gentle head was saved by the fearless 
 devotion of its owner's wife the beautiful Winifred 
 who is thus described by one who saw her : " She is deli 
 cate and feminine in appearance, and her hair is light- 
 brown, and generally powdered. Her eyes are large and 
 soft ; her features regular, and her complexion is fair and 
 pale." 
 
 James listens with great attention, and as he reaches 
 that part where Winifred travelled to Traquhair to 
 rescue the family papers, and returned safely to London 
 with them, his majesty claps his hands in great glee; 
 but when he hears how spiteful the king was towards her, 
 
 16*
 
 186 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and how he said that " Lady Nithisdale did whatever 
 she pleased in spite of him, and that she had given him 
 more trouble than any woman in Europe," he grinds his 
 teeth, and the Stuart frown mantles on his face. " The 
 boor!" he exclaims; "there is as much chivalry in him 
 as there is in one of his native hogs !" 
 
 " Or his mistresses," adds Mar. 
 
 James smiles as he Answers, "Ay ! neither von Schulen- 
 berg nor Kilmanseck can boast of much but adiposity, 
 idiocy, and the hatred of our loyal subjects." He re 
 mains silent for a few minutes, while Mar occupies him 
 self in running his fingers through his towering wig. 
 " Mar, the Duke of Argyle is said to be tired of this 
 Hanoverian usurper 1" 
 
 " Your majesty, he is a great friend of the Prince." 
 
 " Ergo, an enemy to his father," adds James. 
 
 Mar, laughing low, wonders aloud at his majesty's 
 astuteness. " Your majesty, it is surmised that Walpole 
 is being mightily worried by my Lord Sundeiiand and 
 divers others at court, and it is thought that he will resign 
 ere long, and take his tool Townshend along with him !" 
 
 " Ah ! I did not know of that !" replies James, and he 
 begins to count the beads of his rosary, and his lips move 
 quickly as he recites a pater-noster or an ave Maria ; the 
 while his eyes are cast devoutly on the floor ; suddenly 
 he ceases his devotions, and asks : " Where is Made 
 moiselle Delamour ? We would see her." And again 
 his beads occupy his attention, while Mar goes in search 
 of the notorious and beautiful Desirette Delamour, a 
 favored mistress of James and only a few of his 
 courtiers.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 181 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 " Let other nice lords skulk at home from the wars, 
 Prank'd up and adorn'd with garters and stars, 
 Which but twinkle like those in a cold, frosty night; 
 While to yours you are adding such lustre and light, 
 That if you proceed, I 'm sure very soon 
 'Twill be brighter and larger than the sun or the moon." 
 
 SWIFT'S PAKODT. 
 
 INSTEAD of returning to Avignon, as he intended when 
 he set out for Lyons to regain his precious snuff-box, 
 Philip bethinks him that Paris will be better suited for 
 one of his parts and acquirements ; and so to Paris he 
 goes. His first act of wisdom in this city is his visit 
 to the Queen Dowager, the consort of James the 2d, 
 residing at St. Germains, surrounded by the exiled or 
 disaffected nobles who still retain the idea of seating the 
 chevalier on the throne and then reaping the reward of 
 their constancy. The papers which endow Philip with 
 the empty title of Duke of Northumberland have been 
 forwarded to him from Avignon, and under that title he 
 now goes, to the surprise and disgust of the loyal Eng 
 lishmen who chance to be in Paris, and to the immense 
 delight of the opposing party. 
 
 He takes a superb residence in the vicinity of the 
 Tuileries, and has it furnished and adorned with such 
 lavish extravagance as to excite comment among even 
 the spendthrift Parisians, who fritter and gamble their 
 fortunes away on the whims of a mistress or the turn of 
 a dice. . His equipage is the finest in town ; for out 
 riders he has two negroes, whom he calls Mustapha and
 
 188 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Mahomet, in ridicule of George's back-stair attendants. 
 His runners are considered the finest and best-winded 
 men inside of the gates. 
 
 Drawn by four large, black stallions, his coach conveys 
 him swiftly down the Boulevard, while he reclines against 
 the cushions in an easy, but studiously graceful attitude. 
 Now he calls to the driver to stop, and the horses draw 
 up with a clattering din before the door of Anatole 
 Cherprix, the famous dealer in pictures, art productions, 
 and articles of vertu. Philip has noticed in his window a 
 group of statuary Circe and her victim which he 
 thinks would look pretty in his private room ; it is carved 
 with high artistic skill, and is, as Anatole declares, " a 
 perfect gem." 
 
 " I will sacrifice it for ten thousand francs, milord. 
 Shall I send it to milord's house ?" 
 
 Philip replies, " Yes. Send it before night to la maison 
 Northumberland, and I will give you an order on Lon 
 don ;" returning to his coach, he majestically once more 
 displays himself to the admiring Parisians and the resi 
 dent English as he retires to his magnificent abode. 
 
 After partaking of a rich lunch, he sallies out again in 
 quest of amusement or excitement that will pass away 
 the time until dinner. As he proceeds lazily towards the 
 Tuileries, he feels a hand laid familiarly on his shoulder. 
 He turns quickly, and to his surprise recognizes Sir 
 Edgely Warely, who cries, " As I am alive ! It is strange 
 how often I meet your grace ! I was wandering about 
 disconsolate and friendless, when I thought I saw your 
 grace's form which I could recognize among a thousand 
 and I am vastly pleased to find that I was not mis 
 taken in my surmise." 
 
 Philip is flattered and pleased with Sir Edgely's 
 speech ; moreover he is glad to have some one to whom 
 he can talk, for his residence in town has been so recent
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 189 
 
 that not even the watchful tuft-hunters have had tune 
 to run him to earth. 
 
 " Sir Edgely," says Philip, in cordial tones, tempered, 
 however, with an almost imperceptible condescension of 
 manner, " I cannot express myself in suitable terms for 
 the pleasure of this meeting." 
 
 Sir Edgely bows in acknowledgment, and replies in 
 a careless, haphazard manner : " How would your grace 
 like to call on my Lord Stairs ? He is at home now, I 
 am certain!" He knows that Philip will visit Stair 
 before long, and fearing lest he should be regained to the 
 Hanoverian party, he determines to beard the lion at once, 
 and go with Philip to the ambassador in order to coun 
 teract any influence which that oily diplomat may at 
 tempt to secure over his actions or his thoughts. 
 
 Philip replies : " The very place of all places. I have 
 a desire to see his excellency, who, they say, is a marvel 
 of good-breeding and astuteness. I promise myself a 
 little amusement when he discovers these on Whig Whar- 
 ton's son, eh?" and he points to the ribbon and the 
 cockade ; whereat they both laugh heartily, and Sir 
 Edgely praises his boldness and encourages him in his 
 foolish intentions ; for he would like nothing better than 
 to produce a complete estrangement between Stair who 
 is so inimical to his party and Philip. 
 
 Their names are announced, and they are ushered into 
 the hall, in a few minutes the ambassador descends the 
 stairs. Polished and graceful in his deportment, his 
 manners are complaisant and insinuating. Welcoming 
 Philip with great warmth and cordiality, he condoles 
 with him on the recent loss of his mother. He compli 
 ments him on his good looks and fine appearance, but 
 purposely neglects to call him by his new title, and 
 Philip is so charmed with his conversation that he does
 
 190 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 not wish to raise a discussion in which he fears he would 
 be worsted. 
 
 Not so Sir Edgely, for as Stair addresses Philip as 
 my lord, he coughs twice or thrice in a very significant 
 manner, and as he finds that his hints are unheeded an 
 angry feeling glows in his breast at Philip's lack of self- 
 assertion. 
 
 Stair gives Sir Edgely a very cool welcome, paying 
 little or no attention to him, for he knows him to be a 
 rank tTacoTsite and a partisan-hunter for the Pretender. 
 After a few observations relative to matters at home and 
 abroad, Stair sa'ys to Philip : " Your father was a true 
 friend to his country, and when England lost him, she 
 had one great man the less : I hope and trust that you 
 will follow so illustrious an example of fidelity to your 
 prince, and affection to your country, by treading in the 
 same steps 1" 
 
 Philip, averse to advice under any circumstances, 
 is, in this case, particularly incensed at what he considers 
 his excellency's impertinence both to himself and his 
 friend ; and he replies in a sneering tone and with a 
 spiteful glance, " I thank your excellency for your good 
 advice ; and as your excellency had also a worthy and 
 deserving father, I hope that you will likewise copy so 
 bright an original, and tread in all his footsteps." 
 
 This allusion to his father's disgraceful share in the 
 Glencoe massacre, and his remorseless hatred and de 
 struction of the Macdonalds of that ilk, after the sub 
 mission of their chief Mac Ian, causes the earl's pale face 
 to burn with mortification and rage ; subduing his first 
 impulse of revenge, however, he replies in a tone which 
 makes Philip almost despise himself for his insolence to 
 one so much older than himself. "My lord, my father 
 did what he thought right and just, and it "was his un 
 fortunate over zeal which prompted him to an action, at
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 191 
 
 the recollection of which his son now hangs his head in 
 shame. My lord, I thank you for the rebuke conveyed 
 to me so gently." 
 
 It is now Philip's turn to flush, and he looks so shame- 
 stricken that Stair involuntarily extends his hand in 
 token of forgiveness, and Philip gripes it with a pressure 
 which is a better apology than a volume of words. Sir 
 Edgcly's brow lowers as he sees that the shrewd diplomat 
 has thrust home a wedge which may split his design to 
 pieces, and he bites his nether lip in anger. 
 
 Says his excellency, "My lord, can I have a few 
 minutes' private conversation ?" 
 
 At these words, Sir Edgely seems as if he would re 
 monstrate; but if he so intended, he wisely controls 
 himself. 
 
 " Certainly, your excellency," replies Philip. " Excuse 
 us for a short time, Sir Edgely." 
 
 Stair, leading Philip to his private apartment, re 
 quests him to be seated, and continues : " Under favor, 
 my lord, are you aware of the character of this Sir 
 Edgely ?" 
 
 Philip demands rather warmly, " In what respect?" 
 
 " In everything, both his public and private character ?" 
 
 Philip replies, "Well, no! I met him in London a 
 short time since. He seems to be a good-natured, clever 
 gentleman, and as he rather courts my acquaintance, and 
 yet is neither servile nor insolent, I have taken a slight 
 fancy to him ! As for his public character, I know that 
 he is greatly attached to the Chevalier : small blame to 
 him for that, however." 
 
 Stair affects not to notice the last remark, and replies, 
 " My lord, he calls himself Sir Edgely Warely ; his real 
 name is plain Edgely Valentin; and unfortunately he 
 has never known who was his father. Not his fault, to 
 be sure ; but you know the world's opinion in regard to
 
 192 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 these things! He is a traitor to his king, and a spy 
 and inveigler for the Pretender, and well is he adapted 
 for his offices, for he is crafty, unscrupulous, and daring : . 
 three qualities that make him a dangerous friend and a 
 worse enemy 1" 
 
 Philip is so astonished at these revelations that he does 
 nothing but mutter in a low tone, something about 
 " insulting his friend reparation and false charges ;" 
 mutterings which Stair ignores, by crossing to the other 
 side of the room, ostensibly to open his window. 
 
 By the time he returns Philip is more composed, and 
 he remains sullenly quiet, while his face is flushed and 
 perplexed. 
 
 " If the question is not offensive, my lord, why do you 
 wear those gewgaws which dangle on your breast?" 
 
 Philip flushes more deeply as he retorts, "Your excel 
 lency was once my father's friend, or .you should cer 
 tainly expiate this insult to my king on the field of 
 honor!" and bestowing a haughty look upon him Philip 
 descends to Sir Edgely Warely, or, as he shall be called 
 after this, Edgely Valentin. 
 
 Stair bites his nails in vexation as the young " quick 
 silver" disappears, and utters, " Honest Tom, without his 
 coolness !" 
 
 As Philip descends the stairs, he makes up his mind 
 to find out whether or no the ambassador's accusa 
 tions are correct, so, before he enters the reception 
 chamber, he calls, in a low, indistinct voice, " Valentin ! 
 Edgely Valentin !" and watches the effects of his words. 
 The Jacobite turns in an instant, and casts his eyes in 
 every direction with a wild look in them, while his 
 trembling lips enunciate in a thick unnatural voice, 
 "Who calls?" 
 
 " I ! Philip Wharton, you forsworn liar ! Go ! Never 
 let me see your face again ; never call me friend again,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 193 
 
 or I '11 have your face slit so that your father excuse 
 me, your mother would not know you again. 'Tis a 
 pity that I cannot do it with my own hand ; but a 
 W hart on never stoops to cross steel with a " He 
 holds back the last epithet, and half-regrets his cruel 
 words. For a moment Edgely staggers like one drunk, 
 then drawing his cloak over his face, he walks out with 
 staggering, uncertain steps. 
 
 " A pest on my scurrilous tongue ! Poor man ; I turned 
 his head when I spoke so villainously to him ;" and he 
 walks home with a slight compunction pricking at his 
 heart. 
 
 Philip receives a message from the ambassador early 
 in the day, in which he is invited to call and be presented 
 at court ; so, at the time appointed, he dresses himself 
 with elaborate care, and orders his coach. Stepping 
 carefully inside, he cries out, " His Excellency the Am 
 bassador." ^ . 
 
 Stair receives him with as much graciousness and 
 affability as though he had never passed a disagreeable 
 word with him ; and when they arrive at court he guides 
 him through the intricate hallways and amuses him with 
 descriptions of the various people with whom he will be 
 likely to be brought in contact during the presentation 
 to royalty. 
 
 After the ceremony is over, Stair renews his character 
 of guide, taking Philip to all the parts of the palace that 
 are beautiful or interesting. He points out the beauty 
 of the pavilion de VHorloge, and tells him a strange 
 story of its architects, Delorme and Bullant, who were 
 matches in impiety and blasphemy. They had im 
 piously placed a statue of Catharine de Medici on the 
 facade, directly over another of the Virgin Mary ; and 
 just as they were sending in the last rivet which was to 
 hold it in its place, a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky 
 17
 
 194 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 struck them both, and killed them immediately; while 
 the statue of the queen was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 They are promenading the vast gardens of the 
 Tuileries, and enjoying the pure breeze wafting over 
 the clear bosom of the lovely Seine. Stair is saying, 
 " My lord, honor me with your presence to-morrow ! I 
 expect to have quite a company at my house, most 
 of whom are either talented, witty, or beautiful; and 
 I '11 take my oath on 't that you will enjoy yourself. I 
 shall expect you as my guest if you have no prior 
 claims." 
 
 " Your excellency may depend on me," replies Philip ; 
 *' I revel in the anticipation of the morrow." 
 
 Stair, who has business within the palace, now excuses 
 himself, and advises Philip to look about him, and enjoy 
 the surrounding scenery. 
 
 "Edgely Yalentin! Umph! the man is clever and 
 unassuming. 'Tis a pity he cannot speak of a father; 
 but he can console himself with the fact that half the 
 world is in the same quandary ; the only difference is 
 that some know it, and others do not." 
 
 Philip is already beginning to gain many friends in 
 Paris ; for his fine parts, ready wit, and especially his 
 reckless expenditure have begun to produce quite a good 
 effect in the courtly circles of the city. He is known to 
 many by the title of Le Beau Wharton, and if the story 
 of his marriage had not preceded him, he would have 
 been looked on as a godsend by intriguing dowagers 
 with penniless daughters. As it is, his society is eagerly 
 courted by many of the wanton beauties and profligate 
 monseigneurs who make up the celebrated coterie in 
 which the influence of Ninon de 1'Enclos and I'Abbe' 
 Scarron are strongly felt. 
 
 Once or twice he has endeavored to procure an inter-
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 195 
 
 view with the ci-devant " La Belle Indienne,"* who buried 
 herself in the Convent of Saint Cyr on the dissolution 
 of Le Grand Monarque ; but his attempts have been 
 .fruitless, and in his chagrin at being foiled, he perpe 
 trates the following couplet on her, which he sent in to 
 her by the portress : 
 
 Yes ! lie hidden ! perverse Indienne, 
 You scorn of women and love of men ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 Sittah. How now, dear Saladin, what play is this? 
 Saladin. Indifferent ? Yet I thought it good. 
 Sittah. For me 
 
 LESsnra's NATHAN THE WISE. 
 
 STROLLING oward the main Boulevard, Philip joins 
 in with the crowd of essenced fops and mincing beaux 
 who hail him with complimentary protestations and 
 welcoming smiles, which he accepts with a calm con 
 sciousness of his right to such attentions. One of the 
 nearest fops, a Count Be*tenoire, says to him, with a 
 flourish of his cocked hat, which he carries in his hand 
 to show his glossy periwig, "Ah-ha! Your grace has 
 heard of the accident that occurred to his Excellency, 
 my Lord Stair 1" 
 
 "Accident!" replies Philip. "No, I have not. Tell 
 me all about it, I beg of you." 
 
 The Count resumes : " Yoici ! Monsieur Killmahl, a 
 young English surgeon, who came here to study in our 
 Hospital, and who is a great friend to your King James, 
 had occasion to pass by his excellency's door an hour 
 
 * Mme. de Maintenon, the instigator of the revocation of the Edict of 
 Nantes.
 
 196 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 or more ago, and irritated, I suppose, by his enmity to 
 his excellency's master, he smashed his windows, and 
 nailed a placard to his door, on which was written, 
 'King James forever! Death to the Dutchman!!' Of 
 course he was arrested, and Monsieur Killmahl is now on 
 his way to the prison of Fort 1'Eveque, where he will have 
 ample time to cool down and repent of his rashness." 
 
 Philip is amused at the affair, and willingly joins in 
 the laugh at the foolish saw-bones. Turning to Marechal 
 Tiernan an Irish officer in the service of France he 
 says, " Mardchal, give me the aid of your trusty arm, 
 and I will at once repeat M. Killmahl's performance. 
 Then we shall see whether they dare mention Fort 
 1'Eveque to me or not !" 
 
 The Marechal smiles at the oddity of the proposal, 
 and answers, " I advise your grace by all means to give 
 up the enterprise. But if your grace is resolved to exe 
 cute it, I beg you to leave me out of your party ; for it 
 is a kind of war-making to which I have not been accus 
 tomed." 
 
 Philip colors slightly at the imputation. However, 
 he laughs it off as a joke, and the conversation turns on 
 other subjects. 
 
 Betenoire proposing an adjournment to the Salon of la 
 Comtesse de Petitscreve*, a notorious gaming-hell in the 
 fashionable quarter of Paris, the suggestion meets with 
 unanimous applause, and thither they proceed. 
 
 Madame's mansion is aristocratically situated, and all 
 its surroundings are au fait. The " Grand Chambre" 
 is on the second floor; it is spacious and airy, and 
 richly adorned in the Louis Quatorze style. The walls 
 are divided into oval sections, in each of which is a 
 highly-colored painting, either by Watteau or after him. 
 Between each picture are four delicate clustered pillars 
 of variegated marble, that ascend from the floor to the
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 197 
 
 ceiling, where they spread into the rich Corinthian 
 apex. The vaulted ceiling glows with rich allegorical 
 designs, not over chaste or refined, but artistically beau 
 tiful. Two of the most noticeable are the depictions of 
 Britomartis, and the interview between lachimo and 
 Imogen. The floor is covered with rich velvet, which 
 gives no echo to the tread ; but there is not a mirror in 
 the room. The reason is obvious : a gamester who risks 
 his hundreds or his thousands would not care to have his 
 cards reflected for the benefit of his adversary. La Com- 
 tesse. is a lovely, sparkling woman, rather inclined to 
 embonpoint. Her eyes and hair are coal black, her 
 glances keen and penetrating. She is known to keep 
 marvellously cool and collected under the most trying 
 circumstances, and she is as crafty as a fox. At ombre, 
 whist, or basset she can successfully cope with the best 
 players in Paris; yet, for all, the young lordlings who 
 frequent her salon are always delighted to lose a few 
 thousand francs to her, merely for the purpose of being 
 able to say to friends less favored, " Parbleu ! I lost an 
 odd thousand to Petitscreve* yesterday; good player 
 very !" For La Comtesse seldom plays with any save 
 distinguished visitors, thus bestowing a certain caste on 
 her opponents. Those conversant with private court 
 scandal aver that on one occasion she won over a hun 
 dred thousand francs of his majesty in less than two 
 hours ; but such aspersions on the dead monarch must 
 be received with caution. 
 
 Philip and his friends engage a table, and they are 
 soon deep in the varying fortune of the blind goddess. 
 
 Count Betenoire, although the representative of a 
 noble family, is unfortunately compelled to live more by 
 his personal ingenuity than by his " flowing coffers," and 
 his game is always safe, wary, and high. Philip is his 
 adversary ; and as the game finishes, he finds himself five 
 
 IT*
 
 198 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 thousand francs poorer. Though the loss does not deeply 
 trouble him, he is somewhat mortified at his defeat, and 
 he says to the Count, as they are leaving, " Do you care 
 to throw a few mains with me, Count ?" 
 
 "Sangdieu! yes: as well that as anything else ;" and 
 they return to the table. 
 
 A servant in velvet livery hands the ivory dice on a 
 silver salver, and Philip sweeps them into the box. At 
 this moment the Mare'chal whispers Philip to avoid high 
 play, " for the Count is always lucky at a main." Philip 
 resents this kindly admonition with a haughty stare, and 
 throws his cast. 
 
 " Deuce, quatre, deuce your grace counts low," says 
 Betenoire, and he throws. " Trois quatres! good!" he 
 exclaims. 
 
 Philip raises the box again, saying, " Count, I double 
 the stakes !" 
 
 " Doubled it is," replies the Count. 
 
 Philip's cast is fifteen. Betenoire rattles the cubes 
 well before he throws, while Philip leans back in assumed 
 indifference, and exchanges a few words with the Mare- 
 chal. The Count taps him on the shoulder to draw 
 attention to his cast. 
 
 " Sixteen, eh ? You are fortunate, Count." 
 
 The Mare'chal adds, in an aside to Philip, " Cela va 
 sans dire!" 
 
 Philip replies with a shrug, " It is nothing. Golconda 
 is not ruined by a pearl's abstraction!"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 199 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Whom the grea 
 
 Choose for companions tete-l-tte ; 
 
 Who at their dinners, en fainille. 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 THE ambassador looks around at his guests with a 
 gratified complacency, and well he may, for within 
 whispering distance of him sit renowned authors and 
 celebrated statesmen, famous beauties and honored sol 
 diers. Philip is distinguished by a seat on the right hand 
 of his host, who is determined to flatter him into being a 
 Whig, if it is possible. On the left of his excellency, lean 
 ing over the table and flirting with Mile. Toutedetruire, 
 a beauty notorious for the duels fought in her honor, is 
 the celebrated, stammering priest Abbe" Dubois, son of a 
 Correzian apothecary once valet to a pedagogue, now 
 a member of the council and the possessor of the two 
 richest abbeys in the country. His ability, wit, and tact 
 are amazing; but his viciousness and selfish profligacy 
 are indisputably more so. He is the most trusted coun 
 sellor of the Due d'Orleans ; yet his character is so horri 
 bly corrupt that even Philip* was once compelled to say 
 to him, " Abbe", a little honesty, for God's sake !" 
 
 Farther down Rollin's kindly honest face illumines the 
 board, presenting a fit contrast to the Abbess flushed, 
 sardonically sarcastic countenance. Philip, who has plea- 
 surably noticed the gay vivacity of Mile. Toutedetruire 
 whilst she has been conversing with Dubois, is amused 
 
 * Orleans.
 
 200 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 by seeing her turn her back on him with an angry ex 
 pression on her mobile features, the consequence, doubt 
 less, of his scurrilous wit ; after which she turns her 
 attentions to himself, while her eyes beam in an en 
 couraging manner. She has an olive complexion, eyes 
 dark and expressive, and a straight, narrow nose, whose 
 thin nostrils dilate tremulously as she breathes. Her 
 mouth is a trifle over large, and rather sensual. Unlike 
 the high and weighty coiffures of Madame de Maintenon, 
 her hair is cut short and twisted into flighty little curls 
 which dangle wantonly on her brow. Half a dozen 
 patches adorn her chin and its vicinity, and her deftty- 
 wielded fan is a miracle of delicate traceries. 
 
 Says Philip, " Mile. Toutedetruire, why so cruel to the 
 precisian Abbe" ?" 
 
 " Bondieu ! What do you think is my reason for treat 
 ing him so coldly ?" 
 
 " I could never guess ! May be he called you a Janse- 
 nist?" Rollin glances at him at these words. "Or 
 depreciated your perfume's delicacy : or, let me see 
 surely he did not dare to presume to offer himself as your 
 confessor!" 
 
 The Abbe" laughs until the tears come to his eyes at this 
 last surmise. 
 
 "No!" she replies ; "your grace is wrong in all your 
 hazards. Listen, and you shall hear the reason. L' Abbe* 
 proposed to settle a benefice on my nephew, with the 
 proviso that he must undergo his pupilage with him ! 
 Such an insult, when he knows, too, that I have always 
 intended my relation to be a pious, God-fearing man !" 
 and she casts a mischievous glance at the aspersed Abbe*, 
 who is sipping a goblet of ruby wine with evident enjoy 
 ment. 
 
 Dubois pretends intense chagrin at her insinuations, 
 and in revenge he inclines his head towards her uncovered
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WIIARTON'S CAREER. 201 
 
 shoulder, and therefrom blows a tiny cloud of perle 
 poudre a fashion to which she conforms more for 
 fashion's sake than for any real need of its enhancing 
 effect. Watteau, who is sitting close by her, quickly draws 
 off his laced 'kerchief and affectedly essays to catch the 
 snowy atoms ere they fall: for which strained chivalry 
 he is punished by a tap of her fan on his cheek. 
 
 The atmosphere of the salon is close and stifling with 
 the odors of perfumes, pastilles, and scented cigarettes, 
 that are now the necessary concomitants of a fashion 
 able assemblance. Le Dieu-donne, as they called Louis, 
 had strictly prohibited the use of all scents or per 
 fumes at court under penalty of his displeasure. Conse 
 quently, after his decease, a reaction took place, and now 
 every beau and belle dispels Arabia's perfumes about them 
 as they walk, move, sneeze, or cough; while in every 
 salon pastilles are burnt and fountains of perfume make 
 the atmosphere heavy and trying to the nervous or ex 
 citable. 
 
 The ambassador drinks to Philip's health and pros 
 perity, and in conclusion says, " And as true a lover of 
 his country and as loyal to the king as was his gifted 
 father 1" In responding, Philip says very little beyond 
 acknowledging his excellency's compliments ; very soon, 
 however, the heavy wine which he has been drinking begins 
 to fire his head, his tongue wags looser, and soon his wit 
 and bold remarks keep his side of the table in cachinna- 
 tory convulsions. Stair, conversant as he is with Philip's 
 ready speech and his biting pleasantries, is surprised at 
 him. The more he drinks the greater seems his thirst, 
 until Stair fears that before the repast is over he will 
 either be under the table or else will have to be carried 
 away to sleep off the effects of his hard drinking. Ham 
 mering noisily on the table to attract attention, Philip 
 springs up on the seat of his chair, and places one foot
 
 202 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 on the table, while the company cheer and applaud with 
 hand and foot. 
 
 " Mesdemoiselles et Messieurs, fill up my toast will 
 suit you all !" and he glances at his host, who begins 
 to arrange a few sentences in order to acknowledge the 
 toast of which he is to be the subject. " May Orleans dare 
 to follow in Louis's wake, and send a diamond hilt once 
 more to England 1 Until then, long live our exiled mon 
 arch James the Third. After my toast will be: long 
 live our restored king, and death to the Dutch invader!" 
 
 For a moment there is a hushed quietness, but Stair is 
 cool and self-possessed ; signaling with his hands, a band 
 of hidden music sends out a low, entrancing strain 
 which helps to dispel the restraint and relieves the neces 
 sity for any remarks on such an untoward event as has 
 occurred. 
 
 Philip has descended from his eminence, and he is at 
 present by the side of Mile. Toutedetruire, who left the 
 table in order to visit the mirror to inspect her laces, 
 her ribbons, and her countenance. " Ventrebleu !" she 
 exclaims, " your grace has caused a grand sensation with 
 your absurdities ! What could have put such a foolish 
 toast into your head, vous bete ?" 
 
 He replies with a smile, " Your own sweet eyes, that 
 betrayed your sympathy for poor Jamie !" 
 
 She bestows an arch look upon him as she says, " Fi 
 done, your grace ! What would the Duchess of Wharton 
 say if she heard you speak to me in such a gallant man 
 ner?" 
 
 " Curse me if I care what she would say," he rejoins 
 in an excited manner. 
 
 With a cautioning glance from her eyes, she presses a 
 little, plump hand on his lips, and steps quickly to the 
 other side of the room ; where she is soon engaged in a
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 203 
 
 witty, wordy warfare with l'Abb6 Dubois and his ex 
 cellency. 
 
 Claudine de Tencin, the ci-devant canoness and Orleans 
 favorite now the mistress of F Abbe", who sustains her in 
 an almost regal style has been unusually quiet during 
 the evening ; but as soon as she observes that Philip is 
 alone, she calls to him to come to her and sit down on 
 the sofa beside her. Philip obeys with as much alacrity 
 and grace as are possible under the circumstances ; and as 
 wine and women combined tend to sharpen his wit and 
 render it more piquant, the two are soon engaged in 
 lively conversation. The lady is a mistress of the art of 
 badinage and coquetry, and is moreover an unusually 
 talented woman. Her figure is lithe and graceful, re 
 vealing a charming languor in its attitudes. Her eyes 
 are dark brown, sparkling, and intelligent ; lips full and 
 red ; while the slight down shading her upper lip tells of 
 her southern origin and her fiery nature. She wears her 
 hair in long, loose curls, which fall on her neck and 
 shoulders. She is dressed in a very neglige manner, 
 almost as much so as were afterwards Pompadour and 
 Parabere*. Her costume is made of a thin, transparent 
 Indian fabric of a pearl color, studded with golden cres 
 cents the coa vestis of the period. 
 
 " Your grace," she says, " pray glance at I'Abbe* and 
 Toutedetruire 1 One would say that his very existence 
 depends on her kindness, to judge from the expression of 
 his eyes ; poor man!" 
 
 " I have had an eye to them, Ma'm'selle Tencin ; he is 
 after one of her gloves which she has hidden in her dress !" 
 
 She replies : " I have heard between us that the 
 Chevalier St. George once made overtures to Emilie, and 
 that she politely declined on account of what she called 
 ' his pious fanaticism !' "
 
 204 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " Faith ! if she wants the opposite of a friar, recom 
 mend me to her." 
 
 " She tries well for an abbe", though, in spite of her 
 worldly scruples !" 
 
 " Ah ha !" laughs Philip ; " an abbe" may be worse 
 than a king!" 
 
 "Or better!" replies the Tencin, adding rather ab 
 ruptly, "Will your grace be in town any length of 
 time ?" 
 
 " No, ma belle, I will not. I must shortly return to 
 England to inspect my estate, and also attend to some 
 vastly entertaining advice anent them given by my family 
 lawyer 1" 
 
 "Ehbien?" 
 
 " A downwright Whig, who will test my orthodox} 7 , 
 and nasally advise me to 'model yourself after your 
 blessed father, who was a pillar to the state and a prop 
 to the church.' " 
 
 " And you will, I suppose ?" she says, and casts a 
 quick glance at him while pretending to look at Dubois. 
 
 " Sainte Yierge! will I? See!" and he directs her 
 attention to the Jacobite badges concealed under his 
 coat. "You heard my sentiments at table. Do you 
 think that I was joking? N"o ! I was in earnest, and, as 
 for Protestantism, to with it and all its expo 
 nents I" 
 
 " Ingrate I" she murmurs, pressing her fan on his hand. 
 
 Already the intoxication of her presence is stealing 
 over him; he whispers in her ear, " You could make me 
 Whig or Tory Protestant or Papist!" 
 
 She lifts her eyebrows, and draws down her lips 
 sanctimoniously as she replies, " Truly, I would be a 
 valuable adjunct to Holy Mother Church, if I had the 
 power which you say I have."
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 205 
 
 Philip's answer is certainly to the point : " Test your 
 self, and you will be assured." 
 
 Philip is not altogether sober, but when he tells her 
 what she can do with him, he knows what he is about, for 
 he is aware that she is a firm Jacobite and a trusted 
 Romanist ; while, on the other hand, she does not know 
 that he is already half Catholic in his heart, but ascribes 
 his offer to an excited brain, of which she, as a true 
 Catholic, must take advantage. 
 
 She resumes, with a certain degree of gravity, " I am 
 not, as your grace probably knows, the most suitable 
 person in the world to turn converter ; but if I thought 
 I could induce you to embrace the only true faith, I 
 would think it a condonation of many guilty words and 
 actions which I have committed;" she looks straight 
 into his eyes with a long, persuasive glance, and pur 
 posely lays her hand on his. Its warm, living pressure 
 thrills through him from head to .foot, and he takes it up 
 and kisses it in a semi-drunken delirium. 
 
 " Dear Claudine, from this moment I am a devoted son 
 of the church, and a true believer in the Holy Catholic 
 Faith !" 
 
 She smiles sweetly on him, and tells him how glad she 
 is that she has "made, at any rate, one convert for 
 Mother Church." 
 
 We will step across the room to where a party of gen 
 tlemen are engaged in dicing a mode of passing the 
 time of which his excellency is very fond ; at present, how 
 ever, he does not take part in the game, for he is secretly 
 engaged in writing a description of Stanrig Bartoslav, 
 the long-bearded Russian who is now rattling the dice ; 
 he has a stern, proud look about him which is far from 
 ingratiating, and his mouth curls in supercilious pride. 
 His excellency overheard a few remarks that he made 
 in the early part of the evening, and he has discovered 
 18
 
 206 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 that he intends to visit the Pretender in order to give 
 him assurances of sympathy from some eminent Russian 
 noblemen, after which he purposes visiting England ; and 
 these remarks his excellency is jotting down in order to 
 forward to his royal master. 
 
 As the evening advances, and more wine is poured 
 down craving gullets, the noise and confusion increase, 
 and license and freedom from restraint reign triumph 
 ant. But we will leave this scene ere "the mad intoxica 
 tion of a Regency supper pollutes overmuch our reading, 
 which is hard enough to keep clean and pure and yet 
 furnish any idea of this period and its morals. Here, 
 as everywhere else, is illustrated the great law of the 
 equilibrium of forces. France, relieved from the gloomy 
 devotions of Louis and the Maintenon, experiences the 
 reaction which breeds wantons and rakes, midnight or 
 gies, and protracted gaming. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Portius. Marcus, the friendships of the world are oft 
 Confederacies in vice, or leagues of pleasure t 
 Ours has severest virtue for its basis. 
 
 ADDISON'S CATO, III. i. 
 
 THERE is an unusual crowd collected in the Rue Saint 
 Denis, who ever and anon exclaim in admiring ecstasies : 
 " Parole de Dieu ! Beautiful ! solid silver, on my word ! 
 wonderful !" and expressions of admiration and astonish 
 ment are many. The sergeants de ville hurry to the 
 scene of confusion, and hustle the bourgeoisie aside with 
 the martial scorn for civilians; but when they see the 
 object which has produced the unwonted disturbance, 
 they become quite as noisy and excited as any one else.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 201 
 
 The innocent, cause of all this wonder and surprise is a 
 small carriage, the entire body of which is covered with 
 silver filigree work, wrought at intervals into heraldic 
 quarterings, still further enriched with set-in gems. 
 The hubs of the wheels are also decorated with pre 
 cious stones. There are two vacant seats in front, 
 while in the box behind sit in stately silence two huge 
 negroes, black and ugly as twin Calibans, and as shiny 
 as if they had just been dipped in a candle-tank. They 
 are dressed in azure velvet jackets trimmed with gold, 
 and knee-breeches of the same material. They are 
 without hats of a civilized fashioning, but their thick, 
 crinkly wool is combed into fantastic semblances of 
 cocked hats, retaining their shapes through a plentiful 
 use of bandoline and pomatum. The equipage is drawn 
 up before the door of M. Enivrant, jeweller and perfumer, 
 and from there to the carriage the crowd has formed a 
 narrow pathway of craning necks and wondering eyes. 
 " n vient! il vient! le beau Wharton!" 
 
 Philip steps composedly over the threshold in company 
 with a gentleman of peculiar aspect. His dress is white 
 satin slashed with azure; and his knee-breeches tinkle 
 with many oak-leaf buttons, all of which have a small 
 diamond in their centres ; the buckles of his square-toed 
 shoes are resplendent with diamonds and sapphires. His 
 companion is almost his fac-simile in dress, with perhaps 
 a shade less of magnificence. His stature is small, his 
 shoulders slightly contracted and stooping. His face 
 seems familiar ; but, if we recollect aright, he was in an 
 abbess costume the last time we saw him. It is Dubois, 
 who is Philip's companion in this new freak which has 
 set half Paris by the ears. Some say that le beau 
 Wharton is doing this on a wager; some, that he is 
 endeavoring to ingratiate himself with the Parisians in 
 order to subvert the Regency; while others maintain
 
 208 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 that there is a deep policy hidden under his apparent 
 madness. In fact the more wonderful the tale, the 
 sooner it is believed. Dubois has so well disguised his 
 features by the aid of cosmetics and a long, military 
 beard, that he escapes recognition and the consequent 
 censure which he would incur through his complicity in 
 such nonsensicalities ; he is at once christened " Le Che 
 valier Inconnu." 
 
 This wonderful carriage and its occupants have been 
 exhibited through all the fashionable streets and boule 
 vards, and wherever they have stopped for a few minutes 
 Philip has scattered handfuls of money to the people, 
 and then harangued them in a speech of Jacobitical 
 tendencies ; after which he would throw hundreds of the 
 Jacobite cockades to them to wear as emblems of their 
 sympathy with the cause of the Pretender. 
 
 L'Abbd's witty and scurrilous remarks draw roars of 
 laughter from the admiring bourgeoisie, and as Philip 
 rises from his seat to reprimand his friend for his shock 
 ing obscenity, in words more shameless than the other's, 
 their merriment knows no bounds, 'and they scream ap 
 plaudingly: "Yive le Wharton! Vive le Chevalier In 
 connu" expressions which both acknowledge by raising 
 their hats and kissing their fingers. 
 
 Finally the excited people unharness the horses from 
 the shafts, place their own shoulders to the task, and 
 triumphantly drag the carriage and its burden to la 
 Maison Northumberland. Philip rises and steadies him 
 self by holding on to the splashboard, as he says, " My 
 worthy plebeians ! we appreciate your great kindness, 
 and are really thankful for your evident admiration of 
 our persons ; still, the return of our horses would make 
 us feel yet more grateful for your attention toward us." 
 The crowd clap and hurrah as a burly blacksmith leads 
 forward the horses, and re-harnesses them, and Dubois
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 209 
 
 screams In a shrill, falsetto voice, " Largess largess I" 
 Philip, thrusting his hand into the box on the bottom 
 of the carriage, whirls a shower of newly coined 
 francs among the expectant crowd, who curse, bellow, 
 and fight like tigers in their thirst for the silver distri 
 buted so madly and culpably. After this, Philip grasps 
 the reins and drives rapidly to the Ruelle de Venise, 
 where he jerks the horses up with a loud cry in front of 
 the Tete du Frere, a cabaret of very humble pretensions. 
 
 Dubois exclaims, " In the name of all the saints I 
 Wharton, what is your idea in coming here!" 
 
 " 'Faith, I know not except " 
 
 Dubois interrupts: "I fear Bacchus reigns in your 
 grace's brain at present." 
 
 " Et tu, Brute !" he retorts, and resumes : " Let us 
 load the carriage with wine bottles ; what say you ?" 
 
 Dubois does not reply, but begins to hum a parody on 
 Marlborough s'en va en guerre. Philip, springing to 
 the pavement, enters the cabaret, and in a few minutes 
 he reappears with his arm linked in that of the host a 
 fat, red-faced, vulgar fellow, who is ready to fall to the 
 ground at Philip's condescension. Philip has promised 
 him five hundred .francs if he would alter his sign to 
 Tete de Jacques. 
 
 Dubois exclaims in surprise, " Your grace !" 
 
 Philip replies, " All right, my man of many churches. 
 I have made these agreements with this honest fellow ! 
 first, that he shall change the word Frere for Jacques ; 
 and secondly stow as many bottles of wine in the carriage 
 as it will hold at a nominal price of fifty francs per 
 bottle!" 
 
 " Eh bien !" replies Dubois, testily: " But there is no 
 necessity for you to make a friend of the fool 1" 
 
 The man wriggles his arm from Philip, and drops behind 
 18*
 
 210 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 in a shame-faced manner, as he mutters, " My lords, it is 
 not my fault ! I hope I know my place better than that." 
 
 Philip, drawing him forward by his ear, cries, " Here ! 
 my red Boniface, put your hands in there, and help your 
 self;" and he lifts the lid of the money box. 
 
 The man, with a dazed expression on his face caused 
 by the sight of so much money, begins to count out 
 the sum agreed upon. Philip watches him for a minute, 
 and then bids him drop all that he has counted, and to 
 hold his apron, which he does. Philip scooping up two 
 handfuls, dashes them in it, and then scrambles over 
 the bottles of wine with which the carriage is filled, and 
 regains his seat beside the Abbe*, who exclaims amusedly, 
 " What does your grace intend to do with all this second- 
 rate wine ? You are certainly not going to drink it ?" 
 
 " Drink it ! No ! I have too high a regard for my teeth 
 and digestive powers to do such a thing, I assure you, 
 mon abbe. I have a use for them, however, as you will 
 see in time. Shall we drive to Petitscreve^s ?" 
 
 Dubois assents, and tries to think what Philip intends 
 to do with the wine. 
 
 As they roll along in high spirits, Dubois whispers, 
 " Orleans is coming this way, your grace. If he stops to 
 talk to you, recollect that I am Sir Charles Castle an 
 English friend of yours ; for he dislikes me to have a 
 hand in anything tending to make my memory more 
 respected than it is at present." 
 
 " Tres Men ! pull your hat over your eyes, and draw 
 your collar up to your ears, mon abbe, .and if you are 
 forced to speak, talk in a gruff, disagreeable way, that 
 will repel any advances which he may make to you !" 
 
 " By the calendar ! he comes straight towards us !" ex 
 claims Dubois. 
 
 " Sure enough 1" 
 
 The Due rides a superb animal, which he brings to a
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 211 
 
 halt before the carriage; he salutes Philip, who rises and 
 removes his hat, while Dubois affects to be absorbed in 
 the gambols of a ragged gamin on the opposite side of 
 the way. 
 
 "Your grace is determined to astonish even Paris 
 with your magnificence ? Pray, who is your companion ? 
 His form seems familiar to me." 
 
 "Companion!" returns Philip; "he is my servant 
 Seche Pe"teux, and an excessively impertinent jackanapes 
 he is !" 
 
 "Ah! a thousand pardons," returns the Regent. 
 " The Duchess of Berry has desired me to invite you to 
 the Luxembourg ?" ;, s 
 
 Philip replies in a flippant manner, which causes 
 Orleans' face to flush : " Thanks, mon due. I will take 
 the earliest opportunity of seeing her I" 
 
 Orleans bestows a stiff nod upon him, and rides off so 
 quickly that he almost upsets a group of gamins who are 
 clustered near his horses' heels. 
 
 "Duchess Berry Palais Royal Luxembourg !" sneers 
 Dubois. " Your grace had better season yourself with 
 a few suppers at Orleans' ere you test your powers of 
 drinking and your competency in regard to filthy wit and 
 meaning oglfngs in her grace's violet boudoir." ' 
 
 " Come, come, Abbe"; her grace and yourself must be 
 at daggers drawn, you talk so bitterly about her I" 
 
 " Not at all ; but her wild orgies and amours are terri 
 ble in their evil influences on Parisian society ; for, when 
 the rest of the sex see such a shining example, will they 
 not follow it ? and if they do, how long shall we have 
 faithful wives and pure daughters? As for men, they 
 now get drunk from policy, and for the same reason are 
 confessed libertines ! What shall we do when women rival 
 them in private life, and participate in what are known 
 all Europe over as Regency orgies, and known too for
 
 212 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 their profligacy, wantonness, and utter shamelessness ? 
 Ugh I" 
 
 " Encore ! Abbe", encore ! It does me good to see you 
 virtuous for once : Ah ha ! I take credit to myself for 
 the discovery." 
 
 The Abbe* rejoins bitterly : " It is a part of my cha 
 racter, which I show but seldom. When I do, it is called 
 hypocrisy I Sure, that is not an unusual trait in church 
 exponents ?" 
 
 Philip replies : " I am not competent to answer you, 
 Abbe* ! When I first knew you or at least before you 
 enunciated your anathema maranatha against her grace 
 I should have said, taking you as a specimen, that hypo 
 crisy held no place in the church, your peccadilloes were 
 so bold and open. But since " He shrugs his shoulders, 
 and casts a sidelong glance at the off horse. 
 
 By this time they are opposite to Mme. Petitscreve"'s, 
 and Philip astounds the Abbe* by reaching down for a 
 bottle, and then hurling it through the salon windows 
 into Madame's especial apartment. Crash ! and it flies 
 through the thick, stained glass which Madame had im 
 ported from Italy at a large expense. 
 
 " Mille diables, your grace 1 What do you mean?" 
 
 "Amusement, my dear Abbe*, amusement. You see 
 there will be an infernal uproar in a few seconds. I shall 
 allow Madame and her attendants to yell and curse for 
 awhile that you must admit will be amusing ? and then 
 I will pay for all damages make everybody about drink 
 King James's health, then exit in a shower of bless 
 ings." 
 
 In a minute all is confusion. Petitscrevd's head is out 
 of the window, and she is talking and gesticulating in a 
 most angry manner; the hall door is opened, and a 
 posse of gentlemen, croupiers, and servants appear, who 
 simultaneously demand the reason of this outrage.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHAETON'S CAREER. 213 
 
 Dubois draws his hat entirely over his face, folds his 
 arms, and vows to let Philip get out of the scrape the 
 best way he can. Philip grasps two more bottles. One 
 he tosses slowly up to Petitscreve", who dodges it and 
 begins to grow almost frantic; the other he sends 
 through the window above her head. The assembled 
 habitues of the salon, although exasperated at his auda 
 city, are yet impressed with the splendor of his equipage 
 and the dress of himself and Dubois, and some call out 
 to him to cease his throwing ; none interfere with him, 
 however, until one servant grasps at the head of the 
 nearest horse, whereupon Mahomet springs from his seat 
 and knocks him down with an accompaniment of foreign 
 oaths, and then springs back to his place. 
 
 Dubois, fearful of consequences, says : " Your grace ! 
 put an end to this affair, or it may end more seriously 
 than we think for." 
 
 Philip seems to think so too, for he opens the money 
 box, and calls out, " Ma belle Petitscreve", what is the 
 cost of your broken window ?" 
 
 She will not answer him, thinking that he only means 
 to taunt her ; but, as he repeats his question, she replies 
 in a troubled voice: "Your grace, this window alone 
 cost me two thousand francs, for which I have Monsieur 
 Chondrille'sbill!" 
 
 Philip replies : " Send your bill to la Maison Northum 
 berland, and it will be paid, ma belle;" and he does not 
 wait for an answer, but kicks the rest of the wine into 
 the street, and drives off homewards. 
 
 As they turn into the Boulevard, they pass Edgely 
 Yalentin, who throws a malignant look upon Philip, 
 which he returns with an amused smile. Dubois, who has 
 noticed the scowl, says : " Certes, if that man could ever 
 poniard your grace and escape detection, he would most 
 assuredly do it ! Did you mind how he looked at you ?
 
 214 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 His eyes said vendetta as plainly as ever tongue spoke. 
 Pardieu !" 
 
 " Oh," replies Philip, " he is an understrapper at court 
 a spy for my party. He once foisted himself on me as 
 a friend ; but when my lord Stair informed me of his 
 true character, of course I declined further acquaintance 
 ship with Jim, so that I do not think he would injure 
 himself to do me a favor." 
 
 As they stop at the door of la maison, Philip says ab 
 ruptly, " Abbe", I return to England to-morrow in order 
 to wind up some little affairs which I had in hand when 
 I left London with your countryman, M. de Savatte ;" 
 and he smiles as he thinks of the trick he had played 
 on him, and he tells it to the Abbd, who laughs heartily 
 at the contre-temps, in spite of his surprise at Philip's 
 sudden resolve. 
 
 "These English!" he murmurs apologetically, as if 
 that title completely justified any amount of freaks or 
 idiosyncrasies. However, he asks: "Is your grace so 
 soon tired of Paris ?" 
 
 Philip replies : " Well, no, I am not tired of Paris so 
 much as I am of myself; wherever I stop long, I always 
 find myself repeated to a nauseating extent." 
 
 " How repeated ?" queries Dubois. 
 
 " Mon Abbe, it is ever the privilege of great men to 
 produce followers." 
 
 " Parbleu ! You give me a negative answer. So you 
 mean to say that you have created so many would-be 
 fac-similes of yourself that you are tired of seeing them. 
 Is it not so ?" 
 
 " Right, Abbe*," he replies ; and his face I am sorry 
 to say is disfigured with conceit and arrogance. 
 
 Says Dubois : " Do you intend to take your seat in 
 the House on your return ?"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON^S CAREER. 215 
 
 Philip colors as he replies : " No ; I think not, for the 
 present." 
 
 "No!" exclaims Dubois in apparent surprise; "I 
 should have thought that that would have been your 
 primary object." 
 
 Philip being under age is of course ineligible to Par 
 liament ; this the priest knows, but he also knows how 
 to make a friend by two or three questions or answers ; 
 and he is aware of Philip's desire to appear older than 
 he really is. 
 
 "We French," continues Dubois, "never could un 
 derstand either yourselves or your politics. When you 
 arrive at Court I should feel infinitely obliged to you if 
 you would present my compliments to Madame Kiel- 
 mansegge a lady who, by the way, might be useful to 
 you at Court ; her acquaintance is quite worth cultivat 
 ing." 
 
 Philip replies, half angrily: "Really, Abbe", you are 
 forever telling me whose acquaintance I should cultivate ! 
 You forget that a Wharton is to be approached not to 
 approach I", 
 
 Dubois smiles, but agrees with him in every point. 
 " Lord Stair will probably secure the pardon for Boling- 
 broke?" queries Dubois. 
 
 Philip replies : " Pah ! the man is a fool. Let him 
 return to his rightful king, and ere long he will need no 
 pardon !" 
 
 " What means your grace ?" 
 
 " I mean that it will not be long ere a Stuart shall 
 again sit on a hard-won throne !" 
 
 "Say you so?" replies Dubois dubiously. "How 
 comes it that your grace is so violently opposed to your 
 deceased father's party ?" 
 
 Philip replies, with a laugh : " Pardieu I I have pawned 
 my principles to Gordon the Chevalier's banker; and
 
 216 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 until I can repay him, I must be a Jacobite. When I do 
 repay him, I '11 turn over a new leaf, and embrace Whig- 
 gery forever." 
 
 It is a fact that, even with the immense annuity which 
 he is continually receiving from home, he is always in 
 debt, and that to an immense amount ; although he often 
 has the money, he would rather squander it in extrava 
 gances than liquidate his numerous bills. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Now change the scene ; a nohler care 
 Demands him in a higher sphere : 
 Distress of nations calls him hence. 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 PHILIP is once more in London, and he is busily 
 engaged in superintending the altering and re-furnishing 
 of his mansion, which he is having decorated in a most 
 fanciful, extravagant manner. He is at this moment in 
 his father's death-chamber, and it is npw in a state of 
 confusion and uproar. Artisans and artists are intently 
 occupied in measuring, plumbing, plastering and painting. 
 Philip speaks ! Let us listen with respect to this sym- 
 bolization of economy, who actually superintends his own 
 affairs I a wonderful thing for him to undertake con 
 sidering his thorough aversion to business of a practical 
 nature. 
 
 "Here s'death! fellow. I ordered the green screen 
 to be left in its former position, and now you have tut- 
 tut !" and he pishes angrily, and screams : " Take your vile 
 tools out of my sight ! Fool ! get you gone ! And here, 
 you cabineteer! I want my private room finished in 
 ebony ; a type of myself sombre and inflexible."
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 217 
 
 To tell the truth, his orders impede work far more 
 than they forward it, for they are so contradictory and 
 confusing that the workmen secretly wish his lordship 
 anywhere but in his own house. A servant enters with 
 a letter, which Philip glances over, and exclaims : " Harry 
 Hautefort ! . Ask him to step up at once !" 
 
 He scarcely finishes the command when Sir Harry 
 steps gingerly towards him : " My lord, allow me " 
 
 " Ah ! Sir Harry, you have come at last ! It is high 
 time, let me tell you !" 
 
 "True, my lord," he responds, and he presses his 
 scented handkerchief to his brow : " I would have been 
 to see you sooner, but " 
 
 "But me no buts, my dear fellow; it is all right. 
 Have a glass of wine with me, or rather without me, and 
 I '11 change my clothes, and go out with you to get rid of 
 these glue-scented, varnish-stuck pack of rascals who are 
 pulling my house to pieces, and nearly distracting yours 
 ever " and he is gone. 
 
 " Rackety as ever 1" murmurs Sir Harry. " There are 
 strange rumors about his doings abroad. I question the 
 truth of the report which makes him a Jacobite, but he 
 is so headstrong that all one would have to do to make 
 him one thing would be to persuade him to be its 
 opposite 1" 
 
 Sir Harry is himself a Tory or Trimmer denotes his 
 principles better; for, although apparently a violent 
 Tory, he really believes in a middle course. But in 
 these days it is necessary for a public man to be an 
 extremist, or else he runs the risk of being attacked by 
 both parties who unite in the one particular of hating 
 half-way men or Trimmers. 
 
 Philip re-enters, and exclaims : " I am a quick dresser, 
 you see." 
 
 Sir Harry replies : " As I live, my lord, our London 
 19
 
 218 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 sparks will groan in envy at your suit ; it is glorious 1 
 superb I" 
 
 " The last Parisian cut!" replies Philip. 
 
 " 'Sooth, you '11 Ibe more successful than ever in your 
 heart affairs with such a covering to'help your face." 
 
 Philip answers : "Yes, the dress is quite pretty; the 
 quadruple slash on the doublet is my own idea, as is 
 also the bone-lace frill on the outer edging." 
 
 " Possible ?" exclaims Sir Harry, and he stoops to 
 admire Philip's taste and ingenuity. "It must have 
 taken a deal of study to originate these devices." 
 
 "Oh no not for mel" Philip replies, and he jerks 
 his swordbelt a trifle to the right to make it lie more 
 conformably to his waist. 
 
 " Where shall we go ?" queries Sir Harry. 
 
 " Wherever you wish. Yet stay I have a message 
 from a friend in Paris which I promised to deliver as 
 soon as possible. Let us to court, and sec the great 
 George and his greater mistresses." 
 
 " As you say, my lord," replies Sir Harry. " His 
 majesty's ministers hold a levee to-day." 
 
 They walk together arm in arm, feathers flying and 
 spurs tinkling. As they proceed on their way to the 
 cockpit at Whitehall, Philip meets many of his former 
 friends, all of whom are delighted at his return, and 
 speak in high terms of his increased good looks and 
 manlier bearing ; which compliments he returns so pro 
 fusely that even were those to whom he speaks enemies 
 they must become his friends ; for Philip possesses all his 
 father's powers of cajoling and flattering, and whom he 
 wishes to be his friend, he can make so, often in spite of 
 himself. 
 
 " Harry," says Philip, " I think I '11 change my mind, 
 and defer my visit to the wiseacres. You will not be 
 offended at it, I know ?"
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 219 
 
 Sir Harry replies with a smile : " Faith ! no. On the 
 contrary, I feel quite relieved as if an incubus were 
 taken off my mind." 
 
 They retrace their steps, and Philip proposes a trip to 
 Hampton Court, to which Sir Harry agrees, and they 
 proceed to one of the many water-stairs in the vicinity 
 of the palace, and engage a wherry. The day is delight 
 ful, and the sun showers its genial warmth over all. 
 A soft breeze ripples the swelling surface of the water ; 
 and the foam which the wherry's prow makes under the 
 strokes of the athletic oarsman flies to their faces in cool, 
 silvery spray. Noble elms and beach trees slope down 
 to the water's edge on either side, and throw a deep 
 shade in by the banks where numerous parties lie in their 
 roomy wherries, and flirt, play on the cithern, dilate on 
 the new brocade, marvel at the fine flavor of Mistress 
 Jonson's tea, or explain the last passado or entre'chat 
 brought from Paris. 
 
 Away they go past imposing mansions and modest 
 cottages past loving couples "who saunter the walks so 
 absorbed in themselves that they aTe ignorant of the 
 amusement which they give to the spectators of their 
 innocent diversion and past lumbering ships which float 
 the wealth of the prolific Indies to our colder, less pro 
 ductive clime. Both Philip and Sir Harry doff their 
 hats ceremoniously as a gayly decorated bark shoots 
 by manned by three burly watermen. The coronet em 
 blazoned on their right arms evinces that the fair occu 
 pant may boast the sangre azul of poet's parlance. She 
 is the loveliest woman in all London who has just passed 
 them Mary Bellenden. Her cheeks are like the mellow 
 half of a ripe peach, her lips as red as the wild sumac of 
 the American colonies. Her eyes are as blue as the 
 sweet wild violet, and her hair is the rich chestnut so 
 usual among English girls. Her virtue and goodness
 
 220 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 are well known. She is much courted in society and even 
 the prince had made some overtures to her a short time 
 since, which she had indignantly rejected, and told him, 
 with fiery looks and burning cheeks, " Prince ! I tell you 
 that Mary Bellenden could not turn Mistress to the man 
 she loves much less to one she hates /" 
 
 Says Philip : " S'life ! Harry ! I saw a few beauties at 
 the court over the water ; but Mistress Bellenden pales 
 them all. Even in my dreams, I have never seen such 
 perfect loveliness." He stops, and an angry shade 
 crosses his brow, as he adds to himself: "If I had not 
 been such an arrant dolt, I might have honored Mistress 
 Bellenden myself." 
 
 "Yes, my lord!" interpolates Sir Harry; "and her 
 temper matches her looks, as our virtuous Prince found 
 out to his cost !" 
 
 Philip adds, in a disgusted manner: "Faugh the 
 Dutchman ! He thought he had a Kielmansegge, or one 
 of that stripe to deal with. He has yet to learn our 
 English women ! Apropos of women have you heard 
 aught of Lady Wharton or General Holmes since I have 
 been away ? I have not had a letter from them since I 
 left for the continent." 
 
 This is false, for he received several, but did not 
 answer them, nor in some cases even read them during 
 his riotous career in Paris. 
 
 Sir Harry replies: "No, my lord, but I know that 
 they are both in the country somewhere, and tolerably 
 well !" 
 
 " I shall have to run over to Bucks, ere long." 
 
 " Hampton ! my lords !" cries the waterman, as the 
 boat's keel grates on the clean sand. And now there 
 ensues a good-natured dispute between Philip and Sir 
 Harry as to the right to pay the man; who shrewdly
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 221 
 
 settles it by saying : " Troth ! yer lordships can both ' 
 pay me; d'ye see?" They smile at his new way of 
 settling a dispute, and the fellow receives double his fare 
 for his impudence. 
 
 They proceed to the Palace, and are ushered in with 
 the etiquette and ceremony usual in such cases a de 
 scription of which would only be tiresome and profitless. 
 
 Attracted by the laughter and merriment proceeding 
 from a room to the left of the wide vestibule, they enter, 
 Philip leading the way. There are present about a 
 dozen ladies and fully as many gentlemen, busily en 
 gaged in chatting and flirting, talking politics or scandal, 
 and sipping Souchong out of large, shallow saucers, or 
 drinking wine from cut-glass goblets. Philip is at home 
 in such places, and he is soon surrounded by an admiring 
 party. Lady Deloraine congratulates him on his return, 
 and inquires, with a significant glance, about his wife. 
 She is a graceful woman, slightly built, but easy and 
 unconstrained in her movements. Her face is pleasing 
 and attractive, and her prominent chin and bright eyes 
 show that her temper is none of the mildest. As an 
 instance of it, you shall hear of her reply to the Countess 
 of Buckenburgh a retort which is even now the sub 
 ject of conversation among a few of the scandal lovers 
 who are here. While she was in the royal presence 
 yesterday, the Countess had said, in the hearing of his 
 majesty and Lady Deloraine : " These English women 
 do not look like women of quality ; they ever have their 
 eyes on their feet, and always look in a fright ; whereas 
 our countrywomen hold up their heads and hold out 
 their bodies, and they make themselves look great and 
 stately, and more like quality than the poor English 
 women." To which Lady Deloraine replied in a loud 
 voice : " We show our quality by our birth and breeding, 
 
 19*
 
 222 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 madame, and not by sticking out our bosoms, and 
 making the throne shake with our strides 1"* 
 
 Lord Harborough is sipping Souchong and exchang 
 ing bonmots with Mistress Nostitz the Polish Envoy's 
 lady a sparkling, witty little body, with very black eyes 
 and a dazzling white skin. M. Nostitz might have felt 
 justifiably jealous if he were about, to notice how warmly 
 my lord regards her, and with what affectionate solici 
 tude his hand rests on her arm ; however, as the action is 
 unknown to all but themselves, the lady demurely allows 
 it to remain there, amiably unconscious of the audacity. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughs Sir Harry, in a low voice. "Be 
 hold la Grenouille. Let us go over and talk to her ! 
 She is in the sulks, and I '11 coranto for an hour if she 
 fails to amuse you." 
 
 Nothing loth, Philip steps across the room to where 
 Madame Robethon sits alone with an angry scowl on 
 her low forehead. Her cheeks are fat and shaky, and 
 she has innumerable chins which rest on her almost in 
 visible neck ; while the way in which she is sitting is 
 ludicrously suggestive of an immense toad, for her eyes 
 
 are dull and watery, and her mouth Pope ! aid me 
 
 to a simile ! 
 
 " Ah, Madame Robethon, how is your health to-day ? 
 Good, I hope ? for, when you are unwell, England moans 
 the illness of one of the few beauties who adorn her sea 
 girt shores, and cause less favored countries to grow 
 green with envy 1" 
 
 " Ach ! milord Wharton, you speak untruth with me !" 
 she rejoins angrily. 
 
 Philip lays his hand on his breast in an earnest man- 
 
 * The Countess of Buckenburgh was very stout, and her tread was 
 remarkably heavy, while her long strides were the occasion of many a 
 luugh at her expense,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'fi CAREER. 223 
 
 ner as he replies: "Madame, I feel your cold, cutting 
 sarcasm in my very marrow 1" 
 
 She half bounces from her seat as she exclaims, " Marry ? 
 Mein Gott I You haf too good a wife now for " and 
 the remainder of her words are lost in the peal of laughter 
 which the rest of the company find it impossible to re 
 press ; and really her croaking voice, her shaking body, 
 and her squat rotundity are enough to excite the risibles 
 of St. Dominic himself. 
 
 After about an hour's conversation with Lord Har- 
 brough who has vainly attempted to probe his views on 
 the ministry, for Philip has seen his design, and foiled 
 him with double-edged answers which might mean yes or 
 no, and which have perplexed his questioner with their 
 ready wit and nonchalant reprising he motions to Sir 
 Harry, and they retire from the room. He says in a 
 careless, off-hand manner : " Well, Harry ! I feel as if 
 a trip into the country would do me good ! I think of 
 going to Bucks, and rusticating amid the Phillises and 
 Corydons of my native village. Town dissipation is 
 telling on my nerves ; I need solitude and fresh air to 
 recuperate my flagging energies." 
 
 " Recuperate I my lord. 'Faith, if I had half your 
 energy, I would count myself a lucky man ! Your face 
 is fresh and rosy, and your long, quick step half kills 
 me." 
 
 Philip replies : " Yes, my constitution is good, I admit ; 
 but it could be better : moreover, I want to see her lady 
 ship and her stern old father, who once on a time gave 
 me a mighty severe raking." 
 
 " For some practical joke you played on his venerable 
 person, I presume, or an intrigue that shocked his ideas 
 of morality and virtue. Speaking of intrigues, did you 
 ever hear the story of your respected father and a Nelly 
 Valentin ?"
 
 224 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip thinks a moment, and replies: "Nelly Valen 
 tin ? I have heard that name before ; but my memory 
 fails me in regard to the circumstance. Yet when I 
 think of it, I recollect that I once received a vile scrawl 
 signed by a gypsy whom I permit to live on my estate 
 who demanded a thousand guineas or threatened me 
 with some vague but dire vengeance. I was mad at the 
 time it came, and I paid but little attention to it, except 
 to order the scaramouch mercury to depart." 
 
 " The same, probably, but of that particular incident I 
 was ignorant ; but I may as well tell you the whole 
 story as we go along, unless indeed you have something 
 better with which to pass the time. This Nelly Valen 
 tin" 
 
 A man soberly clad, whose face is partly concealed by a 
 broad-brimmed hat, and who has appeared to dog Philip 
 and his friend for some time, now draws closer to them. 
 
 " Was a rustic beauty," continues Sir Harry, " whom 
 your father saw and " 
 
 " And God's curse on him for the vile deed !" hisses 
 rather than speaks Edgely Valentin, who has heard Sir 
 Harry's every word; and he throws off his hat and 
 reveals himself to the astonished gaze of Philip, who 
 thought him in Paris ; while Sir Harry half draws his 
 rapier, and glares in a puzzled manner at the insolent 
 intruder. 
 
 " Nelly Valentin ! Edgely Valentin !" exclaims Philip, 
 and a sudden light breaks in on his mind. " This man 
 must be a relative of hers, who is rightly enraged at our 
 jesting over Mistress Nellie's disgrace : particularly as I 
 am the son of her betrayer!" He exclaims haughtily : 
 " Master Valentin, your insolence deserves a severe 
 chastisement. However, if the lady of whom we spoke 
 is any kin to you, we apologize, and promise you that
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 225 
 
 we will not renew the conversation until you are without 
 earshot." 
 
 " Any kin I" he sneers, and his face grows livid with 
 his great passion. " I would give up my life if her se 
 ducer could appear before me ! He should know what a 
 gall-hearted, lying villain I deem him !" and he gripes the 
 pommel oi his heavy sword until his hand is white with 
 the strain. 
 
 "A God's life, sirrah !" exclaims Philip; "this if> in 
 solence with a vengeance ! A good thrashing from my 
 servant would cure the ill humor that plagues you !" and 
 Philip looks sternly at him ; but he proceeds in a soft 
 ened strain as the thought passes through his mind, how 
 he would feel under like circumstances : " Come, my good 
 man, you have now aired your opinion of my dead father 
 an opinion which he doubtless merited ; and your best 
 plan now is to decamp with a whole skin and be thank 
 ful for my forbearance." 
 
 " Yes," chimes in Sir Harry. " If I had thought you 
 were a gentleman, you should have felt the new Italian 
 passado tickle your scandalizing gullet. As it is I 
 leave j r ou your life." 
 
 Edgely Valentin looks scornfully from one to the 
 other as he replies : " Good lack, my lords 1 'Tis a pity 
 I have no title to stick to the front of my good name, or 
 I should, as you desire, be gratified with a sight of your 
 steel ; and more pity 'tis that my blood would disgrace 
 your weapons." He picks up his hat again, draws it 
 over his face with a savage jerk, and walks rapidly away. 
 
 " S'life, Harry !" says Philip, with a laugh, " we must 
 tear reputations to pieces in a more secret manner, if we 
 would avoid a repetition of such scenes, for which, to 
 tell the truth, I have but little stomach." 
 
 " Umph !" grumbles Sir Harry: "if we cannot talk of 
 a far-away country lass but a defender springs up in the
 
 226 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 shape of a sad-garbed clown, what shall we do in town, 
 where every woman has so many relatives right-handed 
 or otherwise?" And he finishes the story that had 
 been interrupted, and Philip chuckles admiringly at his 
 father's adroitness. An erring son can find a real conso 
 lation in the faux-pas of his lamented sire. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, 
 Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. 
 Blest madman, who could every hour employ 
 With something new to wish or to enjoy !" 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 PHILIP does not enter by the usual gateway, but leaps 
 his horse over a low stone wall, and lands in the forest a 
 few yards distant from Elm avenue, pushing forward 
 toward the old trysting-place once the loadstar of his 
 thoughts ; he draws rein and springs from his saddle : 
 
 "Margery Holmes Margery Wharton! I did not 
 think the difference had been so great, or I would not 
 have dispelled my love-dream by such a common-place 
 means as marriage. Poor girl 1" and a remorseful pang 
 shoots across his heart as he rests his hand against the 
 same seat on which they once sat by the hour together 
 and where she had leaned her dear head on his shoulder 
 which 'had trembled with its precious burthen. Here, he 
 pressed her soft lips with kisses that sunk down to her 
 heart, and left their traces in a deep, unchangeable love. 
 He thinks of the night when she sprang into his arms 
 with that little sob of joy and grief, and told him with a 
 tearful smile that he could do with her as he wished ; 
 and every little circumstance and incident of that meet-
 
 OB, FHHJP DUKX or WHAKTOS'S CAMEiTE- 237 
 
 fag even to the tearful glisten of her eyes in the moon 
 lightsurges up in his mind. He gulps down some 
 obstruction in his throat, and mounts his horse in a 
 sk>w, dispirited manner. Sodden! j he strikes the spurs 
 deep into her sides, and the animal leaps so 
 that she nearly unseats him, despite his perfect 
 manship; " Steady steady, Bet!" he exclaims, and at 
 the sound of Ms voice she calms down, hot still proceeds 
 at a quick pace until he checks her at the Weird's Care, 
 where he takes a long look around before be again sets 
 off toward the Castle. 
 
 His home appears desolate and "1 f 1 to him now, 
 for there is neither a other nor a mother to welcome 
 him with a grasp of the hand or an embrace. He looks 
 wistfully at the window where his mother would hare 
 been, and his eyes grow brighter, and their fids grow 
 trpannlnn*- He gisscen cautiously about to see whether 
 there are any watchers; then, satisfied tint he is unob 
 served, he angrily dashes off his cheek a tear, which 
 would come whether or no; for his young heart yearns 
 for his dead parents. 
 
 A minute, and he is at the lodge-door, and he draws a 
 long, deep breath, places his hand to his month in hunter 
 fashion, and screams in piercing tones the Tiew-haDoo. 
 The door opens with wonderful rapidity, and Shan's 
 honest face and curly pate protrude in questioning 
 wonder. "Wefl^ShesmP* exdansv Phflip, and he grasp* 
 Shem's hand with a hearty shake. 
 
 Shem is thunderstruck for a moment, but finally 
 releases Philip's hand, bends his knee, and begins to 
 address a welcome to bis master in the words of an old 
 formula which is customary on these occasions ; Philip 
 interrupts: "Up, Shem, up! Xever mind your wel 
 come. Tour lace is a better index to your heart than
 
 228 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 the words of a musty old parchment. Where's Debbie 
 and Brad ? Call them at once !" 
 
 In spite of Philip's command Shem remains stolidly in 
 the same position until he " has had his say," then he 
 hurrahs with a rare good-will, and quickly reaches for 
 his hunting horn, upon which he performs such a shrill, 
 far-reaching call that the very lodge shakes with the air's 
 vibrations. " That 'ull bring 'em, my lord ! Rebeck me, 
 but your lordship has grown tall and big sin' you left for 
 furrin pairts." 
 
 " Good sakes, Master Philip ! have ye come back at 
 last ! Gie me a buss for the sake o' old times when you 
 an' Brad were dandled on the same lap ! good sakes I 
 how weel-favored ye've grown, to be sure!" exclaims 
 Debbie in a breath ; while Brad stands in the background 
 with his mouth opened in a smile, and his eyes sparkling 
 an eager welcome to his former playmate and yet dread 
 ing to come forward for fear of " makin' a fule o' himsel'," 
 as he afterwards explained. Philip notices his hesita 
 tion, and with kindly tact he goes up to him and shakes 
 him by the hand, and inquires about his wife Meg Throck, 
 the former Meg Busbie, who is well and happy. He then 
 says : '.' I must leave you now, for I want to run over to 
 Holme Grange!" 
 
 "Ay, do!" adds Debbie; a warning glance from Shem, 
 however, and she holds her tongue. 
 
 " You must consider my visit as a secret not to be 
 divulged, for I return to London to-morrow, and I have 
 no time to spare not even enough to sleep one night in 
 my former chamber ; and as I shall not be able to see 
 you again before I go, I '11 bid you ' good-bye,' and my 
 blessings on all of you. And Brad! give my love to 
 Meg, and tell her that when I come again I shall pay 'her 
 a visit!" 
 
 As he approaches the Grange, he rides more slowly
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHAETON'S CAEEEE. 229 
 
 until his champing, restless horse proceeds at a pace 
 more in accordance with a funeral than a proposed meet 
 ing with a loving wife. He is now behind the bushes 
 whence he looked out on her one well-remembered night ; 
 and with an exclamation at the uneasy movements of his 
 horse, he springs from the saddle. At first his step is 
 slow ; now he strikes out at a quick step straight up to 
 the low window where Margery used to sit, and play 
 with her spaniel or converse with her father. 
 
 No one is about, and the room is very dark ; for the 
 heavy curtains are drawn, and they keep out the light. 
 He steps inside and remains motionless for a moment 
 until his eyes have become accustomed to the darkness. 
 Now he can see distinctly ; and his quick, stifled breath 
 shows that he recognizes the form which lies on the blue- 
 velvet lounge under the bay window. Stepping noise 
 lessly to the window he half draws one of the curtains, 
 and a broad ribbon of pink light falls athwart Margery's 
 face. She looks more like a marble effigy than a liv 
 ing, breathing girl ; the lily has vanquished the roses 
 on her cheeks and left them pale and waxen. Her lips 
 are tightly closed, while the corners of her mouth are 
 drawn and curved as though she dreams of some sor 
 rowful thing. Her sunlit hair falls in fragrant tresses 
 on the dark velvet, and undulates and glitters golden- 
 like on her fair neck and bosom, which rises and falls 
 in irregular starts as though she has a half-consciousness 
 of the presence of an intruder. 
 
 Philip kneels down by her side, and looks at her long 
 and tenderly, until, no longer able to control the power 
 of his newly-awakened love, he put his arms around her 
 waist and draws her to his breast, while his lips touch 
 hers with a kiss so passionate that she screams in affright, 
 and wakes to find herself in Philip's arms. " Philip !" she 
 exclaims, and her bod}' becomes cold, and heavier than 
 20
 
 230 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 before, and she is unconscious ; at this juncture Philip 
 hears the General's well-known step coming toward him, 
 and he awaits the denouement in some anxiety. 
 
 "Margery! Margery! I'm sure she called Mar 
 gery!" 
 
 Philip, disengaging himself, faces Holmes, and says 
 calmly: "Well, General! Philip has returned, you seel" 
 
 "Bilboes and lobedoes! my dear, dear boy;" he ex 
 claims, in excited gladness. " Why did yOu outflank me 
 in this manner? If I had known, you should have 
 been met with all the honors of Holme Grange. Have 
 you seen Margery ?" he goes to the lounge and endea 
 vors to rouse her, thinking that she is still asleep, and 
 Philip does not undeceive him. " Wake, Margery, hinny ! 
 Here is somebody Heavens ! she is dead ! Philip, Philip I 
 come here ! Have you " 
 
 Philip adds : " She knows I am here, General I She 
 fainted when I showed myself to her." 
 
 Holmes looks relieved at the explanation, and replies : 
 "That's all, eh? All right, then; here " and he calls 
 for a servant to bring in the lights and iced wine for 
 " Mistress Margery." 
 
 For a time ensues confusion worse confounded by the 
 General's impetuous movements, and his excitement at 
 the return of his daughter's husband. Margery has re 
 covered, but she is still too weak to stand, and she is half 
 reclining on the lounge with eyes all ablaze and a glorious 
 color in her cheeks ; whilst Philip gives an outline of his 
 wanderings abroad, and as he finishes, she says pleadingly: 
 " You will never go away again, Philip ? I. have been so 
 lonely here, even with father." 
 
 The General adds : " Yes, stick to home and us now. 
 You are surely tired of travelling by this time." 
 
 " Yes, I am," replies Philip, " but I really must set out 
 for Dublin in a few days. I have political business to
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 231 
 
 attend to there which I shall shirk as much as possible, 
 you may "be sure." 
 
 Margery's face grows troubled as she hears this intel 
 ligence, and the color slowly fades away from her cheeks. 
 
 By this time Philip has recovered his equanimity, and 
 he begins to blame himself for having a hand in so theat 
 rical a display as he has himself created. The General 
 goes to the door, and apologizes for his departure, and 
 now Philip and his wife are alone together. She rises 
 from the lounge, and sits down on a footstool close 
 beside him. She looks up into his face so long and anx 
 iously that Philip begins to feel guilty and embarrassed, 
 and to break the painful silence, he says : " Sweetheart, 
 tell me what you have done during my absence." 
 
 The old smile momentarily dimples her cheeks as she 
 replies : " Always call me sweetheart, Philip dear ! It 
 sounds like Rooksnest and the dark, cool avenue. The 
 time has dragged but never mind, darling ! You are 
 with me now, and I am happy so happy." And she 
 hides her face on his knees to conceal her tears of joy. 
 
 Philip elevates his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders, and 
 mutters, " As bad as ever, curse me 1" 
 
 She lifts her bright eyes to his face, and says, in a 
 voice which is deep and thrilling with repressed emotion: 
 " Did you speak, darling ?" 
 
 " No, Margery ; I was but thinking I" 
 
 " Of me ?" she asks. 
 
 " Yes, Margery, of you 1"
 
 232 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 -Took proper principles to thrive :- 
 
 SWIFT'S " LIBEL." 
 
 THE gypsy queen still holds her court in the forest's 
 heart, but Maldran Gudru is there no longer. He has 
 been disgraced, and expelled the camp for two years as 
 the penalty of insulting his royal mistress. When he 
 returned from his errand in London and told her of its 
 fruitlessness, she reproached him for his lack of energy 
 and idleness, to which he replied in an insolent manner 
 which angered her so much that she struck him on the 
 mouth with her hand, and he caught her by the neck in 
 his blind rage, and tried to throw her down. In return 
 she drove her four-edged poniard through his traitorous 
 arm, signalled for help, and Maldran was disgraced. 
 
 Philip feels a passing desire to view once more the 
 forest camp, where he gambolled and played at hide-and- 
 seek with his tawny, ragged playmates ; and he is now 
 walking thither. The day is clear, cold, and bracing, 
 and the keen north wind rushes down the lungs icy-cold 
 and nipping. He enters the camp, and unperceived 
 walks to the queen's tent by a back path with which 
 he is familiar, and he calls in a low voice, " Queenie ! 
 queenie!!" The door opens at the summons, and the 
 queen ejaculates in surprise, "My lord!" "Yes, 
 queenie !" he replies, and he catches her in his arms and 
 salutes her with rather more fervor perchance than 
 friendship alone calls for, and so she thinks, for as she 
 disengages herself, she exclaims, " For shame, my lord ;
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 233 
 
 you almost squeezed the life out o' me. Recollect that 
 ye are not the little Philip of other days now, but a 
 grown gentleman, an' ower old to kiss an' hug me as ye 
 used to do!" 
 
 He laughs at her remonstrance, and replies: "You 
 are in a bad temper this morning, queenie !" 
 
 Her face clouds with a moody expression as she 
 answers, " Am I ? Mayhap I have cause." 
 
 Philip is about to put his arm around her waist, when 
 she shrinks from him with a gesture of dislike, and cries : 
 " Stop, my lord ! I care not for such fooleries !" 
 
 " The more fool you !" he retorts, nettled at her petu 
 lance. " I thought you would like to see me ere I left 
 for Ireland ; but as I am not welcome I' 11 go away as 
 quickly as I came 1" 
 
 "One minute, my lord 1" she says, and she lays her 
 hand on his arm. " I have something to say which ye 
 must hear before ye leave queenie." 
 
 Philip is a little surprised at her words, and ascribes 
 them to some whim or freak, but willing to humor her, 
 he waits for her to proceed. 
 
 "My lord, I did not ask ye to break bread or sup 
 wine wi' me when ye came in. This is the reason. Your 
 father" 
 
 But it is useless to narrate her words, for we know 
 her story. As she finishes Philip cries : " A plague on 
 these Valentins! Wherever I go, it is Valentin! in 
 Avignon, in Paris, in London, and now here on my own 
 estate. A thousand guineas were a small sum to be rid 
 of this tiresome persecution. Send to Shem Throck's 
 for it to-morrow, and it will be there. I pity the poor 
 woman ; but s'life I do not see why my father's pecca 
 dilloes should be punished through me ! A fico for your 
 ' vengeance,' as you so magniloquently term it. I give 
 the money out of pure charity to Mistress Yalentin. I 
 
 20*
 
 234 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 can go now, I suppose eh, queenie ? Come! give me a 
 kiss for my good-nature ; I deserve one !" 
 
 Her face is brighter now, and she smiles demurely as 
 she replies, " My lord has a right to poach on his own 
 manor when he chooses !" 
 
 Philip requires no other permission, and he presses 
 his lips on hers again and again until she repulses him 
 with a good-natured scolding. " Good-bye, queenie ! I 
 am going over to your Irish cousins, now, and maybe 
 you will never see me again." 
 
 The General is up and walking briskly about in the 
 garden for the sake of his health, and, as he expresses it, 
 " to teep my sword-belt from growing too small." Bui; 
 Margery still sleeps, for it was very late ere she could 
 compose herself after the exciting event of the previous 
 day. Philip informs the General of his intention to 
 start for Dublin at once, and bids him good-bye amid 
 his half-angry protestations and entreaties ; and he tells 
 him that he will go up to see Margery in her room. 
 
 " "Well 1 if you will go, bless you, my boy, and let your 
 shadow darken my gate again as soon as possible." 
 
 Philip steps lightly to the bedside, and sees that 
 Margery is sound asleep. He opens his escritoire, and 
 hurriedly writes a short letter in which he tells her that 
 he " leaves her in this manner in order to spare her the 
 pain of a parting, and that he will soon return, or else 
 send for her ;" he finishes with, " Good-bye, wifie ! I 
 kissed you adieu whilst you slept, so that you might 
 dream of me : for Debbie used to tell me that ' a sleeping 
 person kissed will dream of the kisser.' Hoping that 
 the saying is true, I bid you good-bye for a short time." 
 He lays the letter gently on her bosom, touches her lips 
 very lightly, and goes softly down the stairs and through 
 the hallway to the front of the Grange, where his horse 
 stands ready saddled and bridled. He shakes hands
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 235 
 
 with the General once more, vaults into the saddle, and 
 off he gallops at full speed 1 Away down the avenue, 
 through the forest, across the meadow lands and hunt 
 ing-ground he flies, fearing that Margery may awake 
 and send after him ; for tearful partings are " mightily 
 apt to disturb one's equanimity and enjoyment !" 
 
 While in London Philip had endeavored to take his 
 seat in parliament, but being under age he was ineligible, 
 and to his extreme chagrin and regret he found that his 
 aspirations for political honors were foiled, at least in 
 England. His fertile mind had other resources, however, 
 and he determined to go to Ireland, and see whether the 
 more hot-blooded, mercurial Shamrockites would have 
 the same objection to receive him as their English breth 
 ren, for his Irish peerage entitles him to a seat in their 
 house. Of course he is ineligible there, also, if his 
 peers see fit to make him so ; but he is hopeful and san 
 guine, and he has great confidence in his powers of per 
 suasion over the impressionable people whom he pur 
 poses to honor with his person. As he pushes forward 
 at a quick gallop, which sends his young blood tingling 
 joyously through his veins, he soliloquizes : " If I can 
 not gain my point there, I am beaten for a couple of 
 3 r ears ! But I cannot, will not fail, for, young as I am, 
 I feel certain that I can topple over half the arguments 
 and decisions that are given there, provided they are no 
 better than are those delivered and registered by our 
 London orators and judges. They say in Ireland that a 
 steel point must prop a hard word, which is certainly a 
 point in my favor; for if such is the case they must all 
 be gentlemen, either from nature or necessity." His 
 mind gloats on the future when he will be, as his father 
 and Harley and Stanhope were before him, the cynosure 
 of an admiring people, and the leader of an enthusiastic 
 parliament who will applaud his tactics or compliment
 
 236 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 him on his wit, learning, and bravery; and his heart 
 throbs an lo Triumphe in the glorious anticipation of 
 the future. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Thus, with each gift of nature and of art, 
 And wanting nothing but an honest heart. 
 
 POPE'S " WHAKTON." 
 He must be greater than his sire ; 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 PHILIP is soon a great favorite in Dublin, with both 
 Whigs and Tories, for his daring, his generosity, and his 
 great powers of drinking, frolicking, and conversing. lie 
 is unanimously admitted to the House, where to every 
 body's surprise and possibly his own he turns sides and 
 becomes as violent a Whig as before he was a Tory. 
 
 He finishes his maiden speech with these words : " My 
 only thought will be to support the ministry, the govern 
 ment, and to advocate the Orange cause." It abounds 
 in terse reasoning, strong arguments, and scathing 
 sarcasm against the Opposition ; and it is adorned with 
 all the flowers of rhetoric and fancy. Cheer upon cheer 
 bursts from his excited listeners, which he acknowledges 
 by a graceful bow, and he takes his seat. His hand is 
 grasped " many a time, and oft" before he receives all 
 the congratulations which are poured in on him. Says 
 Lord Carnbregh, a well-known orator and lawyer: "My 
 lord, I heard your father when he was quite young, and 
 he was wonderful ; but, if you continue as you have begun, 
 you will eclipse his achievements altogether." 
 
 Philip's eyes glitter, and his cheeks flush as he replies : 
 " My father led his party in London. Sure I can do the 
 same in Eblana?"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 237 
 
 His words sound prophetic, and as his audacious 
 answer is circulated around, it is received with cheers and 
 laughter. A few veterans among them shake their heads 
 doubtingly at his words, but they are not heeded in the 
 general hubbub and brouhaha. 
 
 That night Philip retired with his head in a whirl of ex 
 citing and ambitious thoughts, engendered by his triumph 
 at the House and the hearty applause of its members. 
 His sleep is broken and restless, and the sun still slumbers 
 as he arises, dresses himself, and strolls down to Liffey's 
 banks. The river undulates dark and dismal in the gray 
 morning light, and he compares its dull, heavy surface 
 to his past life, which has been spent in riotous debauch 
 eries and enervating excesses that, for the time being, 
 deadened and saddened him, mind and body. Now am 
 bition's sun lifts him above his former life, and makes 
 him worthy of commendation and admiration, as 
 heaven's sun will brighten and beautify the now murky 
 Lifley. 
 
 . " If I had been by his death-bed, I know that his last 
 words would have been: ' Philip, sustain my party I' 
 And I will. I would rather see the Chevalier on his 
 throne ; but as he is not there, and doubtless never will 
 be, it is my duty as a true Briton to uphold the govern 
 ment and stand by the ministry. No more shall it be 
 said of me that 
 
 ' I see the right and I approve it too, 
 Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue !' 
 
 Now I'll pursue the right as well as see it, i'faith! 
 'Tis a pity though that his majesty is so mightily Dutch, 
 and keeps two such frowsies as Kendal and Darlington 
 continually by him duplicate Grenouilles, devoid even 
 of her sense and passable acquirements " 
 
 " Your lordship is up betimes," interrupts Lord Hint- 
 flam, who has approached him unobserved.
 
 238 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip turns to him, and they converse on different 
 subjects, the beauty of the far-stretching bay, or pass 
 remarks on the weather, until Philip, whose whole mind 
 is now absorbed in politics, says: "My lord, do you 
 think it possible that his majesty and the prince will ever 
 be better friends than they are ? Their bickerings dis 
 grace the country and scandalize its statesmen." 
 
 " They will never be in amicable relations with each 
 other. His majesty views the prince with the deepest 
 aversion. Do you recollect, when he set out for Han 
 over, how he tried to prevent the prince from assuming 
 the regency, and also his dismissal of Argyle ? No, they 
 can never be friends." 
 
 Philip replies : " I recollect ; his majesty's hatred and 
 jealousy of him were the talk of Paris." 
 
 " Speaking of Argyle," continues Lord Hintflam, " the 
 prince's connection with him is indiscreet to the last de 
 gree, and only tends to widen the rupture I" 
 
 Philip replies approvingly: " You are correct, my lord." 
 
 A favorable criticism at which Hintflam seems rather 
 nettled, and rejoins rather pointedly : " I am glad you 
 think so 1" 
 
 Philip nods assentingly, and resumes : " "What do you 
 think about Townshend?" 
 
 " The prince's cat's paw," returns Hintflam. 
 
 " Yes, he deserves his dismissal for his weakness and 
 his utter lack of diplomacy. It is unfortunate for us, 
 though, for our only support now is Stanhope." 
 
 Hintflam rejoins : " And he should have resigned on 
 Townshend's dismissal." 
 
 "Certainly not!" replies Philip, "Stanhope is right. 
 Why should we lose two supports because one is fallen ?" 
 
 " He ought to accept of Ireland. He will only in 
 crease bad feeling against him by a refusal !" 
 
 Philip replies : " Well, well ; we must all do our best
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 239 
 
 to keep our Tory friends within bounds, or else they 
 may send us luider again." 
 
 Philip's reason for ending the discussion so quickly is . 
 that he has just ca'ught sight of a very pretty girl cross 
 ing the muddy street which compels her to expose a foot 
 and ankle worthy of a Gaditana of sunny Spain. He is 
 desirous of viewing her at a closer distance, and hur 
 riedly excuses himself to Lord Hintflam, and he follows 
 after the object of his desires at a leisurely pace in order 
 not to attract attention. She is tall, and magnificently 
 proportioned. Her eyes are dark hazel, and delightfully 
 expressive ; and her cherry lips look very inviting, while 
 there is that nameless grace about her which seems more 
 fitted for the saloon than the street more suitable in a 
 countess than in a lonely girl strolling about Dublin at 
 an early hour in the morning. 
 
 She walks briskly on toward the cathedral a noble 
 structure of great antiquity, and a mass of historical 
 incidents, from the spire on the high sloping roof down 
 to the lowest dungeon of its underground vaults. As 
 she enters the arched doorway, she turns round and 
 smiles coquettishly to Philip, who salutes her, and signs 
 to her to wait for him ; but she declines to obey him, and 
 goes inside. Nothing daunted, Philip follows after her. 
 The interior of the cathedral is solemnly grand. The 
 lofty ceiling is an immense, azure vault, dotted with golden 
 stars ; while at regular distances the holy fathers look 
 down from the dizzy height with a saintly calmness on 
 their grand faces. Around the extreme circle of the ceil 
 ing almost trenching on the walls are rose- windows of 
 warm, glowing colors, which fleck the stone floor with 
 mingling dashes and splashes of all the rainbow colors 
 and suffuse the quaint, crumbling, oaken stalls with a 
 delicious mellowness. 
 
 Philip never asks himself why the unknown comes
 
 240 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 here. There is no service to-day, and the cathedral is 
 lonely and deserted. He walks up the centre aisle, and 
 casts his eyes about in search of her ; but she is nowhere 
 to be seen: "Faith! this is a good joke! a woman 
 hiding from me in a church ! ha-ha!" and he calls in a 
 loud voice, " For mercy's sake I my unknown siren, tell 
 me where you are ?" 
 
 " If my Lord Wharton wishes to see me lo, I am 
 here !" she answers in musical, mocking accents ; and she 
 walks towards him. Her face is concealed by a black 
 silk vizard, which she holds on with her left hand, 
 extending to him her right. He raises it to his lips, 
 but she snatches it away, and exclaims: "My lord, I 
 give you my hand as a friend, not as a conquest ! Your 
 tour abroad has rendered you conceited. You doubtless 
 consider me as a prize whom your very good looks have 
 captivated eh ?" 
 
 He is rather taken aback at her words, but h%replics, 
 with a look of profound devotion, " Fair lady, such inso 
 lent presumption could not find a place in nry thoughts." 
 
 She laughs as she replies : " Hoity-toity ! Who dares 
 to accuse his grace of Northumberland of presumption?" 
 
 Philip starts as he hears himself called by a title which 
 he has not claimed since his return to England : " None 
 could lay such a charge to him merely for following a 
 lady in the streets, and then inflicting his presence on 
 her in the house of holiness." Rather piqued at her 
 sarcastic manner, he angrily replies, " S'life, I '11 not in 
 flict it any longer!" and he turns to leave her. But 
 she starts forward, -and lays a little, white hand on his 
 arm, and says, in a half pleading manner, " Pardon me, 
 your grace, I " 
 
 He turns so quickly that he strikes against her, and, 
 to keep herself from falling, she catches hold of his arm, 
 whereat he is rather pleased than otherwise ; and, as an
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 241 
 
 attentive cavalier, he thinks that he can support her 
 better by putting his arm around her waist. This little 
 attention she declines, and she removes his hand, and 
 says, with & mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "For 
 shame! you a married man, and I a wife perchance!" 
 
 He replies with a sigh: "The first is unfortunately 
 true, but under favor the last is false I" 
 
 " Many thanks for your grace's courtesy. Since you 
 know so much, maybe you can tell me who I am my 
 name, pedigree, and country ?" 
 
 " Madame," he says, " that is an impossibility, which 
 is my misfortune, and which will be your fault unless 
 you enlighten me ;" and he raises his hand to remove her 
 vizard; but she anticipates the movement by drawing 
 back a step, and she holds her taper finger up warningly 
 as she exclaims : " Not yet ! but I may tell you my name, 
 if you promise not to reveal it!" 
 
 Of course he gives the promise, and a low, rich laugh 
 displays her pearly teeth as she replies, " Madame Gre- 
 nouille!" He laughs aloud at the ludicrous images 
 which the name brings before his eyes; but his com 
 panion appears highly oifended, and she conducts herself 
 in such an absurd manner that he is well nigh out of 
 patience with her. Finally she says, in a graver manner: 
 " Let us seat ourselves in this stall, and I will tell you 
 truly about myself, and about others whom you may 
 know." He obeys her, and she proceeds : " Before I say 
 any more, your grace must give me your word of honor 
 that all I say or do in our interview will go no further 
 than ourselves ?" 
 
 Philip hesitates a moment before he gives her the 
 promise, for he resolves to stop her if she has anything 
 to reveal to him that is inconsistent with his honor to 
 keep secret. 
 
 " My name is Nora O'Beirne ;" here she pauses, removes 
 21
 
 242 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 her vizard, and draws a packet from her bosom. " I have 
 but just arrived from Madrid. You will find in this packet 
 a letter of introduction from my friend Mr. Bubb,* and 
 also a message from his eminence the Cardinal Alberoni I" 
 
 He looks suspiciously around, but she reassures him 
 with a gesture. He opens, and reads the letter from Mr. 
 Bubb first. In it the minister highly extols Mistress 
 O'Beirne, and praises her loyalty to the government 
 a recommendation well enough by itself, but rather pecu 
 liar when coupled with a message from Alberoni a man 
 whose gigantic mind and daring courage did not once 
 quail when he singly defied the combined powers of Eng 
 land, France, and Holland, and coolly insulted the 
 haughty court of Vienna. 
 
 As he finishes reading the Cardinal's message, his 
 head hums with vague thoughts and half-formed projects. 
 The wily priest, who is tolerably conversant with Philip's 
 character through the accounts of his emissaries in 
 London, broaches to " His Grace," in the most delicate 
 manner, the advisability of " His Grace" resuming his 
 allegiance to "His Majesty James III. ;" enlarges on the 
 sufferings of the exiled monarch ; sneers at the " happy 
 Dutch family;" and offers him, if he will support the 
 Jacobite cause, the command of a large Spanish troop, 
 an order of knighthood in the highest order of Spain, 
 and a large amount of money and jewels. 
 
 As Philip opened the message, Mistress O'Beirne leaves 
 him, apparently to examine the many tombs on the op 
 posite side of the aisle ; but she momentarily casts 
 stealthy glances at him, and anxiously waits for him to 
 finish. She looks perplexed and doubtful, and her fan 
 trembles slightly in her hand. Philip's good resolutions 
 almost melt away at the Cardinal's promises, and he 
 
 * The British Minister at Madrid.
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 243 
 
 tries to balance the advantages of the two positions with 
 strict impartiality a loyal Whig, or a traitorous Tory ? 
 On the one. side his estates and future wealth will be 
 confiscated, and his name attainted. On the other, he 
 will reap glory at the head of an army, receive a coveted 
 order of knighthood, and a large sum of ready money 
 an important item, for he cannot yet have full control 
 of his properties, and, although his allowance is large, 
 his expenses are far beyond it. 
 
 For nearly an hour does he think over the Cardinal's 
 proposition without coming to a decision. " If I but 
 loved George more and James less, my mind would be 
 
 easy in quick time; but one the S'life, I'll leave 
 
 the issue to Dame Fortune in the shape of Mistress 
 O'Beirne." And he calls to her, and says : 
 
 "Mistress O'Beirne, Mr. Bubb's letter is a blind, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 She nods assent. 
 
 " Alb , the other, is the real cause of your embassy ?" 
 
 Again she nods. 
 
 " Very well ! Now I will take my dagger, and scratch 
 two marks on this flag;" she looks surprised at his 
 manoeuvres, but follows his motions with watchful eyes. 
 He continues: "My opinions are so exactly balanced, 
 Mistress O'Beirne, that I intend to let fortune decide 
 whether I shall be Hanoverian or Jacobite." She is 
 amused in spite of her anxiety to secure him for her 
 employer, and she laughs nervously. Philip resumes : 
 "One of these scratches will turn me Jacobite; the other 
 will keep me Hanoverian. I will be that which your 
 pretty foot shall first touch." He scratches two long 
 lines on the stone flag, and moves a few steps backward. 
 She replies : " I entreat your grace to consider the ques 
 tion more seriously ! you " 
 
 He shakes his head and points calmly to the scratches.
 
 244 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 She flushes, as she resumes with a forced smile: 
 " Really, your grace affects an odd way of determining a 
 choice in which loyalty, fame, and pecuniary rewards are 
 pitted against a fancied attachment to a Dutch usurper ! 
 But if you will have it so Holy Mary, help me to save 
 your grace from an inglorious disloyalty to your true 
 king!" She places her foot on the scratch nearest 
 Philip. 
 
 "Is that your choice, Mistress O'Beirne?" he asks, 
 with a half relieved expression on his face. 
 
 " Yes, your grace," she replies, and her face becomes 
 slightly paler and anxious. 
 
 " Then long live King George, and success to the 
 
 Hanoverian line !" 
 
 She turns scarlet at his words, and exclaims : " Lost ! 
 and Alberoni foiled by a farcical ' chance' His Emi 
 nence's message, your grace ?" 
 
 " Here it is !" he replies, and he turns to pick it up 
 from the seat of a stall on which he left it ; but it has 
 disappeared. She notices his start, and exclaims : " Your 
 grace, that letter must be found ! Your have dealt fairly 
 by me, and I have lost, and I would not like to see your 
 grace impeached for high treason, as you certainly would 
 be if that letter were to fall into the hands of an enemy 
 to you." 
 
 He replies earnestly : " Yes, it must be found ; it 
 cannot be far away!" 
 
 But it cannot be found. High and low they seek for 
 it, but all their efforts are in vain, and finally they are 
 forced to come to the disagreeable conclusion that it is 
 lost. 
 
 "Your grace," says Mistress O'Beirne, in a bitter, 
 regretful tone, " it is useless for me to urge you further. 
 His Eminence has explained to you all the advantages 
 that you can gain by returning to 3 7 our true allegiance ;
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 245 
 
 and as my unlucky mission is accomplished I will return 
 to Madrid, and encounter his reproaches for my unfor 
 tunate failure. I shall probably never see you again ; so 
 I will bid you good-bye, and wish you every success in 
 your mistaken future." 
 
 She extends her hand, which he presses kindly, draws 
 her veil over her face, and walks slowly down the aisle 
 and disappears through the open doors. 
 
 In consequence of the triple alliance, the Pretender 
 was forced to cross the Alps and reside in Rome under 
 the shadow of the Pontifical cloak. While there, Albe- 
 roni corresponded directly with him, and urged him to 
 rouse all his energies for another invasion of England, 
 which should be headed either by himself or Ormond, 
 and he also sent him many assurances of the king's 
 warmest sympathy and assistance. In Spain Philip is 
 governed alternately by his confessor and by his mis 
 tress, the black-eyed, laughing Senorita Dona Inez, who 
 in turn are the queen's tools, whom Alberoni moves to 
 his will like a jointed puppet. In disposition and temper 
 Philip is very like the Pretender, but with even less 
 honor and energy. But even if he had more energy and 
 self-reliance, the former country curate would doubtless 
 absorb them in his own impetuous genius, except indeed 
 he possessed a Cromwell's iron mind and unswervable 
 will. 
 
 21*
 
 246 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Pro tempore. 
 
 PHILIP'S career in the Irish Parliament reads like a 
 romance. Never, in the annals of Irish history, had there 
 been an admission under age except in this instance. 
 His winning address, oratorical powers, and his wonder 
 fully precocious talents are the talk of London as well 
 as Dublin. Wherever he goes, he is sure to meet with a 
 flattering welcome and the attention of old and young ; 
 for his power of adapting himself to the capacity of those 
 with whom he is thrown in contact causes all to respect 
 and love him, from the enthusiastic lad still in his teens 
 to the veteran politician or lawyer. The Whigs speak 
 of him as their future leader, and prophesy great things 
 of him. His past offences are now regarded as the mere 
 coruscations of the too forward intellect, and are condoned 
 accordingly. In various discussions in which he has 
 taken part in the House, his arguments have been so clear 
 and conclusive, his delivery and reasoning so admirable, 
 that the side on which he has thrown his voice has been 
 uniformly successful. 
 
 The government, anxious to show its appreciation of 
 his services in defending a bill of vital importance to 
 them, has created him Duke of Wharton, and moreover 
 set forth in the patent that " this is but an earnest of 
 still further favors which you may reap if you continue 
 in the course you have begun." His private life has been 
 almost irreproachable. Margery has been living with 
 him for the last year and a half in an uninterrupted state
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'8 CAREER. 247 
 
 of domestic felicity. To Philip's great joy she promises 
 soon to be a mother. Under these circumstances, he 
 proposes to her that she shall return to Bucks for awhile, 
 where he will follow her in a week or so a proposition 
 to which she unwillingly acquiesced for she dreads to be 
 away from him. { 
 
 We will enter and view our reformed rake in the light 
 of a good husband and a steady Whig. The room is 
 fitted up in the most expensive, even extravagant man 
 ner, and the different ornaments and curiosities in it 
 evince an oddly fantastic, but refined taste. It is not 
 cold, but a glowing fire crackles on .the hearth and diffuses 
 an aromatic odor of sandal-wood and cedar woods 
 which Philip is fond of smelling, and burns accordingly. 
 A round, ebony table, whose surface is a clear, polished 
 slab of steel, is drawn near the fragrant blaze, and beside 
 it sits Philip and Margery conversing about her intended 
 departure. He passes his hand down her cheek, and 
 says in an anxious voice : " Margery, you look unwell 
 feverish. Let me ring for a dish of tea!" and he taps 
 on a little silver bell, and the summons is answered 
 immediately by a liveried lackey. " Her grace wishes a 
 dish of tea ; and, hark ye, bring a decanter of brandy 
 with it !" 
 
 " Yes, your grace I" 
 
 " Philip," says Margery, as the door closes, " why do 
 you drink that fieiy stuff? In time it will surely make 
 you nervous and irritable." 
 
 He answers with a laugh : " In that case, wifie, I 
 shall be reduced to the dire necessity of physicking 
 myself with a decoction of hicra-picra and aqua vita. 
 But I '11 risk it for the sake of the grapy flavor the 
 brandy leaves in my throat." 
 
 " I never knew you were so fond of the grape before, 
 Philip. I '11 get you tons of them if you will give up the
 
 248 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY ; 
 
 brandy!" And she looks triumphant, as if her point is 
 gained ; but he replies : 
 
 " You argue well, my little lawyer ; but your case is 
 lost ! I prefer my brandy and grapes together, for, as 
 the axiom says, ' In toto et pars continentur /' " 
 
 The lackey returns, and carefully spreads a damask 
 cover on the steel surface before he Idys on it the waiter, 
 on which stand in company the brandy and the tea with 
 a dish of caraways. Philip swallows a glass of the 
 former, nibbles at a cake, and stretches himself lazily 
 back in his chair. He is more manly now, and his mous 
 taches have some pretence of visibility and tangibility. 
 
 " What have you been doing all day, Margery ?" 
 
 " Everything," she laughingly replies. " Let me see ! 
 I was dressed I breakfasted oh 1 do stop asking me 
 tiresome questions, Philip. I want to enjoy my tea 
 quietly." 
 
 " Ah, I see ; you 've been as usual busy about nothing." 
 
 She replies pettishly : " You were not admitted to the 
 sight, at any rate, so you need not laugh !" 
 
 Margery looks very lovable as she nestles in the cosey 
 arm-chair and extends her slippered feet to the crum 
 bling logs. This night she keeps entirely for Philip and 
 herself, and her instructions to the servant are to let no 
 one disturb them short of his majesty or her father, and 
 of these she expects neither. She is in an enchanting 
 dishabille, and her hair tumbles in a mass on her bare 
 shoulders. 
 
 " What did you do in the House to-day ? But never 
 mind ! I am afraid you will give me some long, weari 
 some descriptions of a speech from my Lord Prosy this, 
 or his Lordship Tiresome that, or " 
 
 " Never fear, saucebox. I '11 tell you about my fling 
 at Lord Kellmoll, who had the audacity to insinuate 
 that I was overbold for my years !"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 249 
 
 " As I live-! what an ill-bred fellow !" she exclaims, 
 angrily. " What did you say to him ? Quick tell me ! 
 How you must have punished him 1" 
 
 He replies calmly : " Certainly. I never allow inso 
 lence to go unchastised. I told him that ' if age consti 
 tuted wisdom, and youth folly, I succumbed to him.' At 
 the same time, I prayed to the gods I might always re 
 main young, or at least never be able to ascend so high 
 on Minerva's mount as had his lordship." 
 
 " You served him right, Philip ; only you should I 
 mean, how crestfallen the poor man must have been!" 
 
 " Well, little one, he provoked me to it, you know." 
 
 She acquiesces in the force of his reasoning, and looks 
 intently among the smouldering embers to discover 
 omens of births, deaths, or marriages; and lo! in the 
 corner nearest Philip she sees as plain as daylight, a 
 cradle ! " Oh I Philip, come here ! Look ! look ! see the 
 " and she stops. He hurriedly rises from his chair to 
 discover the cause of her exclamations. She does not 
 conclude her sentence, but blushes as red as her own 
 English roses, and buries her face in the chair. Philip 
 sees no cause for alarm, and replies: "Margery, I think 
 I shall order a dose of hicra-picra for you instead of my 
 self, if you persist in this nonsensical conduct ;" and he 
 reseats himself, and laughs loudly at her attitude, for she 
 is cuddled up all in a lump, and her hair hangs over the 
 arm of the chair, and falls to the floor in a wavy, shim 
 mering mass. 
 
 After this episode, they pass the time very pleasantly 
 in discussing questions of literature and the fashions, 
 and of the most " modish" style of dressing the hair 
 whether the small steel shoe-buckles are superior or 
 equal to the richer and more elaborate jewelled ones ; 
 and in mutual remembrances of dear old Bucks. 
 
 Early the next morning Margery set out for Bucks
 
 250 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 . fc 
 
 under the protection of Count Hussite and his lady. 
 The day was bright and clear, and the water shone 
 resplendent with the sun's warm rays, and everything 
 promised a safe and speedy voyage. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY1. 
 
 "Persuasion tips his tongue whene'er he talks." 
 
 Graced as thou art with nil the power of words, 
 So known, so honored, at the House of Lords. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 PHILIP is standing on the floor of the House busily 
 engaged in arguing a point at law with Lord Hintflam 
 a veteran speaker and parliamentary tactician. Says 
 his lordship : " Your grace, it would run counter to the 
 statute which was framed to correct that very evil." 
 Philip is about to reply, when he is interrupted by a 
 messenger who whispers in his ear the intelligence of the 
 birth of an heir to his name, and he leaves the House 
 immediately. 
 
 Philip's heart beats high as he walks rapidly home 
 wards, and he feels himself to be a greater, nobler man 
 than before, and the future programme of his son's life 
 is already laid out. " It shall not be like his own in 
 every respect; but he shall be a Whig, and a great man 
 of course!" Finally his thoughts end in a determina 
 tion to visit Bucks again to see with his own eyes the 
 infant scion of a noble sire. 
 
 * # * * * * 
 
 Philip shakes the General by the hand in the most 
 violent manner, and they joyfully congratulate each 
 other on the happy event. The head-nurse a fussy,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 251 
 
 testy body, arrayed in a black cap of portentous size 
 and stiffness leads Philip, with all important gestures, 
 to the room. Margery is overjoyed to see him, and she 
 proudly shows him their son. " Philip, darling, the 
 nurse tells me that she never saw in all her life such a 
 pretty baby." 
 
 " She is a sensible woman, and her services must be 
 well rewarded," replies Philip ; and he kisses the end of 
 its little nose in admiring happiness, and then beats a 
 retreat from the severely watchful eye of the head-nurse. 
 
 "That night Philip and the General sit up very late, 
 and consume uncounted goblets of well-spiced punch. I 
 will add that the standing toast was : " The young one's 
 health, and his future prosperity." 
 
 Philip stays at Holme Grange for nearly a month, 
 during which time he amuses himself in hunting, fishing, 
 and various other pastimes, not forgetting the dandling 
 of the baby. Then he begins to tire of rustic happiness, 
 and to long for the gayeties and excitements of town 
 life. 
 
 They are eating supper, and Philip has just declared 
 that he has important business in town which must be 
 attended to at once ; to which Margery replies, with a 
 pleading look : " Am I to go along with you, Philip ?" 
 
 " No, Margery," he says, regretfully, "it is impossible ; 
 I must post with the utmost despatch ; but I will return 
 in a few days at least, I hope so !" She replies : 
 
 " I hope you will. I always feel lonely when you are 
 away, for father is always busy about his own affairs, 
 and he has no time to spare with me. If I had not my 
 little darling to keep me company, I should certainly not 
 let you go without me ; but come back as soon as ever 
 you can." 
 
 " S'life ! Margery, you can rely on me, I' 11 not stay in 
 London any longer than I can help." She looks half-
 
 252 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 doubtful; but drinks her tea in silence. Philip con 
 tinues in fatherly tones : " Take great care of the child, 
 wifie !" She indignantly tosses her head at this piece of 
 unnecessary advice ; as if it were possible she could be 
 careless of his their son. 
 
 We will precede this unwilling traveller to London, 
 and look about us for old sights and familiar faces. 
 Philip's mansion is now finished and ready for occupa 
 tion. The decorators and cabinet-makers have left their 
 little mementoes on the table in the ebony room, where 
 he will be sure to see them when he enters. The sides 
 of this room are panelled with polished ebony, and the 
 ceiling is ornamented by fretted rafters picked in with 
 gold as a relief to the sombre black. His arms are 
 carved in every panel, while the violet windows also dis 
 play his quarterings. This peculiar apartment he designs 
 to keep sacred to himself alone, " not even the house 
 maid shall enter ; he will keep it in order himself." Its 
 minor decorations may in a measure account for his 
 aversion to visitors. Underneath the centre window is a 
 Prie-Dieu and a hassock of black velvet to kneel upon. 
 On a curiously carved pentagonal table behind the Prie- 
 Dieu is a Parian statue of the Virgin Mary with hands 
 extended in the act of invoking a benediction. Philip 
 bought it in Paris. Its workmanship is perfect ; a halo 
 of mild piety seems to burst from the white face, and in 
 the sightle'ss eyes there is a vague expression of purity 
 and holiness. Around her, long white tapers stand out 
 in bold relief against the rich dark windows. There is 
 also an amber rosary ; and a Latin missal incongruously 
 leans against a toy that Philip also bought in Paris. It 
 is a flesh-tinted copy of Praxitele's Cnidian Venus the 
 immortalized form of the courtesan Phryne, and the 
 wondrous work which alone rescued Cnidus from ob 
 scurity and gave it a history.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 253 
 
 To this room there is apparently no means of entrance ; 
 no door is visible. How, then, can Philip enter this, his 
 sanctum sanctorum ? Click ! rings the noise of an open 
 ing spring, and a small door concealed in the panelling 
 falls down, and Philip enters. " Faith ! it 's solemn 
 enough !" he exclaims, with a shrug. " The darkness 
 strikes a chill through me with its depressing gloom." 
 He throws off his hat and cloak, kneels down before the 
 Prie-Dieu, and recites a paternoster in a low but 
 sonorous voice. This finished, he makes an inclination 
 to the Virgin, and rises. He attempts to light one of 
 the tapers, but his flint fails to do its duty ; and with a 
 half-uttered curse he relinquishes his intention, and sits 
 down on the hassock to consider what he will do, where 
 he will go, and on whom he will call to help him to 
 enjoy the pleasures of which he determines .to taste 
 quite freely before he returns to his humdrum life at 
 Bucks. 
 
 " There 's Harry Hauteforte ; he will do if I can think 
 of none better ; or there 's Peterborough wofully con 
 ceited and arrogant, but a jolly dog and vastly clever in 
 his ways ! I must see him I wonder whether Mr. Young 
 is in town! I would wager fifty guineas he is either 
 dangling at St. James's, or else puffing some influential 
 idiot with fulsome flattery. At all events, I '11 run down 
 to the Rainbow, and watch who lays his penny on the 
 bar," and he rises, creeps through his secret doorway, 
 and emerges into the street, where a chair soon carries 
 him to the Rainbow coffee-house in Fleet Street. 
 
 He lays his fee on the bar, and orders the particular 
 dish for which this house is famed stewed cheeses and 
 oat cakes. Charon Skewer, the noted highwayman who 
 has eased the pockets of half London in his time, and 
 who chances to know Philip by sight, cries: " Ah, your- 
 grace ! 'tis a plaguy long time since I have had the 
 22
 
 254 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 pleasure of a canary cup with you!" Unluckily for 
 Charon, Philip is aware of his character, and he answers 
 not a word, but draws himself up scornfully, and with a 
 right-about turn he gives him the expanse of his back to 
 look upon. "A murrain on his ill-breeding!" mutters 
 Charon, and he strikes up a conversation with the bar 
 maid to hide his discomfiture ; while an elderly man, 
 whose appearance betokens wealth and refinement, ex 
 claims, "Well done, your grace! served him right." 
 Philip looks toward the speaker, and says, " Sir James, 
 this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought you were at 
 Ipswich among the hawthorn lanes?" 
 
 " I was there," Sir James replies, " but London has 
 charms which never pall, and I have returned again to 
 my old haunts." 
 
 " For which I am thankful, as I find so good a com 
 panion, and so merciless an enemy of Madame Ennui, of 
 whom you have probably heard ?" 
 
 " Yes, but never experienced her attentions." 
 
 "Fortunate man!" replies Philip. 
 
 Sir James Thornhill is sergeant painter to the king. 
 He was once very wealthy, but fashionable excesses have 
 reduced him considerably, and it is his daughter who is 
 Hogarth's future wife. Beside him sits a gayly dressed 
 cavalier whose handsome face is tinged with a grave sad 
 ness. He salutes Philip in courtly phrases, and flatters 
 him in the most unconscionable manner. This is Edward 
 Young, who not only composed " Night Thoughts," but 
 also wrote the most fulsome, adulatory poem which ever 
 disgraced any age, " The Epistle to Lord Lansdowne." 
 'Though nominally his friend, Philip openly shows his 
 contempt for the poet's truckling servility. Philip's 
 hand is now grasped by the erratic genius, Charles Mor- 
 daunt, Earl of Peterborough. Mordaunt is small, and 
 singularly spare in person ; his features are attractive,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 255 
 
 and his nose is prominent ; his eyes are lively and pene 
 trating, and his face is rather long and meagre. He has 
 come to town to take part in the debates of the session. 
 He addresses Philip with the bluff heartiness and jovial 
 good nature of a soldier. 
 
 They all sit down together, and order a plentiful supply 
 of canary. In the course of the conversation, Peter 
 borough says to Philip : " Your grace, I hear that Albe- 
 roni is to assist the Chevalier in another attempt. He 
 is even now fitting out an immense armament at Cadiz, 
 and he is said to rely greatly on friends in England. It 
 will be a hazardous matter for any one to have aught to 
 do with this next effort. It will be a short thrift and a 
 long rope ; I should be loath to see any of my friends 
 favor a scheme so foolhardy as that of the Cardinal's." 
 
 The Earl says this so meaningly that Philip begins to 
 wonder whether he conveys the warning as a hint to 
 himself or not, and he regrets the loss of the message in 
 the cathedral at Dublin. 
 
 Peterborough now calls out : " More wine, fair Hebe ! 
 more wine !" and he trolls out 
 
 " That which most doth take my muse and me 
 Is sure a cup of rich canary wine." 
 
 "Ah ha!" laughs Thornhill, his whole body shaking 
 with his merriment. " Peterborough's muse ! I appeal to 
 your grace whether he should not be fined an additional 
 bottle for mentioning impossible monstrosities?" 
 
 Young, who is invariably the last speaker, laughs at 
 Philip's answer of "Certainly!" and adds, -"It left him 
 when his majesty came in." 
 
 The earl flushes as he replies, " Yes, Mr. Young, and I 
 went out along with it to make room for one who has 
 since managed to scrape his way into decent society and 
 ape his betters."
 
 256 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Young feels the taunt, but, true to his policy of ingra 
 tiating himself, he only smiles and requests the " favor 
 of a cup with him." 
 
 " Gome, gentlemen," says Philip, " let us take a stroll 
 through Fleet Street ;" and at his request they rise and 
 walk out. As they pass by Dick's coffee-house, the 
 Earl notices a friend of his at the bar, who is both 
 wealthy and miserly ; and he throws a shilling through 
 the window to the maid, and exclaims in a loud voice, 
 " For my Lord Sansor ! Take out your penny, and give 
 him a custard for the change ;" a remark which creates 
 a laugh against the cavalier pointed out, who lays his 
 hand on his rapier hilt for a moment, but instantly with 
 drawing it, however, when the Earl notices his movement. 
 Philip proposes a visit to that hotbed of Toryism, Saint 
 James' Coffee-house, and thither they go. 
 
 They enter in a noisy, careless manner, which causes 
 some of the quieter frequenters of the place to scowl 
 disapprovingly. They indulge in several glasses of 
 punch, and sandwiches of prime Yorkshire beef, and 
 before they leave, Peterborough mounts a table, takes off 
 his hat, and whirls it above his head while he exclaims : 
 Oyez ! oyez ! my lords and gentlemen, attend all to the 
 great Mordanto. He intends to recite to you a selec 
 tion from a great divine's greatest poem the subject, to 
 be sure, has something to do with its sublimity." The 
 inmates of the house direct their attention to this ad 
 dress, and many crowd around the table in expectation 
 of amusement. He enunciates with dramatic gestures 
 and grandiloquent airs the following squib of Swift's : 
 
 Mordanto fills the trump of fame, 
 
 The Christian world his deeds proclaim, 
 
 And prints are crowded with his name. 
 
 In journeys he outrides the post, 
 Sits up till midnight with his host, 
 Talks politics and gives the toast.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 251 
 
 Knows every prince in Europe's face, 
 Flies like a squib from place to place, 
 And travels not, but runs a race. 
 
 Heroic actions early bred in, 
 
 Ne'er to be matched in modern reading, 
 
 But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden. 
 
 He is listened to in silence until lie finishes, when there 
 ensue roars of laughter at his tipsy rendering of the 
 poems. He adds gravely : " The only thing which I find 
 fault with in the poem is the comparison between my 
 self and Charles! I protest against being reduced to 
 his level!" 
 
 As the uproar subsides, Philip fills a cup, and ex 
 claims, " Gentlemen, to his grace of Shrewsbury and 
 Alberoni the one an enemy to the world, the other to 
 England; may " Loud cries drown the rest of the 
 toast, and the crowd begin to hustle Philip and his 
 party quite roughly until the Earl, Sir James, and Philip 
 draw their rapiers and form a front which does not 
 invite too close quarters. Philip, who is half tipsy and 
 reckless, swears to finish his toast, and resumes : " May 
 they be bound together in h , and be doomed to gnaw 
 at" each other for all eternity 1" 
 
 Symptoms of a dangerous fracas now begin to appear. 
 Belts are tightened, and swords half drawn by many who 
 were favorable to Shrewsbury while living, and who are 
 enraged at the wanton insult to his memory, and hisses 
 and curses resound through the room. 
 
 Philip cries to Young : " Draw, man, draw ! We shall 
 have to fight our way out of this. There is no end to 
 the Jacobite fire-eaters amongst yon pack o' fools." 
 
 "A Mordanto ! a Mordanto!" yells Peterborough, 
 and, maddened with rage and wine, he thrusts viciously 
 in front of him. " S 'blood ! if ye do not make a path for 
 
 22*
 
 258 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 us out of this den of thieves and cut-purses, we '11 slash 
 one." And he draws back his arm. 
 
 How it would end if the watch did not push in and 
 separate the crowd, it is hard to say. Their leader 
 orders everybody out of the room except those with 
 drawn swords a command which produces sundry clicks 
 and raspings as rapiers are hurriedly sheathed. None 
 of Philip's party follow this wise example, however, 
 except Young, who slips behind the watch, and leaves 
 the room in a hurried manner. The honest guardians 
 of the peace now begin to remonstrate with their " Lud- 
 ships," and " regret the necessity of taking them to the 
 round-house ; but it is their duty, and must be done ;" 
 protestations which Philip silences by thrusting two or 
 three gold pieces into the hand of the spokesman ; a 
 never-failing stratagem, and they leave perfectly con 
 tented. 
 
 "Egad!" exclaims Peterborough, "we raked them up, 
 Wharton 1" 
 
 " You say truly, Mordaunt ; and it shall not be the 
 last time, eh ?" 
 
 Sir James asks, in thick, hiccuping tones, " Where 's 
 Young ? Has he made wings unto himself and flown ?" 
 
 " Yes," replies the Earl ; " 'tis an old trick of his. 
 When steel shines, Young leaves." 
 
 The landlord unbars the door, and lets his noisy guests 
 out again, and they are greeted with groans and hisses 
 by the crowd standing on the pavement. They answer 
 with scornful jeers, and dare any gentleman to a few 
 passadoes with them! but none respond to the invita 
 tion, for both Philip and the Earl are known as thorough 
 experts with the rapier ; and Sir James, though not so 
 famous, is yet a dangerous opponent. 
 
 They ruffle it gallantly back to Fleet Street, where 
 they are joined by Sir Harry Hauteforte, who has been
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 259 
 
 " biting Bacchus" a bit himself, and he is about as bois 
 terous as any of the party. A cavalier, who is walking 
 on the opposite pavement, happens to look over at our 
 party, and he smiles amusedly, which so rouses Philip's 
 ire that he calls over to him in an insolent manner : " Sir, 
 the scent of your wig offends me greatly ! I pray you 
 step here, and give me the satisfaction of a gentleman, 
 for I call you arrant knave and jackanapes !" and he 
 handles his rapier. The cavalier thus roughly accosted, 
 instead of coming over to avenge his wounded honor, 
 passes on with a flushed face and a quick step ; while 
 Philip calls after him, " Coward 1 braggart !" and he reels 
 after his companions who have gone ahead. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 " For he was a lord's own son." 
 
 BALLAD OP QLASOERION. 
 
 Some in clandestine companies combine; 
 Erect new stocks to trade beyond the line ; 
 With air and empty names beguile the town, 
 And raise new credits first, then cry 'em down." 
 
 DEFOE. 
 
 Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke, 
 The club must hail him master of the joke. 
 
 POPE. 
 
 His majesty has returned from his German states, and 
 has opened Parliament in person. The most important 
 measure discussed is the celebrated Peerage bill. Once 
 before, the creation of twelve peers was inserted in the 
 articles of a peer's impeachment ; but the bill is expected 
 to pass in the House of Lords without the slightest 
 opposition, and although the Tories in the Commons
 
 260 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 fight against it, the Whigs have a large majority. It is 
 on this bill that Addison and Steele, once firm friends, 
 take opposite sides as the " old Whig" and the " Plebeian." 
 To everybody's surprise the Commons reject the bill 
 almost unanimously, and Stanhope and Sunderland are 
 foiled in their darling project; while Walpole, who 
 opposes it strongly, is highly praised for his share in its 
 defeat. Philip carefully watches the progress of the bill, 
 and when it is defeated, he speaks admiringly to all 
 about him of the " Independence of the Commons," 
 whereat many are astonished to hear such suspicious 
 sentiments from so warm a Whig as he has been. 
 
 Philip received a blow at this time which almost broke 
 his heart. Margery had become lonely and nervous at 
 Bucks, and fearful lest Philip might go back to his old 
 courses, or be taken sick and lack proper attention, she 
 had come to London, and brought the child with her. 
 Philip reproached her for the step, and ordered her to 
 return at once, for fear of infection from the smallpox, 
 which was raging at that time. She obeyed him ; but it 
 was too late. In a few days he received the news of his 
 son's death. He shut himself up for nearly a week, and 
 refused to see any one ; indeed, he would scarcely eat ; but 
 instead he drank large quantities of brandy which dead 
 ened his grief as well as satisfied his hunger. His ser 
 vants denied all visitors : " They are his grace's orders !" 
 was the only answer that inquiring friends received. His 
 grief was very poignant. He had set such great store on 
 his boy, and he hated poor Margery with all his heart as 
 the cause of his loss. He did not once write to her, but 
 sent his commands to the steward to have the body buried 
 with all the honors, and he would not go down to super 
 intend the burial. When he re-entered society he firmly 
 repulsed all offers of sympathy, and sternly forbade all 
 mention of his loss within his hearing.
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 261 
 
 He is now the President of the Hellfire Club a set of 
 blasphemous profligates. He was solicited to be a mem 
 ber, but he declined except he should be made president, 
 and sooner than lose him the club agreed to his demand, 
 and he is now publicly known as the leader of " the most 
 shameless, impious crew that ever existed." He is far 
 more reckless and heedless of all restraints now than he 
 ever was before; and he brings things to a crisis by 
 avowing himself a Tory and a Jacobite, an avowal which 
 requires a bold heart and a steady hand to support. 
 
 Harley has been zealously advertising the great 
 scheme which is to make England the richest country in 
 the world, and his partisans are loud in their praises of 
 his South Sea Scheme. Its origin and progress are too 
 well known to need any recapitulation, and " the idea 
 that is worthy of Sully or Colbert" is gradually working 
 itself into favor among merchants and traders, nobility 
 and gentry. Philip, who is now of age, and in Parlia 
 ment, enthusiastically favors it, and fails to see the 
 ruinous future which lurks within it. " John Law ! Rue 
 Quincampoix! actions and shares," entirely supersede 
 the ordinary scandal and topics of the day. The Scotch 
 adventurer is all powerful in Paris, and when he and my 
 Lord Stair quarrel, his Excellency is recalled and Sir 
 Robert Sutton is installed in his place. 
 
 As soon as the scheme bill has received the royal 
 assent, subscriptions are opened, and they are taken with 
 such avidity that another and another follow in quick 
 succession. In a short time stocks rise from 130 to 
 1000, and this wonderful success produces fifty other 
 schemes, many of them of the most absurd nature. The 
 Prince is head of " The Welsh Copper-Mining Com 
 pany," and in two days he gains forty thousand pounds, 
 then wisely withdraws and thus escapes the subsequent 
 consequences.
 
 262 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Change Alley begins to rival the Rue Quincampoix. 
 Here alone do Whigs and Tories, churchmen and dis 
 senters mingle in amicable agreement to effect transfers, 
 or open new subscriptions. London's noblest dames go 
 masked and hooded to the alley to buy and sell, like any 
 broker. Behold a few schemes selected at random from 
 a crowd of similar absurdities : 
 
 "For importing a number of large jackasses from 
 Spain." 
 
 " For a wheel, for perpetual motion." 
 
 " For an undertaking which shall be revealed in due 
 time." 
 
 London is crazy. Let us mingle with the mad 
 crowd which roars and surges in the alley. Here is a 
 man with his hands, pockets, and hat full of papers, 
 yelling in shrill, cracked accents the peculiar merits of 
 his scheme, while a near rival vaunts his above all the 
 others, and glances around in search of buyers ; and all 
 are either buying or selling with the lust of greed flush 
 ing their faces, or making their hands tremble. There is 
 a beautiful woman whose mask has fallen off, and whose 
 hair is rumpled and disordered. She is bargaining with 
 a vulgar wretch for some rising shares. Her name is 
 Lady Winifred Rabic, and she is endeavoring to gain 
 enough to sustain her in her extravagant rnanner of 
 living. Yonder is Dr. Radcliffe, who h'as already lost 
 5000 ; he is busy calculating the odds on a new scheme 
 which has just been offered to him. The Duke of 
 Chandos is also engaged in the same occupation. "Way 
 for the Earl of Westmoreland!" and his lordship takes 
 his accustomed place as buyer or seller. The king's 
 favorite, Bernstoff, glides in and around the fevered 
 speculators, and warily watches his chances. Now we 
 can distinguish Philip's fair curls and handsome face. 
 He is conversing with an aged cavalier, whose peruke
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 263 
 
 tells of other days. He is tall, and not ill-favored, but 
 his neck is too low between his shoulders, his countenance 
 is furrowed and haggard with his long career of intrigues 
 and cares ; it is the crafty Mr. Craggs. He is persuad 
 ing Philip to invest in a few hundred of his shares at 
 five thousand, to which he finally agrees, and the transfer 
 is made. Philip pockets the slips, and Craggs chuckles 
 over his gains. At this moment Philip is joined by 
 Peterborough, and simultaneously he is accosted by a 
 masked cavalier who offers to sell him five hundred 
 shares of a company, which at present ranks high in the 
 Alley, for a hundred guineas the share. Philip, who is 
 sure that he can dispose of them at any time for one 
 hundred and fifty, closes with the offer, and the stranger 
 exchanges the shares for a draft for the amount. Peter 
 borough tries to dissuade Philip from buying, and 
 Philip laughs at his ignorance of their value, and calls 
 out to the Earl of Westmoreland : " My lord, will you 
 take five hundred ' Arabian' at one fifty?" "No, your 
 grace, nor at a shilling apiece I 'Arabian' is sunk presi 
 dent absconded, and treasurer invisible." At this 
 startling news Philip at once vindicates his powers as 
 President of the Hellfire Club, and tears the worthless 
 scrip to pieces. His first thought is to send a messenger 
 to stop the payment of the draft, but it is too late for 
 that now, for the man who has shrewdness enough to 
 make such a coup d'etat would certainly cash the draft as 
 soon as possible. 
 
 "Peterborough," says Philip, with a grimace, "that 
 makes about fifty thousand* I have frittered away in this 
 foolery 1" 
 
 The Earl replies : " I suspected the fellow, but I had 
 not the slightest idea that Arabian was totally worthless." 
 
 " This collapse is the beginning of the end, Peter- 
 
 * Fact.
 
 264 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 borough. During the last few days, I have thought what 
 an unstable foundation all of these schemes rest on, and 
 I fear Change Alley will be many a man's ruin, as it 
 would be mine if I kept at it much longer." 
 
 The Earl says, musingly : " Your grace, it strikes me 
 that the fellow who sold you the 'Arabian,' is the same 
 who was once implicated in a Jacobite plot which nearly 
 cost him his life ! If I were not sure that Sir Edgely 
 Warely is in Rome, I would swear " 
 
 " Edgely Warely," interrupts Philip, in an excited 
 manner. " Ay, now I recall his voice and his figure, I 
 am sure it is he the treacherous villain 1" 
 
 The Earl is a little surprised at his emotion, but he 
 does not ask any questions, and they stroll off together. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 
 
 They reel and stagger to and fro, 
 
 At their wit's end, like drunken men. 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 " The swan-feathers the arrow bore 
 With his heart's -blood they were wet." 
 
 THE HUNTING OF THE CHEVIOT. 
 
 PARIS and the Hue Quincampoix have repeated them 
 selves in London and Change Alley. Crash after crash 
 of the various companies has ruined thousands who 
 foolishly invested their whole wealth in the delusory 
 hope of a hundred-fold return. All London and the ad 
 jacent towns are in a ferment. The train-bands can 
 scarcely keep order or prevent many riots and disturb 
 ances. Parliament has met in alarm, and the members 
 are frightened at the aspect of affairs which greets them. 
 The Commons present a curious, but dreadful scene:
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 265 
 
 Whigs and Tories change places, while the watchful 
 Jacobites note the embarrassed state of affairs with open 
 delight, and add all in their power to the general con 
 fusion, hoping to take advantage of the occasion to 
 improve their plans. 
 
 In his opening speech his majesty laments the sad 
 state of affairs, and presses on Parliament the necessity 
 of finding a remedy. His speech is received in the 
 House of Lords in deep silence the presage of the 
 storm; but in the Commons a member, who has lost 
 very heavily, rises and with excited gestures and white 
 lips reviles the South Sea Directors in the most violent 
 terms, and calls them : " Miscreants ! scum of the people 1 
 and enemies to the country 1" 
 
 In the Upper House Lord Mdlesworth says : " My 
 lords, I admit that the directors cannot be reached by 
 any known laws, but extraordinary crimes call for ex 
 traordinary remedies. The Roman lawgivers had not 
 foreseen the possible existence of a parricide, but as soon 
 as the first monster appeared, he was sewn in a sack and 
 cast headlong into the Tiber : and as I think the directors 
 of the South Sea scheme to be the parricides of their 
 country, I should willingly see them undergo the same 
 punishment." Not a dissentient voice is heard until 
 Walpole replies with his usual calmness and suavity, 
 " If the city of London were on fire, wise men would be 
 for extinguishing the flames before they inquired after 
 the incendiaries." 
 
 A bill is brought forward to " punish the authors of 
 our present misfortunes," and it is carried nemine dissen- 
 tiente, for those who have been guilty do not dare to 
 oppose it for fear of being found out, and the innocent 
 for fear they may be suspected. After a short recess for 
 Christmas festivities! Parliament reassembles angrier 
 than before, and with a determination to be avenged on the 
 23
 
 266 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 company which has issued over half a million fictitious 
 stock to bribe their king and his mistresses her grace 
 of Kendal and Madame de Platen. 
 
 General Ross states, with angry mouthings : " We have 
 discovered a train of the deepest villany and fraud that 
 Hell ever contrived to ruin a nation ;" and at the con 
 clusion of his speech, four of the directors members . 
 are expelled the House and taken into custody. 
 
 In the Lords the excitement is intense : John Blunt, a 
 sturdy, independent man, is interrogated, but he refuses 
 to answer any questions put to him relative to the South 
 Sea Directors. This occasions a debate which soon 
 branches into more general topics, and scurrilous person 
 alities take the place of cool discussion. Philip, who has 
 hitherto been restrained by Peterborough from taking an 
 active part in the discussion, now rises and claims his 
 right to the floor. The assembled peers, who have long 
 expected a speech from him, now subside into temporary 
 quietness, and await his views in anxious silence all ex 
 cept a few vehement Whigs who heartily hate him for his 
 renegade conduct. His speech ranges over the whole 
 administration, and he adverts to the dissension in the 
 royal family, and more than hints that "'Stanhope has done 
 his best to feed the flames of so unnatural a fire." He 
 cries in trumpet tones : " Look to his parallel in Sejanus : 
 that evil and too powerful minister who made a division 
 in the Imperial family, and rendered the reign of Tibe 
 rius hateful to the Romans i" As he sits down a mur 
 mur undulates through the House like the wind in 
 autumn branches, and a crowd of hungry eyes turn to 
 Stanhope for his answer to this bold Philippic. 
 
 From the time Philip mentioned the dissension, Stan 
 hope has been on his feet, his lips tightly closed and his 
 hands clutched so strongly on his breast that he has 
 torn his lace cravat in two. He draws a long, broken
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 267 
 
 breath, and turns yellow with passion and hatred as he 
 looks directly at his accuser. In his reply he ably vindi 
 cates his own conduct, and justifies every act of the admin 
 istration. He extends a trembling hand towards Philip, 
 and exclaims, in an ominously calm voice : " Such virtu 
 ous sentiments and patriotic thoughts sound most 
 strange coming from the lips of the president of the Hell- 
 fire club, whose godless schemes, wild excesses, and sus 
 picious political tendencies are the scandal of England ; 
 and now, most noble duke, allow me to compliment you 
 highly on your studies in Roman history, and I hope 
 that you have not overlooked the example of the patriot 
 Brutus, who, in order to assert the liberty of Rome, and 
 free it from tyrants, sacrificed his own degenerate and 
 worthless son! Moreover ah!" His utterance be 
 comes choked, his face turns to an unearthly livid color, 
 and his eyes close with spasmodic twitchings. He sways 
 to and fro like one drunk, and his eyes open and he sur 
 veys the house with a vacant gaze. My Lord Town- 
 shend rushes to his support, and grasps him by the 
 shoulders. Stanhope slowly turns his face to him, and 
 opens his lips as if to speak; he cannot! A thin 
 black stream trickles through his lips, and runs slowly 
 down his gown, and falls softly, splashing on the floor. 
 A cry of horror bursts from all, and he is immediately 
 assisted outside. While being carried out, the dying 
 man throws a revengeful glance at Philip and his friend. 
 Philip and Peterborough converse about the terrible 
 incident in the house, and Philip regrets his attack on 
 the Secretary of State, an attack which produced such 
 dreadful effects, and he says : " If I had thought Stan 
 hope was so vastly sensitive to a little bluster, I would 
 not have pricked him so smartly. I trust he will soon 
 recover he looked mighty unwell when he was carried 
 out."
 
 268 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 The Earl replies: "I 'faith! I think he gave you as 
 good as you sent, and he gave me a dig as well small 
 thanks to him for it. But I forgive him, ' he knew not 
 what he did ;' but if he had not been taken ill, Mordanto 
 would have buckled on his armor." 
 
 Philip says : " Yes, 'tis a pity you did not get a few 
 words in : it would have made additional amusement." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Bel. I do beseech you, sir, 
 
 Since you are like to see the king before rae, 
 Commend the paper to his gracious hand. 
 
 "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL." 
 
 WE must retrace our steps to the cathedral at Dublin, 
 in order to discover where Alberoni's message disap 
 peared so mysteriously. The case is very simple. As 
 soon as Philip and Mistress O'Beirne left, Edgely Yal- 
 entin darted out from behind the altar, where he had 
 been concealed, and shook a paper or letter in the air 
 with frenzied gestures. He then exclaimed : " At last I 
 have an opportunity to fulfil my vow I" This letter was 
 Alberoni's message, of which he had unseen taken pos 
 session. His face was pale but triumphant, and he read 
 the contents of his stolen prize repeatedly. 
 
 " Ah ha ! Mistress O'Beirne, this pays me for dogging! 
 I thought your errand was to him. Thanks to his care 
 lessness, his life is now, to a certain extent, in my power : 
 London is in no mood to trifle with traitors, and to 
 London I must go and await a fitting opportunity to 
 present this document to their high mightinesses in the 
 Lords." And he took off his left shoe, and ripped the 
 leather lining from the side, enough to allow the letter to
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 269 
 
 slip between it and the outer surface. That accomplished, 
 he drew it on again, and walked rapidly to the banks of 
 the Liffey, where a fishing-smack whose owner combined 
 fishing and smuggling in a very profitable manner was 
 to sail for London in a few hours. 
 
 In a vile den in "Wapping is a rag and junk-shop, kept 
 by an old woman who is a sister of the notorious Dame 
 Brett. 
 
 " When Wharton 's just, and learns to pay his debts, 
 And reputation dwells at Mother Brett's :" 
 
 She is known to all the foot-pads and cut-purses of 
 London as Dame Grab-all, for she willingly purchases 
 everything that is brought to her, from a diamond set of 
 the first water down to the dirtiest rope's end. On the 
 second floor of this house and in the front room is 
 Edgely Valentin. He is standing by a grimy, latticed 
 apology for a window, and he taps abstractedly on the 
 mouldy walls, whose plastering drops off in a little cloud 
 at every touch of his knuckles. On the sole piece of 
 furniture in the room, a bed, lies a woman, whose face is 
 drawn and wan ; and she has great hollows under her 
 glistening eyes and in her flushed cheeks hollows which 
 tell of fast-running sands. She must have been a lovely 
 girl once, for in spite of the ravages of time and sorrow, 
 her features are still prepossessing and delicate : her hair 
 is very thick and long, and it lies in a tangled mass on 
 the whitey-brown pillow. 
 
 He turns to her, and says in a kindly manner : " Have 
 you heard how Lord Stanhope came by his death?" 
 
 " Yes 1" she replies in a hesitating voice. 
 
 He says : " He befriended me once, and saved me 
 from being set on by a crowd of springalds who thought 
 fit to taunt me with my birth a birth which it strikes 
 me is very generally known in town !" and he clenches 
 his teeth till his jaw-bones harden his features. 
 
 23*
 
 270 -HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 The woman replies, in pained accents : " Edgely, drop 
 that subject, I entreat you it is worn threadbare be 
 tween us." 
 
 He does not answer her, but resumes his tapping 
 at the wall. She casts a stealthy glance at him, and 
 draws from her bosom a tiny miniature portrait, and 
 exclaims in low tones: "God! that he might know all! 
 But my promise I cannot will not break it yet awhile 
 at least ;" and she secretes it, .and sighs deeply. 
 
 He suddenly exclaims : " I will go te the Tower ! A 
 large meeting of people will collect there to-day, to mob 
 Parliament and hoot the Houses for their leniency to 
 ward the Directors a worthy set of gentlemen, and more 
 sinned against than sinning " A rumbling sound like 
 distant thunder is heard, and he continues : " St. Jago ! 
 there they are ! good-bye ! I '11 return shortly." 
 
 Valentin mixes with the crowd of 'prentices, traders, 
 butchers, and watermen who are yelling and roaring in 
 angry confusion, and he helps them in their outcries. 
 " Hang them ! hang the cannibals !" " On to Parliament, 
 and we '11 see to matters ourselves." The mention of any 
 name known in connection with the South Sea scheme is 
 greeted with curses and execrations. " Stanhope" seems 
 to be the rallying cry. Valentin clambers on top of a 
 huge hogshead that is close by, and cries in a voice 
 which rises above the tumult : " Friends fellow-victims ! 
 jet us demand justice now at once. On to Parliament ! 
 we will let them know that we are men. On, on to Par. 
 liament !" 
 
 " Ay, lad ! on to t'Lords, and make 'em return us the 
 money they Ve robbed us on !" exclaims a tall, grimy 
 smith who flourishes a gigantic hammer as though it 
 were a cane ; the mob echo his sentiments, and Valentin 
 leaps to the ground and places himself at their head. 
 
 As they come in sight of the object of their ill-will,
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 271 
 
 they salute it with a perfect shower of yells and groans. 
 Valentin thrusts his hands into his breast, apparently to 
 search for something, and assured of its safety, he care 
 fully rebuttons his coat, and his eyes blaze with a baleful 
 expression. 
 
 The Houses are in session. Harley's "master-piece" 
 is still under discussion, and penalties and impi'ison- 
 ments are still the rule rather than the exception. The 
 king has been spoken of in terms far from flattering; 
 and it shows the general exasperation and angry feelings 
 which reign in the house, that, when his majesty asked 
 them for a large subsidy to Sweden for the trade in naval 
 stores, Lord Molesworth protested strongly against the 
 measure, and finished by saying : " I own hemp is a very 
 necessary commodity, especially at this juncture, but in 
 my opinion we can be supplied more cheaply from our 
 plantations in America." 
 
 Philip, whose renegade conduct and determined oppo 
 sition to the government and all the schemes of the min 
 istry have incurred the ill-will of both his majesty and 
 those in power, is attacked by a special proclamation 
 issued against the Hell-fire Club and its president. The 
 subject is now being debated. Chesterfield's son Lord 
 Stanhope is speaking in grave, earnest tones : " This 
 club, which his majesty so justly rails against, is a dis 
 grace to our city. Its members are, with scarcely an 
 exception, notorious for their blasphemy, riotous living, 
 and violent conduct. It is said God forfend that it is 
 true ! that many of our worthiest families have sons 
 who do not scruple to avow themselves aiders and abettors 
 of this most scandalous and godless organization. If it 
 is true, then will we do a good deed if we can destroy it, 
 and pull from the fire the burning brands !" and after a 
 few more observations on religion and morality, he takes 
 his seat.
 
 2T2 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip rises amid an ominous silence to answer tbis 
 scathing attack, while Peterborough stands by his side. 
 He casts his eyes slowly around the expectant assembly, 
 and with a sneer on his lips, he whispers to the earl. He 
 begins: "My lord has chosen to attack the honored 
 president of a club, whose door he is not worthy to 
 guard, and also to reflect on his want of godliness, as 
 well as all the other members." Here he pauses, and 
 turns to Peterborough, who hands him a small Bible with 
 a great affectation of reverence. Philip then turns his lips 
 down in a sanctimonious manner, as he resumes : " I am 
 no patron of blasphemy, as I shall prove out of this holy 
 book, which my saintly friend" he points to the earl 
 " invariably carries with him in order to controvert the 
 arguments of the ungodly." 
 
 " Amen !" snuffles the earl. But Philip's answer is so 
 utterly shameless and impious that I dare not give it to 
 you. 
 
 As he finishes, Peterborough rises, and in reference 
 to a theological point which Stanhope has raised, replies : 
 " Though I am for a Parliamentary king, s'life ! I '11 never 
 have a Parliamentary religion." 
 
 Philip says: "Mordanto! you are an honor to the H. 
 F. C. If I were not Duke of Wharton, I would cer 
 tainly be Earl of Peterborough." 
 
 " S'life," he replies, " but your grace is unjust ; the 
 exchange would be uneven. How ever could I live with 
 your debts and reputation pulling on me ? how would 
 you remedy that ?" 
 
 " Easily enough," Philip says with a laugh ; " I would 
 throw my duchess and her good qualities into the scale." 
 
 At this moment there is a noise in the hallway which 
 attracts Peterborough's attention, and he leaves his seat 
 to inquire into the cause of the disturbance.
 
 oa, PHILIP DUKE OP WHABTON'S CAREER. 273 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 I am no love for you, Margaret ; 
 You are no love for me. 
 
 BALLAD OP " FAIR MARGARET'S MISFORTUNES." 
 
 THE earl is surprised to find a man struggling with 
 the doorkeeper, and is still more so when he recognizes 
 the intruder to be Edgely Valentin; he says to the 
 keeper : u What is the matter ? What ails the madman ?" 
 But the doorkeeper is too busily engaged in attending to 
 the infuriated Valentin to answer the earl, and he merely 
 nods. The earl, whose strength is wonderful for such a 
 slightly built man, grips Edgely by the nape of his neck 
 and shakes him so fiercely that he drops his hold on the 
 keeper, and endeavors to free himself from the new as 
 sailant. The earl exclaims : " What means the insolent 
 fellow ? What do you want here ? Speak, or I '11 choke 
 ye black in the face." 
 
 " My lord," he exclaims, " An infamous plot Alberoni 
 wait till I gain my breath I" 
 
 Peterborough notices a paper in his hand, and he 
 snatches it away from him and then releases him. 
 
 " To his grace of Northumberland Alberoni ? " ex 
 claims the earl, and he crushes the letter into his pocket. 
 
 Valentin sees his motion, and he gasps : " The paper 
 my lord, if you it must be read before the House. It 
 is part of a treasonous correspondence I have dis 
 covered." 
 
 The earl asks quickly : " Ah ! you say you have more !". 
 
 " Yes, my lord, and I can produce them at any time." 
 
 *' Do the others criminate the duke as much as this ?"
 
 2 "74 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " No, my lord, but they are from well-known Jacobites 
 in Paris, Rome, and Avignon." 
 
 " Have you them with you ! quick I We are beginning 
 to attract attention." 
 
 " No, my lord ; but I can get them in a few days 1*' 
 
 " Speak low now from whom are the others ?" 
 
 This question perplexes him, and he hesitates. The 
 earl looks sternly at him and says : " Look ye, Sir 
 Edgely Warely ! If you who are such a stern patriot 
 do not bring me all the letters in your possession 
 which can do any harm to the Duke of Wharton, I '11 see 
 that you receive lodgings in the Tower. Now you can 
 go ! You know that I always perform what I threaten." 
 
 Yalentin's countenance assumes a frightful expression, 
 and he stamps his foot in a mad paroxysm of rage as he 
 comprehends that his plans are foiled, while Peterborough 
 smiles at his impotent mouthings. Suddenly he rushes 
 on the earl, who is too quick in his actions to be caught 
 unawares, and as Valentin grasps at his throat, Peter 
 borough hurls him headlong out of the doorway 
 
 As the earl takes his seat again Philip says : " My 
 lord, you left me so suddenly, that I feel half justified in 
 asking the reason of your absence ?" Peterborough 
 replies in a careless manner: "I heard a noise at the 
 door, and went to investigate the cause. I found a 
 friend of yours there who requested me to give you this 
 document, and to advise you to be more careful in future 
 where you leave your letters." 
 
 Philip opens the document, and he is astounded to find 
 it is Alberoni's lost letter. He eagerly requests a de 
 scription of the person who brought it, and asks Peter 
 borough whether he was suitably rewarded. 
 
 " Yes, I amply rewarded him for his trouble ; but as to 
 describing him, I am very bad at descriptions. I did not 
 especially observe him."
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHAETON'S CAREER. 275 
 
 Philip replies : " Well, if you have rewarded him, it 
 matters little who he is." 
 
 The Earl dryly replies : " Umph ! sure ?" 
 
 Philip's answer is lost in the terrific yell which shakes 
 the windows, and makes the Spanish Armada tapestry 
 tremble with the concussion. 
 
 Philip thrusts the letter in his pocket, and runs to see 
 the cause of the tumult; Peterborough follows, as do 
 most of the peers. The mob which collected at the 
 Tower has been swollen with hundreds more of men and 
 lads who' have joined them along their route. 
 
 " Look !" exclaims Philip : " There is Edgely Valentin 
 at the head of the mob ! S'life, the fellow looks like a 
 modern fury. He is all awake for mischief." 
 
 " 'Faith," says Peterborough, " he looks as if he has 
 just escaped from a mad-house or the tender mercies of 
 the Mohocks ! and 'faith, he must have a spite against 
 you, Wharton; he has just favored you with a particu 
 larly disagreeable look!" 
 
 Philip shrugs his shoulders disdainfully, and laughs at 
 the idea of such -a foe. 
 
 Philip and Peterborough do not return to their seats 
 after the dispersion of the mob by the guard. They pro 
 ceed to the Rainbow in Fleet Street, and there they 
 remain until late in the evening, when they adjourn to the 
 Pope's Head, in the alley of the same name. The bar is 
 small and- clean, and the floor is nicely sanded, while the 
 walls and ceiling are hung with pewter mugs or black 
 jacks. The landlord Jack Hood is a stout, florid man, 
 and he is so good-natured that he was never known to 
 be augry but once, and that was on an extraordinary 
 occasion ; and as Peterborough, who was present at the 
 occurrence, is telling the story to Philip, we will listen : 
 " I '11 tell you a^out it, Wharton. Bowen that fiery- 
 blooded Irishman whom you have probably heard of as
 
 276 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 a clever, handsome actor was in this very room about 
 four years ago, and I was talking to him about Quin of 
 whom he was vastly jealous and hated like well, like 
 Congreve does the great Sarah.* I jestingly told him 
 that Quin was universally considered as his superior, 
 whereat he waxed mighty wroth and sent for him. Quin 
 no sooner entered than Bowen cursed him and com 
 manded him to draw, at the same time he brandished his 
 blade in his face. At first Quin refused to 'fight, but 
 Bowen gave him no alternative ; so he drew, and egad I 
 there's the mark on the panel where Quin's point touched 
 after passing through t'other 's midriff! S'life ! he played 
 prettily ! a stramazorm, a half whirl with a passado, and 
 the blade fleshed home." 
 
 Philip passes his finger over the cut in the door, and 
 says : " Better Bowen than Quin, for if he had gone 
 where would our Falstaff have come from? A sight 
 worth a year of any man's life to see." 
 
 They loiter here until Jack intimates it is closing time, 
 so they settle the score, and each wends his way home 
 ward with unsteady steps and bewildered brains. 
 
 Philip feels cynical and unwell as he opens his eyes 
 after the night's debauch, and he calls for a goblet of 
 iced canary to clear his muddled head. He glances 
 towards his escritoire, and there among various other 
 letters is one from Holme Grange. He groans inwardly 
 as he imagines its probable contents, and he takes it up 
 and tears it open in a pettish manner. It Is quite lengthy, 
 and he is fully ten minutes in learning its contents. This 
 done, he tosses it aside, and exclaims wearily : " What I 
 expected ! Fatherly objurgations, marital pleadings 
 and general persuasions and entreaties heigh-ho ! a 
 ridiculous waste of time and paper. She disobeyed my 
 
 * Duchess of Marlborough.
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 217 
 
 orders killed my son, curse Her ! and she shall never 
 what nonsense 1 Philip, you will certainly destroy your 
 calm quietude by such frenzies. The only item of inte 
 rest is the paragraph about Brad and Meg ; the rest 
 reeks of Margery and her troubles. S'life, as* if I am in 
 fault!" And he thrusts his head down in the pillow, 
 and falls asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 " His learning none will call in doubt; 
 
 Nor Pope would dare deny him wit." 
 *'I own he hates an action base, 
 
 His virtues battling with his place." 
 
 SWIFT'S LIBEL. 
 
 IN front of the quaint little house known as Dan But 
 ton's, are two persons who whisper together in low tones 
 and seem desirous of secrecy. The elder of the two is 
 smaller than the average of mankind, and from his thin, 
 bony neck, down to his diminutive feet, his body has a 
 curious resemblance to a large S. His hands are small, 
 pallid, and very thin ; but his eyes compensate for his 
 deformities they are piercing and eloquent, and they 
 seem to shine with a mute appeal for sympathy, blended 
 with the sarcastic expression of a defiant, scornful wit. 
 He is well known at Button's and Will's as a vastly 
 clever man and a fine scholar, but he is not over-popular 
 at either place, for he is too fond of retort and repartee. 
 His companion is Mr. Morice, who is dressed in a frock 
 suit of brown and silver lace ; he is the son-in-law of 
 Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester. As their con 
 versation seems of some interest, we will turn eaves 
 droppers and listen to it in spite of Pope's keen eyes or 
 Mr. Morice's steel hilt. 
 24
 
 278 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Pope exclaims : " All England cries shame on my Lord 
 Walpole for his severity toward the best and wisest man 
 living 1" 
 
 Mr. Morice adds : " The pigeon-pie which I sent him 
 yesterday was opened by the dirty turnkey to see 
 whether or no I had secreted a letter or a ladder in it, in 
 order to assist him to escape." 
 
 " Escape 1" says Pope angrily ; " Francis Atterbury 
 attempt to steal from prison like a common felon? 
 Never ! His soul is too lofty to stoop so low. When he 
 leaves the tower, it will be amid the huzzas of a million 
 tongues which will chant a paean to his greatness ! Pah 1 
 this is the first time that dead pigeons have been accused 
 of carrying messages." 
 
 Mr. Morice says : " Think you that my Lords Orrery 
 and North will say aught to criminate Atterbury ?" 
 
 " Criminate, man ! I must misunderstand you ! 
 What can they say to criminate him ?" and he anxiously 
 awaits an answer, but Mr. Morice only shakes his head. 
 
 Pope resumes : " His grace of Norfolk will probably 
 be honorably discharged ?" 
 
 " I doubt it, sir," he replies. 
 
 " Your reasons, Mr. Morice, for doubting his ac 
 quittal!" 
 
 " I will give them inside," he replies, and they go in 
 and take a bench in a remote corner of the bar. Mr. 
 Morice proceeds : " In addition to the letters signed 
 ' Jones,' and ' Illington,' which I fear me will be proved 
 to be his, there is this wretched ' Harlequin' affair. 
 You are aware that Mar sent Mistress Atterburj^ 
 before she died a little spotted dog which she named 
 Harlequin. About a month ago, I unfortunately trod on 
 its foot and broke it, so that I had to send it to Mistress 
 Barnes in Houndsditch to be cured. It seems that this 
 dog has been mentioned several times in the letters. Mis-
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 279 
 
 tress Barnes was examined by the council, and was asked 
 the question : ' Does the dog Harlequin which you have 
 belong to the Bishop of Rochester?' To which she re 
 plied immediately : "Yes, it does.' Slight and ridiculous 
 as this evidence may seem, it is really a strong link in the 
 chain of circumstances with which it is connected." 
 
 Pope listened in silence, and he murmurs the bishop's 
 answer when he was brought before the council: "If I 
 tell you, ye will not believe ; and if I ask you, ye will 
 not answer me nor let me go !" And he recalls At- 
 terbury's well-known hostility to the Hanoverian suc 
 cession, his offer to head an army in his lawn sleeves, his 
 haughty and ambitious temper, his refusal to sign the 
 Declaration of Abhorrence of the rebellion of 1715, and 
 his turbulent spirit, and he begins to fear that the gov 
 ernment may be able to furnish strong proofs of treason 
 and disloyalt} r when the bishop is put upon his trial. 
 
 Mr. Morice says musingly : " They say that seven 
 cardinals presided by the pope's orders at the birth of 
 Charles Edward. This future pretender has pleased our 
 Jacobites mightily." 
 
 Pope replies, with a twinkle in his eye : " Yes, and 
 they had a chance to show their feelings in safety on 
 Lord Mayor's day by calling : A Stuart, a Stuart high, 
 church and Stuart, for the mayor's name is Stuart; 
 rather a disagreeable coincidence," and he smiles as he 
 recollects how pleased his mayorship had been at the un 
 usual rejoicings and acclamations which took place on 
 his election. 
 
 " I believe you are the bishop's solicitor, Mr. Morice ?" 
 
 " Yes, and Sir Phipps and Mr. Wynne are his coun 
 sel." 
 
 " But is it not against the order of the House for a lord 
 to appear by counsel before the other House ?"
 
 280 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 "Yes, but he has permission to appear either with 
 counsel or without, as he pleases!" 
 
 " I am glad to hear that ; but Mistress Barnes ? what 
 a witness against a bishop Rochester versus a Hounds- 
 ditch quack!" 
 
 " Bad enough ! It is reported that his protean Grace 
 of Wharton intends to defend Atterbury in the Lords. 
 Do you know whether there is any truth in the asser 
 tion ?" 
 
 Pope replies scornfully : " His grace is constant only 
 to inconstancy ; he is an antithesis, a consistent inconsis 
 tency. I doubt that he will belie himself. If he defends 
 him before the trial, during it he will be his- opponent. 
 But it would be well if Atterbury could secure him ; he 
 is a powerful speaker, and he is fuller of tricks and 
 legal subterfuges than any man in London." 
 
 Suddenly Pope pushes his companion to one side, and 
 a smile of welcome lights his face as he discerns a fami 
 liar form standing at the bar in conversation with the 
 bar-maid. The new-comer's countenance wears an ex 
 pression of jollity and good fellowship. He is clothed 
 in a faded cinnamon coat, whose huge lappels and pockets 
 are adorned with very coppery silver-lace, which tells of 
 long service and hard wear. His ruffles are torn and 
 dirty, and his whole air bespeaks the Grub Street hack 
 who has seen better days. 
 
 Pope scrambles quickly towards him, and exclaims: 
 " John, John ! this will never do ! idling at a pot-house, 
 instead of being at the labors which are to enable you to 
 scale Parnassus' heights !" 
 
 He replies : " Hallo ! is it you, Mr. Pope ? What were 
 you saying ? Labors Mount Parnassus rubbish ! I 
 earn as much talking with pretty Polly here, as I do in 
 my attic, and that is nothing." 
 
 Pope remarks : " Fudge I John, come and have a jack
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 281 
 
 of canary with Mr. Morice and myself ; you are ac 
 quainted with him?" 
 
 He nods assent, and the three sit down together. 
 
 The trial of Francis Atterbury is at present the great 
 topic of conversation and discussion among all classes of 
 society, and especially literary and theological circles. 
 The treasonous correspondence which Walpole inter 
 cepted deeply embroils the bishop, and although the peo 
 ple in general side with the imprisoned prelate, it is feared 
 there will be too many proofs of guilt for him to escape 
 a sentence of exile may be death. 
 
 " For my part," says Gay, " I concur with the opin 
 ion of several learned gentlemen who frequent my spare 
 chambers, that his lordship's correspondence and conduct 
 are at least worthy of censure, if not of more stringent 
 measures." 
 
 At this, Pope presses his friend's foot and glances at 
 Mr. Morice as he remarks : " Marry, Mr. Gay, we will 
 take your opinion on Ma'am'selle Scuderi or Hanover 
 scenery, but on this subject you are in the clouds." 
 
 Mr. Morice adds : " Yes, give us your opinion on 
 Scoderi's Grand Cyrus ; you have read it, I suppose ?" 
 
 " I have, sir," says Gay, "and I can assure ye that she 
 is another Sappho the most proper tenth muse that has, 
 as yet, illumined the literary horizon!" 
 
 Pope replies, with a perceptible curl on his lip : 
 " Bravo ! John ! One would think you had been to the 
 Hotel Rambouillet and been patted on the back by that 
 Olympian novelist." 
 
 " No, Mr. Pope," says Gay ; " should any one pat me, 
 the act signifies a " And he stops in confusion. 
 
 Pope maliciously adds : " A superiority in the patter, 
 and you, John, are at least equal to the tenth muse." 
 
 Gay reddens, and Mr. Morice says : " To change the 
 conversation, Mr. Gay, what is your opinion of this 
 
 24*
 
 282 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Erasmus Lewis who is engaged to prove the handwriting 
 of the bishop. Is he a man of good character, and 
 honest?" 
 
 " Too much so for the bishop's good, I fear," is Gay's 
 curt reply, at which Pope looks anxious and troubled, for 
 Atterbury is a very demigod to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XLTI. 
 
 *' Though small the time thou hast to spare, 
 The church is thy peculiar care." 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 PHILIP is sauntering down Ave Maria lane in com 
 pany with a cavalier of commanding presence and dis 
 tinguished bearing, whose name is Lord William Cowper, 
 alias Will Bigamy, alias Cowper-law : the first pseudo 
 nym he has acquired from an absurd story set afoot by 
 Yoltaire ; the other was given him by his political oppo 
 nents for his impartiality and severity in awarding 
 punishment to malefactors and criminals. They intend 
 to pay a visit to Dolly's, in Paternoster row, a tavern 
 famed for its juicy steaks and gill-ale. 
 
 As they enter Paternoster row Philip chants, in a 
 doleful voice, " Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis," and casts 
 a glance at his companion as he finishes ; and Cowper 
 exclaims : " Your grace seems affected by the associa 
 tions of the row." 
 
 Philip replies : " Yes, my lord ; it reminds me of Avig 
 non and the holy fathers." 
 
 " Tut-tut," says Cowper ; " drop the subject, your 
 grace. It ill becomes me to listen to aught pertaining 
 to papistry." 
 
 Philip promises not to offend again, and they enter
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 283 
 
 Dolly's tavern, which has a portrait of Queen Anne as 
 its sign. 
 
 " Prithee, Master Dolly," says Cowper, " let us have a 
 pipe of sot weed apiece and a jug of claret ;" an order 
 which is promptly filled, and they are soon involved in a 
 cloud of the soothing and enervating Oronooko, which 
 rises in blue wreaths to the raftered ceiling. Philip is a 
 good smoker, and he ejects the smoke from his nose mar 
 vellously well, and he can send it expertly from his 
 mouth either in balls or circles ; but Cowper is not so 
 dexterous ; he contents himself with simply inhaling it 
 and puffing it out again. 
 
 Philip sententiously observes: "A blessing on Sir 
 Walter ! King James' fulmination and his counterblasts 
 did little good, thanks to the power of common sense." 
 
 " Ay, and a most proper and good measure it was ; 
 but unfortunately his fulmination is now more honored 
 in the breach than the observance. By the way, the 
 trial will soon take place." 
 
 Philip answers quickly : " And then we will see whether 
 Parliament dare deprive a minister of God. S'blood,the 
 sacrilege !" 
 
 Cowper gravely remarks: "I agree with you, and 
 rejoice to hear you are against that most unjust mea 
 sure." 
 
 Philip replies in a settled manner : " My Lord Atter- 
 bury may count on me as his friend and defender." 
 
 Cowper is about to reply, when Philip is startled by a 
 tap on his shoulder, and he turns his head and sees be 
 hind him a stalwart, morose-looking man, whose black 
 hair and eyes and brown skin show conclusively that he 
 is a gypsy. 
 
 " S'blood, what do you mean by laying thy filthy fin 
 ger on a gentleman, eh I What do you want?" cries 
 Philip fiercely.
 
 284 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 The gypsy answers, in a humble manner, " Your 
 grace, my master, I am Nanar the son of Ma-Krillac. 
 Queenie gave me this for you ; I want an answer." And 
 he hands Philip a dirty letter sealed with black wax. 
 
 Philip tears it open and reads it, and a smile comes to 
 his face as he finishes its perusal. He turns to Nanar, 
 and says in a milder manner : " Oh ! Nanar, I recall the 
 circumstance. One moment, and I will write you a draft 
 for the money." And he borrows a quill and a sheet of 
 paper from Dolly, and writes as follows : 
 
 " Pay to the order of Mistress Nelly Valentin the sum 
 of one thousand guineas (1000) for value received. 
 
 PHILIP WHAKTON." 
 
 A grim smile crosses his face as he gives the draft to 
 Nanar, and says : " Here, and never trouble me again." 
 Nanar takes it and leaves the tavern, and Philip says 
 explanatorily : " A promise to a woman which I forgot 
 to fulfil." 
 
 Cowper shrugs his shoulders, as he remarks : " Whar- 
 ton, you are a sad rake. I fear you will have many of 
 those drafts to write out before you die, if you are not 
 more circumspect." 
 
 Philip replies : " You are wrong, my lord. This is one 
 of the punishments that descend from father to son." 
 
 Cowper nods his head, and says: "Your grace is jus 
 tified, and now let us have a turn at ombre." 
 
 " With all my heart," answers Philip, and they draw 
 their chairs closer around the table. 
 
 We will leave them for a while, and turn to Nanar, 
 who is walking rapidly in the direction of Wapping ; nor 
 does, he slacken his pace until he arrives before Dame 
 Graball's junk-shop, where he walks in and asks the woman 
 a question, to which she nods affirmatively and points
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHAETON'S CAREER. 285 
 
 her thumb toward the stairs, which he mounts; he 
 knocks at the first door which he sees ; it is opened, and 
 he steps inside. As you doubtless guess, its inmates are 
 Edgely Valentin and Mistress Nelly. Nanar says, in a 
 monotonous voice, and as if he is repeating a lesson : 
 " The gypsy queen sends Nanar with a duke's recom 
 pense for Mistress Nelly Valentin." 
 
 Valentin replies with an oath : " Gypsy queen. You 
 lie ! the Duke of Wharton sends it ; take it back to him 
 and tell him that the only recompense Edgely Valentin 
 will receive is a clear field and no favor 1" and he crushes 
 the draft into Nanar's hand again, who quickly smooths 
 it out, and he glides towards the bed where lies the 
 woman, and he says to her : " Sweet lady ! queenie begs 
 you to take this draft as a payment for some money 
 which you once loaned her, and also to show her that 
 you still think as well of her as you did long years ago 
 when she was a wee child and you spoke so kindly to 
 her !" 
 
 She shivers, but says never a word, and Nanar stands 
 there until Valentin, no longer able to restrain himself, 
 takes hold of him by the shoulder and pushes him out of 
 the room. 
 
 Nanar appears quite contented and unruffled, and he 
 philosophically returns to Dolly's with the draft carefully 
 held in his hand. Again he taps Philip on the shoulder, 
 and at the same time he lays the draft on the table. 
 
 Philip exclaims angrily: "A pest on you, Nanar! 
 "What do you want now ? and what do you return the 
 money for ?" 
 
 He replies : " Your grace, a fair-faced gentleman who 
 was wi' the lady would not let her take it, and he gave me 
 this message for you : the only recompense Edgely Val 
 entin will receive is a clear field and no favor!" 
 
 Philip is astonished at the insolent message, and he
 
 286 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 glares angrily at the gypsy, but he makes no impression 
 on Nanar's stolidity and calmness ; finally he says with 
 a curse : " Take it to your queen ; I told her she should 
 have it ; and now get you gone ere I juggle your head 
 with a claret-decanter!" 
 
 Nanar carefully secretes the draft in a pocket of his 
 jerkin, and again bows himself out. 
 
 " Egad !" says Cowper, " the fellow has a spirit." 
 
 Philip answers : " He is a low, nameless hound ! and 
 he shall have his nose slit for his insolence if he is not 
 careful. But, come, we '11 go down to the House and see 
 whether Walpole and Mr. Yonge are behaving them 
 selves. They are both bitter against our friend Atter- 
 bury. I wish Peterborough was in town ; we could rely on 
 him." 
 
 Cowper says, " Mordanto is a wonderful fellow ; he is 
 never quiet, and he has seen more cities, theatres, bagnios, 
 princes, and kings than any man in Christendom." 
 
 " And fewer priests and church interiors than any man 
 in heathendom," adds Philip, an observation to which 
 Cowper replies regretfully: "I fear that inattention to 
 church matters is not peculiar to Peterborough alone, 
 your grace." 
 
 Philip returns warmly: "How could it be when a 
 Kendal and a Darlington rule the country through a 
 senseless, miserly usurper?" 
 
 Cowper is startled at his language, and he exclaims : 
 " Your grace, I must demand that you speak in more 
 respectful terms of his sacred majesty, or else I will have 
 to leave you. Consider that you are talking treason, 
 and as long as I suffer treasonous language in my pre 
 sence I am to a certain extent a sharer in your guilt." 
 
 " Pardon me, my lord ; I did not mean what I said ; 
 but my feelings are hurt at the recollection of the women 
 who sit on either hand of his majesty, they are so pecu-
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 287 
 
 liarly ugly they are a disgrace to us I" and he laughs 
 and kisses his hand to Sir Charles Hellwell, who is 
 passing on the opposite side. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIH. 
 
 My soul no longer at her lot repines, 
 
 But yields to what your providence assigns ; 
 
 Though immature I end my glorious days, 
 
 Cut short my conquest, and prevent new praise ; 
 
 My life, already, stands the noblest theme. 
 
 LUCAK. 
 
 THE space in front of the Houses is thronged with an 
 anxious crowd who are all agape for further news of the 
 trial ; the watermen are jubilant at their increased profits, 
 for since early morning thousands have been ferried from 
 the opposite side of the river, and from the various 
 suburban towns along its banks. Just at present the 
 silence in the Lords' is intense and impressive, and its 
 members are anxiously awaiting Walpole's answer to the 
 previous speaker. Some look stern and implacable; 
 others appear ill at ease and troubled: Walpole, the 
 accused Bishop, and Philip alone seem calm and tranquil. 
 Atterbury is dignified and" unmoved, and his eyes are 
 sharp and penetrating, yet kindly ; his forehead is broad 
 and expansive, and his nose is well-shaped but rather 
 coarse: his double chin which is almost hidden in his 
 clerical tie evinces his fondness for high living and epi 
 curean dishes, and his wig is large and curling. Philip 
 holds in his hands a mass of notes and jottings connected 
 with the trial, and he reclines in his seat in a careless 
 attitude. 
 
 A whispering buzz runs through the chamber, and 
 Walpole rises. In clear, concise tones he reverts to the
 
 288 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 posthumous testimony of Mr. Neynoe which accuses him 
 of bribery in order to make sure of the Bishop's crimina 
 tion, a charge which it is of vital importance to his inter 
 ests to prove false. He entirely disavows all knowledge of 
 Neynoe, and indignantly repels the accusation of bribery 
 and corruption. As he sits down, Atterbury rises, and 
 questions him, in a soft, modulated voice, in regard to a 
 few facts and dates which have an important bearing on 
 the case. All pay breathless attention to this conflict 
 between the two great masters of language and oratory. 
 Atterbury almost exhausts his powers of twisting and 
 turning sentences and words in his endeavors to make 
 his wily enemy contradict and falsify his own assertions ; 
 Walpole, however, is cool and wary, and every word he 
 utters is carefully weighed before it is spoken. They are 
 battling for a great stake, and they both know it and 
 appreciate to the fullest extent the ignominy of failure ; 
 Walpole fights for power and his reputation Atterbury 
 for his acquittal. 
 
 At last Atterbury comes to the conclusion that his 
 examination of his accuser is a failure, and in order to 
 hide the important end in which he has been foiled, he 
 puts a few trifling questions to him, which are of no real 
 importance, and signifies that he has finished with him : 
 Walpole sits down, with his face as immobile as iron, but 
 the palm of his right hand is cut and scarred with the 
 hard pressure of his nails against it while under the 
 raking fire of the Bishop's inquisitorial -examination, and 
 he thanks Heaven that he has passed through the ordeal 
 safely. Atterbury's design in questioning Walpole so 
 closely was to crush the testimony of one witness and 
 injure the reputation of another, to prove Neynoe a per 
 jured liar and Walpole a corrupt and interested enemy. 
 
 All his brother bishops have treated Atte*bury with 
 great virulence and hatred, and they have hitherto shown 
 anything but a Christian spirit during the trial. Wynne?
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 289 
 
 of St. Asaph especially, has been uncompromising and 
 violent, and he now rises and animadverts on his conduct 
 with such blind, acrimonious hostility as to cause Philip's 
 face to smile in pity at his warped judgment. Unluckily 
 for the reverend man he has accused Atterbury of some 
 misdemeanors impossible to be proved mere hearsay in 
 fact ; and directly he has ended, before he has time to 
 settle his holy person comfortably, Lord Bathurst stands 
 up ; with a sneer on his flushed face, he extends his left 
 hand in front of him, while the other rests on his sword- 
 hilt, and he exclaims in angry tones against the mode of 
 procedure in the trial; he denounces it as illegal and 
 without a precedent. He turns to the Bishop's bench, 
 and thunders : " I can hardly account for the inveterate 
 malice some persons bear the learned and ingenious 
 Bishop of Rochester, unless they are possessed with the 
 infatuation of the wild Indians, who fondly believe they 
 will inherit not only the spoils, but even the abilities of 
 any great enemy they kill!" The bishops color under 
 the sarcasm, while a murmur of applause greets the 
 speaker and Atterbury thanks his defender with an 
 eloquent glance. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Lord Cowper is speaking in a warm, spirited strain, 
 that shows how deep is his love and reverence for the 
 accused, his hatred and disgust at his enemies ; he winds 
 up by saying : " The old champions of our church used 
 to argue very learnedly that to make or to degrade 
 bishops was not the business of the State, that there 
 Is a spiritual relation between the bishop and his flock, 
 derived from the church, with which the State has no 
 right to interfere ; what the thoughts of our reverend 
 prelates are upon these points does not yet fully appear. 
 Something of their conduct intimates as if our old 
 divines were mistaken." Atterbury looks mildly towards 
 25
 
 290 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 the bishops as Cowper says this, as if to ask them to 
 stand up and vindicate themselves, but none would or 
 could meet his searching, questioning eye ; they occupied 
 themselves in arranging their robes or looking another 
 way. 
 
 Philip, who has thus far taken no active part in the 
 debate, now rises, coughs twice or thrice, meanwhile glanc 
 ing rapidly through the mass of papers crackling in his 
 hands, then drops them on the floor. He is a focus on 
 which all eyes centre; a hum of expectation buzzes 
 through the chamber as the assemblage await the opinion 
 of the talented scapegrace on this important case. Wai- 
 pole coughs, Philip looks toward him, and they exchange 
 a very significant glance, which does not pass unnoticed 
 by Atterbury and various others, particularly Cowper, 
 who wonders at the cordiality between the two. 
 
 It is necessary to explain the reason of this seeming 
 cordiality between two men who have previously been at 
 total variance on the question of the trial. Yesterday, 
 while Philip's head was full of wine, he had gone to Wai- 
 pole, and " regretted his wickedness in opposing the just 
 punishment of the bishop," and " begged his lordship to 
 forgive him," with many sighs and groans ; " if his lord 
 ship would be so kind, so obliging as to take him on his 
 side in the debate, he could conscientiously promise to do 
 his best." The young scamp seemed so earnest in his 
 behavior that Walpole believed him ; he joyfully con 
 sented that Philip should aid him in crushing the pre 
 late ; gave him all the arguments pro and con, and dis 
 missed him with his blessing. Philip spent the rest of 
 the night in drinking, and now 
 
 Philip's speech is too long to give in detail. However, 
 in the first place, he attacks the testimony of several 
 witnesses who have "been examined, utterly annihilating 
 their credit and trustworthiness by exposing their dupli-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 291 
 
 city and perjury ; not a fact, a word, or an incident of 
 the whole trial has escaped him, his wonderfully reten 
 tive memory making everything subservient to his ends. 
 In particular does he dwell with withering sarcasm on 
 the episode of the dog Harlequin, which is really an im 
 portant witness for the prosecution ; he indulges in keen 
 ludicrous personalities, varied with thrilling flashes of 
 forensic grandeur which chill the blood, and make the 
 heart still with its fiery eloquence. Now he is calmer, 
 and he sums up in a methodical, lawyer-like manner the 
 evidence which has been given. Master Richard Lieface 
 he proves to be an arrant liar and a perjurer, much to 
 Walpole's dismay. He exhausts sacred and profane his 
 tory for parallel examples, cites all cases which bear the 
 slightest resemblance to the trial, deducing from all of 
 them the wrongfulness of the whole proceeding from the 
 first bill passed against the accused down to the present 
 moment. Although some of his examples are far-fetched 
 and strained, he gives them a gloss of probability, and 
 a semblance to truth which is staggering to his oppo 
 nents. His voice is loud, sonorous, and penetrating, im 
 passioned and angry, cool and convincing, intense and 
 subdued, whispering and sibillating, while its every 
 syllable pours sharp and distinct into every corner of 
 the room. 
 
 Most of his arguments are conclusive and impregnable. 
 As he approaches the beginning of the end, he winds up 
 facts, testimony, incidents, witnesses, bishops, and lords 
 in one great cloud, whirls it around and around with the 
 impetuous force and enthusiasm of his wonderful genius, 
 and sends it crashing and striking amid the accusers of 
 his friend. For an instant there is a dead silence ; then 
 from every lip biirsts a deafening cry, long and continu 
 ous. Atterbury's lips are clenched tightly, and his ej T es 
 are glistening with emotion, while Bathhurst and Cowper
 
 292 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 shake hands with violent energy. Meanwhile Philip is 
 almost overwhelmed with congratulations and plaudits ; 
 he is excited and very pale ; he exclaims to Cowper, in a 
 careless manner : " Egad ! my lord, Dolly's and a beef 
 steak would do me good after this last eruption." 
 
 Astute and collected, Atterbury rises before the excite 
 ment is over, beginning the vindication of his conduct. 
 After an ingenious though sophistical explanation of his 
 behavior and his motives, he concludes in the pathetic 
 words which strike a chord of sympathy in all our hearts, 
 even for this arrogant, unscrupulous churchman : " If 
 after all it shall still be thought by your lordships that 
 there is any seeming strength in the proofs produced 
 against me, if by private persuasions of my guilt founded 
 on unseen, unknown motives, if for any reasons or neces 
 sity of state, of which I am no competent judge, your 
 lordships shall be induced to proceed on this bill God's 
 will be done ! naked came I out of my mother's womb, 
 and naked shall I return ; and whether He gives or takes 
 away, blessed be the name of the Lord." He can con 
 tinue no longer, his eyes become full almost to overflowing, 
 while his words grow broken and indistinct. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 Oriana. As I live, Mirabel turned friar ! I hope in Heaven 
 
 he's not in earnest. 
 Bisaire. In earnest ; ha, ha, ha ! are you in earnest? 
 
 THE INCONSTANT. 
 
 PHILIP has hit upon a new idea ; he will turn journalist 
 and edit a second " Spectator" or " Tatler, 1 ' make himself 
 a popular man with the honest cits, enact the part of a 
 patriot to his country, and be a friend to the people. It
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 293 
 
 requires but a short time to put this idea into operation 
 after its birth. " The True Briton" shall be the vehicle 
 of his thoughts and opinions. Let us to Grub Street, 
 where he is at present engaged in jotting down divers 
 effusions of disguised Jacobitisms, startling political 
 views, discussions on the general aspect of England and 
 her rulers, whom he handles with irreverent boldness. 
 He is perched on a high stool, before a grimy, blackened 
 desk ; the room is so narrow and confined that the ink 
 darted from the quill prior to writing unavoidably lights 
 on some side of it and leaves black splashes and spots 
 which have a vague resemblance to myriads of long-legged, 
 bloated spiders rather the worse for wear. The single 
 window is sooty and dilapidated ; the straggling rays 
 which manage to crawl through the Lilliputian bull's-eye 
 panes, fall in blurred dimness on the many blots, initials? 
 and scratches on the desk, and cast a sickly light on the 
 opposite wall. 
 
 Philip has a sheet of paper before him on which he is 
 scribbling with amazing rapidity. His face is impassive 
 and emotionless. If it were not for the quick motion of 
 the quill and the rustling of his ruffles, one might judge 
 him to be in a brown study. His dress is certainly out 
 of place here ; his peach-colored coat is of ribbed silk, 
 heavily laced and broidered with gold ; the hilt of his 
 rapier is extravagantly decorated with bands of diamonds 
 and rubies, while a sapphire gleams and glitters in the 
 top. He has apparently finished his task, for he throws 
 the quill down, exclaiming exultantly : " Another stinger 
 for the ministry. I '11 rouse their ire before I have done 
 with them. This must to press at once, then; from 
 John-o'-Groat's to Land's End shall they be circulated." 
 He rubs his hands together, while a smile comes to his lips. 
 " Now that I have descended to the ranks and taken 
 arms against my order, faith I I ought to complete the 
 
 25*
 
 294 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 farce and join some worshipful London company the 
 Rat-catchers or the Wax-chandlers ? speak in terms to 
 suit the mobile vulgus not that I love George or Wai- 
 pole less, but my country more Ah, ha ! quite thea 
 trical, but it will doubtless pass for frenzied patriotism 
 with my beloved brothers, the greasy chandlers. How 
 ever, whether they believe me or not when I announce 
 my new convictions, it will be a new sensation to grasp 
 their democratic palms and call myself one of them !" 
 
 He stuffs the MSS. in his pocket, then runs over to 
 John Incink to have it put to press as one of the articles 
 in " The True Briton." He now steps over to Gay's 
 lodging-house, mounts the rickety, old staircase, gropes 
 his way through the close, foul hallway, and opens the 
 door which guards the spendthrift poet from duns and 
 bailiffs. As he enters he exclaims : " Good-day, my 
 plague of moral chamberlains. I have just finished my 
 labors, and I have dropped in to help you if you need " 
 
 " Thanks, your grace," Gay responds with mock gravity ; 
 " but any spare ideas you may possess you had better 
 keep to yourself, for the work on which I am now en 
 gaged is to make my reputation for life, or else I '11 turn 
 usurer and fleece elder sons of their future patrimonies." 
 
 Philip replies : " Ah what is this great work ? An 
 other version of ' Three Hours ?' " 
 
 Gay reddens at the remark, for it calls to mind how his 
 play '' Three Hours after Marriage" had been hissed off 
 the stage for its immorality and indecency. " No, your 
 grace, neither crooked Pope nor Jolly Arbuthnot shall 
 have a hand in this. It shall be exclusively my own pro 
 duction." 
 
 Philip exclaims : " My dear man, do tell me what it is, 
 then. You keep me on the rack with your " 
 
 Gay interrupts : " One moment, and I will get it. You
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WIIARTON'S CAREER. 295 
 
 must know that it will not be finished for some time 
 may be three or four years." 
 
 Philip adds : " Not until your last fiasco is forgotten, 
 eh?" 
 
 Gay laughingly assents, meanwhile drawing a roll of 
 stiff, dirty paper from a pigeon-hole in his desk, which is 
 dusty and rickety. Philip sits down on a pile of worm- 
 eaten folios which happen to be convenient, while Gay, 
 after a preliminary clearing of his throat, begins to read 
 the names of the dramatis personx of his new produc 
 tion : " Captain Macheath a jolly dog by the way, Pea- 
 chum, Lockit, Mat-o'-the-mint, Ben Budge " 
 
 " Hold I pardon me for interrupting you, Gay ; but 
 the ladies I am more interested in them !" 
 
 Gay replies : " Whichever you like Mistress Peachum ; 
 Polly, her daughter, Dolly Trull, Mistress Vixen but 
 I '11 not read them all, you would be too much wearied." 
 
 " What is it ? a farce, a tragedy, a pastoral ?" 
 
 Gay answers : " If your grace will attend to me for a 
 few minutes, I will tell you all about my play. It came 
 about in this way. Mr. Swift and I were at the Rainbow 
 some few days ago, and were discussing Tom Clincher's 
 probable ending, when he suddenly remarked : ' Gay, I 
 think a Newgate pastoral might make a pretty sort of a 
 thing I Try your hand at it ; try your hand at it, man.' 
 His suggestion stuck in my head, and egad! this is 
 the consequence." He points to the roll: he pursues in 
 an excited manner : " However, it is not as a Newgate 
 pastoral that I intend it to be known, but rather as a 
 fling at that most nonsensical thing, the squawking, 
 Italian opera, with which all our fashionables are smit 
 ten." 
 
 Philip says : " Pelt them out of the country with your 
 own airs ; I am with you in your hearty detestation of 
 those soft, unnatural airs, fantasias, and conceits which
 
 296 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 distinguish the Italian school. I prefer our own dear 
 English ballads to all their high-strained warblings. 
 Which is your chief character ?" 
 
 Gay answers with an air of perplexity: "Now 
 you ask me a question I cannot yet answer. Captain 
 Macheath disputes the palm with Nimming Ned, Peachum, 
 and Polly faith ! I would like to have them all chief 
 characters, if it were not for the violation of dramatic 
 rule !" 
 
 " You have not given me its name yet, John, and this 
 is the third time I have asked you." 
 
 Gay replies: "Pardon me! I had forgotten 'The 
 Beggar's Opera.' " 
 
 " Perfect, perfect ! "Tis both original and striking." 
 
 Gay's cheeks color at Philip's approbation. He draws 
 his ragged, faded dressing-gown about him with a satis 
 fied air. 
 
 Philip exclaims abruptly : " Good-bye, John. Success 
 attend your labors !" He leaves the room, and leaves 
 also a well-filled purse for the needy poet. 
 
 Since pardoned Bolingbroke's return to England, it 
 has been his constant aim to have the bill of penalties 
 formerly passed against him repealed. Unfortunate^, a 
 strong party are greatly averse to the measure, among 
 whom is Philip, who looks with detestation on the double 
 renegade, and wonders how a man could become so aban 
 doned and traitorous ! The case comes on to-daj 7 in Par 
 liament. Thither Philip goes to throw his voice with the 
 opposition. As he enters Lord Harcourt the Trimmer is 
 speaking of the returned exile with feeling and pathos, and 
 he is defending his conduct with much skill. Philip rises 
 as he sits down, and he strongly protests against the 
 measure. He imitates Harcourt's gestures, manners, and 
 pathos so ludicrously that he keeps the house in a con 
 tinued smile. This finished, he does not wait for the
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 297 
 
 division, but leaves, satisfied that he has done his duty 
 as a man and a patriot. 
 
 Strolling toward the Rainbow, where he purposes to 
 spend the rest of the day, he observes Edgely Valentin 
 on the opposite side of the street. He exclaims : " A 
 plague on the sour-faced rogue I He is worse than the 
 Scot's dagger always in sight ! If he ever insults me 
 again, he shall certainly have his nose slit for his pains I" 
 
 CHAPTER XLY. 
 
 
 
 Waly, Waly, up the bank, 
 
 Waly, Waly, down the brae, 
 And Waly, Waly, yon burn side, 
 
 Where I and my love were wont to gae ! 
 
 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, 
 
 1 thocht it was a trustie tree, 
 
 But first it bow'd and syne it brak 
 gae my true love did licLtlie me. 
 
 WALT, WALT. 
 
 MARGERY is listlessly wandering in the darksome forest, 
 carelessly stepping through the damp grass and the tan 
 gled underwood ; her face has a look of tired weariness 
 and broken happiness. Her movements are languid and 
 heavy ; she has lost her former buoyant gayety and spirit, 
 lost the intense interest the world once had for her ; and 
 God help her ! she sometimes thinks that the black, 
 icy tarn may be her refuge, where her trustful, loving 
 heart will be at rest. Philip has written but one letter 
 to her since the death of her babe ; it was so cruel, so 
 harsh, that although she has read it over and over 
 until it is nearly worn to pieces, yet every time she looks 
 at it, it seems to wind a circlet of tightening steel 
 about her heart. She does not cry when she reads it ;
 
 298 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 she never cries now; tears will not come to ease her 
 throbbing head. All day and all night long, day after 
 day, week after week, month after month, there has been 
 no thought in her mind but of Philip and his cruelty? 
 no, his former love and tenderness ; none would dare to 
 mention his name to her coupled wit'h cruelty. " He will 
 come back some day he cannot always be away !" This 
 thought is the star of hope which keeps her from going 
 mad. She often lies on the velvet sofa, where she was 
 sleeping on that day when he came back and awakened 
 her with a kiss and folded her in his arms. 
 
 Never since that fatal daj r , when she carried her baby 
 boy to London, has she known peace of mind or freedom 
 from remorse, nor ceased to reproach herself for disobey 
 ing his commands. Her daily walk is through Elm 
 avenue, the old trysting-place. Here she will stay the 
 live-long day and dwell in the memories of the past ; she 
 will imagine Philip by her side, and grow less unhappy 
 as his loving words and ardent looks come back to her. 
 See! she turns this way; a dash of sunlight breaks 
 through the interlacing branches overhead, and falls 
 athwart her face ; her cheeks have fallen away, and their 
 soft roundness is gone; they are pallid, colorless, all is 
 a wan white except her lips, which are still as red as an 
 autumn leaf, and her eyes are subdued and saddened. 
 She says in a low murmur: "I will go to Queenie. 
 May be she has heard of him by this time." She pro 
 ceeds toward the gypsy camp* 
 
 The white thorn and the honeysuckle vie with the 
 sweet cherry blossom, while the lilac breathes a fain 
 perfume through the dim pathway : the bright peony and 
 the jonquil add their charms and delight the eye with rich 
 tints and varied colors. 
 
 Margery has reached the camp ; it is just as we left it, 
 except that there are a greater number of brown-skinned,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 299 
 
 black-eyed babes crowing and playing in the furzes, and 
 on the soft, springy moss ; as her eyes fall on them, she 
 puts her hand to her side, as though to still the numb 
 pain gathering around her heart, and her lips are drawn 
 tightly together. As she enters the hut, Queenie bends 
 low and kisses her hand, while Margery tries to smile, 
 but it can find no resting-place on her lips. 
 
 " Have you heard aught of him, Queenie ?" she asks in 
 a low voice. 
 
 Queenie looks pityingly at her as she replies : " Only 
 that master his grace is well, and so busy wi' court 
 affairs that he can scarcely call a minute his own. These 
 politics, Mistress Margery, are woeful things." 
 
 It is an old tale ; although she knows that Queenie can 
 tell her nothing of Philip, yet she finds a bitter pleasure 
 in hearing it repeated. 
 
 Once there had come a cavalier from London who told 
 Margery that he knew Philip well, and he told so many 
 venomous lies about him in reference to an actress whom 
 he said her husband loved, that she had turned on him 
 like an enraged tigress and commanded him to leave 
 her at once, or she would call ' for help and have him 
 whipped. Although she disbelieves the story, yet it is 
 constantly recurring to her mind and increases her un- 
 happiness. After a long silence, Margery says : " Queenie, 
 tell me my fortune. See if you can tell me how long it 
 be ere he returns, how long I am to live, or, better still, 
 when I can die." She smiles as she extends her hand. 
 
 Queenie takes her hand within her own; she looks 
 steadily at it for a few minutes, then says in a grave 
 voice : " Sweet lady, I would rather bite my tongue off 
 by the roots than tell what your hand shows me." She 
 gently releases her hand and resumes her seat on the 
 deei'-skins. 
 
 Margery takes no notice of her words, but looks out
 
 300 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 of the half-open door and notices the flying leaves which 
 are blown here and there by the shifting wind. Now she 
 bows her head in her hands, and her eyes close. Queenie 
 goes to her, puts her arm about her waist and leads her 
 to her own couch ; here she soothes her with endearing 
 names and gentle caresses : " Queenie, you are very kind 
 hold me tighter in your arms !" 
 
 She replies, coaxingly: "Mistress Margery, queenie 
 would be very glad to keep you here all night, but your 
 father would be troubled at your absence. The evening 
 is coming on, there will be no moon to-night ; had not 
 Nanar better go with you as far as Rooksnest ?" 
 
 "Not yet not yet: I am happier now than I have 
 been for many a day ; let me stay here a little longer." 
 She seems to fall asleep, while her breath comes in a 
 series of short, broken sighs, and her eyelids quiver aspen- 
 like. "Oh!" she suddenly exclaims with a long gasp: 
 " how my heart aches ! it is " 
 
 " Is Margery here ? Margery?" breaks in the General's 
 voice in inquiring accents. 
 
 She tries to answer her father's call, but she is unable. 
 Queenie replies : " Yes, Mistress Margery is here !" 
 
 " Pistol me, girl ! you have led me a pretty chase ! I 
 was sure you had met with some accident. What ails 
 you ? You look like a broken lily lying there." 
 
 She opens her eyes, replying : " Father, forgive me ! I 
 am sorry I have given you so much trouble ;" attempting 
 to rise, she falls back into queenie's arms. " Father, wait, 
 a few minutes I am too sick you " 
 
 The General is alarmed at her evident illness ; he kneels 
 down beside her, and rubs her cold, damp hands. She 
 exclaims faintly : " I am dying, father ! I would I could 
 breathe my last in the room where Philip kissed me my 
 heart is easier now ; I think it is what is called broken." 
 A shadowy smile flickers and dies on her lips. " When
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 301 
 
 you write to Philip, tell him I died happy ; tell him not 
 to grieve ; but if he will think of me sometimes when I 
 am gone, I shall know it, and I will be with him though 
 he know it not. Cut off a long braid of my hair; then 
 put it behind his portrait in my locket ! Hold me tighter, 
 queenie dear ! Kiss me, father." 
 
 The owl hoots in the woods, the wind sighs drearily 
 around the hut, while the shades of night are fast wrap 
 ping all things in a darkling mantle. The lilacs and the 
 white thorn still dispel their perfume, but the fragrance 
 which is strongest now is the rosemary. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 " For where high honor is the prize, 
 True virtue has a right to rise : 
 Let courtly slaves low bend the knee 
 To wealth and vice in high degree : 
 Exalted worth disdains to owe 
 Its grandeur to its greatest foe." 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 PHILIP'S course of life for the last three years has been 
 immoral and profligate to a high degree. His actions 
 have been so licentious and unrestrained by fear of God 
 or man, that we shall pass them over in sorrowing silence, 
 merely premising that he has burdened his estate so 
 heavily with debts and mortgages, that it has been seized 
 by a decree of chancery ; which has vested all his pro 
 perty in the hands of trustees who allow him three thou 
 sand pounds a year : " scarcely enough to furnish him with 
 snuff and pomatum," as he declared. Retrenchment was 
 necessary, and for that purpose he has gone abroad. 
 
 He is in Madrid, the oasis of the Spanish desert. Prior 
 26
 
 302 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 to his arrival here, he had written three letters from 
 Vienna. One was to the Pretender, in which he expressed 
 sentiments of the " greatest devotion to his cause," and 
 " begged that he might be permitted ere long to reside at 
 his court to watch and cherish his majesty and the Stuart 
 interest." Another was to Horace Walpole, the ambas 
 sador at the Tuileries ; it was a duplicate of the first, 
 except that in place of the Stuart cause he wrote the 
 Hanoverian dynasty, a slight difference. The last was 
 to the exiled Atterbury, with whom it is treason to 
 either speak or correspond. 
 
 He has carefully dressed himself, in anticipation of the 
 many conquests certain to ensue before he returns from 
 his promenade ; he really does attract an unusual share 
 of attention from the stately promenaders, both men and 
 women, who turn to look at his handsome face and his 
 fine figure. A discolored, inflamed face is thrust close 
 to his own, and a hoarse voice exclaims : " Hallo, Whar- 
 ton, I expected you would be in Madrid ere long." 
 
 Philip replies blandly : " Ah ! my lord, I am overfed 
 to see you ; how is your health ?" 
 
 " Passable, but Spanish wine tells on my constitution. 
 By Saint Jago, I get an attack of blue vapors every 
 second week." It is Lord North, the apostate traitor, 
 who turned Roman Catholic and Jacobite to please a 
 man who has since forbidden his presence at his court. 
 
 Clinging to North's gold-laced sleeve, and balancing 
 himself first on his toes, then on his heels, is the prime 
 minister, the Duke di Ripperda: an arrant braggart and 
 an imbecile coward ; the man of whom Spain has such 
 high blown expectations and the avowed future restorer 
 of the Stuarts ; he is capricious, fickle, and a clums3 r liar ; 
 but for all, his unblushing impudence has secured him 
 many partisans and admirers who have not as yet seen 
 his true character. Stanhope, the British minister, is
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 303 
 
 probably the only man in Spain who sees through him 
 and weighs his talents and worth correctly. 
 
 Ripperda is of the medium height ; his face is heavy and 
 swollen with excesses and debauchery; his long mous 
 taches are waxed to sharp points ; he is attired in a rich 
 dress of violet satin, slashed with black ; his looped hat 
 is cocked to one side ; take him altogether, he is a good 
 specimen of a fighting, bullying, cowardly Spanish 
 Dutchman. As Philip grasps his hand after the intro 
 duction, he feels a loathing for him he cannot suppress ; 
 he says to himself : " Saugh ! a combination of Caliban, 
 Silenus^^d Thersites." 
 
 Ripperda is smoking a short red clay pipe tipped with 
 gold, whose bowl is carved so prettily that Philip asks 
 him whether there are any more like it in town ? 
 
 He replies : " Ay, more ! I always carry a couple for 
 my friends. Have a pipe, North?" he says, and he 
 hands one to each. He gives Philip his tobacco pouch, 
 from which Philip fills his pipe, then passes it to North, 
 who does the same. 
 
 Philip, turning to Ripperda, says: "Your grace, 
 during my stay in Vienna, I heard some rumors about a 
 reconciliation between " 
 
 He interrupts him with : " My innocent Duke, I know 
 what you intend to say ; this is my reply : I swear by 
 the holy Virgin that France and Spain shall never be re 
 conciled as long as I live. England's usurper shall not 
 only have his German domains wrested from him, but he 
 shall lose the English crown he wrongfully wears!" 
 
 North growls : " I hope so." 
 
 Turning to Philip, he resumes: "I trust your grace 
 echoes that wish ?" 
 
 " Yes, with all my heart," he replies, wondering at 
 Ripperda's ravings, certain that he is drunk to talk about
 
 304 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 important state affairs in such a loud voice while in the 
 most frequented part of the city. 
 
 As they walk along, an open coach passes them in 
 which sits a dame whom Philip thinks he has never seen 
 equalled. She wears the coquettish lace veil of the 
 Spanish ladies, which falls on a pair of white, plump - 
 shoulders. Philip exclaims hurriedly: "Ripperda, tell 
 me, before she passes, who is that lady ?" 
 
 "Which one?" hiccups the minister. "There are so 
 many around that I am unable to answer your question." 
 
 Philip points her out ; he replies : " Saint Jago ! that 
 is the O'Beirne, maid of honor to her majesty, and a 
 very dragon of virtue she is, as I have found to my cost." 
 
 Philip mutters : " Conceited jackanapes !" then in a 
 louder voice : " I have seen her before, somewhere ! Was 
 she ever in London?" 
 
 Ripperda replies : " No, never to my knowledge. She 
 was born here, and I do not believe she has ever been out 
 of Spain." 
 
 North says : " Excuse me, Ripperda. If I am not 
 mistaken, she was in Dublin a few years ago. During 
 Alberoni's time, he sent her there as a spy or an agent. 
 She is talented and shrewd, but she failed in her mission 
 . a failure which has done her more good than harm, for 
 her dismissal by Alberoni was the cause of our friend's 
 interest in her." 
 
 Ripperda adds, with a chuckling leer : " Yes, that and 
 her good looks, with perhaps a trifle of pity, for she is as 
 poor as a Carmelite ; her father was killed in our army. 
 Her mother's pension would barely keep them from starv 
 ing, if I had not secured her a position as maid of 
 honor." He puffs forth a circling volume of smoke which 
 envelops the party. 
 
 " O'Beirne Dublin Alberoni ?" Philip, thinking over 
 these three names, soon recalls the circumstances with
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 305 
 
 which they are connected. She is the same who brought 
 him Alberoni's letter, the same whom he kissed in the 
 cathedral. " Mistress Nora, I must renew that acquaint 
 ance begun so strangely and ended so abruptly !" Rais 
 ing his eyes at this moment, the coach again is passing. 
 Looking intently at her, he lifts his hat and bows ; his 
 heart bounds as she returns the salute with a distinct 
 nod and a sweet smile. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYII. 
 
 Lyconides, what shall I do now ? 
 
 PLAUTUS. 
 
 THE house is Mr. Keene's, the British consul ; the com 
 pany in the salon consists of two or three loyal English, 
 a few Spanish hidalgos, and a sprinkling of French 
 noblemen. Conversation is carried on in subdued tones, 
 while various couples are promenading. Mr. Keene is 
 attending to his guests, and welcoming them with the 
 well-bred cordiality for which he is distinguished. Sud 
 denly there is a scuffling noise heard on the stairs outside, 
 which draws all attention thither. The consul goes to 
 inquire, the reason of the unseasonable uproar. 
 
 Here we must stop for a moment to inform you that 
 Philip has received an answer from the Pretender empow 
 ering him to act as ambassador to Spain, and also to assist 
 Ormond in organizing an expedition to invade England, 
 and, above all, to vindicate the separation in the Preten 
 der's family ; for James has seriously offended both the 
 Queen of Spain and the Emperor, by his treatment of 
 his consort, Clementina. 
 
 Arriving at the head of the stairs, the nostrils of the 
 consul are saluted with a strong smell of tobacco, which 
 is his special abhorrence. The servant announces : " His 
 
 20*
 
 306 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Grace, the Duke of Wharton and Northumberland !" A 
 hiccoughing voice adds : " Prime minister as well, fel 
 low !" And Philip slowly staggers up stairs. Reaching 
 the top, he exclaims : " Well, Mr. Consul Keene, how 
 are you ? I shall supersede you before long for your 
 confounded impudence in being disloyal disloyal, d' ye 
 hear ?" 
 
 " Yes, your grace. Will you come in and sit down ? 
 You look unwell," he replies in a conciliating manner, 
 adding, however, under his breath, '' Talking, tippling 
 knave." 
 
 " Keene, I tell you that his majesty's interests have 
 hitherto been managed by her grace of Perth, and three 
 or four other old women who meet under the portals of 
 Saint Germains. His majesty wants a Whig, and a brisk 
 one, to put them in the right train, and I am the man ! 
 You may now look upon me, Sir Philip Wharton, Knight 
 of the Garter, and Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the 
 Bath, running a course, and, by Heaven, he shall be hard 
 pressed! He bought my family pictures when those 
 infernal chancery men griped me ; but they will not be 
 long in his possession. That account is still open. 
 Neither he nor King George shall be six months at ease 
 as long as I have the honor to serve in the employ I am 
 in now." Puffing a globe of smoke in the consul's face, 
 he leers insolently at him. 
 
 Keene, reddening at his visitor's language, replies: 
 " Your grace, though I am not a duke, I am a gentleman 
 and a true man. I will not allow such expressions to be 
 used in this house. They are an insult to my king and 
 myself. My servant will show you the door." 
 
 Philip, steadying himself by an effort, replies: 
 " S'blood, Keene ! I '11 lower myself to your level for the 
 pleasure of showing you the punta riversa, as practised 
 by Don Sabrat and myself with the three-edged blade 1"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 307 
 
 " Thanks ! I shall be at home all day to-morrow. It 
 will give me unbounded satisfaction to cross blades with 
 you, spite of your un-English name for an un-English 
 weapon." 
 
 Philip replies : " Adieu, Keene ; I am off for Kip- 
 perda's levee. He is a man after my own heart." 
 
 " And your manners also," adds Keene, contemptu 
 ously. 
 
 Arriving at Ripperda's, Philip is ushered in, and pre 
 sented to the minister, who exclaims : " Carramba, 
 Wharton, I am glad you have called ! These stilted, 
 solemn dons and impregnable donnas horrify me. How 
 ever, greatness implies care and trouble, you know." 
 
 Philip answers : " I agree with you, Ripperda. We 
 are both in the same boat. Only an hour ago I went to 
 Mr. Keene 's '* 
 
 " Insolent dog!" interpolates the minister. 
 
 Philip resumes : " Curse me, but the fellow was so in 
 solent that I thrashed him before the whole company." 
 
 Ripperda chuckles at this ; he hates Keene with all his 
 heart, for on one occasion, when he had called out, 
 " Keene, Keene !" the consul refused to answer him, 
 totally ignoring his presence. " You ought to have 
 choked him, Wharton." 
 
 " I '11 pink him to-morrow." 
 
 Ripperda, throwing up his hands, exclaims: "Your 
 grace will certainly not fight a plebeian." 
 
 Twisting his thumb and his finger through his per 
 fumed curls, he replies : " Yes, I want to teach him a les 
 son." 
 
 " By the way, O'Beirne is sitting to your left there ; she 
 is convoyed by Donna Lospiratos a rigid duenna, a 
 very Diana." 
 
 Philip adds, " Guarding a Venus ; I intend to speak to 
 her, though, duenna or no duenna. Help me along by
 
 308 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 engaging your puritanical friend until I have finished with 
 Mistress O'Beirne." 
 
 Ripperda sneeringly replies, " Friend ! Malditos perros ! 
 I have six very good friends* God, the Holy Virgin, 
 the Emperor and Empress, and the King and Queen of 
 Spain. For enemies every man in Christendom and the 
 Spanish nation. You see they are all my servants, and 
 never was a servant yet that would not be master if he 
 could, but they lack the talent." 
 
 Interrupting him with a half-serious, half-joking expres 
 sion, Philip says, " Ripperda, if you but knew it, you are 
 like myself not worth a Spanish groat. You have no 
 character, man !" 
 
 " Santa Maria purissima!" cries the offended minister; 
 u our rich grapes have their usual effect on an unseasoned 
 head." 
 
 Philip retorts: "Not so, Ripperda; not Spanish 
 grapes, but Dutch-Spanish rhodomontades and bragga 
 docio." 
 
 Ripperda flushes, but does not reply, keeping his eyes 
 toward the doors where several notabilities have just 
 made their appearance. 
 
 Stepping toward Mistress O'Beirne, Philip pays his 
 duties to her with much cordiality. She returns his. 
 greeting with a courteous freedom and vivacity which 
 charm him. He sits down beside her, and they are 
 quickly engaged in an interesting conversation. Philip 
 broaches the topic of her past mission to Dublin. Stop 
 ping him at once, she forbids him ever mentioning the 
 subject again under pain of her displeasure. Turning to 
 her companion, she says, " I must return to court, now ; I 
 will thank your grace to personate mypreux chevalier.'" 
 
 He replies with an ardent look : " From this moment 
 I am your most devoted attendant." 
 
 * Fact.
 
 OK, PHILIP DUKE OP WHAETON'S CAREER. 309 
 
 She glances inquiringly at him from under her droop 
 ing lashes, and, as Philip thinks, leans on his arm more 
 than is absolutely necessary. Bidding her good-bye, he 
 asks : " I can see you again before long ?" 
 
 "Your grace will not find it very difficult to see me 
 when you wish." 
 
 Kissing her hand, he returns to Ripperda, his heart 
 beating with a new sensation. " Ripperda, I love that 
 girl ! On my life, she is lovely I Her wit is sparkling, 
 her conversation is fresh and piquant ; she is superb !" 
 
 " Make her your duchess ; then you will find her faults ; 
 now you see nothing but her virtues." 
 
 "Sage man!" replies Philip, adding, parenthetically, 
 " She cut you once, did she not, Ripperda ?" 
 
 The minister ignores the question, however, leaving 
 Philip to speak to a friend who has just entered, an 
 .emissary from Berlin. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYIII. 
 
 They are preparing evidence against thee. 
 
 THE BEGGAR'S OPERA. 
 
 THE consort Clementina has left James in disgust, 
 alleging that she was treated by the Earl of Inverness 
 and his wife an arrogant coquette with such intolerable 
 insolence that she would not endure it any longer. She 
 is now in the convent of St. Cecilia at Rome, where the 
 ambitious priest Alberoni is often closeted with her for 
 hours. By thus supporting his favorites at the expense 
 of his consort, James has roused the ire of the emperor 
 at Vienna, who is justly indignant at his cool treatment 
 of a kinswoman of his house. The Queen of Spain is
 
 310 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 likewise displeased at his uncourteous conduct. Thus, 
 this true Stuart makes enemies of two powerful sovereigns 
 at a time when their friendship is of the most vital im 
 portance. 
 
 Jn Spain, Ripperda has ignominiously failed. He has 
 blustered and bragged like a second Bobadil, and has 
 given the most opposite assurances in different quarters. 
 To the British minister he has professed the greatest 
 love toward England, and palliated his warm endeavors 
 for the Stuart cause, by vowing that he assisted James 
 merely as a blind. He has culminated his career by his 
 double dealing with the Austrian ambassador, Count 
 Konigsegg, and the Spanish court. To the former he 
 has protested that Spain would not be outdone in her 
 exertions to help Austria, while immensely exaggerating 
 her power and resources ; to the other he alleged the 
 readiness and impatience of the Austrian court as re 
 garded affairs in France and England. When both sides 
 were undeceived, Ripperda found that, like abler men 
 before him, he had stumbled between two stools. He 
 has been dismissed with a miserable pension a gra 
 tuitous and merited insult. Madrid is in a terrible state 
 of excitement; Ripperda's life would not be worth a 
 pistole if he was seen in public : while in France, Bourbon 
 scarcely governs his kingdom, while Madame de Prie and 
 Paris Duvernay completely govern him. In England, the 
 emperor's creature, Mr. Palm, is bribing right and left to 
 secure all the Hanoverian partisans possible. The King 
 of Prussia has flouted the Hanover alliance, while George 
 begins to fear lest the electorate should be endangered 
 an object of far more interest to him than England's 
 safety. 
 
 Philip has been sick for the last few days, a state of 
 body which has had its effect on his not unchangeable 
 ideas and resolves. After he had calmly reviewed his
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 311 
 
 conduct at Mr. Keene's house, his better feeling reigned 
 triumphant. Accordingly he had written a humble, 
 penitential letter to him, apologizing for his actions, and 
 hoping that all would be forgotten. The following post 
 script he added at the bottom of the paper : " If you 
 mean to take my challenge in earnest, of course I am 
 still at your service." The consul's answer was mild and 
 conciliating, and he has waived his right with many 
 thanks for his grace's condescension. 
 
 He is alone in his room, sitting at his desk, intently 
 perusing a letter sealed with the arms of England. It is 
 an order under the privy seal, commanding him, on his 
 allegiance, to return home forthwith, or he will be out 
 lawed, and all his property and valuables sequestrated. 
 
 "Ah, ha! so he threatens me? Ehbien! I prefer 
 his threats to his favors ; that he shall know. What do 
 I want with his pitiful favor ? I would rather carry a 
 musket in an odd-named Muscovite regiment, than wal 
 low in riches by the help of that tallow-headed usurper. 
 It is very curious, though, how intimately acquainted he 
 is with my most private actions. I must have an enemy 
 here somewhere. I '11 write to Jamie. An account of 
 this offer will amuse him, while at the same time it must 
 bring me into high favor by showing my entire devotion 
 to his cause. Egad ! I may be appointed prime minister 
 yet. He is a Stuart, though new toys are his hobbies. 
 I fear that even I might be out in the rain of royal frowns 
 once in a while." 
 
 Drawing a sheet of paper toward him, he proceeds to 
 give an account of the royal mandate to the Pretender, 
 embellishing it with many little conceits and witty spar 
 kles, one or two of which, edging slightly on the im 
 moral, are scarcely fit for the eyes of a pious prince. 
 Philip also announces to him his intention of openly 
 espousing the Roman Catholic religion. Finishing his
 
 312 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 letter, he rises and exclaims : " Pedro, Pedro ! you dog, 
 come here!" Pedro enters, and the preparations for his 
 grace's toilet begin. " Who is at the palace to-day, 
 Pedro ? 
 
 " I know not, your grace ; stories are afloat, though, 
 that the Marquis de Villadarias will be there ; also the 
 Conde de Las Torres." 
 
 " Falstaff and Alexander who else? what ladies?" 
 
 " Your grace, on that point I am still more ignorant." 
 
 " Will Mile. O'Beirne be there ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, your grace, I thought you meant ladies !" 
 
 " S 'death ! Pedro, never mind your thoughts ; thinking 
 is your master's privilege." 
 
 Applying a trifle of powder to Philip's chin, he replies 
 humbly : " Yes, your grace." 
 
 " Recollect that Mile. O'Beirne is pah." Turning 
 pettishly away, he pulls his lace ruffles over his hands 
 and smooths his sleeves. 
 
 As Philip enters the royal gardens, his attention is at 
 tracted to a couple who are only a few yards distant. The 
 lady is Mile. O'Beirne ; the cavalier is Edgely Valentin; 
 she is leaning on his arm, apparently gently chiding him 
 for some fault or inattention ; while his eyes are filled 
 with an admiring, loving expression which arouses an 
 angry jealousy in Philip's bosom. He exclaims : " Again, 
 Edgely Valentin 1 The threads of our lives are strangely 
 twisted ! whether is it chance or design ? Be it either, 
 by Heaven I '11 cut them, if he pushes himself upon me I"
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 313 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 Anguis in herb 3, latet. 
 
 EDGELY VALENTIN is dressed in black velvet, which 
 sombre color is scarcely relieved by the row of purple 
 rosettes or buttons attached to the facings of his coat. 
 Philip instantly decides to accost them, expose the im 
 postor Edgely Valentin, and upbraid her for what ? for 
 inconstancy, fickleness ? As yet he has scarcely spoken 
 with her an hour at a time, and already jealousy is agi 
 tating his mind. Rapidly walking up to the unconscious 
 pair, he lifts his hat haughtily to Mistress O'Beirne, at 
 the same time bestowing upon her companion a long, in 
 solent stare, and sneeringly surveying him from head" to 
 foot. Meanwhile Valentin's countenance is lowering and 
 angry, his eyes sparkling with a look of hatred, as he 
 undergoes the scrutiny. 
 
 " Has your grace completed your examination of my 
 person?" handing his card to Philip, who reads out "Sir 
 Edgely Warely I" 
 
 " You lie, sirrah ! It should be Edgely Valentin, spy 
 and traitor !" Tearing the card to pieces, he throws it 
 on the ground. 
 
 With a quick, silent movement, Valentin draws his ra 
 pier. Mistress O'Beirne, noticing his motion, quickly 
 places herself in front of him, and grasps the sharp blade 
 in her gloved hand ; exclaiming to Philip, with a steady 
 reproachful glance : " For shame, your grace ! such lan 
 guage and behavior in my presence ! in the royal precincts 
 as well ?" 
 27
 
 314 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Stammering an indistinct apology Philip lifts his hat 
 and strides away. 
 
 Sheathing his rapier, while his teeth are set, and his 
 face drawn as with pain, Yalentin says: "An old feud, 
 Nora!" 
 
 "A strange time and place to settle an old feud !" re 
 plies the offended girl. 
 
 '' It was not of my seeking," he replies, in a low, plead 
 ing voice. 
 
 " I know it, Sir Edgely. I blame only his grace for the 
 disagreeable rencontre. I thought him more of a gallant 
 more truly courteous in his manners." 
 
 " He is, generally ; he doubtless desired your company 
 more than the adjustment of a quarrel." 
 
 Her color heightens at his words. Turning to an 
 orange tree close by her, she plucks a twig, at the same 
 time replying in a careless manner, " Flatterer ! what 
 could his grace want with me?" 
 
 "What many a better man would: win you for his 
 wife." 
 
 Dropping his arm, she says warningly : " Sir Edgely, 
 you are again approaching that forbidden topic! Albe- 
 roni's letter of introduction commended you as a true 
 friend to the cause, and an able counsellor. He did not 
 specify that you were to be a lover as well as an adviser." 
 
 Hanging his head, he is silent, and his lips tremble for 
 an instant. 
 
 Grinding his teeth with rage, Philip invokes curses on 
 his supposed rival. "A base-born, fatherless hireling! 
 flying at my game ! 'Tis a pity I did not slit his nose 
 while he was in London, as Cowper suggested ; he would 
 have probably found less favor in her eyesl As she 
 likes she prefers the crow to the eagle ; she certainly 
 has a right to a choice. I '11 to Stanhope ; he can, may 
 be, tell me more than I already know about this Sir
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON's CAREER. 315 
 
 Edgely Warely forsooth!" Leaving the garden, he 
 walks towards the minister's house. 
 
 Arriving at his destination, he is announced by the 
 servant, and requested to walk up stairs and await the 
 coming of the minister. Opening the first door he meets, 
 a scene greets his eyes which roots him to the floor in 
 speechless amazement. Stanhope is standing in the cen 
 tre of the room, his face wearing an expression of mixed 
 annoyance, perplexity, and contempt ; while, grovelling 
 on the floor, with his arms around the minister's feet, 
 and his clothes in sad disorder, is the once vain-glorious 
 Ripperda, late prime minister. He exclaims in a gut 
 tural patois: "Your kind excellency, you shall know 
 everything, if you will only save me from the cut-throats 
 and assassins who would murder me. I will tell you all 
 about the Yienna affair, which means the entire uproot 
 ing of the Protestants and the universal power " 
 
 Quickly clapping his hand on Ripperda's mouth, Stan 
 hope turns, and looks sternly and suspiciously at Philip, 
 saying : " It seems your grace has a new occupation 
 spy." 
 
 "Mr. Stanhope, appearances are against me; but I 
 give you the word of an English gentleman, that it is an 
 entire accident which has made me a witness of this 
 scene." 
 
 Bowing politely, Stanhope replies : " I believe you. 
 It is needless for me to ask your silence in regard to all 
 you have seen or heard ?" 
 
 " On my honor, it shall never be mentioned." 
 
 Hurriedly retiring, he exclaims: "Euge! Ripperda 
 at Stanhope's feet, blabbing secrets of state ! the brave 
 Ripperda, the invincible, astute Ripperda, Spain's chiefest 
 honor, wearing out his satin breeches at English Stan 
 hope's feet ! This is indeed a discovery ! I '11 not wait 
 for his excellency's opinion of Yalentin: the greater
 
 316 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 absorbs the smaller matter." Walking along absorbed 
 in his thoughts, he brushes against a tall cavalier, with 
 military moustaches of wonderful length. Turning to 
 apologize, he sees his friend Count Konigsegg, to whom 
 he was introduced by Ripperda. 
 
 " Well met, Count, the man above all others whom I 
 wish to see !" 
 
 He replies : " I am flattered, your grace." 
 
 "Not the slightest necessit}^ Count, I assure you. 
 You see I have been unable to leave my room for the last 
 week ; consequently I am rather behind the rest of Ma 
 drid in regard to passing events. You are always well 
 versed in current news and items. I beg you, share yout 
 stock with mel" 
 
 " With pleasure, your grace." 
 
 " One moment, Count, before you begin. Do you 
 know aught about a fellow who styles himself Sir Edgely 
 Warely ? He seems to ruffle it gayly at court I" 
 
 " Nothing, except that he was and is still, for all I 
 know a favorite of Alberoni, who has often trusted him 
 on errands requiring a cool head and a strong arm." 
 
 "A good cheek, as well, by St. Jago!" adds Philip. 
 
 " I have heard that he is to be married in a short time 
 to one of her majesty's maids a Mile. O'Beirne." 
 
 Philip starts, exclaiming, "Never; she would never 
 accept him I" 
 
 " Why not ? He is quite a fine-looking man, and lie 
 appears to possess plenty of money far more than she 
 has, at all events." 
 
 Philip vacantly replies, " Yes ;" and he walks along in 
 silence, musing over Mistress O'Beirne 's wit and beauty.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 317 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Vain human kind ! fantastic race ! 
 Thy various follies who can trace? 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 " MLLE. O'BEIRNE, you say I am a stranger to you I 
 that you are unknown to me. Does not our acquaint 
 ance date years back, in your father's birthplace Dub 
 lin? Can you repulse me when I tell you that, ever 
 since that day in the cathedral, I have never ceased to 
 think of you, while mourning the fate which separated 
 us?" 
 
 Philip was kneeling at her feet, the moon shining on 
 his upturned face as he pleaded his love, and asked her 
 to be his wife. Looking steadfastly at him, she replied 
 in an unsteady voice : 
 
 " Your grace, to say that I have never thought of you 
 since that time would be untrue ; but my feelings toward 
 you have never been greater than those of friendship." 
 He was about to interrupt her , but, silencing him with 
 a motion of her hand, she resumed : " You must recol 
 lect, moreover, that I am penniless ! I could not bring 
 you the dowr} 7 a duke's bride should possess !" 
 
 " Mile. O'Beirne Nora ! I will not argue with you. If 
 you refuse me, my death be on your hands. I could not 
 live alone when you might be my constant companion 
 and beloved wife." 
 
 " Your grace, this is a threat which no gentleman 
 would make rise, I pray you ! To-morrow, when you 
 
 27*
 
 318 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 are cooler when you have reflected on what you have 
 said " 
 
 " You will allow me to renew my proposals, dear 
 Nora?" 
 
 " No ! I was about to say that you will blame your 
 self and me also for your rash conduct and unconsidered 
 words, which which " Bursting into tears she covered 
 her face with her hands. 
 
 Quickly rising, he threw his arms around her waist, 
 despite her resistance, and kissed her repeatedly while 
 holding her hand imprisoned in his. 
 
 " This is an outrage, sir ! Release me, or I will alarm 
 the palace!" she exclaimed in quick, broken accents. 
 
 " Be Duchess of Wharton be my wife !" 
 
 Steadying her voice by a strong effort, she replied : 
 " Release me, and I will give you my answer !" 
 
 He did so, and awaited her reply in mute expectation. 
 
 " Your grace, consider carefully all I say ; consider 
 the bold, unwomanly words that I shall utter ; consider 
 how lost to all shame I am to make so bold an avowal " 
 
 She paused for a moment, while her breath came quick 
 and fast ; then, in the verdurous, ivy-covered balconj', 
 she told him a tale true or false which set his blood 
 on fire, and made everything about him whirl in an un 
 steady dance. She told him that she had never ceased 
 to think of him since their interview in Dublin, and that, 
 when she had seen him on the Prado, she had felt hap 
 pier than ever she had been before. " But you must not 
 ask me to be your wife until you are sure that you know 
 your own mind. I am proud and penniless ; yet a king 
 could not have me save as his consort. My temper is 
 quick, and not very easily controlled. These -are bad 
 qualities in a wife ; but it is better you should know all 
 before asking me to be yours for life." 
 
 Catching her in his arms, he exclaimed : " Nora, you
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 319 
 
 are a noble woman I Unfortunately for your purpose, 
 you have only riveted the chains which bind me to you 
 the faster. From this moment you are my wife " 
 
 " Wait ! I will not consent until you have had tiine to 
 reflect on your actions. Come to me one month from 
 to-night you shall then receive my answer." 
 
 Dashing his hand on the edge of the balcony, he ex 
 claimed : " Nora, I will not leave this spot until you con 
 sent!" 
 
 She looked pained and embarrassed, while her hands 
 clasped around each other. Taking a ring from his 
 pocket, he placed it on her passive finger and said: 
 "Nora, Duchess of Wbarton, and, better still, Philip's 
 love." She offered no resistance, and the ring glittered 
 bravely in the moonlight. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase. 
 
 LOVELACE. 
 
 WHEN Mile. O'Beirne had accepted Philip as her 
 future husband, she had forgotten that, as a maid of 
 honor, it was her duty to ask the permission of her 
 royal mistress ere the step was taken. She had not 
 thought about it at the time, and when she told her ma 
 jesty, requesting her permission, the answer came quick 
 and angrily : " No I you are both mad ! The alliance 
 would be productive of the worst consequences. The 
 Duke of Wharton is known to be the most profligate, 
 immoral man of the age! Moreover he is such a spend 
 thrift, all his property is sequestrated by the English 
 government for his loyalty to James. What funds he 
 may have with him will soon be expended; then how
 
 320 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 could you live ? You have not a pistole you can call 
 your own." 
 
 Nora had almost swooned at this unexpected refusal, 
 and she had faintly wondered what his grace would do 
 or say. 
 
 When Philip heard of her majesty's indignant refusal, 
 he became well-nigh crazy, and his after excitement and 
 anger produced a dangerous relapse, in consequence of 
 which he was again prostrated. The court doctors who 
 attended him pronounced him in a very critical state, 
 declaring that unless some change for the better took 
 place, he could not long survive. He would not eat, and 
 would drink nothing but brandy. 
 
 When the queen heard of his forlorn condition and the 
 dangerous symptoms of his illness, she sent him a kindly 
 message, hinting that if he thought his conduct and 
 morals would be more steady in future, and if he would 
 embrace the Roman Catholic faith, she might think of 
 recalling her former decision. 
 
 Philip received this message during the absence of the 
 doctors. He immediately sprang from his bed, forced 
 his frightened valet to dress him, while threatening him 
 with his rapier point, rushed precipitately to the palace, 
 forcing himself through the crowd of courtiers and gen 
 tlemen in waiting, and threw himself on his knees before 
 the throne. 
 
 Behind the royal chair stands Nora O'Beirne, fright 
 ened and thunderstruck at Philip's boldness in thus forc 
 ing himself on her majesty's notice. Close beside her is 
 Lord North, eying Philip with a wondering stare, wait 
 ing for a denouement of the affair. On either side of her 
 majesty stand the Conde de las Torres, and the proud 
 Marquis de Yilladarias. Count Kb'nigsegg can be seen 
 amid the assemblage surrounding the throne. 
 
 All eyes are turned on Philip, as he cries in a weak,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 321 
 
 unsteady voice : " Your majesty, have mercy on me on 
 us ! I cannot live without her !" 
 
 The queen glances pityingly at him, while inclining her 
 ear to las Torres, who whispers a few words in a low 
 voice. Nodding her head, she says to Philip : 
 
 " Your grace, as a daughter of the church, we cannot 
 allow our maid to unite herself with a heretic ; that is an 
 impassable bar to the union." 
 
 Rising, Philip replies in a louder voice than before : 
 " Your majesty, I do here most solemnly an^ruly abjure 
 the Protestant belief, assuring you that I am in heart 
 and soul as good a Catholic as yourself; and have been 
 all my life, privately if not openly I" 
 
 The queen and las Torres exchange a significant smile. 
 Turning again to Philip, she resumes : " In our opinion, 
 your projected marriage is hasty and ill-advised. We 
 greatly fear that you will too late repent your step." 
 Turning to Nora, she says rather imperiously : " Mile. 
 O'Beirne, if you truly love and respect his grace of 
 Wharton, go to him ! Holy Mary bless and guard you 
 both, is our sincerest wish !" 
 
 Grasping Nora's hand with a quick movement, Philip 
 leads hei through the opening lane of wondering courtiers 
 and smiling dames toward the anteroom, where they can 
 be alone. Passing along, he notices Edgely Valentin, at 
 whom he glances contemptuously, although a pang of 
 jealousy strikes his heart as he observes Nora turn pale, 
 while her hand trembles a little. Yalentin's face bears 
 an expression of suffering hatred as he returns Philip's 
 look, while his eyes rest with a curiously mixed expres 
 sion of envy and triumph on Nora's downcast face. 
 
 They are to be married to-night, at Philip's earnest 
 entreaties. He intends to take her with him to Rome, 
 there to spend the honeymoon, a project to which Nora 
 has unwillingly acceded. She wished to delay the nup-
 
 322 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 tials for at least three months ; deprecating any delay, 
 however, his waywardness carried the day. 
 Le roi est mort, vive le roi I 
 
 CHAPTER LTI. 
 
 Les cartes sont brouillees. 
 
 * 
 
 As they enter the royal presence, the Pretender wel 
 comes them very warmly, even deigning to kiss Nora's 
 cheek; a liberty which she does not resent, although 
 Philip little relishes his sovereign's freedom. Turning 
 to Philip, James says : " A running ship collects no bar 
 nacles, Wharton ; but it seems you have secured a glori 
 ous prize 1 We almost envy you your blushing bride !" 
 
 " If it but stop at envy, your majesty, I shall be well 
 pleased," replies Philip, sullenly. 
 
 " Out on thee for thy churlishness, man !" James 
 laughs, with a glance at the Countess of Inverness, who 
 replies by surveying Nora with a spiteful sneer. 
 
 The Earl of Dunbar, noticing her disdainful gesture, 
 remarks aside : " Terribly coarse and vulgar I" 
 
 " Very !" is the low reply. 
 
 Assuming a graver demeanor, James says to Philip : 
 " We would speak with yon in private ! Our friends will 
 amuse her grace meanwhile ;" motioning Philip to follow 
 him. Entering a small, shabby, ill-furnished room, James 
 resumes, in a conciliating, familiar manner : " Your grace, 
 we have heard that you have openly embraced the true 
 faith ?" 
 
 " It is true, your majesty !" 
 
 " What we now intend to say to you must be taken in 
 good part as we say it in good meaning. We know of
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 323 
 
 your grace's gallantries and escapades, and have sorrowed 
 anent them as being of an ungodly and immoral nature. 
 We would desire you to curb your spirit, and so conduct 
 yourself as to merit our special approval and esteem, as 
 well as to close the mouths of those who are envious of 
 your great parts and genius. It would ill become us to 
 have the world at large say that we looked kindly on a 
 roystering, godless gallant." 
 
 Philip answers haughtily: "Your majesty entertains 
 but an ill opinion of me ! I " 
 
 "Nay," nay! Wharton, you are mistaken! Our last 
 words were meant rather as a prophecy of what you 
 might become, if you did not put a check on your Tit 
 and exuberanc}*. It is your sprightliness and vivacity 
 which have heretofore led you into so many misadven 
 tures." 
 
 " Forgive me, your majesty ! In future, my conduct 
 shall be based on your majesty's, and it will certainly 
 tend to cure one of my vices to have such an example to 
 follow!" 
 
 " Nay ! not such a good example, if Lockhart of Carn- 
 warth speaks truly ! He has many times told us of our 
 infirmities. Assoilzie him! as our father would have 
 said !" 
 
 Philip replies : " A good man and true, though over 
 brusque in his ways, under favor, your majesty ; I think 
 he is as true a friend to the cause as any gentleman in 
 Rome." 
 
 Frowning slightly, James replies : " Yes ! truly he is 
 over brusque." 
 
 There is a silence, until James says : " By the rood ! 
 it is time for mass ! Our confessor may wax impatient 
 at our long delay !" 
 
 Leading the way, they re-enter the saloon. 
 
 Philip, noticing that the Earl of Dunbar is whispering
 
 324 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 to Nora, walks quickly toward them, upon which they 
 begin to converse on indifferent subjects. Meanwhile 
 my Lady Inverness looks on in disdainful silence. James 
 signifying that the audience is ended, Philip leads Nora 
 out, and they enter the coach awaiting them at the 
 palace door. 
 
 Philip is apparently vexed and angry. He says, rather 
 coldly: "Your grace will make all necessary arrange 
 ments to leave immediately for Paris, or Madrid, or 
 perchance London, I have not quite determined which ; 
 but Rome shall contain us no longer." ( Settling himself 
 in the far corner, he looks stolidly out of the window. 
 
 Nora wonders at his sullen behavior, and fears that 
 she has offended him. She replies affectionately : " Why, 
 Philip, how abrupt you are ! Of course, wherever you 
 wish to go, it is my happiness to accompany you. But 
 why should you be so stern ? Have I offended you ?" 
 
 "No, Nora, you have not, but his fictitious majesty 
 saw fit to take up all my old offences, warning me, at the 
 same time, that if my conduct did not change for the 
 better, he would prefer my absence to my presence." 
 
 She replies quickly : '' Philip, you must have misun 
 derstood him ' Let us remain here a few days at any 
 rate, and you will find how gracious he is. For my 
 sake, dear Philip, do not call him ' fictitious ;' he is our 
 true king, is he not ?" 
 
 Glancing angrily at her, he replies : " You justly con 
 sider him gracious and amiable ; I add a title of my own 
 omni-loving." 
 
 " Yes, Philip, he has a loving heart, and in it all his 
 true subjects have a share." 
 
 " Some have too great a share, I fear me. However, 
 loving heart or not, amiability or crabbeclness, to-day 
 will see us on our journey." 
 
 " To where ?" she asks, timidly.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 325 
 
 " By the time we have arrived at our stopping-plaoe, 
 you will know. Until then peace! I pray you!" 
 
 Her eyes fill at his words, and a silence falls between 
 them. She glances at him with a troubled look, but his 
 eyes are closed as if in sleep. 
 
 "Alas! when Alberoni conjured me on my loyalty 
 to obey Sir Edgely's counsels, I knew not what they 
 would be when I gave my blind compliance ! I recollect 
 his very words: 'Mile. O'Beirne, Wharton must be 
 gained to our side. Sir Edgely has failed from no fault 
 of his own, and though I know well your mutual love, 
 yet must it be sacrificed for our common causes the 
 holy Catholic faith and the support of King James, both 
 here and abroad. Let Sir Edgely be seen with you in 
 public where his grace may observe you, his hatred and 
 contempt of Sir Edgely is a handle by which we can 
 work. His pride will be aroused ; your own wit and 
 beauty can do the rest. Once married, guide him with 
 invisible reins, and make him true to church and state ;' 
 and I have done it all ; been false to him, and a liar to 
 my husband ! No ! not that. I did love him when he 
 asked me to be his wife, kissed me with his fiery lips, 
 held me in his arms, and called me his ' duchess.' That 
 frenzy has gone, and now Alberoni must commend my 
 talent, however. He will praise me, for Philip is now a 
 Catholic, a Jacobite, and my husband all by my exer 
 tions ! I must write to his eminence and inform him of 
 Philip's anger at his majesty , it may be dangerous to the 
 cause ! Edgely can take the message, poor fellow." She 
 shudders, while the coach draws up with a loud clatter, 
 and they alight. 
 
 28
 
 326 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 CHAPTER LHI. 
 
 The wondering world, where'er he moves, 
 With new delight looks up. 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 IN a lofty, sombre chamber of the convent of St. 
 Cecilia, Cardinal Alberoni and the titular Queen Cle 
 mentina are conversing in low tones ; while Edgely Va 
 lentin is standing behind the cardinal's chair, calm and 
 motionless. Alberoni is short and squat, with ponderous 
 shoulders and a bull neck ; his head is unusually large, 
 and his complexion swarthy; his jawbones are promi 
 nent ; his eyes deep in their sockets, yet bold and pierc 
 ing; a moustache hides his upper lip, while i small, 
 peaked tuft adorns his chin. On his head is a tight 
 skullcap ; his person is enveloped in a cardinal's robe. 
 He is attentively reading a short note bearing the signa 
 ture: "Nora, Duchess of Wharton." Laying it down, 
 he says : " Sir Edgely, accept my thanks for this ; I will 
 attend to it, and see that his majesty pursues a more 
 conciliating policy toward his grace." 
 
 Bowing low, Yalentin replies : " Your eminence, he is 
 a valuable acquisition to our party; under favor, I 
 think it was because his majesty showed a liking for 
 
 Mile her grace, that he was displeased; I judge so 
 
 from a previous interview with her grace." 
 
 Clementina says, with a sigh : " Surely James has 
 enough without her, to grace his reputation and divide 
 his attentions." 
 
 Covertly smiling, Alberoni inquires : " How does my 
 Lord Dunbar now?"
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 32f 
 
 Valentin replies : " High in favor, your eminence, and 
 likely to continue so, as is also my Lady Inverness." 
 
 Striking her hands on the table, the queen exclaims, 
 with an angry look : " The courtesan!" 
 
 Valentin pursues : " She is as conceited and arrogant 
 aseverl" 
 
 Alberoni adds : " Two qualities tending to shame and 
 mortification. Is North in town ?" 
 
 " No, your eminence ; he has gone to the trenches at 
 Gibraltar, to offer his services to las Torres." 
 
 " Indeed ! If the Conde" appreciates him at his true 
 worth, he will send him back again a blustering, ill-bred 
 fellow, with scarce a spark of talent or energy!" 
 
 " He is a good Catholic I" exclaims the queen. 
 
 " Your majesty, a Catholic may do more harm to his 
 religion as an exponent than an opponent," he dryly re 
 plies, adding: " Villadarias should have taken the com 
 mand at the trenches ; I distrust las Torres, he is too 
 wordy too wordy." 
 
 The queen replies : " Yes, he should ; but he is too 
 shrewd. He thinks there is little prospect of gaining 
 honor there, and is willing enough to allow his colleague 
 to reap the crop of bombs and bullets. In his opinion, 
 the Rock is impregnable. Las Torres has declared that 
 his majesty's flag shall wave over its ramparts in a very 
 short time ?" 
 
 Alberoni replies : " Villadarias is culpably timid in this 
 affair. Gibraltar is feebly defended ; our land forces are 
 strong, and if necessary we could safely attack it on the 
 water side 1 There will be a terrible slaughter ; but the 
 Rock must capitulate ; then the desire of my life will be 
 gratified 1" Rubbing his hands together, his eyes sparkle 
 joyously. 
 
 Glancing at him, the queen says : " Cardinal, it is long 
 since we have seen you so happy?"
 
 328 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " Your majesty will see me happier if the Rock capitu 
 lates !" 
 
 " Pardon me, your eminence," interrupts Yalentiu in a 
 low whisper: "Here is a communication respecting 
 Fleury," handing him a small packet, which Alberoni 
 conceals in his gown. 
 
 Overhearing the name, the queen inquires : " Speaking 
 of Fleury, cardinal, how does he stand in your estima 
 tion?" 
 
 "A second Mazarin, with rather more honesty and 
 principle." Turning to Valentin, he resumes: "How 
 did Mile. Nora relish the change in her name and 
 quality ?" 
 
 He replies bitterly: "Too well, I judge, your emi 
 nence." 
 
 " Too well ! What mean you ? Can aught be done in 
 too willing a spirit for Holy Mother Church ?" 
 
 Valentin replies confusedly : " Forgive me ! I hardly 
 knew what I said!" 
 
 Looking fixedly at him, he replies : " My son, take heed 
 that you have no thought outside of the church, except 
 such as I may bless and sanction." 
 
 Counting her beads, the queen mutters her prayers 
 with eyes downcast and humble. 
 
 Alberoni continues, " You may retire, my son." 
 
 " Pardon me, your eminence ! Before I go, I would 
 like to intimate that if his grace could be induced to serve 
 in the trenches in some superior capacity, he would be 
 still further involved" with us, less likely to return to St. 
 James' ?" 
 
 " My son, your astuteness is commendable. True his 
 connection with England severed, he would be with us 
 from sheer necessity. I will have his thoughts turned in 
 that direction, if possible !" 
 
 Touching a small bell, a young girl enters, dressed in
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 329 
 
 the robes of a novice ; Alberoni says quickly : " My 
 daughter! "Wharton hint to him that honor and fame 
 are to be gained at Gibraltar send at once anonymous." 
 
 Bowing low, she kisses his hand, retiring as silently as 
 she had entered. Turning to Valentin, he says : " You 
 can mention to her grace our design, so that she may 
 work in unison with us !" 
 
 The stone floor echoes under Valentin's feet, while 
 the door creaks harshly as he closes it after his exit. 
 He does not leave immediately. Standing on the thres 
 hold, he places his ear to the door, through which the 
 voices of the queen and Alberoni can be dimly heard. 
 
 " Not a word that interests me ! A pest on the car 
 dinal 1 one would think he knew I listened outside, he 
 broaches such trifling subjects? if he will but fight 
 against old England, it will be one step more in the right 
 direction ; one step nearer to the consummation. Once I 
 was Jacobite for James' sake, but when she told me the 
 story of her life of the violated promise, I became Ja 
 cobite for my own sake, and when for that cause. I had 
 either to lose my revenge or Nora, I chose the latter, 
 letting him have her as his wife I a Delilah and a 
 Samson ! My king, my honor, and my love have I sur 
 rendered ! For twenty-seven years has the finger of 
 scorn been pointed at me ; for twenty-seven years have I 
 been gibed and taunted with a bastard origin ! Furies ! 
 Never will I forget that day when he drove me from him 
 at Stair's, with the old taunt, the same sneer which has 
 been my portion all my life. Act of attainder seques 
 tration ignominy. They shall be my weapons, forged by 
 deluded ministers. His nature is not like mine. He 
 would sink under poverty and disgrace ; Jbut he shall try 
 them, he shall try them I curse him 1 If I can reduce 
 him to beggary and despair, I '11 never lose sight of him ; 
 I '11 close my hands around his white neck and press the 
 
 28*
 
 330 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 life out of him. Let him die with my face close to his, 
 my eyes looking into his, my breath on his lips then I '11 
 tell him who what I am ; describe to him my long life of 
 wounded sensibilities that would not grow callous. 
 Then" 
 
 In his blind anger he runs against the iron wicket, 
 bringing out the portress a blear-eyed, toothless woman, 
 who unlocks the gate, and he walks rapidly in the direc 
 tion of the palace. As he arrives within sight of his 
 destination, he notices a coach drawn by four black 
 horses, being driven toward him. The next moment he 
 observes a ragged fellow toss a letter through the window, 
 Philip's face appearing at the same instant. He mutters : 
 "Wharton! strange! The coach is loaded down with 
 trunks and bags as if he intends to leave us ; I must let 
 his eminence know of this." 
 
 Let us glance into the coach. The letter thrown in is 
 on the floor, rumpled and torn. Stooping and picking it 
 up, Nora inquires : " May I read it, Philip ?" 
 
 " Yds, if you choose," he replies. 
 
 Throwing it down after a hasty perusal, she exclaims : 
 " What a field in which to gather fame ! The eyes of the 
 world are turned on this coming contest!" 
 
 He replies : " It is anonymous ! A friend seldom con 
 ceals himself, an enemy almost invariably !" 
 
 "/ think this is from a friend, who, being aware of 
 your talents and ambition, is desirous- of pointing out the 
 way, while fearing lest you might dislike his officious- 
 ness." 
 
 " Probably. However, friend or enemy, the suggestion 
 suits me exactly. We will stop at the next cabaret, 
 then I will write to las Torres, offering him my ser 
 vices at Gibraltar. We can go by sea to Barcelona, 
 thence to the scene of action."
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 331 
 
 Nora replies : " Would it not be better to write to his 
 majesty that you design to take arms in his service ?" 
 " I will do so, Nora ; your advice is opportune." 
 " Of course, you will await his majesty's answer ?" 
 " Not at all ; we shall continue on our route. I am 
 sure that he will gladly accede to my proposal. Las 
 Torres is the commandant, I believe ; he will doubtless 
 carry on the siege with credit and success." 
 " If you help him, he could not do otherwise." 
 " I would that others could appreciate my talents as 
 well as you, Nora," he replies, thinking with regret on 
 his cool reception at Rome. ^4 % 
 
 " Force them to appreciate you ; show yourself to the 
 world in your true colors as a loyal, talented commander." 
 He does not answer her. He is thinking of the dar 
 ing deeds he will accomplish in the trenches, of the brave 
 show he will make in his Spanish uniform, which, he has 
 determined, shall be violet with pearl facings, and gold 
 lace ; colors harmonizing well with his complexion, which 
 he keeps clear and fresh with an unguent used by Mile. 
 Paris Duvernay. 
 
 CHAPTER LIY. 
 
 "For who could be blind to so brilliant a star?" 
 
 CONDE DE LAS TORRES is commandcr-in-chief of the 
 army before Gibraltar ; his aide-de-camp is the Duke of 
 Wharton, Who has come hither prepared to draw his 
 sword and fight against his mother country. Nora is 
 also here, not liking to leave him alone for reasons of 
 her own. Not caring to await an answer to his letter 
 from the king, he has come at once to the camp. Fortu-
 
 332 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 nately or unfortunately, his majesty's letter has preceded 
 him, appointing him to the before-mentioned position, 
 an office of trust and danger. It is a position, moreover, 
 in which his name is sure to be blazoned abroad. 
 
 The Marquis de Yerboom and Don Lucas Spinola are 
 part of the staff, although they are both greatly opposed 
 to the siege, while Philip and las Torres are in favor of 
 its continuance. General Gaspar Clayton is in command 
 of the Rock, which is feebly defended inside, but sup 
 ported by a powerful fleet standing at anchor under the 
 precipitous walls. From the summit of the Promontory 
 can be seen the tiny huts of the Catalonian fishermen far 
 down on the sparkling, crested beach. To the Occident, 
 Barbary's fierce shores protrude their beetling crags, and 
 barren Mons Abyla rises boldly against the horizon. 
 
 Las Torres has systematically proceeded in his hostile 
 approaches. Besides throwing up formidable trenches, 
 he has erected many outposts, and excavated numerous 
 mines. His batteries sweep every penetrable point, also 
 commanding, in a measure, the waters of the bay. A 
 large detachment is, at present, stationed on the beach 
 at Genoese Cove, while the trenches are filled with watch 
 ful troops. 
 
 Philip is at headquarters with de Montemar and 
 the rest of the staff, who have decided that the new bat 
 teries are to open on the besieged at once. The decision 
 has been arrived at only after great discussion, during 
 which Philip gave many important suggestions. At his 
 urgent solicitations his grace is given the command of 
 o ie of the attacking detachments. 
 
 Orders are given to the artillerymen, the troops 
 placed in position, guns inspected, swords loosened, 
 weak points anxiously scanned, and strong positions 
 approved. The besieged, seeing the preparations for an
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 333 
 
 assault, hurriedly busy themselves in strengthening their 
 defences with sand bags and butts bound with fascines. 
 
 All are in a state of great expectancy ; every man is 
 at his gun, matchlocks lighted, sponge and rammer 
 ready. All are awaiting, yet dreading the first BOOM, 
 telling the deadly batteries have begun their work. De 
 Montemar says to las Torres : " Saint Jago ! I am ter 
 ribly anxious about the power and effect of our guns !" 
 
 " Montemar, you are nervous excited. I will give the 
 signal as soon as Spinola returns from his inspection of 
 the Land^ Port wall?" 
 
 Yerboom inquires : " Conde, how many balls and shells 
 can we throw into the fortress a day ?" 
 
 " Seven hundred per hour !" is the concise answer. 
 
 Brightening at the estimate, he turns to Philip, saying, 
 " That gives me more hope ; I begin to think it even pro 
 bable that we may succeed." 
 
 Philip replies in a chiding manner: " My dear marquis, 
 before to-morrow we will have Gaspar Clayton begging 
 for a respite, sending us their surrender. As my coun 
 trymen, I expect las Torres will so far favor me as to 
 allow them to march out with the honors." 
 
 " The Virgin defend us from such a fate at all events." 
 
 Spinola, galloping up at this moment, delivers a field 
 glass to las Torres, saying, in quick, hurried accents : 
 " The enemy have erected a strong battery at the Moorish 
 castle, while the Jews are so helpless and cowardly, that 
 it is impossible to make them work at the trenches I A 
 detachment should be sent at once, for the enemy's ves 
 sels are decimating our troop in a terrible manner! 
 They are entirely unprotected, and are rapidly losing all 
 courage and vigor." 
 
 Las Torres, startled at the news, exclaims in a loud 
 voice : " To your posts, gentlemen ! the atteck must be 
 made at once! Your grace, much depends upon your
 
 334 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY J 
 
 coolness! Spinola, be wary not too impetuous! Ki- 
 badeo, recollect we are Spaniards ; the Rock must be 
 ours. Away 1 in two minutes I will give the signal to 
 open the batteries ! Then, sweeping them from north to 
 south east to west, we will teach these heretics that 
 Gibraltar can be taken." Turning to Spinola, who still 
 lingers, he cries : " Away ! I will attend to the trenches 
 immediately curse the Jews!" Calling a captain of 
 cavalry standing a few yards away, he continues : " Se 
 nor Juan, take fifty men to the trenches, throw them up 
 as quickly 'as possible, and stay there until you receive 
 further commands." 
 
 Sinking on his knees behind a low parapet, las Torres 
 prays : " Santa Maria, grant us victory ; we fight against 
 heretics " Stopping short, he exclaims : " Maldito ! I 
 have neither time nor words for prayer !" walking hastily 
 toward the officer of the batteries, he exclaims : "Senor, 
 open all your batteries pour in shot and shell unceas 
 ingly, until further orders. Inform Senor Perilas, so 
 that in case you are struck there will be no confusion or 
 stoppage." 
 
 " Yes, general." 
 
 Glancing around at the disposal of his forces, las Tor 
 res' face brightens with satisfaction at the commanding 
 positions in which his troops are stationed. 
 
 BOOM ! ah, how terrible is the long line of lurid 
 flame ! how deafening the appalling echoes shaking earth 
 and sky! Showers of shell and chain-shot, grape and 
 shrapnel whizz singing through the air, while the black 
 smoke puffs slowly up from the belching embrasures. 
 The firing is very effective, dismounting the guns of the 
 besieged faster than they can be replaced, while the 
 courageous defenders are torn to pieces, endeavoring to 
 repair the shattered, crumbling ramparts from which 
 whole tons of earth and masonry are constantly detached
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 335 
 
 by the rapid firing. Their sand-bags and butts are 
 swept away like chaff, while their poor ordnance is 
 almost unable to reply, being old and defective. 
 
 Philip, receiving an order to make a sortie on a strong 
 outpost, whence the besieged are harassing Spinola's 
 troops with deadly effect, hoarsely cheers at the wel 
 come news. Hastily forming his men into line, he tells 
 them what must be done. Placing himself at their head 
 with his sword drawn, his hat off, and face aflame with 
 joy and excitement, he boldly advances. Far outstrip 
 ping his men, he pauses a moment, but unable to restrain 
 his impetuosity he again rushes forward. At this mo 
 ment there is a fresh volley from the Rock, the bullets 
 and shells singing about him in a dangerous chorus. 
 Still he advances, pointing with his sword to the outpost. 
 Suddenly with a thud and a hiss a shell falls at his very 
 feet. Starting back, he looks in alarm at the sputtering 
 fuze rapidly being consumed ; fascinated by the sight, he 
 is rooted to the spot. A loud report a blinding glare, 
 a sound of missies whistling through the air, and the 
 smoke hides him from view. 
 
 Rushing wildly to the spot, his soldiers lift and bear 
 out his lifeless body. His face is blackened and singed, 
 his clothes torn to fragments, while one of his legs is 
 shattered and maimed. A loud cry bursts from the men 
 at the sight, Philip's generosity and bravery having 
 endeared him to their hearts. Carrying him swiftly to 
 headquarters, they approach las Torres, who exclaims 
 anxiously : " Is he dead ?" They only point to his face. 
 With a quivering lip the general directs them to the 
 tent. Carrying him thither, they lay him gently on the 
 bed. A physician is Immediately summoned, and an 
 order sent to the priest to attend the dying man. 
 
 The physician, Senor Arsenicato ent.ering, is surprised 
 to find his patient sitting erect in bed, rubbing his face
 
 336 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 in a bewildered manner, meanwhile muttering curses in 
 Spanish and English. Laying his hand on his shoulder, 
 he persuades him to lie down again. . Examining his leg, 
 after cleansing off the blood and dirt, he finds the wound 
 is not of a dangerous character ; the shock of the explo 
 sion had stunned him, while a piece of the shell had torn 
 open his ankle; otherwise he is uninjured. CarefuUy 
 bandaging the ankle, he pats him on the back, saying 
 encouragingly: " Bueno, bueno I your grace, we will soon 
 cure you ; but you must not attempt to leave your bed 
 until we permit you I" 
 
 Philip replies : " Why, man, think you I could lie here 
 all day, hearing the guns outside, and repose idly on my 
 back? No I" 
 
 Arsenicato, shrugging his shoulders, looks incredu 
 lously at him. "Bueno! but first take this little draught ; 
 it is harmless, and will steady your nerves." 
 
 Pouring two or three drops of a white liquid from a 
 small phial, he mixes them in a glass of wine. Philip 
 swallows the potion at a gulp, his eyes close almost imme 
 diately, his head falls back on the pillow, and he is asleep. 
 " Your grace is secure enough now ! A good sleep is his 
 best restorer." Throwing a mosquito net over him, the 
 wily doctor returns to his other duties. 
 
 On awakening the next morning Philip is nearly suffo 
 cated with the strong smell of powder filling the tent 
 with a blue, acrid vapor. Rapidly dressing himself, he 
 almost forgets his wound, until he attempts to draw on 
 his shoe, the consequent pain makes him wince and 
 groan ; limping outside, las Torres surveys him in sur 
 prise, congratulating him, however, on his rapid recovery. 
 
 "Where is my detachment, Conde?" 
 
 " It is at present incorporated with Spinola's, whose 
 troop has been frightfully thinned." 
 
 "He must return them to me now, and I hope I shall
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAEEEB. 331 
 
 fulfil more creditably the next order I am fortunate 
 enough to receive 1" 
 
 " That would be impossible, your grace." 
 
 "Flattery, Conde, flattery; however, it could not be 
 helped." After a pause he resumes: "I neglected to 
 inquire, have you sent the duchess to the rear ?" 
 
 " Still further away. It is possible we shall have to 
 raise the siege, so last night I went to her grace's apart 
 ments, told her of your accident, whereat she was greatly 
 affected and sent her to Madrid under the protection of 
 a strong guard of Yalloons." 
 
 " Thanks ; it is better she should be away. Did her 
 grace ask to see me before she went ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; she entered headquarters, but you were 
 asleep. Not daring to violate Arsenicato's orders by 
 awakening you, she kissed you good-bye; she was 
 greatly moved at the sight of your wound." 
 
 " When is it probable the siege will be raised, Conde ?" 
 
 " To-morrow, unless reinforcements arrive to-night, an 
 almost impossible event I" 
 
 Philip sighs as he thinks over the misfortune prevent 
 ing him from gaming honor and glory by leading a for 
 lorn hope against the stubborn fortress. 
 
 Ordering his staff to assemble at headquarters, las 
 Torres enters the tent, where he is soon followed by 
 Philip, De Montemar, Verboom, and others. No sooner, 
 however, is the project of raising the siege broached, 
 than Philip glides noiselessly outside, while a smile is 
 playing on his features. 
 
 " I am of no use there ! Moreover, there is little 
 honor in advising on a surrender, so that I am better 
 here than there ! Besides, if my opinion were needed, I 
 should undoubtedly be against retreat 1 Moloch is more 
 to my taste than Belial! I want action action, and, 
 egad ! I '11 have action." 
 29
 
 338 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Securing his hat on his head, he cautiously lowers himself 
 over the parapet to the ground. Drawing his rapier, he 
 walks slowly toward the walls near one of the hostile 
 posts, meanwhile between the opposing fires, whose va 
 rious missiles whirr and sing above and about him. Pro 
 ceeding until within talking distance of the outpost, he 
 halts, and exclaims in a loud voice: "Halloo within 
 there, cuckoldy heretics !"* 
 
 In answer to this polite greeting, a dozen muskets are 
 levelled at him, while a stern voice replies : " Who goes 
 there ? Advance, and give the password !" 
 
 Philip drawls : " Demme, sir, your voice is as harsh as 
 any peacock's. In reply to your excessively rude sum 
 mons, allow me to introduce myself. The Duke of 
 Wharton and Northumberland, officer in his most Cath 
 olic majesty's service." 
 
 There is a few moments' silence after this, until the 
 same voice replies : " If your grace will promise to re 
 turn immediately to camp, you will be allowed that privi 
 lege in consideration of your high rank and youthfulness, 
 otherwise I will order your arrest as a spy and a traitor I 
 Your grace is aware of the laws of war, I presume?" 
 
 Slowly drawing out his handkerchief, Philip says: 
 " Well, I suppose I must return ; but one moment, my 
 dear fellow ! oblige me by reporting this affair to Clay 
 ton, so that my friends in England will know that I am 
 alive ! Au revoir, mes cochons ! We will batter your 
 boasted fortress to the ground to-morrow. His majesty 
 has just sent us enough material for a dozen more bat 
 teries as heavy or heavier than those we have, au revoir!" 
 
 A dead silence greets this intelligence, while the rising 
 moon illuminates the threatening barrels directed towards 
 bis breast. Retracing his steps he opens the door of the 
 
 * Fact. See various histories.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 339 
 
 tent, inquiring : " Well, gentlemen, how goes the verdict 
 a raising or a continuance ?" 
 
 Las Torres replies gloomily : " Suspension of hostili 
 ties." 
 
 Philip answers : " Ah ! If that is the case, I will re 
 turn at once to Madrid. This nitrous smoke is utterly 
 spoiling my voice ; I shall be as hoarse as Walpole if I 
 stay here any longer !" So saying, he withdraws to his 
 own quarters to make preparations for leaving. 
 
 CHAPTER LY. 
 
 " His passion still, to covet general praise, 
 ' Hia lips to forfeit it a thousand ways ; 
 
 A constant bounty which no friend has made ; 
 An angel tongue which no man can persuade ; 
 A fool with more of wit than all mankind : 
 loo rash for thought, for action too refined." 
 
 POPE'S " WHABTOH." 
 
 JAMES is reclining in his chair looking ill and tired ; in 
 front of him stands Edgely Valentin, bare headed and 
 respectful. 
 
 " You say that las Torres has raised the siege, and 
 retreated ?" 
 
 " Yes, your majesty." 
 
 " Who informed you of the reckless acts of which you 
 accuse his grace?" 
 
 " A trustworthy witness, your majesty. 'Tis a pity he 
 was not in England instead of at the trenches." 
 
 Frowning angrily, James replies : " That is for us to 
 say. However, this mad fool must return to England ; 
 he is doing us more harm than good with his audacity, 
 immorality, and want of respect to his king. We would
 
 340 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 almost rather deal with him as an enemy than a friend ; 
 he would certainly do us less harm. 'Tis a great pity, 
 too ; he has both talent and ability, but it is seldom he 
 exerts them ; in such cases, it is too often to circumvent 
 a grisette or rob a friend at piquet or ombre." After a 
 slight pause: "Where is his duchess the lovely Nora?" 
 
 " Her grace is with him at Madrid, your majesty." 
 
 Looking suspiciously at him, James inquires : " How 
 is it, sirrah, that you are always so well instructed -in 
 the incomings and outgoings of his grace ? For a rather 
 cool friend you appear to take a pretty deal of interest 
 in him!" 
 
 Edgely replies with downcast eyes : " It is for your 
 majesty's sake that I am watchful ; for, as your majesty 
 has said, he does more harm to the cause I love the 
 king I adore than many of our enemies." 
 . Mollified by his assertions, James permits him to kiss 
 his hand, replying, with a smile: "We did but jest. 
 How likes our consort her residence in gloomy St. 
 Cecilia?" 
 
 " Not over well, your majesty ; Madame is often trou 
 bled with the vapors. She would willingly return, but for 
 her aversion to several at court." 
 
 "Truly, truly! my Lady Inverness for one," he 
 pettishly replies, twisting the rings on his fingers. 
 
 Ringing a bell, the signal is answered by a page, who 
 stands on the threshold, bowing low. 
 
 " Curlle, say to my Lord Inverness that we desire an 
 audience." 
 
 Resting his chin on his palm, James silently muses on 
 an apparently vexatious and perplexing subject; Yal- 
 entin remaining quiet and motionless. Inverness enter 
 ing bends and kisses the royal hand, which ceremony 
 being completed, James says : " Inverness, we need your 
 aid in a matter nearly concerning our beloved court.
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 341 
 
 Doubtless you have heard ere this of his grace of Whar- 
 ton's doings before Gibraltar ? Those actions reflect on 
 us very severely. Having formerly looked kindly on 
 him, therefore we -have resolved to send " 
 
 A tap at the door interrupting him, Valentin opens it, 
 and Curlle enters with a letter for James. Examining 
 ihe seal, he exclaims : " By my soul, it is from the mad 
 cap himself 1" 
 
 Valentin, starting forward, turns red and pale alter 
 nately. 
 
 Inverness mutters : " Speak of the deil ! " Opening 
 the letter James reads in low, almost undistinguishable 
 tones : " Your majesty um um regret my culpable be 
 havior in leaving Rome so suddenly and disrespectfully 
 um not knowing whether your majesty approves my 
 recent actions in the trenches um I write to crave 
 permission to return to Rome um um sun myself 
 your majesty's favor um your loving, devoted " 
 
 Frowning impatiently he throws the letter down, ex 
 claiming : " Inverness, bring me paper and a quill 1 The 
 malapert asks our approval of his conduct; he shall 
 have it, with a moral affixed, pardieu!"- 
 
 A smile of gratified malice passes like a flash over Val 
 entin's face. 
 
 Dipping into the inkstand with a vicious jerk, James 
 splashes the drops about in close proximity to Inverness' 
 peach-colored hose, murmuring as he writes the following 
 reply : 
 
 " SIR : We blame you severely for your ill-considered 
 conduct in taking up foreign arms against our king 
 dom. As our court is at present full to overflowing, we 
 do advise you most strenuously not to come hither, but 
 rather return to England, condone your numerous 
 offences, and act a part more useful to us and yourself. 
 
 JAMES REX." 
 29*
 
 342 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " But that it were high presumption in me, I would 
 gladly sign my name under your majesty's." 
 
 "We know that, Inverness. You were always our 
 true friend and adviser." Yalentin, lifting his eyebrows, 
 smiles incredulously. James continues : " This must to 
 Wharton at once, or he may forestall our refusal of his 
 company by coming upon us unawares." 
 
 Inverness, laughing low, expresses his appreciation of 
 the jest by divers nods and chuckles. 
 
 Sealing the letter, James hands it to Yalentin, enjoin 
 ing him to use the greatest despatch in its delivery ; he 
 replies: "Under favor, your majesty, none could use 
 greater." 
 
 Giving his arm to Inverness, James replies : " Ay ! we 
 know your loyalty, Sir Edgely." 
 
 Bowing low, Yalentin leaves to execute his commis 
 sion ; while James and Inverness retire to the queen's 
 chamber, where a number of ladies and gentlemen are 
 engaged in playing ombre or conversing. 
 
 ****** 
 
 In a large room at Madrid are Philip and Nora ; he is 
 alternately writing and reading. Leaning back in his 
 chair, he says : " Attention, Nora ! ' To his excellency Mr. 
 Walpole' I will give only portions of the letter, those 
 most interesting ' Sir : You will doubtless be surprised 
 
 to receive a letter from me. Since his present majesty's 
 
 accession to the throne, I have absolutely refused to be 
 concerned with the Pretender or any of his affairs ; and 
 during my stay here I have behaved myself in a manner 
 that Dr. Peters, Mr. Godolphin, and Mr. Mills can de 
 clare to be consistent with my duty to the present king. 
 I was forced to come here to get out of Rome, where, if 
 my true design had been known, I would have been 
 treated a little severely.- If your excellency would per 
 mit me to wait upon you for an hour, I am certain you
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 343 
 
 would be convinced of my repentance for my former 
 madness.' " Stopping here, he laughs long and loudly, 
 while Nora appears perturbed and displeased. " Egad, 
 how he will stare ! ah-ha ! But to proceed : ' If you 
 would become an advocate with his majesty to grant me 
 
 his most gracious pardon' ahem ! ' I do not intend, 
 
 in case of the king's allowing me to pass the evening of my 
 days under his royal protection, to see England for some 
 years, but shall remain in France or Germany, as my 
 friends shall advise, and enjoy country sports and pas 
 times' (his lips curve in a smile) ' till all former stories 
 are buried in oblivion. I beg of your excellency to let 
 me receive your orders at Paris. The duchess, who is 
 with me, desires leave to wait on Mrs. Walpole, if you 
 think proper.' " 
 
 Nora exclaims indignantly : " Why, Philip, you seem 
 very desirous of lowering your dignity, in addressing 
 this Mr. Walpole so servilely, begging so humbly the 
 favor of being allowed to see him. He may be an am 
 bassador, but you are the Duke of Wharton and North 
 umberland, and should be above truckling to any man 
 alive 1" 
 
 " Or woman either, Nora ; put a bridle on your tongue 
 and let me alone. I have been too long in this world, 
 querida mia, not to know how to talk to ambassadors, 
 or kings either, for that matter." 
 
 She is silent. Walking up and down the room for a few 
 minutes, he resumes in a decisive manner : " Nora, you 
 must be ready to set out for Paris the day after to-mor 
 row. I will give the letter time enough to reach Wal 
 pole, and then for plans to upset the Captain King !" 
 
 " And assist the English whigs !" Nora adds. 
 
 " An entire mistake. It is our mutual party which 
 shall reap the advantages of my sojourn in Paris, as 
 you will see. James declines my company at court,
 
 344 HIMSELF. HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 therefore I must work for him in exile. His letter was 
 vastly curt and impolite ! The Jesuits declare that the 
 end justifies the means ; on that axiom I base my con 
 duct." 
 
 " Debase it sometimes, I fear, Philip." 
 
 Unheeding her remark, Philip inquires abstractedly: 
 " How stands our exchequer, Nora ?" 
 
 " Low, much lower than you probably think." 
 
 Shrugging his shoulders, he replies : " Low enough, no 
 doubt ! I have not received my usual remittance from 
 London." 
 
 " That is not the chief cause of its depletion, Philip 
 dear ; it is because you spend your money so foolishly, 
 buy everything you see, give to every one who asks, and 
 squander it at the gaming table !" 
 
 " Hoity-toity, a lecture on economy from her Grace of 
 Wharton! Pray proceed; I am all attention 1" 
 
 Half smiling at his mock attentive attitude, she turns 
 away and looks out of the window, while he surveys his 
 person in the mirror. 
 
 CHAPTEK LVI. 
 
 " Saw mischief by a faction brewing." 
 
 SWIFT. 
 
 ALTHOUGH an inventory of their possessions disclosed 
 the fact that all their present effects were about two hun 
 dred pounds, their clothes, and jewelry, Philip's high 
 ambition could not descend to trivial economies. Ac 
 cordingly, he has engaged the most fashionable and ex 
 pensive rooms in all Paris, decorated them anew with 
 rich furniture, engaged a dozen or more valets, waiters,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER, 345 
 
 and runners, and bought a superb coach. All this he 
 has done on credit and the influence of his representa 
 tions. "Nora, alarmed at his vast expenditures, dismally 
 wondered whence would come the money to pay the 
 bills when they were presented. His reply was a care 
 less laugh, and an assertion that " he had such an im 
 plicit reliance in Providence, he did not trouble himself 
 at all about the future, but obeyed the precepts of the 
 Bible, in trusting in the Omniscient not to fail him in the 
 hour of need." 
 
 Walpole's reply has been received, being now the sub 
 ject of their conversation. Turning to Nora with a 
 surprised look, Philip replies in answer to her previous 
 question : " Certainly, our visit shall be in a public capa 
 city. Why not ? have you any great objections, Nora ?" 
 
 " Well, you know our expenses are very great, and 
 with no expectation of a remittance for some time, it 
 would be as well to retrench a little. We have very 
 little left to draw upon, while the bills for the coach, 
 horses, and the furniture will pour in before long." 
 
 " Never mind, Nora, we must not meet trouble half 
 way ! Ah ! there is the coach ! Come along !" Leading 
 her to the door, they both enter, and roll off in the 
 direction of the ambassador's house. 
 
 Mr. Walpole, awaiting them in the 'hall, courteously 
 leads the way to the drawing-room, where they seat them 
 selves, partaking of a slight luncheon furnished by their 
 attentive host. During the repast, Philip is guilty of 
 many loose witticisms and licentious puns, often causing 
 Nora to blush to her temples. The conversation is gene 
 ral and unimportant, until Philip carelessly inquires : 
 
 " Your excellency, is Atterbury in town ?" 
 
 " He is, your grace ; unfortunately, his society is de 
 barred us. You are aware that all communication with 
 him is forbidden and felonious ?"
 
 3.46 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Philip nods assent, and the conversation again becomes 
 more general. Nora is cold and distant, appearing to 
 prefer her own thoughts to Walpole's honeyed speeches 
 and flattering words. Philip, noticing this, says : " Well, 
 we must be going ; are you ready, Nora ?" 
 
 She replies in a relieved manner : " Yes, your grace, 
 and have been for some time." 
 
 This pithy rejoinder causes Walpole to frown, while a 
 piqued expression, clouds his face. 
 
 As they are entering the coach, Philip calls out : " Oh, 
 Walpole, I am going to dine with the Bishop of Rc=ches- 
 ter now. What think you of my plan ? Does he keep a 
 good table?" 
 
 Smiling at such an odd, bold declaration, Walpole 
 replies : " If your grace has a design to pay that prelate 
 a visit, there is no occasion to tell me of it." 
 
 " By the way, I forgot to tell you how I .enjoyed my 
 self at Rome, also of my conversion to Catholicism, two 
 subjects in which you would have been interested ; how 
 ever, they will be food for conversation at our next 
 meeting; good-bye 1" Kissing his hand to the astonished 
 Walpole, he slams the carriage door, and cries : " To the 
 Bishop of Rochester's house!" 
 
 Atterbury is both pleased and startled on seeing his 
 unexpected guests, but withal pained at Philip's levity 
 and profaneness, so ill suited to his own sober gravity 
 and advanced age. With Nora, Atterbury is well pleased, 
 greatly admiring her beauty and vivacity, which compare 
 curiously enough with her previous sullenness at Wai- 
 pole's. Although delighted with their affection and de 
 votion, the Bishop gently blames them for incurring the 
 government penalties by holding any communication with 
 him, for in this land of strangers, the aged, worn-out 
 prelate is debarred from seeing a friend or a relative, 
 even his loved daughter dare not come to him to receive
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 347 
 
 his caresses or to soothe him in his sickness and loneli 
 ness. 
 
 As they are driving homewards after the interview is 
 over, Philip says in a settled manner: "Nora, I have 
 just come to the conclusion that Paris is too expensive 
 for us, Rouen will suit us better, especially as I see no 
 chance of a. remittance from home, and our creditors will 
 not be always satisfied with smiles and promises." 
 
 Lifting her hands in dismay, Nora replies: "Leave 
 Paris! impossible. We have made every arrangement 
 for a permanent residence here ; rented the apartments, 
 hired servants and footmen, bought carriage and horses, 
 and I know not what besides ; the idea is absurd." Add 
 ing, with a smile : " But of course you did not mean it, 
 for our creditors would not allow us t$ leave unless they 
 were paid." 
 
 He replies : " Nora, those people are sufficiently well 
 paid by our patronage; you appear to forget who we are." 
 
 She rejoins : " Pardon me ! not at all ; but even the 
 Duke of Wharton will find that Parisian tradesmen are 
 not well-bred enough to be satisfied with patronage 
 instead of payment. I know them too well to believe 
 in their forbearance." 
 
 Philip says with a frown and a pettish jerk at his 
 ruffles : " Repique me ! I care little about their politeness 
 or charity. I am not considering them at all. They 
 must look out for themselves and we will do the same. 
 Economy is our aim at present." 
 
 She sighs at his obstinacy, and is about to answer him, 
 when he adds: "Nora your grace, no more remon 
 strances, I beg ! I have said Rouen is to be our future 
 home Rouen it shall be until our circumstances guar 
 antee a residence in Paris. Your grace has become 
 strangely whimsical and fantastical of late. Let me hope 
 you will be a trifle more rational and collected in your
 
 348 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 actions in future," looking askance at him, she laughs 
 amusedly, and settles herself in the corner with a shrug 
 of her shoulders and a mocking gesture at Ms stolid 
 gravity. 
 
 CHAPTER LYII. 
 
 * 
 
 " He marks the dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking flax into a flame." 
 
 STROLLING about Rouen accompanied by Nora, Philip 
 observes a number of ragged, filthy vagrants who attack 
 eveiy passer-by for alms in the most piteous manner. 
 Toward this motley crew he proceeds, leaving Nora to 
 await his return. After satisfying their clamorous de 
 mands, he exclaims in a loud voice: "Brother vaga 
 bonds, I am the Duke of Wharton." A piece of infor 
 mation eliciting uproarious applause. He continues : " I 
 want every one of you to call at my lodgings this even 
 ing at 8 o'clock, having prepared a supper for the poor 
 of Rouen." 
 
 Giving his address to them, he returns to Nora amid 
 renewed applause and cheering. She asks : " Philip, what 
 is the meaning of all the clamor ? I truly believe you 
 have given those wretches half of all our little stock, 
 much more than we can afford at any rate. However 
 worthy the objects of your charity, recollect that charity 
 begins at home !" 
 
 He rejoins with a significant laugh : " Faith, it shall 
 begin at home, Nora !" 
 
 At this moment Nora directs his attention to a most 
 ludicrous sight. In the street stands a gay, fashionable 
 coach, with open door, as though its occupant had just 
 alighted ; while about twenty yards away are two gentle-
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 349 
 
 men in most peculiar attitudes. One is tall and thin, 
 but quick and graceful in his movements. Holding his 
 drawn sword in front of him, he pricks his comrade be 
 hind with its sharp point ; meanwhile his face is a study 
 for its gravity and immobility. The assailed, who is at 
 tired in white silk stockings, peach-colored coat and small 
 clothes, is capering about as though hot mercury were 
 dancing in his heels, as well he may ; with his tormentor 
 prodding at him so viciously behind. 
 
 Nora cannot help but laugh at the spectacle. The 
 street being wet and muddy, every step he takes he 
 splashes his whole person with the thick ooze. Philip 
 gives free vent to his noisy merriment, finally calling out 
 " A Wharton, a "Wharton to the rescue I" Turning 
 around at this exclamation, they are both surprised to see 
 the long, sallow face of the Earl of Peterborough. This 
 diversion giving his victim time to escape, he flies down 
 the street like one mad, while the earl advances to Philip 
 and cordially salutes him, saying : " My dear Wharton, 
 how ever have you managed to be here ?" 
 
 " By the same means as yourself, I suppose, Mordanto, 
 but " He laughs again. " What was the meaning of 
 your one-sided fight?" 
 
 Peterborough replies: "Really, I scarcely know my 
 self! Happening to look out of the window, I saw yonder 
 galliard picking his way over the stones in a vastly lacka 
 daisical manner, as though he feared for his spotless 
 stockings ; so I sprang out and was teaching him a few 
 capers with my Toledo when you interrupted me." 
 " He did not seem to relish the lesson overmuch." 
 " Faith, no ; it did seem distasteful to him." 
 Introducing the earl to Nora, Philip requests him to 
 go along with them ; but he declines, excusing himself 
 on the score of important business admitting of no 
 30
 
 350 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 delay. Philip inquires : " What business can you have 
 requiring such immediate attention, Mordanto ?" 
 
 "Quills and paper, for the construction of the me 
 moirs which will to .a certainty convulse Europe to its 
 centre." 
 
 " Memoirs of the Duke of Wharton, for instance !" 
 
 " Charles Mordaunt rather 1" adds Nora, with a smile. 
 
 Philip replies: "Join them; then not only Europe 
 will be convulsed, but all the world, even to that abode 
 of Pluto Terra del Fuego." 
 
 "Yours alone would be sufficient," replies Peter 
 borough as he sheaths his sword with a sharp click, 
 adding : " Good-bye 1" He raises his hat and re-enters 
 his coach. 
 
 Punctually at eight o'clock arrived the invited beggars, 
 who were met by Philip and ushered into the dining-room, 
 where Nora awaited the arrival of the "distinguished 
 guests" who she had been led to expect were coming. 
 The scene that followed baffles description. Nora rushed 
 from the room in angry haste, while Philip laughed aloud 
 at her discomfiture, inviting his dirty, ragged guests to 
 partake of the delicacies spread on the table. He plied 
 them with wine until their senses were inflamed and riot 
 ous. Oaths and slang, horrible tales and anecdotes, the 
 jingling of broken goblets and cracked dishes, combined 
 to make a sickening tumult ; while Philip presided at the 
 head a worthy Mecsenas of the rabble herd. The only 
 apology I can offer for Philip's freak is that "77 a le 
 diable au corps." 
 
 On awakening, Philip finds himself under the table 
 amid bottles, glasses, fruits, preserves, and a mixture of 
 everything that had previously been part of the repast. 
 Rising unsteadily from his recumbent position, he retires 
 to his room in a very disagreeable humor, intending to 
 sleep off the effects of the night's debauch ; an intention
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 351 
 
 frustrated, however, by the entry of .the maid with a 
 letter for him, signed " immediate" on the cover. He 
 opens it with a pettish air. Its contents fill him with ap 
 prehension and alarm, at the same time opening his eyes 
 to the enormity of his offences against the laws of his 
 country. The document is a succinct report of proceed 
 ings in Parliament, concerning both his life and property ; 
 no more nor less than a motion, strongly sustained, to 
 outlaw him and confiscate all his possessions to place 
 him on the same footing as the Bishop of Rochester. At 
 the bottom of the letter is written in a hurried, scrawl 
 ing hand : " See your errors immediately on receipt of 
 this sue for pardon ; it is your only chance." 
 
 Bewildered by this ominous intelligence, he calls for 
 Nora. As she enters he hands the letter to her. After 
 reading it, she says contemptuously : " Tut ! the work 
 of some lying Hanoverian, who wishes to frighten you 
 into submission to the usurper. Let me tear it up." 
 Suiting her actions to her words, she tosses the pieces 
 into the fire. 
 
 After a short silence, Philip says : " I believe you are 
 right, Nora ; I hope so, at all events." 
 
 " Certainly, I am right ! If such a measure had even 
 been contemplated at home, you would have heard of it 
 long before it could be broached in the house. Undoubt 
 edly, it is a Whig scheme to induce you to turn renegade 
 and help their schemes with your pen and tongue." 
 
 A tap at the door, and the maid re-enters " Please, 
 your grace, two gentlemen await your grace in the parlor, 
 Monsieur Thurton and M. le Baron Norfolke." 
 
 Turning pale, he exclaims : " Que diable I what can 
 these countrymen of mine want with me?" Quickly ar 
 ranging his disordered garments, he walks down stairs 
 and enters the room. " Good-morrow, gentlemen," he 
 says pleasantly, and apologizes for keeping them waiting.
 
 352 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Returning his compliments, the elder of the two pre 
 sents him a letter of introduction from Sir Robert Wai- 
 pole. Tearing it open he peruses it for a moment, then 
 exclaims haughtily : " Advice ! Gentlemen, Mr. Walpole 
 speaks of advice !" 
 
 Baron Norfolke replies : " Yes, your grace, advice anent 
 recent acts in Parliament derogatory to your dignity, 
 and prejudicial to your interests." 
 
 Philip, starting, says : " Ah ! pray tell me all about 
 it ; this is indeed news !" and he draws a chair close to 
 Norfolke, who proceeds in an apologetic, conciliating 
 manner: "Your grace must not take it ill if our words 
 are sometimes rather coarse, for the subject we are about 
 to discuss is a delicate one, requiring plain speaking and 
 truthful words. You may or may not be aware that 
 your enemies nay, even some of your friends have, 
 on account of your grace's recent actions at Gibraltar 
 and Rome, sustained a motion that you be outlawed, 
 and a price set on your head, besides the confiscation of 
 all your property and revenues ; but Mr. Walpole, who 
 has a real love for your grace, prevented the awarding 
 of the exigeant, and has sent us hither to induce you 
 to submit yourself to the government, and return home 
 with a full pardon and forgiveness for all your acts. A 
 pardon you can obtain by merely writing a letter to his 
 majesty or the ministry, with a respectful apology for 
 your past conduct, and a promise of more loyal beha 
 vior in the future. Your grace can thus, without other 
 trouble, re-establish yourself in favor, and also have your 
 estates, revenues^ and an enormous income free of debts 
 or mortgages." 
 
 Looking at the speaker with an expression of sarcastic 
 hauteur, Philip rejoins : " So ! by merely turning traitor 
 to his most Catholic majesty, and humbling myself 
 before all the world, I can have my own, as well as in-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 353 
 
 cur the favor of your avaricious master George, eh ? 
 Listen to me, gentlemen ! You are but the useful tools 
 of Mr. Walpole ; otherwise you should both answer for 
 the insult you have passed upon me. Take this message 
 back with you, and tell it as plainly as you have de 
 livered your instructions to me. I '11 see George and his 
 whole ministry in perdition before I '11 write a word to 
 either, except a cartel to any man Jsvho chooses to want 
 one!" 
 
 Mr. Thurton and the baron flinch under this rough 
 language. The former, half-rising from his chair, places 
 his hand on his sword ; wisely screening his movement, 
 however, Norfolke forces him back unobserved by Philip, 
 replying in an injured manner: "Your grace, we deeply 
 regret your anger, and are sorry you look on \is with such 
 ill-will. If you will even allow your secretary or valet to 
 write an explanation, we doubt not that all can tee right 
 again."* 
 
 Half-rising, Philip replies : " Baron, if a pardon was 
 presented to me, I might take it ; but I '11 never beg for 
 one, either personally or by proxy." 
 
 Nora, entering at this moment, the envoys rise and 
 bow to her, Philip, turning his head at the same time, 
 discerns the expression of triumph beaming on her face, 
 and he shifts uneasily in his seat. Looking spitefully at 
 Thurton and Norfolke she whispers: "Be firm, Philip 
 darling. King James must and shall reward you for the 
 test you are undergoing 1 Let it be said that you stood 
 where others fell. Be firm !" 
 
 He nods his head, while Norfolke continues, in a tone 
 of mortification and astonishment : " Are we to under 
 stand that your grace's decision is fixed and final ? that 
 you will not accept his majesty's most unprecedented 
 kindness ?" 
 
 * Fact. 
 30*
 
 354 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " My decision is final, gentlemen." 
 
 Opening his doublet, Mr. Thurton pulls forth a sealed 
 packet, and hands it to the baron, who delivers it to 
 Philip, saying : " Then, your grace, we have a very pain 
 ful duty to perform. We will wait until you have seen 
 the contents of this packet ; then our sad errand will be 
 over, and we must return to England with heavier hearts 
 than we intended !" 
 
 Opening the crackling folds with nervous fingers, Philip 
 eagerly peruses the letter, while Nora bends over his 
 shoulder with a pale face and glittering eyes. His eyes 
 grow dim and his head throbs as he reads : 
 
 " YOUR GRACE : We, the trustees of your estates, are 
 tied up from remitting you any more money on account 
 of your annuity, by the indictment lately found against 
 your gunce. We do therefore most strenuously advise 
 you to use your best endeavors to have the proceedings 
 stopped." 
 
 Turning his head to Nora, he says ruefully : "A fine 
 prospect ahead, Nora ! No remittances, edict of out 
 lawry, and entire sequestration !" 
 
 She replies, in an eager voice : " His majesty will pro 
 vide for us, Philip." 
 
 He laughs as he says : " Faith, if he does not, I shall 
 have to take to scribbling for bread, and you to teaching 
 for butter." 
 
 Turning to the gentlemen, who have been watching him 
 very closely, he says, pointing to the letter : " Well, this 
 does not interest me so vastly! Have you anything 
 more to say on this disagreeable topic ? If not, I must 
 bid you good-morning, gentlemen. The duchess wishes 
 me to take her to the cathedral ; she is a great admirer 
 of its peculiar architecture the EARLY pointed. While
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 355 
 
 there, we also intend to see the spot where the head of 
 Coaur de Leon lies buried." 
 
 Dismissed with a gesture, the disappointed envoys re 
 tire from the room. 
 
 Nora kisses Philip again and again, meanwhile prais 
 ing him for his heroism and loyalty. Responding to her 
 caresses, his hand accidentally touches a locket fastened 
 < to her neck. Taking hold of it, he exclaims laughingly: 
 "Whose portrait, Nora an old beau's or your own 
 sweet face ?" 
 
 A slight flush dyes her cheeks as she carelessly an 
 swers : " Yes, it is a former lover now my husband. I 
 had it painted by an Italian artist while we were at 
 Rome. He painted it from memory. It is not very 
 good ; however, it suits my purpose." 
 
 Pressing the clasp, she shows him his averred sem 
 blance. At first he casts a careless glance at it ; then 
 scans it more closely, muttering : " Curse me ! 'tis a better 
 portrait of Edgely Valentin than of me! Who painted 
 it, did you say, Nora ?" he abruptly inquires, while look 
 ing keenly at her. 
 
 Half turning her face, she replies : " Really, Philip, I 
 forget his name." 
 
 " How long did it take him to paint it ?" 
 
 " How vastly inquisitive you are, Philip I I forget the 
 precise minute, or you should know with pleasure." 
 
 " If this was painted during the short time we resided 
 in Rome, it should be placed among the wonders of the 
 world ; it is extremely delicate and highly finished ; he 
 must be a very giant in his art." 
 
 Not vouchsafing any answer, he returns it to her, and 
 begins to consult with himself on the future, wearily 
 wondering whether James will prove a friend in the hour 
 of need.
 
 356 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY 
 
 CHAPTER LYIII. 
 
 " And what may be the consequences of a neglect of such opportunities? 
 The succession of the crown has but a dark prospect, another Dutch 
 turn ma; make the hopes of it ridiculous." 
 
 DEFOE. 
 
 AFTER the occurrence described in the preceding chap 
 ter, Philip had applied to James for assistance and been 
 refused, since when he has been wandering hither and 
 thither in search of money, borrowing from all his friends, 
 and victimizing easy, credulous shopkeepers with boasts 
 and promises. 
 
 Nora is living at St. Germains, where a kind relative 
 provides her with food and clothing. Hither has Philip 
 just arrived from Paris, almost broken down with ner 
 vous debility and sickness, penniless and almost hope 
 less. 
 
 Entering Nora's room, he embraces her affectionately, 
 and, after inquiring the state of her health, borrows what 
 money she possesses at present, and turns his attention 
 to her several companions ; a bevy of laughing, vivacious 
 court dames, who receive his attentive regards with de 
 mure gravity or easy freedom, according as they are in 
 clined. In the middle of the ensuing conversation, while 
 merriment Or jocund wit pervade every word or look, 
 Philip exclaims abruptly : " Nora mesdemoiselles I am 
 going to enter the convent ! I have suddenly discovered 
 that life is a void, a nonentity, and " 
 
 Peals of laughter drown his words, while all are 
 amused beyond measure at his antithetical words. How-
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 351 
 
 ever, keeping a calm countenance until quiet is restored, 
 he resumes, in a steady voice: 
 
 " I am in earnest, as you will see. Life is only for the 
 gay, the wealthy, the happy. I am miserable, poverty- 
 stricken, and afflicted. I feel that my years are few and 
 numbered ; and it would be far better if those few years 
 were dedicated to my Maker, than to the trifles which 
 have heretofore depraved and demoralized me." Slowly 
 rising, he leaves the room without another word, while 
 his companions wonder whether he is drunk or crazy. 
 
 Walking down, the stairs with measured step, he opens 
 the door, and stands irresolutely on the stone steps. 
 Raising his hands he exclaims in a -passionate voice: 
 "Holy Mary, look down on me! Blot out my whole 
 life, with its schemes and villanies I They are ever be 
 fore my eyes, ever festering in my breast I" He pauses 
 to cast a glance about him, while his hands are tightly 
 clenched and trembling. " What a life it has been ! 
 scarce a commandment I have not broken from the first 
 .to the last. Would the remnant of my years passed in 
 prayer and meditation be a fit condonation ? I fear not ! 
 Mother of Christ, have pity on me 1" 
 
 Sinking on his knees with a stifled sob, he covers his 
 face with his hands, while he murmurs a broken prayer 
 to the God he has so often offended. In a short time he 
 rises and walks toward the Convent de Notre Dame. 
 Arriving at his destination, he sounds the heavy knocker, 
 and requests admittance. "I am Philip Wharton." 
 
 Silently ushering him in, the brother signs him to wait, 
 while he informs the father superior of the arrival. The 
 superior is a tall, bony man, whose pale, ascetic face tells 
 how faithfully he practises the penances and severities of 
 one of the most celebrated monkish orders. 
 
 With lowered face and beating heart, Philip awaits his 
 welcome. The superior enunciates in clear, stern words,
 
 358 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 that have no ring of kindliness or encouragement in 
 them : " My son, what seekest thou ?" 
 
 " Most holy father, I would leave the world and retire 
 into a seclusion where I could direct my thoughts, my 
 life solely to Him." 
 
 " It is well. Knowest thou the rules of our order ?" 
 Drawing a roll of parchment from his bosom, he pushes 
 it into his hands. 
 
 Opening it with nervous fingers, Philip casts a glance 
 at its contents. To a man of his sybaritic temperament 
 and luxurious disposition, the maxims and rules are 
 terrible. Returning them after a careful perusal, he says, 
 in a humble voice : " Father, I have read them, and am 
 willing to submit to everything, if you will accept me 1" 
 
 " Follow me !" replies the monk. 
 
 Obeying the laconic order, he finally enters a small, 
 stone cell, dimly illumined by a tiny taper, which throws 
 a yellow light on an ebony crucifix and a vellum-covered 
 missal. 
 
 The cold, damp air strikes through his feverish frame, 
 and he shudders in spite of himself, which his companion 
 noticing, he exclaims : " Go, Philip Wharton ; you are not 
 fit for our society ; the world and its fascinations hold 
 you in their toils." He does not reply, for he feels the 
 keen, cold eyes of his leader riveted on his face. The 
 father resumes in a kindlier manner: "My son, your 
 resolutions are as water, you are a sybarite. A Spartan 
 or a stoic alone could stand our discipline. I know you, 
 Philip Wharton ; and believe a man who has seen the 
 world and knows its pleasures you could never reconcile 
 yourself to our lot." 
 
 Philip answers in a desponding manner : " I fear not ; 
 my heart already fails me forgive me for trespassing on 
 your time 1" 
 
 " My son, pursue a better course in the outside world,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OF WHABTON'fl CAEEEE. 359 
 
 and God will reward you. All are not capable of giving 
 their whole being to religion and seclusion." 
 
 Hastily retracing his steps, Philip again breathes the 
 fresh, sweet air of the open sky, slowly purpling under 
 the rising sun. 
 
 " S'faith, a narrow escape !" he exclaims with a half sigh. 
 
 Suddenly an arm is thrust into his, and Peterborough's 
 familiar voice sounds cheerily on his ear : " Halloo, 
 Wharton ! propping the convent with your peccadilloes ?" 
 
 " No, Mordanto ; I was nearer razing it with a con 
 version of my precious self." 
 
 " Ah-ha-ha 1" laughs the earl. " What a superb joke ! 
 I wonder what the Delamour would say to it, eh ?" 
 
 Joining in the laugh, Philip inquires : " I understood 
 you were at Lisbon ; how is it that you are here ?" 
 
 " I was at Lisbon ; but, hearing that Saint Germains 
 boasts a new beauty, I have come to see her. Saint Jago, 
 the Lisbonians fall conquered at the first attack, and I 
 am tired of such easy victories, so I have visited you to 
 discover whether this new star will not be cold enough 
 to spur me up to real exertion." 
 
 Philip sympathizingly replies : " Poor fellow, I hope 
 so, from the bottom of my heart." 
 
 " Jesting aside, Wharton, I have some news for you." 
 
 " News, eh ? From my trustees, probably ?" 
 
 No from England generally, and London in parti 
 cular. You are being wofully used both by type and 
 tongue. Every broadside in the kingdom vilifies you, 
 while all desiring promotion slander you and tell marvel 
 lous lies about you and your doings." 
 
 Twirling his moustaches, he replies: "My lord, can 
 you mention a few names of either public writers, pri 
 vate friends, or enemies who have done these things in 
 my behalf?" 
 
 "That can I. In particular are the 'Evening Post'
 
 360 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 and ' London Journal,' vastly minute in their comments 
 on your past and present actions, and defile you with a 
 venom that ought to be let out of them with a few ra 
 pier thrusts." 
 
 He says with a savage curse : " If ever I beg George 
 for pardon, it shall be for the pleasure of treating these 
 backbiters to a Mohock ' sweat' and a sound drubbing." 
 
 " Well they deserve it. When I return, I shall make 
 it a special point to hunt out these cowardly defamers, 
 and treat them as you would yourself. A few brawls 
 would be quite a Godsend to me." 
 
 Philip answers in a thick voice : " Thank you, dear 
 Mordanto, I know that my honor is safe in your hands. 
 When I am a little calmer, I intend to write a short fa 
 ble for English ears, which will, if properly appreciated, 
 interest them exceedingly." 
 
 The earl resumes : " I have also received news from 
 one at court, who is well versed in back-stairs intrigues, 
 that George is continually receiving anonymous letters 
 from abroad in regard to yourself, which, while deploring 
 your sad indiscretions, convey full information of your 
 slightest actions to him, inflaming his majesty's anger 
 against you by subtle insinuations and crafty remarks." 
 
 Philip exclaims with a start : " Sainte Vierge ! it seems 
 I am an object of greater interest at home than I thought 
 for. S'blood ! what more can they do to me than they 
 have done ? Mordanto, I stand here an attainted, out 
 lawed, beggared traitor, according to their laws, while 
 you are guilty of felony for speaking to me." 
 
 Peterborough replies : " A fico for them ; you are my 
 dearest friend, and my whole wealth is at your dispo 
 sal." 
 
 Philip's face assumes an amused expression as he says : 
 " Then, Mordanto, I '11 borrow a hundred Louis d'or, if 
 you have them on hand."
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTOJSt'S CAREER. 361 
 
 " With pleasure ; let us step into this gaping gold 
 smith's, who is just opening his shutters. I shall be over 
 joyed to draw you a draft for two hundred ;. one hundred 
 is such a beggarly sum." 
 
 Securing the draft in his bosom, Philip says : " I have 
 still another favor to ask of you. Will you prosecute all 
 the editors who have vilified me, or defiled my name?" 
 
 Peterborough quickly answers : " "Tis as good as done, 
 and if they escape from justice by a legal quibble, I '11 
 trounce 'em with the flat of my sword, up and down 
 Grub Street." 
 
 " Thank you, Mordanto ; I must leave you now ; her 
 grace will be uneasy at my long absence." 
 
 " Ay, and checkmate your monkish move by turning 
 nun." 
 
 " Little fear," replies Philip, as he turns his steps to 
 the palace. 
 
 Taking the opposite direction, the earl saunters down 
 the street, humming " Which way shall I gae me," occa 
 sionally striking the shutters of the still sleeping bour 
 geoisie. Entering Nora's room, Philip awakes her with 
 his tread, and she sleepily exclaims: "How now, sir 
 monk ! back again ?" 
 
 " Yes, Nora ; I abjure Notre Dame's hair shirts, iron 
 beds, and damp cells, for a time, at all events ; although 
 I sometimes feel as if " 
 
 "Do let me sleep, Philip, and cease your homilies; 
 clear water cannot run from an impure source." 
 
 " But the diamond can trace its origin to the coal bed." 
 
 " Tres bien," she replies with a yawn, and apparently 
 falls asleep. 
 
 Drawing his chair to the table, he begins to scribble 
 
 some figures on a piece of paper, meanwhile muttering : 
 
 " Mordanto 200 louis, Wharton 3 livres, amount in hand 
 
 200 louis, 3 livres; hum! Voiture to Paris nothing. 
 
 31
 
 362 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 Supper say 5 louis ; fees say 20 louis. Debts in Paris 
 say 3000 louis. Debtor and creditor scarcely balance ! 
 Now for my wardrobe Egad, I am my own valet ! one 
 black velvet suit with point lace, one shabby suit of 
 Spanish regimentals, one blue satin with black facings, 
 slightly soiled. Ah, well, sic transit gloria !" 
 
 Impatiently throwing down his quill, his lips contract 
 as though he is under the influence of strong emotion. 
 The sun, slowly rising above the horizon, streams in 
 through the half-drawn curtains, and gives his haggard 
 countenance a pale, waxen tinge. Gazing at the rays 
 piercing the room in dusty lines, he murmurs : " Ay, ye 
 are a trifle like the radii of my own life, lustrous enough, 
 but your lustre dimmed by the motes and dust in which 
 ye choose to shine. All my life I have spent in pursuing 
 a myth, and like the rest of the genus homo find it out 
 just too late. What have I been? A patriot, a Chris 
 tian, a husband, an obedient son, anything that is credit 
 able? No! Catiline, Caligula, Bluff Hal, YUliers all 
 are synonymes for Phil. Wharton, the merriest undone 
 man in Europe as they choose to call me. If Tarpeia's 
 Rock were but hold I ere I cross the Styx, I would 
 vastly like to know who my dear friend is who kindly 
 forwards my words and actions to King George. I would 
 put another sin in my chapter if I coijld find him out or 
 her. "Pis more like a woman than a man. Anonymous 
 letters smack of femininity ; if it was a woman, I would " 
 
 "What, Philip?" breaks in with a strange effect, and 
 Nora half turns her head. 
 
 Casting a quick apprehensive glance at her, he replies : 
 " Let her live as the worst punishment I could devise. 
 If she were a soulless, heartless brute, I would have her 
 attended to by Pierre Canif, the Parisian bravo, who can 
 slice as many ribbons off a pretty face as there are laws 
 in England."
 
 OE, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 363 
 
 She replies, with a shudder, " How brutal ! you have 
 been drinking more brandy, Philip ?" 
 
 " "Tis my only solace." 
 
 She says in a pleading voice: "What am I, Phil?" 
 
 You part of the necessary appendage of a duke's 
 household." 
 
 Her eyes blaze and her cheeks grow fiery red at this 
 wanton insult, and, covering her face with her hands, she 
 buries her head in the pillow. Apparently heedless of 
 her anger, he remains absorbed in thought for a time, 
 then says abruptly : " Nora, we must return to Paris to 
 morrow ; I will order the voiture to be ready." 
 
 "Have you any money?" she inquires, in a dtabious 
 manner. 
 
 " Golconda's wealth, or rather 200 louis." 
 
 " What will the^voiture cost ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; it is put at my service by a friend of mine 
 at Paris, Mile. Delam but the name is of no conse 
 quence." 
 
 She replies : " I know whom you mean, Mile. Dela- 
 mour quite a creditable friend !" 
 
 " Scarcely, Nora, but she is a lovely woman, and the 
 manner in which she insists on loaning me any amount 
 of money is vastly charming." 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 f 
 
 " Coming events cast their shadows before." 
 
 IN the fourth story of a miserable house in the Rue 
 Aubry-le-Boucher, Philip and Nora gloomily survey the 
 aspect of their affairs. Outside a chilling rain is falling 
 which splashes drearily on the window-sill and filters
 
 364 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 through the broken windows and the decaying frame 
 work. 
 
 Philip is dressed in a tawdry suit of Spanish regi 
 mentals, which is worn and shabby, while his hat is 
 pushed over his eyes. He taps his foot in a manner de 
 noting a ruffled temper, while Nora sits on a rickety, 
 three-legged stool in a state of weariness and lassitude ; 
 her eyes roam around the room, and she vacantly notes 
 the prominent absence of all comforts which their new 
 quarters can boast. 
 
 Philip has not a sou left of the money he borrowed 
 from Peterborough. He has sold his black velvet suit, 
 and also all of Nora's dresses, except the one she is 
 wearing, and their whole wardrobe now consists of one 
 shirt ; a periwig ; a Spanish veil, torn at the side ; a pair 
 of red silk brodequins ; and several pairs of tasselled kid 
 gloves. Everything else has gone to pay for their board 
 and lodging. Philip breaks the silence by saying: 
 "Nora, how are we to procure the next meal? My 
 rapier furnished the last. Shall I write to his majesty ?" 
 
 " No, Philip ; you would only make him angry, and " 
 
 " S'blood, angry ? Why, woman, what have I given up 
 for his sake ? A vast revenue and the finest estate in 
 England." Angrily rising, he walks about the room with 
 hasty steps. 
 
 " I know it, Philip ; and God will reward you for your 
 loyalty, even if King James cannot. He is very poor 
 himself, or else I would at once advise you to request a 
 loan ; but the cause needs every penny we can procure." 
 
 "Umph ! am I not part of the cause ?" 
 
 " You are, darling, and one of the best parts ; for that 
 reason you will bear this trial ; I will, and I am but a 
 woman." 
 
 After this, there is a dull silence, until Philip resumes
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 365 
 
 more hopefully : " Vive les lettres ! I '11 translate Tele"- 
 maque, and sell it for what it will bring 1" 
 
 She answers, rather doubtfully : " You have the ability, 
 but I fear that such work will be too dry and uninterest 
 ing for you to continue at it very long." 
 
 " A great mistake, Nora. I will begin it at once, and 
 it shall not be laid aside until it is finished. I intend to 
 write a tragedy on Mary, Queen of Scots, also, ere long ; 
 Lady Montague .once wrote me an epilogue which will 
 suit it admirably ; or else I '11 turn poet and indite an 
 ode to Atterbury, the most saintly sinner I have ever 
 known. Quick! quill and ink! Topple your empty 
 trunk upside down : 'twill do for a table ; then find my 
 Telemaque and MSS., they are at the bottom of my hol 
 ster bags, yonder in the corner!" 
 
 ****** 
 
 He did finish the first book of Telemaque ; then gave 
 it up in disgust. The tragedy he almost completed, while 
 the poem on Atterbury he did actually finish. The latter 
 was published in Paris, but its impiety and scurrility 
 damned it at its outset, and it brought him in no money. 
 He became shy and morose, refused to see any of his 
 friends, and secluded himself entirely from the world. 
 
 Nora was too proud to write to the queen for assist 
 ance, and her relatives, though poor themselves, were 
 forced to send her money to keep Philip and herself 
 from starving. 
 
 Says Philip, after a long silence : " Nora, I am going 
 to put an end to this state of affairs. You must write 
 to the queen at once, and ask her for a sufficient remit 
 tance to enable you to get to Madrid ! Once there, you 
 will be well cared for. I shall enter Notre Dame. The 
 conviction becomes stronger in me, every day of my life, 
 that my hours are numbered ; and it is sheer selfishness 
 
 31*
 
 366 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 in me to doom you to this miserable life. I will take no 
 remonstrances." 
 
 With an exclamation of affright, Nora runs toward him ; 
 but her design is foiled by a masked ruffian who places 
 his hand over her mouth, while threatening her with his 
 poniard. At the same instant, Philip is grasped from 
 behind, and thrown headlong to the floor, where he is 
 gagged and bound hand and foot ere he has recovered 
 from the bewildering effects of his fall, 
 
 Casting a glance at the two men kneeling beside him, 
 he then looks towards Nora, who is almost swooning. 
 The two intruders guarding Philip are poorly attired, and 
 apparently belong to the class of common bravoes which 
 infest the purlieus of Paris. Nora's assailant is, how. 
 ever, richly attired in a velvet suit, slashed with violet 
 satin ; he, like the rest, is masked from chin to forehead. 
 Motioning to the smaller of the two, he gives Nora into 
 his charge, and steps toward Philip. Kneeling down 
 beside him, he draws a knife from his bosom, somewhat 
 resembling those used by the vine-growers in Oporto ; 
 the blade is about four inches long, and slightly hooked. 
 Passing it carefully over his palm, he says to Philip, in 
 an evidently disguised voice : " Your grace, a handsome 
 face like yours needs little adornment ; but in my humble 
 opinion the removal of its present covering would benefit 
 it mightily ; in other words, I intend to use you in the 
 same manner as you would others. In so doing, more 
 over, I consider myself as acting in the light of an in 
 strument of divine justice." 
 
 Twisting his fingers in Philip's hair, he lowers the 
 knife with a firm, quick motion, when Nora, freeing her 
 self by a violent effort, cries in an imploring voice : 
 
 " Edgely, spare him ! it is too cruel. For my sake !" 
 Abruptly ceasing, she clasps her hands in mute entreaty,
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 361 
 
 while Philip looks at her with a strange light burning in 
 his eyes. 
 
 Dropping the knife, the leader quickly rises to his feet, 
 and motions his companions to follow him. They are 
 gone in an instant, and their cautious tread echoes softly 
 down the stairs. Picking up the knife, Nora cuts the 
 stout cords pinioning Philip's arms, and removes the 
 gag from his aching mouth. Springing erect, he pushes 
 her aside, and darts out of the door in pursuit of his 
 assailants. 
 
 Running to the window, Nora sees him standing on 
 the pavement, uncertain which direction to take. Hold 
 ing her head with both hands, she murmurs : " I knew 
 his voice. Poor fellow I His love must indeed be great 
 when it can tempt him to such a crime ! I cannot help 
 it my religion, my country, Alberoni, all all." 
 
 Leaning her head against the mouldy wall, she thinks 
 with a shudder of the scene just enacted. 
 
 Entering with hasty footsteps and haggard face, Philip 
 exclaims: "Nora, who were those men? I swear I 
 heard you call their leader by name Edward, or Eger- 
 ton, or one similar in sound." Grasping her white arm, 
 he sinks his fingers deep in the soft flesh as he gazes at 
 her. 
 
 She replies, in an unsteady voice : " Philip, on my 
 honor, I do not know them ; they must be robbers who 
 came in for booty I" 
 
 " You lie, woman I What do robbers want in a fourth 
 story garret? Such men do not gag one, then rant 
 about vengeance and divine justice, threatening to peel 
 one's face a la Mohock ! No, there is some underhand 
 work here which I shall find out ere long ; and if you are 
 implicated in it, I '11 do to you as my ancestor of old did 
 to a faithless wife strangle you with my own hands."
 
 368 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 She becomes very white, and her lips move unsteadily, 
 but her throat is too parched and dry to speak. 
 
 He resumes in a sneering, sarcastic manner : " Your 
 grace is inclined to be melo-dramatic on this occasion a 
 useless proceeding, I assure you !" Receiving no answer, 
 he proceeds : " Nora, I leave with you all my manuscripts ; 
 sell them or burn them, as you choose ; I am going at 
 once to St. Germains ; you shall never see me again in 
 this world. I could not bear to look upon you, with my 
 present suspicions of you ; I might harm you." Forcing 
 her to look him in the face, he says, in an unsteady 
 voice : " Nora, I think you loved me once. By that past 
 love, I entreat you to tell me truly whether you know 
 aught concerning this cowardly attack." 
 
 Her answer is low and indistinct. " No, Philip, I do 
 not." 
 
 " Thank God ! I could not entirely believe you guilty 
 of complicity in such an affair. Nora, sweetheart, this 
 day we part forever in this world. Kiss me just once ! 
 Its fragrance shall never be sullied by another's lips." 
 
 Placing her arms around his neck, in a half-uncon 
 scious manner, she presses her lips on his. 
 
 " Good-bye, Nora ; on to Madrid, and God bless you I 
 
 will send you enough money to-morrow to keep you 
 from starving, at all events. Good-bye 1" 
 
 Speechless and motionless, she mechanically counts 
 his steps until they die away in the distance. Catching 
 a last glimpse of him as he passes up the narrow street, 
 she exclaims, with a sob, " Holy Mary, help me in this, 
 my hour of need ! Oh ! I feel like a vile, guilty thing, 
 full of bad thoughts and evil intents." 
 
 Laying her head on the wet sill, she lets her hands 
 dabble in the cold rain water, while bitter tears run down 
 her hot cheeks, and her breath comes in sighs and sobs.
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE 0$ WHARTON'S CAREER. 369 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 11 The George and Garter dangling from that bed, 
 Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, 
 Great Villiers lies : alas ! how changed from him, 
 That life of pleasure and that soul of whim ! 
 Gallant and gay, in Claverdon's proud alcove, 
 The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ; 
 Or, just as gay, at council in a ring 
 Of mimic'd statesmen and their merry king. 
 No wit to flatter left of all his store, 
 No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. 
 Then victor of his health, of fortune, friends, 
 And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends." 
 
 POPE. 
 
 TRUE to his word, Philip entered Notre Dame, and 
 remained there for three months, during which time he 
 was a very miracle of piety and devotion, until, on one 
 unfortunate morning, he was severely reprimanded by 
 the father superior. He answered him with a blow which 
 levelled him to the floor. After this occurrence he steal 
 thily left Saint Germains, and shipped for Bilboa, where 
 his regiment lay under orders, commanded by the Mar 
 quis de Castelars. There he was attacked by paralysis, 
 which prevented him from entering on the campaign in 
 tended to settle Don Carlos 'in Italy. Thence he set out 
 for the mountains of Catalonia to try what effect its 
 fresh scenes and mineral springs would have on his en 
 feebled constitution. 
 
 Nora travelled to Madrid, where she was kindly re 
 ceived by the queen, who appointed her to an office of 
 trust and responsibility.
 
 370 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 To our left is a stupendous structure built in the Gothic 
 style, which seems lonely and deserted. It is the Ber- 
 nardine convent, whose brethren are world famous for 
 their piety, charity, and poverty. 
 
 Standing on a neighboring crag, Philip surveys it with 
 a feeling of intense longing for its quiet shelter and 
 sombre stillness. His heart beats with an hitherto un 
 known emotion, while his soul thrills with an aching, de 
 votional pathos. 
 
 He is weak and hopeless, sick in mind and body, and 
 is only desirous of leaving a world which has no longer 
 any attractions for him. His former friends have all for 
 saken him ; while his name is coupled at home and abroad 
 with obloquy and sneering scorn. 
 
 See ! his arms contract with a spasmodic motion, while 
 his face becomes blanched and pallid! Falling with a 
 heavy thud on the jagged rock, he cuts his forehead in a 
 piteous manner. Heaven help him ! He is writhing in 
 the tortures of epilepsy, while none come to his relief to 
 assuage his agony or to wet his burning lips. 
 
 For two hours he lay there, while the sun was scorch 
 ing his feverish body, until the inmates of the convent, 
 discovering the poor sufferer, sent -three of the brethren 
 to carry him inside. As they lay him gently down on 
 the hard beds peculiar to .their order, he opens his eyes, 
 and looks around with a sad, weary smile, while a great 
 light is glowing in them. 
 
 The clustering monks are hooded and cowled, while 
 the superior is addressing the dying man. " Stranger, 
 death is fast overtaking thee ; art thou a believer in the 
 true faith?" 
 
 Philip nods assent. 
 
 " Thou shalt be shrived by one of our brethren." 
 Turning to the nearest monk, he says, in calm, measured
 
 OR, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 3fl 
 
 accents : " Frangois, I leave the stranger in thy care ; thou 
 knowest thy duty." 
 
 Motioning to the rest, the superior leads them out, 
 Frangois alone remaining with Philip. 
 
 Philip speaks in a slow, faltering voice : " Holy father, 
 I am dying 1 I pray you, shrive me quickly, I have 
 many sins loading me down!" Closing his eyes, he 
 clenches his teeth to prevent a cry from bursting from 
 him. 
 
 Brother Frangois's actions are rather peculiar. Clos 
 ing the door in a noiseless manner, he slides the bolt fast 
 in its socket ; then carefully secures the small grated 
 casement over the narrow window. Throwing off his 
 cowl, he advances to the side of the bed, and exclaims, 
 in a low voice, in which triumph and malignity seem 
 struggling for supremacy : " At last ! curse you, Philip 
 Wharton !-' 
 
 Quickly rising to an upright position, Philip exclaims : 
 " Edgely Valentin !" 
 
 " Or Sir Edgely Warely, whichever you like. Listen 
 to me ! You have about an hour more to live. That is 
 time enough for me to tell you the story which I swore 
 by my mother's death-bed I would ring in your ears 
 in your dying moments." 
 
 Falling heavily back on the pillow, Philp closes his 
 e3 r es to hide Valentin's glittering scrutiny from his gaze. 
 
 "In a little country village in England there once 
 lived a pure, lovely girl, who was loved and respected by 
 all who knew her. She was still in her teens when a 
 ruffling gallant from London chanced to stop at this 
 same village; he saw her; suffice it to say that his 
 handsome face and oily tongue were her ruin. He took 
 her to London with him, plunged her into a wild course 
 of rioting and debauchery ; then threw her on the mercy 
 of tender London to earn her bread as best she could.
 
 372 HIMSELF HIS WORST ENEMY; 
 
 " There was but one road open to her; she took it. A 
 little babe was born to her ; this babe a boy she sent 
 to her old home, with a piteous entreaty to her father to 
 forgive her and support the child. He did so willingly, 
 and also desired her to return ; but she could not face 
 him nor brook the shame of becoming the cynosure of 
 the village gossips. 
 
 " ( 0n arriving at a proper age, this lad was sent to 
 France as a soldier. There he acquired, through indus 
 try, cunning, and perseverance family traits a res 
 ponsible position under Cardinal Alberoni ; travelled 
 over the whole of Europe on secret embassies. But 
 lest you die ere I have finished, I '11 shorten my re 
 cital." 
 
 A low groan issues from Philip's lips. 
 
 "Finding out the secret of his mother's shame, he 
 vowed to have revenge upon her destroyer. Unfortu 
 nately he died to soon. However, he left a son to inherit 
 his greatness. This son, the bastard swore, should reap 
 the consequences of his father's acts. 
 
 " The girl whom he had ruined survived him but a 
 short time ; then, by her bedside, the bastard again 
 swore that his religion, his country, and his love should 
 all be subservient to one great end the ruin and early 
 death of his son. 
 
 " Well, he has kept his word. The destroyer's son is 
 now an attainted, beggared, dying outcast ! His wife is 
 the creature of his illegitimate brother, who for years 
 has poisoned the ears of King James and King George 
 against him, has proved him a traitor to all parties, and 
 made all distrust and despise him. 
 
 " Poverty and disease coming hand in hand, he travels 
 to Catalonia, falls dying near the convent, and is carried 
 into the hall by the monks, where the bastard brother is
 
 OB, PHILIP DUKE OP WHARTON'S CAREER. 373 
 
 appointed to shrive him. Ah-ha!" Adding, in slow, 
 sneering accents : " Do you recognize the story ?" 
 
 " Spare me!" moans Philip. 
 
 Drawing a locket from his bosom, Valentin tosses it 
 towards him. Philip recognizes his father, and he places 
 it to his lips. 
 
 Valentin says, with a laugh : " Kiss it, brother mine ; 
 my mother did so once ; then she would cry for hours 
 after." His face grows harder and sterner, while his fin 
 gers contract, and his breast rises ominously. 
 
 Philip feebly extends his trembling hand to Valentin, 
 who looks at it for an instant, then smites it with his 
 open palm with such force as to leave a deep red mark 
 on the white skin. 
 
 " What do I want with your hand ? I entered this 
 monkery, when you came to Catalonia, knowing that you 
 would come to the springs every day ; therefore I could 
 see you and observe your gradual decay, intending, when 
 you became very sick, to haul you in here by main force, 
 and swear that you were a madman who had attempted 
 your own life. You would have been here at least three 
 days, and if you had not died within that time, I pur 
 posed to ease you of life myself. However, fate has given 
 me even a sweeter revenge than I counted upon. Can 
 you guess what it is ?" He inquires, bending over his 
 victim, until his hot breath fans his cheeks. 
 
 Suddenly catching him by the throat, Philip, half 
 chokes him, but he is too weak for such an adversary, 
 for Valentin, placing his knee on his breast, soon over 
 powers him. * 
 
 " So, your noble grace would choke me I I shall be 
 more merciful, I will remain with you until you die ; and 
 you shall neither receive the last rites of the church, nor 
 shall you pray ; but you shall go to your Maker with a 
 curse upon your lips." 
 32
 
 374 PHILIP DUKE OF WHARTON'S CAREER. 
 
 The smile of a dying man crosses Philip's face, while 
 Valentin pursues, in clear, distinct accents: "Brother, 
 your wife did know about the attack made on you in 
 Paris. It was her paramour who headed the gang. 
 Your grace, I am that paramour 1" 
 
 Opening his glazing eyes, Philip exclaims, in a pas 
 sionate voice : " Devil ! leave me 1 You have had your 
 revenge ; let me die in peace I" 
 
 " 'Twas I who sent George those kindly accounts of 
 your loyal conduct. It was I who. attempted to poison 
 your first wife's mind with tales to inflame her jealousy 
 and rouse her anger against you to assist me in my pro 
 ject! But it was you who killed her a remembrance 
 which may tend to render you calmer. It was you who 
 sent your parents to their graves, heart-broken and tear 
 ful 1 Now die I as great a libertine, liar, and villain as 
 the earth ever held !" 
 
 Philip begins to utter a Pater Noster, which Valentin 
 perceiving, he lays his hand on his mouth, and prevents 
 him from speaking. 
 
 Opening his eyes with one reproachful glance, he falls 
 back dead I 
 
 Replacing the locket in his bosom, Valentin exclaims, 
 with a low chuckle, " Now for Nora, Alberoni, and 'the 
 Stuarts my mistress, my tool, and my love !" 
 
 So ends " The scorn and wonder of our age," 
 
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