THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Prof, ^nna Krause
 
 (^ 
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 HENRY ESMOND
 
 THE HISTORY OF 
 
 HENRY ESMOND 
 
 B i' 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Published for the Classics Club by 
 
 WALTER J. BLACK • NEW YORK
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 PREFACE , , J ,, 
 
 The Esmonds of Virginia 
 
 The estate of Castlewood, in Virginia, which was given to our ancestors 
 by King Charles the First, as some return for the sacrifices made in His 
 Majesty's cause by the Esmond family, hes in Westmoreland County, 
 between the rivers Potomac and Rappahannoc, and was once as great as 
 an English Principality, though in the early times its revenues were but 
 small. Indeed, for near eighty years after our forefathers possessed them, 
 our plantations were in the hands of factors, who enriched themselves 
 one after another, though a few scores of hogsheads of tobacco were all 
 the produce that, for long after the Restoration, our family received from 
 their Virginian estates. 
 
 My dear and honored father. Colonel Henry Esmond, whose history, 
 written by himself, is contained in the accompanying volumes, came to 
 Virginia in the year 1718, built his house of Castlewood, and here 
 permanently settled. After a long stormy life in England, he passed the 
 remainder of his many years in peace and honor in this country; how 
 beloved and respected by all his fellow-citizens, how inexpressibly dear 
 to his family, I need not say. His whole life was a benefit to all who were 
 connected with him. He gave the best example, the best advice, the most 
 bounteous hospitality to his friends; the tenderest care to his dependents; 
 and bestowed on those of his immediate family such a blessing of fatherly 
 love and protection as can never be thought of, by us, at least, without 
 veneration and thankfulness ; and my son's children, whether established 
 here in our Republic, or at home in the always beloved mother country, 
 from which our late quarrel hath separated us, may surely be proud to be 
 descended from one who in all ways was so truly noble. 
 
 My dear mother died in 1736, soon after our return from England, 
 whither my parents took me for my education; and where I made the 
 acquaintance of Mr. Warrington, whom my children never saw. When 
 it pleased Heaven, in the bloom of his youth, and after but a few months 
 of a most happy union, to remove him from me, I owed my recovery from 
 
 iii 
 
 i n;n<^p.^i
 
 the grief which that calamity caused me, mainly to my dearest father's 
 tenderness, and then to the blessing vouclisafed to me in the birth of my 
 two beloved boys. I know the fatal differences which separated them in 
 politics never disunited their hearts ; and as I can love them both, whether 
 wearing the King's colors or the Republic's, I am sure that they love me 
 and one another, and him above all, my father and theirs, the dearest 
 friend of their childhood, the noble gentleman who bred them from 
 their infancy in the practice and knowledge of Truth, and Love, and 
 Honor. 
 
 My children will never forget the appearance and figure of their 
 revered grandfather; and I wish I possessed the art of drawing (which 
 my papa had in perfection), so that I could leave to our descendants a 
 portrait of one who was so good and so respected. My father was of a 
 dark complexion, with a very great forehead and dark hazel eyes, over- 
 hung by eyebrows which remained black long after his hair was white. 
 His nose was aquiline, his smile extraordinary sweet. How well I re- 
 member it, and how little any description I can write can recall his image ! 
 He was of rather low stature, not being above five feet seven inches in 
 height; he used to laugh at my sons, whom he called his crutches, and say 
 they were grown too tall for him to lean upon. But small as he was, he 
 had a perfect grace and majesty of deportment, such as I have never seen 
 in this country, except perhaps in our friend Mr. Washington, and 
 commanded respect wherever he appeared. 
 
 In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraordinary 
 quickness and agility. Of fencing he was especially fond, and made my 
 two boys proficient in that art ; so much so that when the French came to 
 this country with Monsieur Rochambeau, not one of his officers was 
 superior to my Henry, and he was not the equal of my poor George, who 
 had taken the King's side in our lamentable but glorious War of Inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 Neither my father nor my mother ever wore powder in their hair; 
 both their heads were as white as silver, as I can remember them. My 
 dear mother possessed to the last an extraordinary brightness and fresh- 
 ness of complexion; nor would people believe that she did not wear 
 rouge. At sixty years of age she still looked young, and was quite agile. 
 It was not until after that dreadful siege of our house by the Indians, 
 which left me a widow ere I was a mother, that my dear mother's health 
 broke. She never recovered from her terror and anxiety of those days, 
 which ended so fatally for me, then a bride scarce six months married, 
 
 iv
 
 and died in my father's arms ere my own year of widowhood was over. 
 
 From that day, until the last of his dear and honored life, it was my 
 delight and consolation to remain with him as his comforter and com- 
 panion; and from those little notes which my mother hath made here and 
 there in the volume in which my father describes his adventures in Europe, 
 I can well understand the extreme devotion with which she regarded him 
 — a devotion so passionate and exclusive as to prevent her, I think, from 
 loving any other person except with an inferior regard; her whole 
 thoughts being centered on this one object of affection and worship. I 
 know that, before her, my dear father did not show the love which he 
 had for her daughter ; and in her last and most sacred moments, this dear 
 and tender parent owned to me her repentance that she had not loved 
 me enough; her jealousy even that my father should give his affection to 
 any but herself; and in the most fond and beautiful words of affection 
 and admonition, she bade me never to leave him, and to supply the place 
 which she was quitting. With a clear conscience, and a heart inex- 
 pressibly thankful, I think I can say that I fulfilled those dying com- 
 mands, and that until his last hour my dearest father never had to 
 complain that his daughter's love and fidelity failed him. 
 
 And it is since I knew him entirely — for during my mother's life he 
 never quite opened himself to me — since I knew the value and splendor 
 of that affection which he bestowed upon me, that I have come to under- 
 stand and pardon what, I own, used to anger me in my mother's life-time, 
 her jealousy respecting her husband's love. 'Twas a gift so precious, that 
 no wonder she who had it was for keeping it all, and could part with 
 none of it, even to her daughter. 
 
 Though I never heard my father use a rough word, 'twas extraordinary 
 with how much awe his people regarded him; and the servants on our 
 plantation, both those assigned from England and the purchased negroes, 
 obeyed him with an eagerness such as the most severe taskmasters round 
 about us could never get from their people. He was never familiar, though 
 perfectly simple and natural ; he was the same with the meanest man as 
 with the greatest, and as courteous to a black slave-girl as to the governor's 
 wife. No one ever thought of taking a liberty with him (except once a 
 tipsy gentleman from York, and I am bound to own that my papa never 
 forgave him) : he set the humblest people at once on their ease with him, 
 and brought down the most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which made 
 persons exceedingly afraid of him. His courtesy was not put on like a 
 Sunday suit, and laid by when the company went away; it was always
 
 the same; as he was always dressed the same, whether for a dinner by 
 ourselves or for a great entertainment. They say he liked to be the first 
 in his company ; but what company was there in which he would not be 
 first ? When I went to Europe for my education, and we passed a winter 
 at London with my half-brother, my Lord Castlewood and his second 
 lady, I saw at Her Majesty's Court some of the most famous gentlemen 
 of those days ; and I thought to myself none of these are better than my 
 papa; and the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who came to us from Dawley, 
 said as much, and that the men of that time were not like those of his 
 youth: "Were your father, madam," he said, "to go into the woods, the 
 Indians would elect him Sachem"; and his lordship was pleased to call 
 me Pocahontas. 
 
 I did not see our other relative. Bishop Tusher's lady, of whom so much 
 is said in my papa's Memoirs — although my mamma went to visit her in 
 the country. I have no pride (as I showed by complying with my 
 mother's request, and marrying a gentleman who was but the younger son 
 of a Suflfolk Baronet), yet I own to a decent respect for my name, and 
 wonder how one who ever bore it should change it for that of Mrs. 
 Thomas Tusher. I pass over as odious and unworthy of credit those 
 reports (which I heard in Europe, and was then too young to under- 
 stand), how this person, having left her fam/ly and fled to Paris, out 
 of jealousy of the Pretender betrayed his secrets to my Lord Stair, King 
 George's ambassador, and nearly caused the Prince's death there; how 
 she came to England and married this Mr. Tusher, and became a great 
 favorite of King George the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a 
 dean, and then a bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to remain at 
 her palace all the time we were in London; but after visiting her my 
 poor mamma said she had lost all her good looks, and warned me not to 
 set too much store by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. 
 She grew exceedingly stout; and I remember my brother's wife, Lady 
 Castlewood, saying: "No wonder she became a favorite, for the King 
 likes them old and ugly, as his father did before him." On which papa 
 said: "All women were alike; that there was never one so beautiful as 
 that one; and that we could forgive her everything but her beauty." And 
 hereupon my mamma looked vexed, and my Lord Castlewood began to 
 laugh; and I, of course, being a young creature, could not understand 
 what was the subject of their conversation. 
 
 After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these Memoirs, 
 my father and mother both went abroad, being advised by their friends 
 
 vi
 
 to leave the country in consequence of the transactions which are recounted 
 at the close of the volume of the Memoirs. But my brother, hearing how 
 the juture bishop's lady had quitted Castlewood and joined the Pretender 
 at Paris, pursued him, and would have killed him. Prince as he was, had 
 not the Prince managed to make his escape. On his expedition to Scotland 
 directly after, Castlewood was so enraged against him that he asked leave 
 to serve as a volunteer, and join the Duke of Argyle's army in Scotland, 
 which the Pretender never had the courage to face; and thenceforth my 
 lord was quite reconciled to the present reigning family, from whom he 
 hath even received promotion. 
 
 Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pretender as any of 
 her relations could be, and used to boast, as I have heard, that she not 
 only brought back my lord to the Church of England, but procured the 
 English peerage for him, which the junior branch of our family at present 
 enjoys. She was a great friend of Sir Robert Walpole, and would not rest 
 until her husband slept at Lambeth, my papa used laughing to say. 
 However, the bishop died of apoplexy suddenly, and his wife erected a 
 great monument over him ; and the pair sleep under that stone, with a 
 canopy of marble clouds and angels above them — the first Mrs. Tusher 
 lying sixty miles off at Castlewood. 
 
 But my papa's genius and education are both greater than any a woman 
 can be expected to have, and his adventures in Europe far more exciting 
 than his life in this country, which was passed in the tranquil offices of 
 love and duty; and I shall say no more by way of introduction to his 
 Memoirs, nor keep my children from the perusal of a story which is much 
 more interesting than that of their affectionate old mother. 
 
 Rachel Esmond Warrington. 
 Castlewood, Virginia, 
 
 November 3, 1778. 
 
 Vll
 
 Book I 
 
 THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME 
 OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE
 
 The History of Henry Esmond 
 
 The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their iambics to a 
 tune, speaking from under a mask, and wearing stilts and a great head- 
 dress. 'Twas thought the dignity of the Tragic Muse required these 
 appurtenances, and that she was not to move except to a measure and 
 cadence. So Queen Medea slew her children to a slow music: and King 
 Agamemnon perished in a dying fall (to use Mr. Dryden's words) : the 
 Chorus standing by in a set attitude, and rhythmically and decorously 
 bewailing the fates of those great crowned persons. The Muse of History 
 has encumbered herself with ceremony as well as her Sister of the 
 Theater. She too wears the mask and the cothurnus, and speaks to 
 measure. She too, in our age, busies herself with the affairs only of kings ; 
 waiting on them obsequiously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of 
 court ceremonies, and had nothing to do with the registering of the 
 affairs of the common people. I have seen in his very old age and decrepi- 
 tude the old French King Louis the Fourteenth, the type and model of 
 kinghood — who never moved but to measure, who lived and died accord- 
 ing to the laws of his Court-marshal, persisting in enacting through life 
 the part of Hero; and, divested of poetry, this was but a little wrinkled 
 old man, pock-marked, and with a great periwig and red heels to make 
 him look tall — a hero for a book if you like, or for a brass statue or a 
 painted ceiling, a god in a Roman shape, but what more than a man for 
 Madame Maintenon, or the barber who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, 
 his surgeon ? I wonder shall History ever pull off her periwig and cease 
 to be court-ridden ? Shall we see something of France and England be- 
 sides Versailles and Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place 
 tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driving her one- 
 horse chaise — a hot, red-faced woman, not in the least resembling that 
 statue of her which turns its stone back upon St. Paul's and faces the 
 coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill. She was neither better bred nor 
 wiser than you and me, though we knelt to hand her a letter or a wash- 
 
 3
 
 hand basin. Why shall History go on kneeling to the end of time ? I am 
 for having her rise up off her knees, and take a natural posture: not to be 
 forever performing cringes and congees like a court-chamberlain, and 
 shuffling backwards out of doors in the presence of the sovereign. In a 
 word, I would have history familiar rather than heroic: and think that 
 Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Fielding will give our children a much better idea 
 of the manners of the present age in England, than the Court Gazette and 
 the newspapers which we get thence. 
 
 There was a German officer of Webb's with whom we used to joke, 
 and of whom a story (whereof I myself was the author) was believed in 
 the army, that he was eldest son of the hereditarj^ Grand Bootjack of the 
 Empire, and the heir to that honor of which his ancestors had been very 
 proud, having been kicked for twenty generations by one imperial foot, 
 as they drew the boot from the other. I have heard that the old Lord 
 Castlewood, of part of whose family these present volumes are a chronicle, 
 though he came of quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served 
 (and who as regards mere lineage are no better than a dozen English and 
 Scottish houses I could name), was prouder of his post about the court 
 than of his ancestral honors, and valued his dignity (as Warden of the 
 Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset) so highly, that he cheerfully 
 ruined himself for the thankless and thriftless race who bestowed it. He 
 pawned his plate for King Charles the First, mortgaged his property for 
 the same cause, and lost the greater part of it by fines and sequestration : 
 stood a siege of his castle by Ireton, where his brother Thomas capitulated 
 (afterward making terms with the Commonwealth, for which the elder 
 brother never forgave him), and where his second brother Edward, who 
 had embraced the ecclesiastical profession, was slain on Castlewood 
 Tower, being engaged there both as preacher and artilleryman. This reso- 
 lute old loyalist, who was with the King while his house was thus being 
 battered down, escaped abroad with his only son, then a boy, to return and 
 take a part in Worcester fight. On that fatal field Eustace Esmond was 
 killed, and Castlewood fled from it once more into exile, and hence- 
 forward, and after the Restoration, never was away from the Court of the 
 monarch (for whose return we offer thanks in the Prayer-Book) who sold 
 his country and who took bribes of the French king. 
 
 What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in exile? Who 
 is more worthy of respect than a brave man in misfortune.^ Mr. Addison 
 has painted such a figure in his noble piece of "Cato." But suppose fugi- 
 tive Cato fuddling himself at a tavern with a wench on each knee, a dozen 
 
 4
 
 faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord calling out for his 
 bill; and the dignity of misfortune is straightway lost. The Historical 
 Muse turns away shamefaced from the vulgar scene, and closes the door 
 — on which the exile's unpaid drink is scored up — upon him and his 
 pots and his pipes, and the tavern-chorus which he and his friends are 
 singing. Such a man as Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris 
 to paint him. Your Knellers and Le Bruns only deal in clumsy and im- 
 possible allegories: and it has always seemed to me blasphemy to claim 
 Olympus for such a wine-drabbled divinity as that. 
 
 About the king's follower, the Viscount Castlewood, orphaned of his 
 son, ruined by his fidelity, bearing many wounds and marks of bravery, 
 old and in exile — his kinsmen I suppose should be silent; nor if this 
 patriarch fell down in his cups, call fie upon him, and fetch passers-by 
 to laugh at his red face and white hairs. What ! does a stream rush out 
 of a mountain free and pure, to roll through fair pastures, to feed and 
 throw out bright tributaries, and to end in a village gutter? Lives that 
 have noble commencements have often no better endings ; it is not with- 
 out a kind of awe and reverence that an observer should speculate upon 
 such careers as he traces the course of them. I have seen too much of 
 success in life to take off my hat and huzza to it as it passes in its gilt 
 coach ; and would do my little part with my neighbors on foot, that they 
 should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too loudly. Is it the 
 Lord Mayor going in state to mince-pies and the Mansion House.? Is it 
 poor Jack of Newgate's procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, con- 
 ducting him on his last journey to Tyburn ? I look into my heart and think 
 that I am as good as my Lord Mayor, and know I am as bad as 
 Tyburn Jack. Give me a chain and red gown and a pudding before me, 
 and I could play the part of Alderman very well, and sentence Jack after 
 dinner. Starve me, keep me from books and honest people, educate me 
 to love dice, gin, and pleasure, and put me on Hounslow Heath, with a 
 purse before me, and I will take it. "And I shall be deservedly hanged," 
 say you, wishing to put an end to this prosing. I don't say No. I can't 
 but accept the world as I find it, including a rope's end, as long as it 
 is in fashion.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Family of Castle wood Hall 
 
 When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, and pres- 
 ently after to take possession of his house of Castlewood, county Hants, 
 in the year 1691, almost the only tenant of the place besides the domestics 
 was a lad of twelve years of age, of whom no one seemed to take any 
 note until my lady viscountess lighted upon him, going over the house 
 with the housekeeper on the day of her arrival. The boy was in the room 
 known as the Book-room, or Yellow Gallery, where the portraits of the 
 family used to hang, that fine piece among others of Sir Antonio Van 
 Dyck of George, second viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson of my Lord 
 the third viscount, just deceased, which it seems his lady and widow did 
 not think fit to carry away, when she sent for and carried off to her house 
 at Chelsey, near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely, in 
 which her ladyship was represented as a huntress of Diana's court. 
 
 The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely little oc- 
 cupant of this gallery busy over his great book, which he laid down when 
 he was aware that a stranger was at hand. And, knowing who that per- 
 son must be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy 
 obeisance to the mistress of his house. 
 
 She stretched out her hand — indeed when was it that that hand would 
 not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief and ill-fortune? 
 "And this is our kinsman," she said ; "and what is your name, kinsman?" 
 
 "My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in a sort 
 of delight and wonder, for she had come upon him as a Dea certe, and ap- 
 peared the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her golden hair 
 was shining in the gold of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling 
 bloom; her lips smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness which 
 made Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise. 
 
 "His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady," says Mrs. Work- 
 sop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued more 
 than he hated), and the old gentlewoman looked significantly towards 
 
 7
 
 the late lord's picture as it now is in the family, noble and severe-looking, 
 with his hand on his sword, and his order on his cloak, which he had 
 from the Emperor during the war on the Danube against the Turk. 
 
 Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this portrait and 
 the lad, the new viscountess, who had still hold of the boy's hand as she 
 looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand quickly, and walked 
 down the gallery, followed by Mrs. Worksop. 
 
 When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same 
 spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his black 
 coat. 
 
 Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed, she has since owned as much), at 
 the notion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal, great or 
 small ; for, when she returned, she had sent away the housekeeper upon 
 an errand by the door at the farther end of the gallery; and, coming back 
 to the lad, with a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she 
 took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and saying 
 some words to him, which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, 
 that the boy, who had never looked upon so much beauty before, felt as 
 if the touch of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground, 
 and kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on one knee. To the very 
 last hour of his life, Esmond remembered the lady as she then spoke and 
 looked, the rings on her fair hands, the very scent of her robe, the beam 
 of her eyes lighting up with surprise and kindness, her lips blooming in 
 a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair. 
 
 As the boy was yet in this attitude of humility, enters behind him a 
 portly gentleman, with a little girl of four years old in his hand. The gen- 
 tleman burst into a great laugh at the lady and her adorer, with his little 
 queer figure, his sallow face, and long black hair. The lady blushed, and 
 seemed to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal to her husband, for 
 it was my lord viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, hav- 
 ing once before seen him in the late lord's lifetime. 
 
 "So this is the little priest!" says my lord, looking down at the lad. 
 "Welcome, kinsman!" 
 
 "He is saying his prayers to mamma," says the little girl, who came up 
 to her papa's knees: and my lord burst out into another great laugh at this, 
 and kinsman Henry looked very silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches 
 in reply, but 'twas months afterwards when he thought of this adventure: 
 as it was, he had never a word in answer. 
 
 "Le pauvre enfant, H n'a que nous," says the lady, looking to her lord ; 
 
 8
 
 and the boy, who understood her, though doubtless she thought other- 
 wise, thanked her with all his heart for her kind speech. 
 
 "And he shan't want for friends here," says my lord, in a kind voice, 
 "shall he, little Trix?" 
 
 The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom her papa called by 
 this diminutive, looked at Henry Esmond solemnly, with a pair of large 
 eyes, and then a smile shone over her face, which was as beautiful as 
 that of a cherub, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. A 
 keen and delightful pang of gratitude, happiness, affection, filled the 
 orphan child's heart as he received from the protectors, whom Heaven 
 had sent to him, these touching words and tokens of friendliness and 
 kindness. But an hour since he had felt quite alone in the world ; when 
 he heard the great peal of bells from Castlewood church ringing that 
 morning to welcome the arrival of the new lord and lady, it had rung 
 only terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the new owner 
 would deal with him; and those to whom he formerly looked for pro- 
 tection were forgotten or dead. Pride and doubt too had kept him within 
 doors, when the vicar and the people of the village, and the servants of 
 the house, had gone out to welcome my Lord Castlewood — for Henry 
 Esmond was no servant, though a dependent: no relative, though he 
 bore the name and inherited the blood of the house; and in the midst 
 of the noise and acclamations attending the arrival of the new lord (for 
 whom, you may be sure, a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, and 
 tenants and domestics huzzaed when his carriage approached and rolled 
 into the courtyard of the Hall), no one ever took any notice of young 
 Henry Esmond, who sat unobserved and alone in the Book-room, until 
 the afternoon of that day, when his new friends found him. 
 
 When my lord and lady were going away thence, the little girl, still 
 holding her kinsman by the hand, bade him to come too. "Thou wilt 
 always forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix," says her father to her 
 good-naturedly; and went into the gallery, giving an arm to his lady. 
 They passed thence through the music gallery, long since dismantled, and 
 Queen Elizabeth's Rooms, in the clock-tower, and out into the terrace, 
 where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darkling woods with 
 a cloud of rooks returning: and the plain and river with Castlewood 
 village beyond, and purple hills beautiful to look at — and the little heir 
 of Castlewood, a child of two years old, was already here on the terrace 
 in his nurse's arms, from whom he ran across the grass instantly he 
 perceived his mother, and came to her. 
 
 9
 
 "If thou canst not be happy here," says my lord, looking round at the 
 scene, "thou art hard to please, Rachel." 
 
 "I am happy where you are," she said, "but we were happiest of all 
 at Walcote Forest." Then my lord began to describe what was before 
 them to his wife, and what indeed little Harry knew better than he — • 
 viz., the history of the house: how by yonder gate the page ran away 
 with the heiress of Castlewood, by which the estate came into the present 
 family; how the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower which my lord's 
 father was slain in defending. "I was but two years old then," says he, 
 "but take forty-six from ninety, and how old shall I be, kinsman Harry?" 
 
 "Thirty," says his wife with a laugh. 
 
 "A great deal too old for you, Rachel," answers my lord, looking 
 fondly down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, and was at that time 
 scarce twenty years old. 
 
 "You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you," says she, "and 
 I promise you I will grow older every day." 
 
 "You mustn't call papa Frank; you must call papa my lord now," says 
 Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head at which the mother smiled, 
 and the good-natured father laughed, and the little trotting boy laughed, 
 not knowing why — but because he was happy, no doubt — as everyone 
 seemed to be there. How those trivial incidents and words, the landscape 
 and sunshine, and the group of people smiling and talking, remain fixed 
 on the memory ! 
 
 As the sun was setting, the little heir was sent in the arms of his nurse 
 to bed, whither he went howling; but little Trix was promised to sit 
 to supper that night — "And you will come too, kinsman, won't you?" 
 she said. 
 
 Harry Esmond blushed: "I — I have supper with Mrs. Worksop," 
 says he. 
 
 "D n it," says my lord, "thou shalt sup with us, Harry, tonight! 
 
 Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?" — and they all wondered at Harry's 
 performance as a trencherman, in which character the poor boy acquitted 
 himself very remarkably ; for the truth is he had had no dinner, nobody 
 thinking of him in the bustle which the house was in, during the prepara- 
 tions antecedent to the new lord's arrival. 
 
 "No dinner! poor dear child!" says my lady, heaping up his plate 
 with meat, and my lord, filling a bumper for him, bade him call a health; 
 on which Master Harry, crying "The King," tossed off the wine. My 
 lord was ready to drink that, and most other toasts: indeed only too 
 
 lO
 
 ready. He would not hear of Doctor Tuslier (the Vicar of Castlewood, 
 who came to supper) going away when the sweetmeats were brought: 
 he had not had a chaplain long enough, he said, to be tired of him: so his 
 reverence kept my lord company for some hours over a pipe and a punch- 
 bowl ; and went away home with rather a reeling gait, and declaring a 
 dozen of times, that his lordship's affability surpassed every kindness he 
 had ever had from his lordship's gracious family. 
 
 As for young Esmond, when he got to his little chamber, it was with 
 a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards the new friends whom 
 this happy day had brought him. He was up and watching long before 
 the house was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children — that 
 kind protector and patron; and only fearful lest their welcome of the 
 past night should in any way be withdrawn or altered. But presently 
 little Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, who 
 greeted Harry as kindly as before. He told her at greater length the 
 histories of the house (which he had been taught in the old lord's time) , 
 and to which she listened with great interest ; and then he told her, with 
 respect to the night before, that he understood French, and thanked her 
 for her protection. 
 
 "Do you?" says she, with a blush; "then, sir, you shall teach me and 
 Beatrix." And she asked him many more questions regarding himself, 
 which had best be told more fully and explicitly than in those brief 
 replies which the lad made to his mistress' questions. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Francis Arrives at Castlewood 
 
 'Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of Castlewood, com. 
 Hants, came into possession of the present family through Dorothea, 
 daughter and heiress of Edward, Earl and Marquis Esmond, and Lord 
 of Castlewood, which lady married, 23 Eliz., Henry Poyns, gent.; the 
 said Henry being then a page in the household of her father. Francis, 
 son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, who took the maternal 
 name which the family has borne subsequently, was made knight and 
 baronet by King James the First; and being of a military disposition, 
 remained long in Germany with the Elector-Palatine, in whose service 
 
 II
 
 Sir Francis incurred both expense and danger, lending large sums of 
 money to that unfortunate prince; and receiving many wounds in the 
 battles against the Imperialists, in which Sir Francis engaged. 
 
 On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his services and many 
 sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the First, who graciously conferred 
 upon this tried servant the post of Warden of the Butteries and Groom 
 of the King's Posset, which high and confidential office he filled in that 
 king's and his unhappy successor's reign. 
 
 His age, and many wounds and infirmities, obliged Sir Francis to per- 
 form much of his duty by deputy; and his son, Sir George Esmond, knight 
 and banneret, first as his father's lieutenant, and afterwards as inheritor 
 of his father's title and dignity, performed this office during almost the 
 whole of the reign of King Charles the First, and his two sons who 
 succeeded him. 
 
 Sir George Esmond married, rather beneath the rank that a person 
 of his name and honor might aspire to, the daughter of Thos. Topham, 
 of the city of London, alderman and goldsmith, who, taking the Parlia- 
 mentary side in the troubles then commencing, disappointed Sir George 
 of the property which he expected at the demise of his father-in-law, who 
 devised his money to his second daughter, Barbara, a spinster. 
 
 Sir George Esmond, on his part, was conspicuous for his attachment 
 and loyalty to the royal cause and person ; and the King being at Oxford 
 in 1642, Sir George, with the consent of his father, then very aged and 
 infirm, and residing at his house of Castlewood, melted the whole of 
 the family plate for His Majesty's service. 
 
 For this, and other sacrifices and merits, His Majesty, by patent under 
 the Privy Seal, dated Oxford, Jan. 1643, was pleased to advance Sir 
 Francis Esmond to the dignity of Viscount Castlewood, of Shandon, in 
 Ireland: and the viscount's estate being much impoverished by loans to 
 the King, which in those troublesome times His Majesty could not repay, 
 a grant of land in the plantations of Virginia was given to the Lord 
 Viscount; part of which land is in possession of descendants of his 
 family to the present day. 
 
 The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and within a few 
 months after he had been advanced to his honors. He was succeeded by 
 his eldest son, the before-named George; and left issue besides, Thomas, 
 a colonel in the King's army, who afterwards joined the Usurper's Gov- 
 ernment; and Francis, in holy orders, who was slain while defending 
 the House of Castlewood against the Parliament, 1647. 
 
 12
 
 George Lord Castlewood (the second viscount) , of King Charles the 
 First's time, had no male issue save his one son, Eustace Esmond, who 
 was killed, with half of the Castlewood men beside him, at Worcester 
 fight. The lands about Castlewood were sold and apportioned to the 
 Commonwealth-men; Castlewood being concerned in almost all of the 
 plots against the Protector, after the death of the King, and up to 
 King Charles the Second's restoration. My Lord followed that King's 
 Court about in its exile, having ruined himself in its service. He had but 
 one daughter, who was of no great comfort to her father; for mis- 
 fortune had not taught those exiles sobriety of life; and it is said that the 
 Duke of York and his brother the King both quarreled about Isabel 
 Esmond. She was maid of honor to the Queen Henrietta Maria ; she early 
 joined the Roman Church; her father, a weak man, following her not 
 long after at Breda. 
 
 On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas Esmond, 
 nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling became heir to the 
 title. His father had taken the Parliament side in the quarrels, and so had 
 been estranged from the chief of his house; and my Lord Castlewood was 
 at first so much enraged to think that his title (albeit little more than an 
 empty one now) should pass to a rascally Roundhead, that he would 
 have married again, and indeed proposed to do so to a vintner's daughter 
 at Bruges, to whom his lordship owed a score for lodging when the 
 King was there, but for fear of the laughter of the Court, and the anger 
 of his daughter, of whom he stood in awe; she was in temper as im- 
 perious and violent as my lord, who was much enfeebled by wounds 
 and drinking, was weak. 
 
 Lord Castlewood would have had a match between his daughter Isabel 
 and her cousin, the son of that Francis Esmond who was killed at Castle- 
 wood siege. And the lady, it was said, took a fancy to the young man, 
 who was her junior by several years (which circumstance she did not 
 consider to be a fault in him) ; but having paid his court, and being 
 admitted to the intimacy of the house, he suddenly flung up his suit, when 
 it seemed to be pretty prosperous, without giving a pretext for his 
 behavior. His friends rallied him at what they laughingly chose to call 
 his infidelity; Jack Churchill, Frank Esmond's lieutenant in the Royal 
 Regiment of Foot-guards, getting the company which Esmond vacated, 
 when he left the Court and went to Tangier in a rage at discovering that 
 his promotion depended on the complaisance of his elderly affianced 
 bride. He and Churchill, who had been cond/sc/pul/ at St. Paul's School, 
 
 13
 
 had words about this matter; and Frank Esmond said to him with an 
 oath, "Jack, your sister may be so-and-so, but by Jove my wife shan't!" 
 and swords were drawn, and blood drawn too, until friends separated 
 them on this quarrel. Few men were so jealous about the point of honor 
 in those days ; and gentlemen of good birth and lineage thought a royal 
 blot was an ornament to their family coat. Frank Esmond retired in the 
 sulks, first to Tangier, whence he returned after two years' service, settling 
 on a small property he had of his mother, near to Winchester, and 
 became a country gentleman, and kept a pack of beagles, and never came 
 to Court again in King Charles's time. But his uncle Castlewood was 
 never reconciled to him ; nor, for some time afterwards, his cousin whom 
 he had refused. 
 
 By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts from the King, 
 while his daughter was in favor, Lord Castlewood, who had spent in 
 the royal service his youth and fortune, did not retrieve the latter quite, 
 and never cared to visit Castlewood, or repair it, since the death of his 
 son, but managed to keep a good house, and figure at Court, and to save 
 a considerable sum of ready money. 
 
 And now, his heir and nephew, Thomas Esmond, began to bid for 
 his uncle's favor. Thomas had served with the Emperor, and with the 
 Dutch, when King Charles was compelled to lend troops to the States, 
 and against them, when His Majesty made an alliance with the French 
 King. In these campaigns Thomas Esmond was more remarked for 
 duelling, brawling, vice, and play, than for any conspicuous gallantry in 
 the field, and came back to England, like many another English gentle- 
 man who has traveled, with a character by no means improved by his 
 foreign experience. He had dissipated his small paternal inheritance 
 of a younger brother's portion, and, as truth must be told, was no better 
 than a hanger-on of ordinaries, and a brawler about Alsatia and the 
 Friars, when he bethought him of a means of mending his fortune. 
 
 His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had nobody's word 
 but her own for the beauty which she said she once possessed. She was 
 lean, and yellow, and long in the tooth; all the red and white in all the 
 toyshops in London could not make a beauty of her — Mr. Killigrew 
 called her the Sibyl, the death's-head put up at the King's feast as a 
 memento mori, etc. — in fine, a woman who might be easy of conquest, 
 but whom only a very bold man would think of conquering. This bold 
 man was Thomas Esmond. He had a fancy to my Lord Castlewood's 
 
 14
 
 savings, the amount of which rumor had very much exaggerated. 
 Madame Isabel was said to have royal jewels of great value; whereas 
 poor Tom Esmond's last coat but one was in pawn. 
 
 My lord had at this time a fine house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, nigh to 
 the Duke's Theater and the Portugal ambassador's chapel. Tom Esmond, 
 who had frequented the one, as long as he had money to spend among the 
 actresses, now came to the church as assiduously. He looked so lean and 
 shabby, that he passed without difficulty for a repentant sinner ; and so, 
 becoming converted, you may be sure took his uncle's priest for a 
 director. 
 
 This charitable father reconciled him with the old lord his uncle, who 
 a short time before would not speak to him, as Tom passed under my 
 lord's coach window, his lordship going in state to his place at Court, 
 while his nephew slunk by with his battered hat and feather, and the point 
 of his rapier sticking out of the scabbard — to his twopenny ordinary in 
 Bell Yard. 
 
 Thomas Esmond, after this reconciliation with his uncle, very soon 
 began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the benefits of good living and 
 clean linen. He fasted rigorously twice a week, to be sure ; but he made 
 amends on the other days: and, to show how great his appetite was, 
 Mr. Wycherley said, he ended by swallowing that fly-blown rank old 
 morsel his cousin. There were endless jokes and lampoons about this 
 marriage at Court: but Tom rode thither in his uncle's coach now, called 
 him father, and having won could afford to laugh. This marriage took 
 place very shortly before King Charles died: whom the Viscount of 
 Castlewood speedily followed. 
 
 The issue of this marriage was one son, whom the parents watched 
 with an intense eagerness and care; but who, in spite of nurses and 
 physicians, had only a brief existence. His tainted blood did not run very 
 long in his poor feeble little body. Symptoms of evil broke out early 
 on him; and, part from flattery, part superstition, nothing would satisfy 
 my lord and lady, especially the latter, but having the poor little cripple 
 touched by His Majesty at his church. They were ready to cry out miracle 
 at first (the doctors and quack-salvers being constantly in attendance on 
 the child, and experimenting on his poor little body with every con- 
 ceivable nostrum) — but though there seemed, from some reason, a 
 notable amelioration in the infant's health after His Majesty touched 
 him, in a few weeks afterward the poor thing died — causing the 
 
 15
 
 lampooners of the Court to say, that the King in expelling evil out of 
 the infant of Tom Esmond and Isabella his wife, expelled the life out 
 of it, which was nothing but corruption. 
 
 The mother's natural pang at losing this poor little child must have 
 been increased when she thought of her rival Frank Esmond's wife, who 
 was a favorite of the whole Court, where my poor Lady Castlewood was 
 neglected, and v/ho had one child, a daughter, flourishing and beautiful, 
 and was about to become a mother once more. 
 
 The Court, as I have heard, only laughed the more because the poor 
 lady, who had pretty well passed the age when ladies are accustomed to 
 have children, nevertheless determined not to give hope up, and even 
 when she came to live at Castlewood, was constantly sending over to 
 Hexton for the doctor, and announcing to her friends the arrival of an 
 heir. This absurdity of hers was one among many others which the wags 
 used to play upon. Indeed, to the last days of her life, my lady vis- 
 countess had the comfort of fancying herself beautiful, and persisted in 
 blooming up to the very midst of winter, painting roses on her cheeks 
 long after their natural season, and attiring herself like summer though 
 her head was covered with snow. 
 
 Gentlemen who were about the Court of King Charles, and King 
 James, have told the present writer a number of stories about this 
 queer old lady, with which it's not necessary that posterity should be 
 entertained. She is said to have had great powers of invective; and, if 
 she fought with all her rivals in King James's favor, 'tis certain she 
 must have had a vast number of quarrels on her hands. She was a woman 
 of an intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pursued and rather fatigued His 
 Majesty with her rights and her wrongs. Some say that the cause of her 
 leaving Court was jealousy of Frank Esmond's wife; others, that she 
 was forced to retreat after a great battle which took place at Whitehall, 
 between her ladyship and Lady Dorchester, Tom Killigrew's daughter, 
 whom the King delighted to honor, and in which that ill-favored Esther 
 got the better of our elderly Vashti. But her ladyship, for her part, always 
 averred that it was her husband's quarrel, and not her own, which occa- 
 sioned the banishment of the two into the country; and the cruel ingrati- 
 tude of the sovereign in giving away, out of the family, that place of 
 Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which the two 
 last Lords Castlewood had held so honorably, and which was now 
 conferred upon a fellow of yesterday, and a hanger-on of that odious 
 
 i6
 
 Dorchester creature, my Lord Bergamot;i "I never," said my lady, 
 could have come to see His Majesty's posset carried by any other hand 
 than an Esmond. I should have dashed the salver out of Lord Bergamot's 
 hand had I met him." And those who knew her ladyship are aware that 
 she was a person quite capable of performing this feat, had she not 
 wisely kept out of the way. 
 
 Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which, indeed, she 
 liked to bring most persons who came near her. Lady Castlewood could 
 command her husband's obedience, and so broke up her establishment, at 
 London; she had removed from Lincoln's Inn Fields to Chelsey, to a 
 pretty new house she bought there; and brought her establishment, her 
 maids, lap dogs, and gentlewomen, her priest, and his lordship her 
 husband, to Castlewood Hall, that she had never seen since she quitted 
 it as a child with her father during the troubles of King Charles the 
 First's reign. The walls were still open in the old house as they had 
 been left by the shot of the Commonwealth-men. A part of the mansion 
 was restored and furbished up with the plate, hangings, and furniture 
 brought from the house in London. My lady meant to have a triumphal 
 entry into Castlewood village, and expected the people to cheer as she 
 drove over the Green in her great coach, my lord beside her, her gentle- 
 women, lap dogs, and cockatoos on the opposite seat, six horses to her 
 carriage, and servants armed and mounted following it and preceding it. 
 But 'twas in the height of the No-Popery cry; the folks in the village and 
 the neighboring town were scared by the sight of her ladyship's painted 
 face and eyelids, as she bobbed her head out of the coach window, mean- 
 ing, no doubt, to be very gracious ; and one old woman said, "Lady Isabel ! 
 lord-a-mercy, it's Lady Jezebel!" a name by which the enemies of the 
 right honorable Viscountess were afterwards in the habit of designating 
 her. The country was then in a great No-Popery fervor; her ladyship's 
 known conversion, and her husband's, the priest in her train, and the 
 service performed at the chapel of Castlewood (though the chapel had 
 been built for that worship before any other was heard of in the country, 
 and though the service was performed in the most quiet manner) , got her 
 
 1 Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, 1686, Gentleman Usher of the Back 
 Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's 
 Posset (on the decease of George, second Viscount Castlewood), accompanied 
 His Majesty to St. Germains, where he died without issue. No Groom of the 
 Posset was appointed by the Prince of Orange, nor has there been such an officer 
 in any succeeding reign. 
 
 17
 
 no favor at first in the county or village. By far the greater part of the 
 estate of Castlewood had been confiscated, and been parceled out to 
 Commonwealth-men. One or two of these old Cromwellian soldiers 
 were still alive in the village, and looked grimly at first upon my lady 
 viscountess, when she came to dwell there. 
 
 She appeared at the Hexton Assembly, bringing her lord after her, 
 scaring the country folks with the splendor of her diamonds, which she 
 always wore in public. They said she wore them in private, too, and slept 
 with them round her neck; though the writer can pledge his word that 
 this was a calumny. "If she were to take them off," my Lady Sark said, 
 "Tom Esmond, her husband, would run away with them and pawn them." 
 'Twas another calumny. My Lady Sark was also an exile from Court, and 
 there had been war between the two ladies before. 
 
 The village people began to be reconciled presently to their lady, who 
 was generous and kind, though fantastic and haughty, in her ways, and 
 whose praises Doctor Tusher, the vicar, sounded loudly among his flock. 
 As for my lord, he gave no great trouble, being considered scarcely more 
 than an appendage to my lady, who, as daughter of the old lords of 
 Castlewood, and possessor of vast wealth, as the country folks said 
 (though indeed nine-tenths of it existed but in rumor), was looked upon 
 as the real queen of the castle, and mistress of all it contained. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Page to Isabella 
 
 Coming up to London again some short time after this retreat, the 
 Lord Castlewood dispatched a retainer of his to a little cottage in the 
 village of Ealing, near to London, where for some time had dwelt an 
 old French refugee, by name Mr. Pastoureau, one of those whom the 
 persecution of the Huguenots by the French king had brought over to 
 this country. With this old man lived a little lad, who went by the name 
 of Henry Thomas. He remembered to have lived in another place a 
 short time before, near to London too, among looms and spinning-wheels, 
 and a great deal of psalm-singing and church-going, and a whole colony 
 of Frenchmen. 
 
 There he had a dear, dear friend, who died and whom he called Aunt. 
 
 i8
 
 She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes; and her face, though it 
 was homely, was a thousand times dearer to him than that of Mrs. 
 Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pastoureau's new wife, who came to hve with him 
 after Aunt went away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to be called, 
 lived Uncle George, who was a weaver too, but used to tell Harry that 
 he was a little gentleman, and that his father was a captain, and his 
 mother an angel. 
 
 When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, where he 
 was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and say, "Angel! she belongs 
 to the Babylonish scarlet woman." Bon Papa was always talking of the 
 scarlet woman. He had a little room where he always used to preach 
 and sing hymns out of his great old nose. Little Harry did not like the 
 preaching: he liked better the fine stories which Aunt used to tell him. 
 Bon Papa's wife never told him pretty stories ; she quarreled with Uncle 
 George, and he went away. 
 
 After this, Harry's Bon Papa and his wife and two children of her 
 own that she brought with her, came to live at Ealing. The new wife 
 gave her children the best of everything and Harry many a whipping, 
 he knew not why. Besides blows, he got ill names from her, which 
 need not be set down here, for the sake of old Mr. Pastoureau, who was 
 still kind sometimes. The unhappiness of those days is long forgiven, 
 though they cast a shade of melancholy over the child's youth, which 
 will accompany him, no doubt, to the end of his days: as those tender 
 twigs are bent the trees grow afterward; and he, at least, who has 
 suffered as a child, and is not quite perverted in that early school of 
 unhappiness, learns to be gentle and long-suffering with little children. 
 
 Harry was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, on horse- 
 back, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch him away 
 from Ealing. The noverca, or unjust stepmother, who had neglected him , 
 for her own two children, gave him supper enough the night before j 
 he went away, and plenty in the morning. She did not beat him once, | 
 and told the children to keep their hands off him. One was a girl, and 
 Harry never could bear to strike a girl ; and the other was a boy, whom he 
 could easily have beat, but he always cried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau 
 came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail. She only washed Harry's 
 face the day he went away; nor ever so much as once boxed his ears. 
 She whimpered rather when the gentleman in black came for the boy; 
 and old Mr. Pastoureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over 
 his shoulder at the strange gentleman, and grumbled out something 
 
 19
 
 about Babylon and the scarlet lady. He was grown quite old, like a child 
 almost. Mrs. Pastoureau used to wipe his nose as she did to the children. 
 She was a great, big, handsome young woman; but, though she pre- 
 tended to cry, Harry thought 'twas only a sham, and sprang quite de- 
 lighted upon the horse upon which the lackey helped him. 
 
 He was a Frenchman, his name was Blaise. The child could talk to 
 him in his own language perfectly well: he knew it better than English 
 indeed, having lived hitherto chiefly among French people: and being 
 called the Little Frenchman by other boys on Ealing Green. He soon 
 learned to speak English perfectly, and to forget some of his French: 
 children forget easily. Some earlier and fainter recollections the child 
 had of a different country ; and a town with tall white houses ; and a ship. 
 But these were quite indistinct in the boy's mind, as indeed the memory 
 of Ealing soon became, at least of much that he suffered there. 
 
 The lackey before whom he rode was very lively and voluble, and 
 informed the boy that the gentleman riding before him was my lord's 
 chaplain, Father Holt — that he was now to be called Master Harry 
 Esmond — that my Lord Viscount Castlewood was his parra/n — that he 
 
 was to live at the great house of Castlewood, in the province of shire, 
 
 where he would see madame the viscountess, who was a grand lady. And 
 so, seated on a cloth before Blaise's saddle, Harry Esmond was brought 
 to London, and to a fine square called Covent Garden, near to which his 
 patron lodged. 
 
 Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand, and brought him to 
 this nobleman, Sc grand languid nobleman in a great cap and flowered 
 morning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted Harry on the head and gave 
 him an orange. 
 
 "Cest b'len ^a," he said to the priest after eyeing the child, and the 
 gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Let Blaise take him out for a holiday," and out for a holiday the boy 
 and the valet went. Harry went jumping along ; he was glad enough to go. 
 
 He Vv'ill remember to his life's end the delights of those days. He was 
 taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, in a house a thousand times 
 greater and finer than the booth at Ealing Fair — and on the next happy 
 day they took water on the river, and Harry saw London Bridge, with 
 the houses and booksellers' shops thereon, looking like a street, and 
 the Tower of London, with the armor, and the great lions and bears in 
 the moat — all under company of Monsieur Blaise. 
 
 Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth for the country, 
 
 20
 
 namely, my lord viscount and the other gentleman ; Monsieur Blaise and 
 Harry on a pillion behind them, and two or three men with pistols lead^ 
 ing the baggage-horses. And all along the road the Frenchman told little 
 Harry stories of brigands, which made the child's hair stand on end, and 
 terrified him; so that at the great gloomy inn on the road where they 
 lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room with one of the servants, 
 and was compassionated by Mr. Holt, the gentleman who traveled with 
 my lord, and who gave the child a little bed in his chamber. 
 
 His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentleman in 
 the boy's favor, for next day Mr. Holt said Harry should ride behind 
 him, and not with the French lackey; and all along the journey put a 
 thousand questions to the child — as to his foster-brother and relations 
 at Ealing; what his old grandfather had taught him; what languages he 
 knew; whether he could read and write, and sing, and so forth. And 
 Mr. Holt found that Harry could read and write, and possessed the two 
 languages of French and English very well ; and when he asked Harry 
 about singing, the lad broke out with a hymn to the tune of Dr. Martin 
 Luther, which sent Mr. Holt a-laughing; and even caused his grand 
 parrain in the laced hat and periwig to laugh too when Holt told him what 
 the child was singing. For it appeared that Dr. Martin Luther's hymns 
 were not sung in the churches Mr. Holt preached at. 
 
 "You must never sing that song any more: do you hear, little man- 
 nikin?" says my lord viscount, holding up a finger. 
 
 "But we will try and teach you a better, Harry," Mr. Holt said; and 
 the child answered, for he was a docile child, and of an afl[^ectionate 
 nature, "that he loved pretty songs, and would try and learn anything the 
 gentlemen would tell him." That day he so pleased the gentlemen by 
 his talk, that they had him to dine with them at the inn, and encouraged 
 him in his prattle ; and Monsieur Blaise, with whom he rode and dined 
 the day before, waited upon him now. 
 
 " 'Tis well, 'tis well!" said Blaise, that night (in his own lang-jage) 
 when they lay again at an inn. "We are a little lord here; we are a little 
 lord now ; we shall see what we are when we come to Castlewcod, where 
 my lady is." 
 
 "When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise?" says Harry. 
 
 "Parbleu! my lord does not press himself," Blaise says, with a grin; 
 
 and, indeed, it seemed as if his lordship was not in a great hurry, <^or 
 
 he spent three days on that journey, which Harry Esmond has often since 
 
 ridden in a dozen hours. For the last two of the days Harry rode with 
 
 21
 
 the priest, who was so kind to him, that the child had grown to be quite 
 fond and familiar with him by the journey's end, and had scarce a 
 thought in his httle heart which by that time he had not confided to his 
 new friend. 
 
 At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to a village stand- 
 ing on a green with elms round it, very pretty to look at ; and the people 
 there all took off their hats, and made curtseys to my lord viscount, who 
 bowed to them all languidly ; and there was one portly person that wore 
 a cassock and a broad-leafed hat, who bowed lower than any one — and 
 with this one both my lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. "This, Harry, 
 is Castlewood Qiurch," says Mr. Holt, "and this is the pillar thereof, 
 learned Doctor Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute Doctor 
 Tusher !" 
 
 "Come up to supper, doctor," says my lord; at which the doctor made 
 another lovv' bow, and the party moved on towards a grand house that 
 was before them, with many gray towers and vanes on them, and 
 windows flaming in the sunshine ; and a great army of rooks, wheeling 
 over their heads, made for the woods behind the house, as Harry saw; 
 and Mr. Holt told him that they lived at Castlewood too. 
 
 They came to the house, and passed under an arch into a courtyard, 
 with a fountain in the center, where many men came and held my lord's 
 stirrup as he descended, and paid great respect to Mr. Holt likewise. 
 And the child thought that the servants looked at him curiously, and 
 smiled to one another — and he recalled what Blaise had said to him 
 when they were in London, and Harry had spoken about his god-papa, 
 when the Frenchman said, "Parbleu, one sees well that my lord is your 
 godfather" ; words whereof the poor lad did not know the meaning 
 then, though he apprehended the truth in a very short time afterwards, 
 and learned it, and thought of it with no small feeling of shame. 
 
 Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both descended from 
 their horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, and under a low door 
 to rooms on a level with the ground; one of which Father Holt said 
 was to be the boy's chamber, the other on the other side of the passage 
 being the father's own ; and as soon as the little man's face was washed, 
 and the father's own dress arranged, Harry's guide took him once more 
 to the door by which my lord had entered the hall, and up a stair, and 
 through an anteroom to my lady's drawing-room — an apartment than 
 which Harry thought he had never seen anything more grand— no, not 
 in the Tower of London which he had just visited. Indeed, the diamber 
 
 22
 
 was richly ornamented in the manner of Queen Elizabeth's time, with 
 great stained windows at either end, and hangings of tapestry, which 
 the sun shining through the colored glass painted of a thousand hues; 
 and here in state, by the fire, sat a lady, to whom the priest took up 
 Harry, who was indeed amazed by her appearance. 
 
 My lady viscountess' face was daubed with white and red up to the 
 eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly glare ; she had a tower of lace 
 on her head, under which was a bush of black curls — borrowed curls — 
 so that no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first 
 presented to her — the kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at 
 that solemn introduction — and he stared at her with eyes almost as great 
 as her own, as he had stared at the player woman who acted the wicked 
 tragedy-queen, when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in 
 a great chair by the fire-corner ; in her lap was a spaniel dog that barked 
 furiously; on a little table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her 
 sugar-plum box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame- 
 colored brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman 
 of Banbury Cross ; and pretty small feet which she was fond of showing, 
 with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white pantofles with red 
 heels; and an odor of musk was shaken out of her garments whenever 
 she moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoiseshell stick, little 
 Fury barking at her heels. 
 
 Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my lady. She had been wait- 
 ing-woman to her ladyship in the late lord's time, and, having her soul 
 in that business, took naturally to it when the Viscountess of Castlewood 
 returned to inhabit her father's house. 
 
 "I present to your ladyship your kinsman and little page of honor, 
 Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of 
 comical humility. "Make a pretty bow to my lady. Monsieur; and then 
 another little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher — the fair priestess 
 of Castlewood." 
 
 "Where I have lived and hope to die, sir," says Madame Tusher, giv- 
 ing a hard glance at the brat and then at my lady. 
 
 Upon her the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. He could 
 not keep his great eyes off from her. Since the Empress of Ealing, he 
 had seen nothing so awful. 
 
 "Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady. 
 
 "He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame Tusher. 
 
 "Have done, you silly Maria," said Lady Castlewood. 
 
 23
 
 "Where I'm attached, I'm attached, Madame — and I'd die rather than 
 not say so." 
 
 "Je meurs oh je m' attache," Mr. Holt said, with a polite grin. "The 
 ivy says so in the picture, and chngs to the oak hke a fond parasite as 
 It is. 
 
 "Parricide, sir!" cries Mrs. Tusher. 
 
 "Hush, Tusher — you are always bickering with Father Holt," cried 
 my lady. "Come and kiss my hand, child" ; and the oak held out a branch 
 to little Harry Esmond, who took and dutifully kissed the lean old 
 hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred 
 rings. 
 
 "To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!" cried 
 Mrs. Tusher: on which my lady crying out "Go, you foolish Tusher!" 
 and tapping her with her great fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand 
 and kiss it. Fury arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt 
 looked on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances. 
 
 The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady on whom 
 this artless flattery was bestowed; for having gone down on his knee 
 (as Father Holt had directed him, and the mode then was) and per- 
 formed his obeisance, she said, "Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber 
 will inform you what your duties are, when you wait upon my lord and 
 me; and good Father Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of 
 our name. You will pay him obedience in everything, and I pray you 
 may grow to be learned and as good as your tutor." 
 
 The lady seemed to have the greatest reverence for Mr. Holt, and 
 to be more afraid of him than of anything else in the world. If she was 
 ever so angry, a word or look from Father Holt made her calm: indeed, 
 he had a vast power of subjecting those who came near him; and, among 
 the rest, his new pupil gave himself up with an entire confidence and 
 attachment to the good father, and became his willing slave almost from 
 the first moment he saw him. 
 
 He put his small hand into the father's as he walked away from his 
 first presentation to his mistress, and asked many questions in his art- 
 less childish way. "Who is that other woman?" he asked. "She is fat 
 and round; she is more pretty than my Lady Castlewood." 
 
 "She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. She has 
 a son of your age, but bigger than you." 
 
 "Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand? It is not good to kiss." 
 
 "Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is attached to my 
 
 24
 
 lady, having been her waiting-woman before she was married, in the 
 old lord's time. She married Doctor Tusher the chaplain. The English 
 household divines often marry the waiting-women." 
 
 "You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw her laugh- 
 ing with Blaise in the buttery." 
 
 "I belong to a church that is older and better than the English 
 Church," Mr. Holt said (making a sign whereof Esmond did not then 
 understand the meaning, across his breast and forehead) ; "in our Church 
 the clergy do not marry. You will understand these things better soon." 
 
 "Was not Saint Peter the head of your Church.^ — Dr. Rabbits of 
 Ealing told us so." 
 
 The father said, "Yes, he was." 
 
 "But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday that 
 
 his wife's mother lay sick of the fever." On which the father again 
 
 laughed, and said he would understand this too better soon, and talked 
 
 ■ of other things, and took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the 
 
 great old house which he had come to inhabit. 
 
 It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were 
 rooks' nests, where the birds at morning and returning home at eve- 
 ning made a great cawing. At the foot of the hill was a river, with a 
 steep ancient bridge crossing it; and beyond that a large pleasant green 
 flat, -where the village of Castlewood stood, and stands, with the church 
 in the midst, the parsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith's 
 forge beside it, and the sign of the "Three Castles" on the elm. The 
 London road stretched away towards the rising sun, and to the west 
 were swelling hills and peaks, behind which many a time Harry Esmond 
 saw the same sun setting, that he now looks on thousands of miles away 
 across the great ocean — in a new Castlewood, by another stream, that 
 bears, like the new country of wandering Aeneas, the fond names of 
 the land of his youth. 
 
 The hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof one only, 
 the fountain-court, was now inhabited, the other having been battered 
 down in the Cromwellian wars. In the fountain-court, still in good re- 
 pair, was the great hall, near to the kitchen and butteries; a dozen of 
 living-rooms looking to the north, and communicating with the little 
 chapel that faced eastwards and the buildings stretching from that to 
 the main gate, and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the 
 court now dismantled. This court had been the most magnificent of 
 the two, until the Protector's cannon tore down one side of it before the 
 
 25
 
 place was taken and stormed. The besiegers entered at the terrace under 
 the clock-tower, slaying every man of the garrison, and at their head my 
 lord's brother, Francis Esmond. 
 
 The Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord Castlewood 
 to restore this ruined part of his house ; where were the morning parlors, 
 above them the long music gallery, and before which stretched the 
 garden-terrace, where, however, the flowers grew again which the boots 
 of the Roundheads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored 
 without much cost, and only a little care, by both ladies who succeeded 
 the second viscount in the government of this mansion. Round the ter- 
 race garden was a low wall with a wicket leading to the wooded height 
 beyond, that is called Cromwell's Battery to this day. 
 
 Young Harry Esmond learned the domestic part of his duty, which 
 was easy enough, from the groom of her ladyship's chamber: serving 
 the countess, as the custom commonly was in his boyhood, as page, wait- 
 ing at her chair, bringing her scented water and the silver basin after 
 dinner — sitting on her carriage-step on state occasions, or on public days 
 introducing her company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholic gentry, 
 of whom there were a great many in the country and neighboring city; 
 and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to partake of the hospitalities 
 there. In the second year of their residence, the company seemed espe- 
 cially to increase. My lord and my lady were seldom without visitors, 
 in whose society it was curious to contrast the difference of behavior be- 
 tween Father Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor Tusher, the 
 rector of the parish — Mr. Holt moving among the very highest as quite 
 their equal, and as commanding them all; while poor Doctor Tusher, 
 whose position was indeed a difficult one, having been chaplain once 
 to the Hall, and still to the Protestant servants there, seemed more like 
 an usher than an equal, and always rose to go away after the first course. 
 
 Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private visitors, 
 whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had little difficulty in recognizing 
 as ecclesiastics of the father's persuasion, whatever their dresses (and 
 they adopted all) might be. These were closeted with the father con- 
 stantly, and often came and rode away without paying their devoirs to 
 my lord and lady — to the lady and lord rather — his lordship being little 
 more than a cipher in the house, and entirely under his domineering 
 partner. A little fowling, a little hunting, a great deal of sleep, and a 
 long time at cards and table, carried through one day after another with 
 his lordship. When meetings took place in this second year, which often 
 
 26
 
 would happen with closed doors, the page found my lord's sheet ot 
 paper scribbled over with dogs and horses, and 'twas said he had much 
 ado to keep himself awake at these councils: the countess ruling over 
 them, and he acting as little more than her secretary. 
 
 Father Holt began speedily to be so much occupied with these meet- 
 ings as rather to neglect the education of the little lad who so gladly 
 put himself under the kind priest's orders. At first they read much and 
 regularly, both in Latin and French; the father not neglecting in any- 
 thing to impress his faith upon his pupil, but not forcing him violently, 
 and treating him with a delicacy and kindness which surprised and at- 
 tached the child, always more easily won by these methods than by any 
 severe exercise of authority. And his delight in their walks was to tell 
 Harry of the glories of his order, of its martyrs and heroes, of its 
 brethren converting the heathen by myriads, traversing the desert, facing 
 the stake, ruling the courts and councils, or braving the tortures of 
 kings; so that Harry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was 
 the greatest prize of life and bravest end of ambition ; the greatest career 
 here, and in heaven the surest reward; and began to long for the day, 
 not only when he should enter into the one Church and receive his first 
 communion, but when he might join that wonderful brotherhood, which 
 was present throughout all the world, and which numbered the wisest, 
 the bravest, the highest born, the most eloquent of men among its 
 members. Father Holt bade him keep his views secret, and to hide them 
 as a great treasure which would escape him if it was revealed; and, 
 proud of this confidence and secret vested in him, the lad became fondly 
 attached to the master who initiated him into a mystery so wonderful 
 and awful. And when little Tom Tusher, his neighbor, came from 
 school for his holiday, and said how he, too, was to be bred up for an 
 English priest, and would get what he called an exhibition from his 
 school, and then a college scholarship and fellowship, and then a good 
 living — it tasked young Harry Esmond's powers of reticence not to say 
 to his young companion, "Church! priesthood! fat living! My dear 
 Tommy, do you call yours a Church and a priesthood? What is a fat 
 living compared to converting a hundred thousand heathens by a single 
 sermon? What is a scholarship at Trinity by the side of a crown of 
 martyrdom, with angels awaiting you as your head is taken off? Could 
 your master at school sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you 
 statues in your church that can bleed, speak, walk, and cry? My good 
 Tommy, in dear Father Holt's church these things take place every 
 
 27
 
 day. You know Saint Philip of the Willows appeared to Lord Castle- 
 wood, and caused him to turn to the one true Church. No saints ever 
 come to you." And Harry Esmond, because of his promise to Father 
 Holt, hiding away these treasures of faith from T. Tusher, delivered 
 himself of them nevertheless simply to Father Holt; who stroked his 
 head, smiled at him with his inscrutable look, and told him that he did 
 well to meditate on these great things, and not to talk of them except 
 under direction. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 / Am Placed Under a Popish Priest and Bred to 
 That Religion — Viscountess Castlewood 
 
 Had time enough been given, and his childish inclinations been prop- 
 erly nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a Jesuit priest ere he was a dozen 
 years older, and might have finished his days a martyr in China or a 
 victim on Tower Hill: for, in the few months they spent together at 
 Castlewood, Mr. Holt obtained an entire mastery over the boy's intellect 
 and affections; and had brought him to think, as indeed Father Holt 
 thought with all his heart too, that no life was so noble, no death so 
 desirable, as that which many brethren of his famous order were ready 
 to undergo. By love, by brightness of wit and good humor that charmed 
 all, by an authority which he knew how to assume, by a mystery and 
 silence about him which increased the child's reverence for him, he won 
 Harry's absolute fealty, and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes 
 greater and more important than a poor little boy's admission into orders 
 had not called him away. 
 
 After being at home for a few months in tranquillity (if theirs might 
 be called tranquillity, which was, in truth, a constant bickering), my 
 lord and lady left the country for London, taking their director with 
 them; and his little pupil scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his life 
 than he did for nights after the first parting with his dear friend, as he 
 lay in the lonely chamber next to that which the father used to occupy. 
 He and a few domestics were left as the only tenants of the great house: 
 and, though Harry sedulously did all the tasks which the father set him, 
 he had many hours unoccupied, and read in the library, and bewildered 
 his little brains with the great books he found there. 
 
 28
 
 After a while, the httle lad grew accustomed to the loneliness of the 
 place; and in after days remembered this part of his life as a period not 
 unhappy. When the family was at London the whole of the establish- 
 ment traveled there with the exception of the porter — who was, more- 
 over, brewer, gardener, and woodman — and his wife and children. These 
 had their lodging in the gate-house hard by, with a door into the court; 
 and a window looking out on the green was the chaplain's room; and 
 next to this a small chamber where Father Holt had his books, and Harry 
 Esmond his sleeping-closet. The side of the house facing the east had 
 escaped the guns of the Cromwellians, whose battery was on the height 
 (•facing the western court; so that this eastern end bore few marks of 
 demolition, save in the chapel, where the painted windows surviving 
 Edward the Sixth had been broke by the Commonwealth-men. In Father 
 Holt's time little Harry Esmond acted as his familiar, and faithful little 
 servitor; beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching his water 
 from the well long before daylight, ready to run anywhere for the service 
 of his beloved priest. When the father was away, he locked his private 
 chamber; but the room where the books were was left to little Harry, 
 who, but for the society of this gentleman, was little less solitary when 
 Lord Castlewood was at home. 
 
 The French wit says that a hero is none to his valet-de-cbambre, and 
 it required less quick eyes than my lady's little page was naturally en- 
 dowed with, to see that she had many qualities by no means heroic, how- 
 ever much Mrs. Tusher might flatter and coax her. When Father Holt 
 was not by, who exercised an entire authority over the pair, my lord and 
 my lady quarreled and abused each other so as to make the servants 
 laugh, and to frighten the little page on duty. The poor boy trembled 
 before his mistress, who called him by a hundred ugly names, who made 
 nothing of boxing his ears, and tilting the silver basin in his face which 
 it was his business to present to her after dinner. She has repaired, by 
 subsequent kindness to him, these severities, which it must be owned 
 made his childhood very unhappy. She was but unhappy herself at this 
 time, poor soul ! and I suppose made her dependents lead her own sad 
 life. I think my lord was as much afraid of her as her page was, and the 
 only person of the household who mastered her was Mr. Holt. Harry 
 was only too glad when the father dined at table, and to slink away and 
 prattle with him afterwards, or read with him, or walk with him. Luckily 
 my lady viscountess did not rise till noon. Heaven help the poor waiting- 
 woman who had charge of her toilet ! I have often seen the poor wretch 
 
 29
 
 come Out with red eyes from the closet where those long and mysterious 
 rites of her ladyship's dress were performed, and the backgammon-box 
 locked up with a rap on Mrs. Tusher's fingers when she played ill, or 
 the game was going the wrong way. 
 
 Blessed be the king who introduced cards, and the kind inventors of 
 piquet and cribbage, for they employed six hours at least of her lady- 
 ship's day, during which her family was pretty easy. Without this occu- 
 pation my lady frequently declared she should die. Her dependents one 
 after another relieved guard — 'twas rather a dangerous post to play with 
 her ladyship — and took the cards turn about. Mr. Holt would sit with 
 her at piquet during hours together, at which time she behaved herself 
 properly; and as for Doctor Tusher, I believe he would have left a 
 parishioner's dying bed, if summoned to play a rubber with his patroness 
 at Castlewood. Sometimes, when they were pretty comfortable together, 
 my lord took a hand. Besides these, my lady had her faithful poor Tusher, 
 and one, two, three gentlewomen whom Harry Esmond could recollect 
 in his time. They could not bear that genteel service very long; one after 
 another tried and failed at it. These and the housekeeper, and little Harry 
 Esmond, had a table of their own. Poor ladies ! their fate was far harder 
 than the page's. He was sound asleep, tucked up in his little bed, while 
 they were sitting by her ladyship reading her to sleep, with the News 
 Letief, or the Grand Cyrus. My lady used to have boxes of new plays 
 from London, and Harry was forbidden, under the pain of a whipping, 
 to look into them. I am afraid he deserved the penalty pretty often, and 
 got it sometimes. Father Holt applied it twice or thrice, when he caught 
 the young scape-grace with a delightful wicked comedy of Mr. Shad- 
 well's or Mr. Wycherley's under his pillow. 
 
 These, when he took any, were my lord's favorite reading. But he was 
 averse to much study, and, as his little page fancied, to much occupation 
 of any sort. 
 
 It always seemed to young Harry Esmond that my lord treated him 
 with more kindness when his lady was not present, and Lord Castlewood 
 would take the lad sometimes on his little journeys a-hunting or a-bird- 
 ing; he loved to play at cards and tric-trac with him, which games the 
 boy learned to pleasure his lord: and was growing to like him better 
 daily, showing a special pleasure if Father Holt gave a good report of 
 him, patting him on the head, and promising that he would provide 
 for the boy. However, in my lady's presence, my lord showed no such 
 marks of kindness, and affected to treat the lad roughly, and rebuked 
 
 30
 
 him sharply for httle faults, for which he in a manner asked pardon of 
 young Esmond when they were private, saying if he did not speak 
 roughly, she would, and his tongue was not such a bad one as his lady's 
 — a point whereof the boy, young as he was, was very well assured. 
 
 Great public events were happening all this while, of which the sim- 
 ple young page took little count. But one day, riding into the neighbor- 
 ing town on the step of my lady's coach, his lordship and she and Father 
 Holt being inside, a great mob of people came hooting and jeering 
 round the coach, bawling out, "The bishops forever!" "Down with the 
 Pope!" "No Popery! no Popery! Je2ebel! Jezebel!" so that my lord 
 began to laugh, my lady's eyes to roll with anger, for she was as bold as 
 a lioness, and feared nobody; while Mr. Holt, as Esmond saw from his 
 place on the step, sank back with rather an alarmed face, crying out to 
 her ladyship, "For God's sake, madam, do not speak or lock out of the 
 window; sit still." But she did not obey this prudent injunction of the 
 father ; she thrust her head out of the coach window, and screamed out 
 to the coachman, "Flog your way through them, the brutes, James, and 
 use your whip!" 
 
 The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and fresh cries of 
 "Jezebel! Jezebel!" My lord only laughed the more: he was a languid 
 gentleman: nothing seemed to excite him commonly, though I have 
 seen him cheer and halloo the hounds very briskly, and his face (which 
 was generally very yellow and calm) grow quite red and cheerful during 
 a burst over the Downs after a hare, and laugh, and swear, and huzza 
 at a cockfight, of which sport he was very fond. And now, when the mob 
 began to hoot his lady, he laughed with something of a mischievous 
 look, as though he expected sport, and thought that she and they were 
 a match. 
 
 James, the coachman, was more afraid of his mistress than the mob, 
 probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was bidden, and the post- 
 boy that rode with the first pair (my lady always rode with her coach- 
 and-six) gave a cut of his thong over the shoulders of one fellow who 
 put his hand out towards the leading horse's rein. 
 
 It was a market-day, and the country people were all assembled with 
 their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things; the postillion had no 
 sooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse, but 
 a great cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at 
 which my lord laughed more, for it knocked my lady's fan out of her 
 
 31
 
 hand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of 
 carrots and potatoes. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake be still!" says Mr. Holt; "we are not ten paces 
 from the 'Bell' archway, where they can shut the gates on us, and keep 
 out this canaille." 
 
 The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in the 
 crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poor 
 little wretch set up a shout; the man laughed, a great big saddler's ap- 
 prentice of the town. "Ah! you d d little yelling Popish bastard," 
 
 he said, and stooped to pick up another ; the crowd had gathered quite 
 between the horses and the inn-door by this time, and the coach was 
 brought to a dead standstill. My lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of 
 the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had 
 hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment 
 the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a thump. 
 
 "You hulking coward!" says he; "you pack of screaming blackguards! 
 how dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at 
 that carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord Fll send 
 my rapier through you !" 
 
 Some of the mob cried, "Huzza, my lord!" for they knew him, and 
 the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as big as my lord 
 viscount. 
 
 "Make way there," says he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but with 
 a great air of authority). "Make way, and let her ladyship's carriage 
 pass." The men that were between the coach and the gate of the "Bell" 
 actually did make way, and the horses went in, my lord walking after 
 them with his hat on his head. 
 
 As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach had just 
 rolled, another cry begins of "No Popery — no Papists!" My lord turns 
 round and faces them once more. 
 
 "God save the King!" says he at the highest pitch of his voice. "Who 
 dares abuse the King's religion? You, you d— — -d psalm-singing cob- 
 bler, as sure as I'm a magistrate of this county Fll commit you!" The 
 fellow shrank back, and my lord retreated with all the honors of the 
 day. But when the little flurry caused by the scene was over, and the 
 flush passed off^ his face, he relapsed into his usual languor, trifled with 
 his little dog, and yawned when my lady spoke to him. 
 
 This mob was one of many thousands that were going about the 
 country at that time, huzzaing for the acquittal of the seven bishops who 
 
 32
 
 had been tried just then, and about whom little Harry Esmond at that 
 time knew scarce anything. It was Assizes at Hexton, and there was a 
 great meeting of the gentry at the "Bell"; and my lord's people had 
 their new liveries on, and Harry a little suit of blue-and-silver, which 
 he wore upon occasions of state; and the gentlefolks came round and 
 talked to my lord ; and a judge in a red gown, who seemed a very great 
 personage, especially complimented him and my lady, who was mighty 
 grand. Harry remembers her train borne up by her gentlewomen. There 
 was an assembly and ball at the great room at the "Bell," and other 
 young gentlemen of the county families looked on as he did. One of 
 them jeered him for his black eye, which was swelled by the potato, and 
 another called him a bastard, on which he and Harry fell to fisticuffs. 
 My lord's cousin, Colonel Esmond of Walcote, was there, and separated 
 the two lads — a great tall gentleman, with a handsome good-natured 
 face. The boy did not know how nearly in after-life he should be allied 
 to Colonel Esmond, and how much kindness he should have to owe 
 him. 
 
 There was little love between the two families. My lady used not to 
 spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for reasons which have been 
 hinted already; but about which, at his tender age, Henry Esmond 
 could be expected to know nothing. 
 
 Very soon afterwards, my lord and lady went to London with Mr. 
 Holt, leaving, however, the page behind them. The little man had the 
 great house of Castlewood to himself; or between him and the house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old lady who was a kinswoman of the family 
 in some distant way, and a Protestant, but a staunch Tory and king's- 
 man, as all the Esmonds were. He used to go to school to Dr. Tusher 
 v/hen he was at home, though the doctor was much occupied too. There 
 was a great stir and commotion everywhere, even in the little quiet vil- 
 lage of Castlewood, where a party of people came from the town, who 
 would have broken Castlewood chapel windows, but the village people 
 turned out, and even old Sievewright, the republican blacksmith, along 
 with them: for my lady, though she was a Papist, and had many odd 
 ways, was kind to the tenantry, and there was always plenty of beef, and 
 blankets, and medicine for the poor at Castlewood Hall. 
 
 A kingdom was changing hands while my lord and lady were away. 
 King James was flying, the Dutchmen were coming; awful stories about 
 them and the Prince of Orange used old Mrs. Worksop to tell to the 
 idle little page. 
 
 33
 
 He liked the solitude of the great house very well; he had all the 
 play-books to read, and no Father Holt to whip him, and a hundred 
 childish pursuits and pastimes, without doors and within, which made 
 this time very pleasant. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Plots to Restore King James the Second 
 
 Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines for eels which 
 he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in his little bed, wait- 
 ing for the hour when the gate would be open, and he and his comrade, 
 John Lockwood, the porter's son, might go to the pond and see what 
 fortune had brought them. At daybreak, John was to awaken him, but 
 his own eagerness for the sport had served as a reveillez long since — 
 so long, that it seemed to him as if the day never would come. 
 
 It might have been four o'clock when he heard the door of the op- 
 posite chamber, the chaplain's room, open, and the voice of a man 
 coughing in the passage. Harry jumped up, thinking for certain it was 
 a robber, or hoping perhaps for a ghost, and flinging open his own door, 
 saw before him the chaplain's door open, and a light inside, and a figure 
 standing in the doorway, in the midst of a great smoke which issued 
 from the room. 
 
 "Who's there?" cried out the boy, who was of a good spirit. 
 
 "Silentmm!" whispered the other; "'tis I, my boy!" and, holding 
 his hand out, Harry had no difficulty in recognizing his master and 
 friend. Father Holt. A curtain was over the window of the chaplain's 
 room that looked to the court, and Harry saw that the smoke came from 
 a great flame of papers which were burning in a brazier when he en- 
 tered the chaplain's room. After giving a hasty greeting and blessing 
 to the lad, who was charmed to see his tutor, the father continued the 
 burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over the mantel- 
 piece wall, which Harry had never seen before. 
 
 Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once on this 
 hole. "That is right, Harry," he said; "faithful little jamuli see all and 
 say nothing. You are faithful, I know." 
 
 "I know I would go to the stake for you," said Harry. 
 
 34
 
 "I don't want your head," said the father, patting it kindly; "all you 
 have to do is to hold your tongue. Let us burn these papers, and say 
 nothing to anybody. Should you like to read them?" 
 
 Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head: he bad looked as 
 the fact was, and without thinking, at the paper before him ; and though 
 he had seen it, could not understand a word of it, the letters being quite 
 clear enough, but quite without meaning. They burned the papers, beat- 
 ing down the ashes in a brazier, so that scarce any traces of them re- 
 mained. 
 
 Harry had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more dresses than 
 one; it not being safe, or worth the danger, for Popish ecclesiastics to 
 wear their proper dress ; and he was, in consequence, in no wise aston- 
 ished that the priest should now appear before him in a riding dress, 
 with large buff leather boots, and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as 
 gentlemen wore. 
 
 "You know the secret of the cupboard," said he, laughing, "and must 
 be prepared for other mysteries"; and he opened — but not a secret cup- 
 board this time — only a wardrobe, which he usually kept locked, and 
 from which he now took out two or three dresses and perukes of differ- 
 ent colors, and a couple of swords of a pretty make (Father Holt was 
 an expert practitioner with the small-sword, and every day, while he 
 was at home, he and his pupil practiced this exercise, in which the lad 
 became a very great proficient) , a military coat and cloak, and a farmer's 
 smock, and placed them in the large hole over the mantelpiece from 
 which the papers had been taken. 
 
 "If they miss the cupboard," he said, "they will not find these; if they 
 find them, they'll tell no tales, except that Father Holt v/ore more suits 
 of clothes than one. All Jesuits do. You know what deceivers we are, 
 Harry." 
 
 Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to leave 
 him; but "No," the priest said, "I may very likely come back with my 
 lord in a few days. We are to be tolerated ; we are not to be persecuted. 
 But they may take a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return ; 
 and, as gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to ex- 
 amine my papers, which concern nobody — at least not them." And to 
 this day, whether the papers in cipher related to politics, or to the affairs 
 of that mysterious society whereof Father Holt was a member, his pupil, 
 Harry Esmond, remains in entire ignorance. • 
 
 The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, etc., Holt left untouched 
 
 35
 
 on his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down — with a laugh, how- 
 ever — and flinging into the brazier, where he only half burned them, 
 some theological treatises which he had been writing against the English 
 divines. "And now," said he, "Henry, my son, you may testify, with a 
 safe conscience, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the last time 
 I was here before I went away to London ; and it will be daybreak directly, 
 and I must be away before Lockwood is stirring." 
 
 "Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked. Holt laughed; 
 he was never more gay or good-humored than when in the midst of 
 action or danger. 
 
 "Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you," he said; 
 "nor would you, you little wretch! had you slept better. You must forget 
 that I have been here; and now farewell. Close the door, and go to your 
 own room, and don't come out till — stay, why should you not know 
 one secret more? I know you will never betray me." 
 
 In the chaplain's room were two windows: the one looking into the 
 court facing westwards to the fountain; the other, a small casement 
 strongly barred, and looking on to the green in front of the Hall. This 
 window was too high to reach from the ground: but, mounting on a 
 buffet which stood beneath it. Father Holt showed me how, by pressing 
 on the base of the window, the whole framework of lead, glass, and 
 iron stanchions descended into a cavity worked below, from which it 
 could be drawn and restored to its usual place from without; a broken 
 pane being purposely open to admit the hand which was to work upon 
 the spring of the machine. 
 
 "When I am gone," Father Holt said, "you may push away the buffet, 
 so that no one may fancy that an exit has been made that way ; lock the 
 door; place the key — where shall we put the key? — under "Chrysostom' 
 on the bookshelf; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told you 
 where to find it, if you had need to go to my room. The descent is easy 
 down the wall into the ditch; and so once more farewell, until I see thee 
 again, my dear son." And with this the intrepid father mounted the 
 buffet with great agility and briskness, stepped across the window, lift- 
 ing up the bars and framework again from the other side, and only 
 leaving room for Harry Esmond to stand on tip-toe and kiss his hand 
 before the casement closed, the bars fixing as firm as ever, seemingly, 
 in the stone arch overhead. When Father Holt next arrived at Castle- 
 wood, it was by the public gate on horseback; and he never so much as 
 alluded to the existence of a private issue to Harry, except when he had 
 
 36
 
 need of a private messenger from within, for which end, no doubt, he 
 had instructed his young pupil in the means of quitting the Hall. 
 
 Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than betray his 
 friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew; for he had tried the boy 
 more than once, putting temptations in his way, to see whether he would 
 yield to them and confess afterwards, or whether he would resist them, 
 as he did sometimes, or whether he would lie, which he never did. Holt 
 instructing the boy on this point, however, that if to keep silence is not 
 to lie, as it certainly is not, yet silence is, after all, equivalent to a nega- 
 tion — and therefore a downright No, in the interest of justice or your 
 friend, and in reply to a question that may be prejudicial to either, is 
 not criminal, but, on the contrary, praiseworthy; and as lawful a way 
 as the other of eluding a wrongful demand. For instance (says he) , 
 suppose a good citizen, who had seen His Majesty take refuge there, 
 had been asked, "Is King Charles up that oak-tree?" his duty would 
 have been not to say. Yes — so that the Cromwellians should seize the 
 King, and murder him like his father — but No; His Majesty being pri- 
 vate in the tree, and therefore not to be seen there by loyal eyes : all which 
 instruction, in religion and morals, as well as in the rudiments of the 
 tongues and sciences, the boy took eagerly and with gratitude from his 
 tutor. When, then, Holt was gone, and told Harry not to see him, it 
 was as if he had never been. And he had this answer pat when he came 
 to be questioned a few days after. 
 
 The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young Esmond learned 
 from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best cassock (though the roads were 
 muddy, and he never was known to wear his silk, only his stuff one, 
 a-horseback) , with a great orange cockade in his broad-leafed hat, and 
 Nahum, his clerk, ornamented with a like decoration. The doctor was 
 walking up and down in front of his parsonage, when little Esmond 
 saw him, and heard him say he was going to pay his duty to His Highness 
 the Prince, as he mounted his pad and rode away with Nahum behind. 
 The village people had orange cockades too, and his friend the black- 
 smith's laughing daughter pinned one into Harry's old hat, which he 
 tore out indignantly when they bade him to cry "God save the Prince 
 of Orange and the Protestant religion!" but the people only laughed, 
 for they liked the boy in the village, where his solitary condition moved 
 the general pity, and where he found friendly welcomes and faces in 
 many houses. Father Holt had many friends there too, for he not only 
 would fight the blacksmith at theology, never losing his temper, but 
 
 37
 
 laughing the whole time in his pleasant way; but he cured him of an 
 ague with quinquina, and was always ready with a kind word for any 
 man that asked it, so that they said in the village 'twas a pity the two 
 were Papists. 
 
 The Director and the Vicar of Castlewood agreed very well ; indeed, 
 the former was a perfectly-bred gentleman, and it was the latter's busi- 
 ness to agree with everybody. Doctor Tusher and the lady's-maid, his 
 spouse, had a boy who was about the age of little Esmond; and there 
 was such a friendship between the lads, as propinquity and tolerable 
 kindness and good humor on either side would be pretty sure to occa- 
 sion. Tom Tusher was sent off early, however, to a school in London, 
 where his father took him and a volume of sermons, in the first year of 
 the reign of King James ; and Tom returned but once a year afterwards 
 to Castlewood for many years of his scholastic and collegiate life. Thus 
 there was less danger to Tom of a perversion of his faith by the director, 
 who scarce ever saw him, than there was to Harry, who constantly was 
 in the vicar's company; but as long as Harry's religion was His Majesty's, 
 and my lord's, and my lady's, the doctor said gravely, it should not be 
 for him to disturb or disquiet him: it was far from him to say that His 
 Majesty's Church was not a branch of the Catholic Church; upon which 
 Father Holt used, according to his custom, to laugh, and say that the 
 Holy Church throughout the world, and the noble army of martyrs, were 
 very much obliged to the doctor. 
 
 It was while Doctor Tusher was away at Salisbury that there came a 
 troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in Castlewood, and 
 some of them came up to the Hall, where they took possession, robbing 
 nothing however beyond the hen-house and the beer-cellar; and only 
 insisting upon going through the house and looking for papers. The 
 first room they asked to look at was Father Holt's room, of which Harry 
 Esmond brought the key, and they opened the drawers and the cup- 
 boards, and tossed over the papers and clothes — but found nothing ex- 
 cept his books and clothes, and the vestments in a box by themselves, 
 with which the dragoons made merry, to Harry Esmond's horror. And 
 to the questions which the gentleman put to Harry, he replied that 
 Father Holt was a very kind man to him, and a very learned man, and 
 Harry supposed would tell him none of his secrets, if he had any. He 
 was about eleven years old at this time, and looked as innocent as boys 
 of his age. 
 
 The family were away more than six months, and when they returned 
 
 38
 
 they were in the deepest state of dejection, for King James had been 
 banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, and the direst per- 
 secutions of those of the Catholic faith were apprehended by my lady, 
 who said she did not believe that there was a word of truth in the prom- 
 ises of toleration that Dutch monster made, or in a single word the per- 
 jured wretch said. My lord and lady were in a manner prisoners in their 
 own house; so her ladyship gave the little page to know, who was by 
 this time growing of an age to understand what was passing about him, 
 and something of the characters of the people he lived with. 
 
 "We are prisoners," says she; "in everything but chains we are 
 prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to dungeons, or strike 
 off my head from this poor little throat" (and she clasped it in her long 
 fingers). "The blood of the Esmonds will always flow freely for their 
 kings. We are not like the Churchills — the Judases, who kiss their master 
 and betray him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in the 
 royal cause" (no doubt it was that fatal business of losing the place of 
 Groom of the Posset to which her ladyship alluded, as she did half-a- 
 dozen times in the day) . "Let the tyrant of Orange bring his rack and 
 his odious Dutch tortures — the beast! the wretch! I spit upon him and 
 defy him. Cheerfully will I lay this head upon the block; cheerfully will 
 I accompany my lord to the scaffold: we will cry 'God save King James !' 
 with our dying breath, and smile in the face of the executioner." And 
 she told her page, a hundred times at least, of the particulars of the last 
 interview which she had with His Majesty. 
 
 "I flung myself before my liege's feet," she said, "at Salisbury. I de- 
 voted myself — my husband — my house, to his cause. Perhaps he remem- 
 bered old times, when Isabella Esmond was young and fair; perhaps 
 he recalled the day when 'twas not / that knelt — at least he spoke to me 
 with a voice that reminded me of days gone by. "Egad!" said His Majesty, 
 'you should go to the Prince of Orange, if you want anything.' 'No, sire,' 
 I replied, 'I would not kneel to a Usurper; the Esmond that would have 
 served your Majesty will never be groom to a traitor's posset.' The royal 
 exile smiled, even in the midst of his misfortune; he deigned to raise 
 me with words of consolation. The viscount, my husband, himself, could 
 not be angry at the august salute with which he honored me!" 
 
 The public misfortune had the eflfect of making my lord and his lady 
 better friends than they ever had been since their courtship. My lord 
 viscount had shown both loyalty and spirit, when these were rare qual- 
 ities in the dispirited party about the King; and the praise he got elevated 
 
 39
 
 him not a little in his wife's good opinion, and perhaps in his own. He 
 wakened up from the listless and supine life which he had been leading; 
 was always riding to and fro in consultation with this friend or that of 
 the King's; the page of course knowing little of his doings, but remark- 
 ing only his greater cheerfulness and altered demeanor. 
 
 Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated no longer openly 
 as chaplain; he was always fetching and carrying: strangers, military and 
 ecclesiastic (Harry knew the latter, though they came in all sorts of dis- 
 guises), were continually arriving and departing. My lord made long 
 absences and sadden reappearances, using sometimes the means of exit 
 which Father Holt had employed, though how often the little window 
 in the chaplain's room let in or let out my lord and his friends, Harry 
 could not tell. He stoutly kept his promise to the father of not prying, 
 and if at midnight from his little room he heard noises of persons stirring 
 in the next chamber, he turned round to the wall, and hid his curiosity 
 under his pillow until it fell asleep. Of course he could not help remark- 
 ing that the priest's journeys were constant, and understanding by a 
 hundred signs that some active though secret business employed him: 
 what this was may pretty well be guessed by what soon happened to 
 my lord. 
 
 No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my lord came 
 back, but a guard was in the village; and one or other of them was al- 
 ways on the Green keeping a look-out on our great gate, and those who 
 went out and in. Lockwood said that at night especially every person 
 who came in or went out was watched by the outlying sentries. 'Twas 
 lucky that we had a gate which their Worships knew nothing about. My 
 lord and Father Holt must have made constant journeys at night: once 
 or twice little Harry acted as their messenger and discreet aide-de-camp. 
 He remembers he was bidden to go into the village with his fishing-rod, 
 enter certain houses, ask for a drink of water, and tell the good man, 
 "There would be a horse-market at Newbury next Thursday," and so 
 carry the same message on to the next house on his list. 
 
 He did not know what the messape meant at the time, nor what was 
 happening; which may as well, however, for clearness' sake, be explained 
 here. The Prince of Orange being gone to Ireland, where the King was 
 ready to meet him with a great army, it was determined that a great rising 
 of His Majesty's party should take place in this country; and my lord 
 was to head the force in our county. Of late he had taken a greater lead 
 in affairs than before, having the indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, 
 
 40
 
 and my lady viscountess strongly urging him on; and my Lord Sark 
 being in the Tower a prisoner, and Sir Wilmot Crawley, of Queen's 
 Crawley, having gone over to the Prince of Orange's side — my lord 
 became the most considerable person in our part of the county for the 
 affairs of the King. 
 
 It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Greys and Dragoons, then 
 quartered at Newbury, should declare for the King on a certain day, 
 when likewise the gentry affected to His Majesty's cause were to come 
 in with their tenants and adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch 
 troops at Reading under Ginckel; and, these overthrown, and their in- 
 domitable little master away in Ireland, 'twas thought that our side 
 might move on London itself, and a confident victory was predicted for 
 the King. 
 
 As these great matters were in agitation, my lord lost his listless manner 
 and seemed to gain health; my lady did not scold him, Mr. Holt came 
 to and fro, busy always; and little Harry longed to have been a few 
 inches taller, that he might draw a sword in this good cause. 
 
 One day, it must have been about the month of June, 1690, my lord, 
 in a great horseman's coat, under which Harry could see the shining of 
 a steel breastplate he had on, called little Harry to him, put the hair 
 off the child's forehead, and kissed him, and bade God bless him in 
 such an affectionate way as he never had used before. Father Holt blessed 
 him too, and then they took leave of my lady viscountess, who came from 
 her apartment with a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes, and her gentle- 
 woman and Mrs. Tusher supporting her. "You are going to — to ride," 
 says she. "Oh, that I might come too ! — but in m.y situation I am forbidden 
 horse exercise." 
 
 "We kiss my lady marchioness' hand," says Ivlr. Holt. 
 
 "My lord, God speed you!" she said, stepping up and embracing my 
 lord in a grand manner. "Mr. Holt, I ask your blessing"; and she knelt 
 down for that, while Mrs. Tusher tossed her head up. 
 
 Mr. Holt gave the same benediction to the little page, who went 
 down and held my lord's stirrups for him to mount; there were two 
 servants waiting there too — and they rode out of Castlewood gate. 
 
 As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in scarlet ride up 
 touching his hat, and address my lord. 
 
 The party stopped, and came to some parley or discussion, which 
 presently ended, my lord putting his horse into a canter after taking off 
 his hat and making a bow to the officer, who rode alongside him step 
 
 41
 
 for step: the trooper accompanying him falHng back, and riding with 
 my lord's two men. They cantered over the Green, and behind the elms 
 (my lord waving his hand, Harry thought), and so they disappeared. 
 That evening we had a great panic, the cow-boy coming at milking-time 
 riding one of our horses, whicli he had found grazing at the outer 
 park-wall. 
 
 All night my lady viscountess was in a very quiet and subdued mood. 
 She scarce found fault with anybody ; she played at cards for six hours ; 
 little page Esmond went to sleep. He prayed for my lord and the good 
 cause before closing his eyes. 
 
 It was quite in the gray of the morning when the porter's bell rang, 
 an old Lockwood, waking up, let in one of my lord's servants, who 
 had gone with him in the morning, and who returned with a melancholy 
 story. The officer who rode up to my lord had, it appeared, said to him, 
 that it was his duty to inform his lordship that he was not under arrest, 
 but under surveillance, and to request him not to ride abroad that day. 
 
 My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if the cap- 
 tain chose to accompany him he was welcome; and it was then that he 
 made a bow, and they cantered away together. 
 
 When he came on to Wansey Down, my lord all of a sudden pulled 
 up, and the party came to a halt at the crossway. 
 
 "Sir," says he to the officer, "we are four to two; will you be so kind 
 as to take that road, and leave me to go mine?" 
 
 "Your road is mine, my lord," says the officer. 
 
 "Then — " says my lord ; but he had no time to say more, for the officer, 
 drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship; as at the same moment. 
 Father Holt, drawing a pistol, shot the officer through the head. It was 
 done, and the man dead in an instant of time. The orderly, gazing at 
 the officer, looked scared for a moment, and galloped away for his life. 
 
 "Fire! fire!" cries out Father Holt, sending another shot after the 
 trooper, but the two servants were too much surprised to use their pieces, 
 and my lord calling to them to hold their hands, the fellow got away. 
 
 "Mr. Holt, qui pensa'it a tout," says Blaise, "gets off his horse, ex- 
 amines the pockets of the dead officer for papers, gives his money to us 
 two, and says, 'The wine is drawn, monsieur le marquis,' — why did he 
 say marquis to monsieur le vicomter* — 'we must drink it.' 
 
 "The poor gentleman's horse was a better one than that I rode," Blaise 
 continues: "Mr Holt bids me get on him, and so I gave a cut to White- 
 foot, and she trotted home. We rode on towards Newbury; we heard 
 
 42
 
 firing towards midday: at two o'clock a horseman comes up to us as we 
 were giving our cattle water at an inn — and says, 'AH is dene! The 
 Ecossais declared an hour too soon — General Ginckel was down upon 
 them.' The whole thing was at an end. 
 
 " 'And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly escape,' says 
 my lord. 
 
 " 'Blaise,' says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table-book, one for 
 my lady, and one for you. Master Harry; 'you must go back to Castle- 
 wood, and deliver these,' and behold me." 
 
 And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to himself, which 
 only said, "Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn this. You know nothing 
 about anything." Harry read this, ran upstairs to his mistress's apartment, 
 where her gentlewoman slept near to the door, made her bring a light 
 and wake my lady, into whose hands he gave the paper. She was a won- 
 derful object to look at in her night attire, nor had Harry ever seen the 
 like. 
 
 As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped back to the 
 chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard over the fireplace, burned 
 all the papers in it, and, as he had seen the priest do before, took down 
 one of his reverence's manuscript sermons, and half-burnt that in the 
 brazier. By the time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight. 
 Harry ran back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman ushered him 
 again into her ladyship's chamber; she told him (from behind her nuptial 
 curtains) to bid the coach be got ready, and that she would ride away 
 anon. 
 
 But the mysteries of her ladyship's toilet were as awfully long on this 
 day as on any other, and, long after the coach was ready, my lady was 
 still attiring herself. And just as the viscountess stepped forth from her 
 room, ready for departure, young John Lockwood comes running up 
 from the village with news that a lawyer, three officers, and twenty or 
 twenty-four soldiers, were marching then upon the house. John had but 
 two minutes the start of them, and, ere he had well told his story, the 
 troop rode into our courtyard. 
 
 43
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The Issue of the Plots — The Death of Thomas, 
 
 Third Viscount of Castlewood; and the 
 
 hnprisomnent of His Viscountess 
 
 At first my lady was for dying like Mary, Queen of Scots (to whom she 
 fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, stroking her scraggy 
 neck, said, "They will find Isabel of Castlewood is equal to her fate." 
 Her gentlewoman, Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent course was, 
 as she could not fly, to receive the troops as though she suspected 
 nothing, and that her chamber was the best place wherein to await 
 them. So her black Japan casket, which Harry was to carry to the coach, 
 was taken back to her ladyship's chamber, where the maid and mistress 
 retired. Victoire came out presently, bidding the page to say her ladyship 
 was ill, confined to her bed with the rheumatism. 
 
 By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood. Harry Esmond saw 
 them from the window of the tapestry parlor; a couple of sentinels were 
 posted at the gate — a half-dozen more walked towards the stable; and 
 some others, preceded by their commander, and a man in black, a lawyer 
 probably, were conducted by one of the servants to the stair leading up 
 to the part of the house which my lord and lady inhabited. 
 
 So the captain, a handsome kind man, and the lawyer, came through 
 the anteroom to the tapestry parlor, and where now was nobody but 
 young Harry Esmond, the page. 
 
 "Tell your mistress, little man," says the captain kindly, "that we 
 must speak to her." 
 
 "My mistress is ill a-bed," said the page. 
 
 "What complaint has she?" asked the captain. 
 
 The boy said, "The rheumatism." 
 
 "Rheumatism! that's a sad complaint," continues the good-natured 
 captain; "and the coach is in the yard to fetch the doctor, I suppose?" 
 
 "I don't know," says the boy. 
 
 "And how long has her ladyship been ill?" 
 
 "I don't know," says the boy. 
 
 "When did my lord go away?" 
 
 "Yesterday night." 
 
 44
 
 "With Father Holt?" 
 
 "With Mr. Holt." 
 
 "And which way did they travel?" asks the lawyer. 
 
 "They traveled without me," says the page. 
 
 "We must see Lady Castlewood." 
 
 "I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship — she is sick," says 
 the page; but at this moment Victoire came out. "Hush!" says she; and, 
 as if not knowing that anyone was near, "What's this noise?" says she. 
 "Is this gentleman the doctor?" 
 
 "Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood," says the lawyer, pushing by. 
 
 The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the chamber 
 dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, and propped up 
 by her pillows, looking none the less ghastly because of the red which 
 was still on her cheeks, and which she could not afford to forego. 
 
 "Is that the doctor?" she said. 
 
 "There is no use with this deception, madam," Captain Westbury 
 said (for so he was named) . "My duty is to arrest the person of Thomas, 
 Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring peer — of Robert Tusher, Vicar of 
 Castlewood — and Henry Holt, known under various other names and 
 designations, a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late 
 King's time, and is now at the head of the conspiracy which was about 
 to break out in this country against the authority of their Majesties King 
 William and Queen Mary — and my orders are to search the house for 
 such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may be found here. Your lady- 
 ship will please to give me your keys, and it will be as well for yourself 
 that you should help us, in every way, in our search." 
 
 "You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move," said the 
 lady, looking uncommonly ghastly, as she sat up in her bed, where, hov/- 
 ever, she had had her cheeks painted, and a new cap put on, so that she 
 might at least look her best when the officers came. 
 
 "I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so that youi 
 ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may have an arm to lean on,' 
 Captain Westbury said. "Your woman will show me where I am to look" 
 and Madame Victoire, chattering in her half French and half English 
 jargon, opened while the captain examined one drawer after another 
 but, as Harry Esmond thought, rather carelessly, with a smile on his face, 
 as if he was only conducting the examination for form's sake. 
 
 Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, stretching 
 
 45
 
 out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried, "Non, jamais, monsieur 
 ['officer! Jamais! I will rather die than let you see this wardrobe." 
 
 But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on his face, 
 which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair burst of laughter. 
 It contained — not papers regarding the conspiracy — but my lady's wigs, 
 washes, and rouge-pots, and Victoire said men were monsters, as the 
 captain went on with his perquisition. He tapped the back to see whether 
 or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my 
 lady from her bed called out, with a voice that did not sound like that 
 of a very sick woman, "Is it your commission to insult ladies as well as 
 to arrest gentlemen, captain }" 
 
 "These articles are only dangerous when worn by your ladyship," the 
 captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin of politeness. "I have 
 found nothing which concerns the Government as yet — only the weapons 
 with which beauty is authorized to kill," says he, pointing to a wig with 
 his sword-tip. "We must now proceed to search the rest of the house." 
 
 "You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with me?" cried 
 my lady, pointing to the soldier. 
 
 "What can I do, madam? Somebody you must have to smooth your 
 pillow and bring your medicine — permit me — " 
 
 "Sir!" screamed out my lady. 
 
 "Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed," the captain then said, 
 rather sternly, "I must have in four of my men to lift you off in the sheet. 
 I must examine this bed, in a word ; papers may be hidden in a bed as 
 elsewhere; we know that very well, and — " 
 
 Here it was her ladyship's turn to shriek, for the captain, with his fist 
 shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came to "burn" as they say in the 
 play of forfeits, and wrenching away one of the pillows, said, "Look! 
 did not I tell you so ! Here is a pillow stuffed with paper," 
 
 "Some villain has betrayed us," cried out my lady, sitting up in the 
 bed, showing herself full dressed under her night-rail. 
 
 "And now your ladyship can move, I am sure; permit me to give you 
 my hand to rise. You will have to travel for some distance, as far as 
 Hexton Castle, tonight. Will you have your coach? Your woman shall 
 attend you if you like — and the Japan box!" 
 
 "Sir! you don't strike a majt when he is down," said my lady, with 
 some dignity: "can you not spare a woman ?" 
 
 "Your ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the bed," said 
 the captain; "there is no more time to lose in bandying talk." 
 
 46
 
 And, vvithout more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. Harry Esmond 
 recollected to the end of his hfe that figure with the brocade dress and 
 the white night-rail, and the gold-clocked red stockings, and the white 
 red-heeled shoes, sitting up in the bed, and stepping down from it. The 
 trunks were ready packed for departure in her anteroom, and the horses 
 ready harnessed in the stable: about all which the captain seemed to 
 know, by information got from some quarter or other; and whence 
 Esmond could make a pretty shrewd guess in aftertimes, when Doctor 
 Tusher complained that King William's government had basely treated 
 him for services done in that cause. 
 
 And here he may relate, though he was then too young to know all 
 that was happening, what the papers contained, of which Captain West- 
 bury had made a seizure, and which papers had been transferred from 
 the Japan box to the bed when the officers arrived. 
 
 There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt's hand- 
 writing — Mr. Freeman's (King James's) friends — a similar paper being 
 found among those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr. Coplestone, who suf- 
 fered death for this conspiracy. 
 
 There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of Esmond on my 
 Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body; his appointment as 
 Lord Lieutenant of the County, and Major-General.^ 
 
 There were various letters from the nobility and gentry, some ardent 
 and some doubtful, in the King's service; and (very luckily for him) 
 two letters concerning Colonel Francis Esmond: one from Father Holt, 
 which said, "I have been to see this colonel at his house at Walcote, near 
 to Wells, where he resides since the King's departure, and pressed him 
 very eagerly in Mr. Freeman's cause, showing him the great advantage 
 he would have by trading with that merchant, offering him large 
 premiums there as agreed between us. But he says no: he considers Mr. 
 Freeman the head of the firm, will never trade against him or embark 
 with any other trading company, but considers his duty was done when 
 Mr. Freeman left England. This colonel seems to care more for his wife 
 
 1 To have this rank of marquis restored in the family had always been my lady 
 viscountess's ambition; and her old maiden aunt, Barbara Topham, the goldsmith's 
 daughter, dying about this time, and leaving all her property to Lady Castlewood, 
 I have heard that her ladyship sent almost the whole of the money to King James, 
 a proceeding which so irritated my Lord Castlewood that he actually went to the 
 parish church, and was only appeased by the marquis's title which his exiled 
 Majesty sent to him in return for the £15,000 his faithful subject lent him. 
 
 47
 
 and his beagles than for affairs. He asked me much about young H. E., 
 'that bastard,' as he called him; doubting my lord's intentions respecting 
 him. I reassured him on this head, stating what I knew of the lad, and 
 our intentions respecting him, but with regard to Freeman he was 
 inflexible." 
 
 And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kinsman, to say 
 that one Captain Holton had been with him offering him large bribes to 
 join, jou know who, and saying that the head of the house of Castle- 
 wood was deeply engaged in that quarter. But for his part he had broke 
 his sword when the K. left the country, and would never again fight in 
 that quarrel. The P. of O. was a man, at least, of a noble courage, and 
 his duty, and, as he thought, every Englishman's, was to keep the country 
 quiet, and the French out of it ; and, in fine, that he would have nothing 
 to do with the scheme. 
 
 Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of the pillow. 
 Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount Castlewood, told Henry 
 Esmond afterwards, when the letters were shown to his lordship, who 
 congratulated himself, as he had good reason, that he had not joined 
 in the scheme which proved so fatal to many concerned in it. But, natu- 
 rally, the lad knew little about these circumstances when they happened 
 under his eyes: only being aware that his patron and his mistress were 
 in some trouble, which had caused the flight of the one and the appre- 
 hension of the other by the officers of King William. 
 
 The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not pursue their 
 further search through Castlewood House very rigorously. They examined 
 Mr. Holt's room, being led there by his pupil, who showed, as the father 
 had bidden him, the place where the key of his chamber lay, opened 
 the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room. 
 
 When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the brazier, 
 they examined them eagerly enough, and their young guide was a little 
 amused at their perplexity. 
 
 "What are these?" says one. 
 
 "They're written in a foreign language," says the lawyer. "What are 
 you laughing at, little whelp?" adds he, turning round as he saw the 
 boy smile. 
 
 "Mr. Holt said they were sermons," Harry said, "and bade me to 
 burn them" ; which indeed was true of those papers. 
 
 "Sermons indeed — it's treason, I would lay a wager," cries the lawyer. 
 
 48
 
 "Egad! it's Greek to me," says Captain Westbury. "Can you read it, 
 little boy?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, a little," Harry said. 
 
 "Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril," said the lawyer. 
 And Harry began to translate: 
 
 " 'Hath not one of your own writers said, "The children of Adam 
 are now laboring as much as he himself ever did, about the tree of the 
 knowledge of good and evil, shaking the boughs thereof, and seeking the 
 fruit, being for the most part unmindful of the tree of life." O blind 
 generation ! 'tis this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has led you' " 
 —and here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the page being charred 
 by the fire: and asked of the lawyer, "Shall I go on, sir?" 
 
 The lawyer said, "This boy is deeper than he seems: who knows that 
 he is not laughing at us?" 
 
 "Let's have in Dick the Scholar," cried Captain Westbury, laughing: 
 and he called to a trooper out of the window: "Ho, Dick! come in here 
 and construe." 
 
 A thick-set soldier, with a square good-humored face, came in at the 
 summons, saluting his officer. 
 
 "Tell us what is this, Dick," says the lawyer. 
 
 "My name is Steele, sir," says the soldier. "I may be Dick for my 
 friends, but I don't name gentlemen of your cloth amongst them." 
 
 "Well then, Steele." 
 
 "Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gentleman of His 
 Majesty's Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so familiar." 
 
 "I didn't know, sir," said the lawyer. 
 
 "How should you? I take it you are not accustomed to meet with 
 gentlemen," says the trooper. 
 
 "Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper," says Westbury. 
 
 " 'Tis Latin," says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting his officer, 
 "and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's" ; and he translated the words 
 pretty much as Henry Esmond had rendered them. 
 
 "What a young scholar you are!" says the captain to the boy. 
 
 "Depend on't, he knows more than he tells," says the lawyer. "I think 
 we will pack him off in the coach with old Jezebel." 
 
 "For construing a bit of Latin?" said the captain, very good-naturedly. 
 
 "I would as lief go there as anywhere," Harry Esmond said simply, 
 "for there is nobody to care for me." 
 
 There must have been something touching in the child's voice, or in 
 
 49
 
 this description of his solitude — for the captain looked at him very good- 
 naturedly, and the trooper called Steele put his hand kindly on the lad's 
 head, and said some words in the Latin tongue. 
 
 "What does he say?" says the lawyer. 
 
 "Faith, ask Dick yourself," cried Captain Westbury. 
 
 "I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had learned to 
 succor the miserable, and that's not '^our trade, Mr. Sheepskin," said the 
 trooper. 
 
 "You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet," the cap- 
 tain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a kind face and kind 
 word, felt very grateful to this good-natured champion. 
 
 The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach ; and the countess 
 and Victoire came down and were put into the vehicle. This woman, 
 who quarreled with Harry Esmond all day, was melted at parting with 
 him, and called him "dear angel," and "poor infant," and a hundred 
 other names. 
 
 The viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade him always 
 be faithful to the house of Esmond. "If evil should happen to my lord," 
 says she, "his successor, I trust, will be found, and give you protection. 
 Situated as I am, they will not dare wreak their vengeance on me now." 
 And she kissed a medal she wore with great fervor, and Henry Esmond 
 knew not in the least what her meaning was ; but has since learned that, 
 old as she was, she was forever expecting, by the good offices of saints 
 and relics, to have an heir to the title of Esmond. 
 
 Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced into the secrets 
 of politics in which his patrons were implicated; for they put but few 
 questions to the boy (who was little of stature, and looked much younger 
 than his age), and such questions as they put he answered cautiously 
 enough, and professing even more ignorance than he had, for which his 
 examiners willingly enough gave him credit. He did not say a word 
 about the window or the cupboard over the fireplace; and these secrets 
 quite escaped the eyes of the searchers. 
 
 So then my lady was consigned to her coach, and sent off to Hexton, 
 with her woman and the man of law to bear her company, a couple of 
 troopers riding on either side of the coach. And Harry was left behind 
 at the Hall, belonging as it were to nobody, and quite alone in the world. 
 The captain and a guard of men remained in possession there; and the 
 soldiers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate my lord's mutton 
 
 50
 
 and drank his wine, and made themselves comfortable, as they well 
 might do in such pleasant quarters. 
 
 The captains had their dinners served in my lord's tapestry parlor, and 
 poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait upon Captain Westbury's 
 chair, as his custom had been to serve his lord when he sat there. 
 
 After the departure of the countess, Dick the Scholar took Harry 
 Esmond under his special protection, and would examine him in his 
 humanities, and talk to him both of French and Latin, in which tongues 
 the lad found, and his new friend was willing enough to acknowledge, 
 that he was even more proficient than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had 
 learned them from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom and whose goodness 
 Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy's surprise, 
 who began to have an early shrewdness, like many children bred up 
 alone, showed a great deal of theological science, and knowledge of the 
 points at issue between the two Churches; so that he and Harry would 
 have hours of controversy together, in which the boy was certainly 
 worsted by the arguments of this singular trooper. "I am no common 
 soldier," Dick would say, and indeed it was easy to see by his learning, 
 breeding, and many accomplishments, that he was not. "I am of one of 
 the most ancient families in the empire; I have had my education at a 
 famous school, and a famous university; I learned my first rudiments 
 of Latin near to Smithfield, in London, where the martyrs were roasted." 
 
 "You hanged as many of ours," interposed Harry; "and, for the 
 matter of persecution, Father Holt told me that a young gentleman of 
 Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, student at the college there, was hanged 
 for heresy only last year, though he recanted, and solemnly asked pardon 
 for his errors." 
 
 "Faith! there has been too much persecution on both sides: but 'twas 
 you taught us." 
 
 "Nay, 'twas the pagans began it," cried the lad, and began to instance 
 a number of saints of the Church, from the Protomartyr downwards — 
 "this one's fire went out under him: that one's oil cooled in the caldron: 
 at a third holy head the executioner chopped three times and it would 
 not come off. Show us martyrs in your Church for whom such miracles 
 have been done." 
 
 "Nay," says the trooper gravely, "the miracles of the first three cen- 
 turies belong to my Church as well as yours, Master Papist," and then 
 added, with sometloing of a smile upon his countenance, and a queer 
 look at Harry — "And yet, my little catechiser, I have sometimes thought 
 
 51
 
 about those miracles, that there was not much good in them, since the 
 victim's head always finished by coming off at the third or fourth chop, 
 and the caldron, if it did not boil one day, boiled the next. Howbeit, in 
 our times, the Church has lost that questionable advantage of respites. 
 There never was a shower to put out Ridley's fire, nor an angel to turn 
 the edge of Campion's axe. The rack tore the limbs of Southwell the 
 Jesuit and Sympson the Protestant alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes 
 die willingly enough. I have read in Monsieur Rycaut's History of the 
 Turks, of thousands of Mahomet's followers rushing upon death in a 
 battle as upon certain Paradise; and in the great Mogul's dominions peo- 
 ple fling themselves by hundreds under the cars of the idols annually, 
 and the widows burn themselves on their husbands' bodies, as 'tis well 
 known. 'Tis not the dying for a faith that's so hard, Master Harry — 
 every man of evev^ nation has done that — 'tis the living up to it that 
 is difficult, as I know to my cost," he added, with a sigh. "And ah!" he 
 added, "my poor lad, I am not strong enough to convince thee by my 
 life — though to die for my religion would give me the greatest of joys — 
 but I had a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford: I wish Joe 
 Addison were here to convince thee, as he quickly could — for I think 
 he's a match for the whole College of Jesuits ; and what's more, in his life 
 too. In that very sermon of Doctor Cudworth's which your priest was 
 quoting from, and which suffered martyrdom in the brazier" — Dick 
 added, with a smile, "I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but 
 was ashamed of my life, you see, and took to this sorry red one) ; I have 
 often thought of Joe Addison — Doctor Cudworth says, "A good con- 
 science is the best looking-glass of heaven' — and there's a serenity in 
 my friend's face which always reflects it — I wish you could see him, 
 Harry." 
 
 "Did he do you a great deal of good?" asked the lad simply. 
 
 "He might have done," said the other — "at least he taught me to see 
 and approve better things. 'Tis my own fault, deteriora sequi." 
 
 "You seem very good," the boy said. 
 
 "I'm not what I seem, alas!" answered the trooper — and indeed, as 
 it turned out, poor Dick told the truth— for that very night, at supper 
 m the the hall, where the gentlemen of the troop took their repasts, and 
 passed most part of their days dicing and smoking of tobacco, and sing- 
 ing and cursing, over the Castlewood ale — Harry Esmond found Dick 
 the Scholar in a woeful state of drunkenness. He hiccuped out a sermon; 
 and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn, on which Dick, 
 
 52
 
 swearing that he would run the scoundrel through the body who insulted 
 his religion, made for his sword, which was hanging on the wall, and 
 fell down flat on the floor under it, saying to Harry, who ran forward 
 to help him, "Ah, little Papist, I wish Joseph Addison was here!" 
 
 Though the troopers of the King's Life Guards were all gentlemen, 
 yet the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and vulgar boors to Harry 
 Esmond, with the exception of this good-natured Corporal Steele the 
 Scholar, and Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant, who were always 
 kind to the lad. They remained for some weeks or months encamped 
 in Castlewood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how 
 the lady at Hexton Castle was treated, and the particulars of her confine- 
 ment there. 'Tis known that King William was disposed to deal very 
 leniently with the gentry who remained faithful to the old King's cause; 
 and no prince usurping a crown, as his enemies said he did (righteously 
 taking it, as I think now), ever caused less blood to be shed. As for 
 women conspirators, he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked 
 up the others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, 
 and the jailer's garden to walk in; and though she repeatedly desired to 
 be led out to execution, like Mary Queen of Scots, there never was any 
 thought of taking her painted old head off, or any desire to do aught 
 but keep her person in security. 
 
 And it appeared she found that some were friends in her misfortune, 
 whom she had, in her prosperity, considered as her worst enemies. Colonel 
 Francis Esmond, my lord's cousin and her ladyship's, who had married 
 the Dean of Winchester's daughter, and, since King James's departure 
 out of England, had lived not very far away from Hexton town, hearing 
 of his kinswoman's strait, and being friends with Colonel Brice, com- 
 manding for King William in Hexton, and with the Church dignitaries 
 there, came to visit her ladyship in prison, offering to his uncle's daughter 
 any friendly services which lay in his power. And he brought his lady 
 and little daughter to see the prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of 
 great beauty and many winning ways, the old viscountess took not a 
 little liking, although between her ladyship and the child's mother there 
 was little more love than formerly. There are some injuries which women 
 never forgive one another: and Madam Francis Esmond, in marrying 
 her cousin, had done one of those irretrievable wrongs to Lady Castle- 
 wood. But as she was now humiliated, and in misfortune, Madam Francis 
 could allow a truce to her enmity, and could be kind for a while, at 
 least, to her husband's discarded mistress. So the little Beatrix, her 
 
 53
 
 daughter, was permitted often to go and visit tlie imprisoned viscountess, 
 who, in so far as the child and its father were concerned, got to abate 
 in her anger towards that branch of the Castlewood family. And the 
 letters of Colonel Esmond coming to light, as has been said, and his 
 conduct being known to the King's Council, the colonel was put in a 
 better position with the existing government than he had ever before 
 been ; any suspicions regarding his loyalty were entirely done away ; and 
 so he was enabled to be of more service to his kinswoman than he could 
 otherwise have been. 
 
 And now there befell an event by which this lady recovered her 
 liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, and fatherless 
 little Harry Esmond a new and most kind protector and friend. What- 
 ever that secret was which Harry was to hear from my lord, the boy 
 never heard it; for that night when Father Holt arrived, and carried my 
 lord away with him, was the last on which Harry ever saw his patron. 
 What happened to my lord may be briefly told here. Having found the 
 horses at the place where they were lying, my lord and Father Holt rode 
 together to Chatteris, where they had temporary refuge with one of the 
 father's penitents in that city: but the pursuit being hot for them, and 
 the reward for the apprehension of one or the other considerable, it was 
 deemed advisable that they should separate; and the priest betook him- 
 self to other places of retreat known to him, whilst my lord passed over 
 from Bristol into Ireland, in which kingdom King James had a court 
 and an army. My lord was but a small addition to this ; bringing, indeed, 
 only his sword and the few pieces in his pocket ; but the King received 
 him with some kindness and distinction in spite of his poor plight, con- 
 firmed him in his new title of marquis, gave him a regiment, and promised 
 him further promotion. But title or promotion were not to benefit him 
 now. My lord was wounded at the fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from 
 which field (long after his master had set him an example) he lay for 
 a while concealed in the marshy country near to the town of Trim, and 
 more from catarrh and fever caught in the bogs than from the steel of 
 the enemy in the battle, sank and died. May the earth lie light upon 
 Thomas of Castlewood ! He who writes this must speak in charity, though 
 this lord did him and his two grievous wrongs: for one of these he 
 would have made amends, perhaps, had life been spared him; but the 
 other lay beyond his power to repair, though 'tis to be hoped that a 
 greater Power than a priest has absolved him of it. He got the comfort 
 
 54
 
 of this absolution, too, such as it was ! a priest of Trim writing a letter 
 to my lady to inform her of this calamity. 
 
 But in those days letters were slow of traveling, and our priest's took 
 two months or more on its journey from Ireland to England: where, 
 when it did arrive, it did not fmd ray lady at her own house; she was at 
 the King's house of Hexton Castle when the letter came to Castlewood. 
 but it was opened for all that by the officer in command there. 
 
 Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, which Lock- 
 wood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieutenant Trant were on 
 the green playing at bowls, young Esmond looking on at the sport, or 
 reading his book in the arbor. 
 
 "Here's news for Frank Esmond," says Captain Westbury. "Harry, 
 did you ever see Colonel Esmond.''" Captain Westbury looked very hard 
 at the boy as he spoke. 
 
 Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at Hexton, at the 
 ball there. 
 
 "And did he say anything?" 
 
 "He said what I don't care to repeat," Harry answered. For he was 
 now twelve years of age; he knew what his birth was, and the disgrace 
 of it ; and he felt no love towards the man who had most likely stained 
 his mother's honor and his own. 
 
 "Did you love my Lord Castlewood.^" 
 
 "I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say," the boy answered, his 
 eyes filling with tears. 
 
 "Something has happened to Lord Castlewood," Captain Westbury 
 said, in a very grave tone — "something which must happen to us all. He 
 is dead of a wound received at the Boyne, fighting for King James." 
 
 "I am glad my lord fought for the right cause," the boy said. 
 
 "It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than face it on 
 Tower Hill, as some of them may," continued Mr. Westbury. "I hope 
 he has made some testament, or provided for thee somehow. This letter 
 says he recommends tinktim [ilium suum dilectiss'imtim to his lady. I hope 
 he has left you more than that." 
 
 Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of Heaven and 
 Fate; but more lonely now, as it seemed to him, than he had been all 
 the rest of his life; and that night, as he lay in his little room, which he 
 still occupied, the boy thought with many a pang of shame and grief of 
 his strange and solitary condition; — how he had a father and no father; 
 a nameless mother that had been brought to ruin, perhaps, by that very 
 
 55
 
 father whom Harry could only acknowledge in secret and with a blush, 
 and whom he could neither love nor revere. And he sickened to think 
 how Father Holt, a stranger, and two or three soldiers, his acquaintances 
 of the last six weeks, were the only friends he had in the great wide 
 world, where he was now quite alone. The soul of the boy was full of 
 love, and he longed, as he lay in the darkness there, for someone upon 
 whom he could bestow it. He remembers and must to his dying day, the 
 thoughts and tears of that long night, the hours tolling through it. Who 
 was he, and what? Why here rather than elsewhere? I have a mind, he 
 thought, to go to that priest at Trim, and find out what my father said to 
 him on his death-bed confession. Is there any child in the whole world 
 so unprotected as I am? Shall I get up and quit this place, and run to 
 Ireland? With these thoughts and tears the lad passed that night away 
 until he wept himself to sleep. 
 
 The next day, the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard what had 
 befallen him, were more than usually kind to the child, especially his 
 friend Scholar Dick, who told him about his own father's death, which 
 had happened when Dick was a child at Dublin, not quite five years of 
 age. "That was the first sensation of grief," Dick said, "I ever knew. I 
 remember I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat 
 weeping beside it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating 
 the coffin, and calling papa; on which my mother caught me in her arms, 
 and told me in a flood of tears papa could not hear me, and would play 
 with me no more, for they were going to put him under ground, whence 
 he could never come to us again. And this," said Dick kindly, "has 
 made me pity all children ever since; and caused me to love thee, my 
 poor fatherless, motherless lad. And if ever thou wantest a friend, thou 
 shalt have one in Richard Steele." 
 
 Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful. But what could Cor- 
 poral Steele do for him ? take him to ride a spare horse, and be servant to 
 the troop? Though there might be a bar in Harry Esmond's shield, it 
 was a noble one. The counsel of the two friends was, that little Harry 
 should stay where he was, and abide his fortune: so Esmond stayed on 
 at Castlewood, awaiting with no small anxiety the fate, whatever it was, 
 which was over him. 
 
 56
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 1 Am Left at Castle wood an Orphan 
 
 During the stay of the soldiers in Castlewood, honest Dick the Scholar 
 was the constant companion of the lonely little orphan lad Harry Esmond : 
 and they read together, and they played bowls together, and when the 
 other troopers or their officers, who were free spoken over their cups 
 (as was the way of that day, when neither men nor women were over 
 nice), talked unbecomingly of their amours and gallantries before the 
 child, Dick, who very likely was setting the whole company laughing, 
 would stop their jokes with a maxima debetur pueris reverentia, and 
 once offered to lug out against another trooper called Hulking Tom, 
 who wanted to ask Harry Esmond a ribald question. 
 
 Also Dick, seeing that the child had, as he said, a sensibility above his 
 years, and a great and praiseworthy discretion, confided to Harry his 
 love for a vintner's daughter, near to the Tollyard, Westminster, whom 
 Dick addressed as Saccharissa in many verses of his composition, and 
 without whom he said it would be impossible that he could continue to 
 live. He vowed this a thousand times in a day, though Harry smiled to 
 see the love-lorn swain had his health and appetite as well as the most 
 heart-whole trooper in the regiment: and he swore Harry to secrecy too, 
 which vow the lad religiously kept, until he found that officers and 
 privates were all taken into Dick's confidence, and had the benefit of 
 his verses. And it must be owned likewise that, while Dick was sighing 
 after Saccharissa in London, he had consolations in the country; for 
 there came a wench out of Castlewood village who had washed his linen, 
 and who cried sadly when she heard he was gone: and without paying 
 her bill too, which Harry Esmond took upon himself to discharge by 
 giving the girl a silver pocket piece, which Scholar Dick had presented 
 to him, when, with many embraces and prayers for his prosperit}', Dick 
 parted from him, the garrison of Castlewood being ordered away. Dick 
 the Scholar said he would never forget his young friend, nor indeed 
 did he: and Harry was sorry when the kind soldiers vacated Castlewood, 
 looking forward with no small anxiety (for care and solitude had made 
 him thoughtful beyond his years) to his fate when the new lord and lady 
 of the house came to live there. He had lived to be past twelve years old 
 now; and had never had a friend, save this wild trooper perhaps, and 
 
 57
 
 Father Holt ; and had a fond and affectionate heart, tender to weakness, 
 that would fain attach itself to somebody, and did not seem at rest until 
 it had found a friend who would take charge of it. 
 
 The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love the gracious 
 person, the fair apparition whose beauty and kindness had so moved him 
 when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection and passion 
 of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart, that as yet, except in 
 the case of dear Father Holt, had had very little kindness for which to 
 be thankful. O Dea certe, thought he, remembering the lines of the 
 JEneis which Mr. Holt had taught him. There seemed, as the boy thought, 
 in every look or gesture of this fair creature, an angelical softness and 
 bright pity — in motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the tone 
 of her voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him pleasure 
 that amounted almost to anguish. It cannot be called love, that a lad of 
 twelve years of age, little more than a menial, felt for an exalted lady, 
 his mistress: but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her 
 errand and run on it before she had spoken it; to watch, follow, adore 
 her; became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way often, his 
 idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or suspected the admira- 
 tion of her little pigmy adorer. 
 
 My lady had on her side her three idols : first and foremost, Jove and 
 supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good Viscount of Castle- 
 wood. All wishes of his were laws with her. If he had a headache, she 
 was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and was 
 charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the window to see him 
 ride away, her little son crowing on her arm, or on the watch till his 
 return. She made dishes for his dinner: spiced his wine for him: made 
 the toast for his tankard at breakfast: hushed the house when he slept 
 in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If my lord was not 
 a little proud of his beauty, my lady adored it. She clung to his arm as 
 he paced the terrace, her two fair little hands clasped round his great 
 one; her eyes were never tired of looking in his face and wondering at 
 its perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father's look and 
 curly brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had his 
 eyes — were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world? All the house 
 was arranged so as to bring him ease and give him pleasure. She liked 
 the small gentry round about to come and pay him court, never caring 
 for admiration for herself; those who wanted to be well with the lady 
 must admire him. Not regarding her dress, she would wear a gown to 
 
 58
 
 rags, because he had once hked it: and, if he brought her a brooch or 
 a ribbon, would prefer it to all the most costly articles of her wardrobe. 
 
 My lord went to London every year for six weeks, and the family 
 being too poor to appear at Court with any figure, he went alone. It was 
 not until he was out of sight that her face showed any sorrow : and what 
 a joy when he came back! What preparation before his return! The 
 fond creature had his armchair at the chimney-side — delighting to put 
 the children in it, and look at them there. Nobody took his place at the 
 table; but his silver tankard stood there as when my lord was present. 
 
 A pretty sight it was to see, during my lord's absence, or on those 
 many mornings when sleep or headache kept him a-bed, this fair young 
 lady of Castlewood, her little daughter at her knee, and her domestics 
 gathered round her, reading the Morning Prayer of the English Church. 
 Esmond long remembered how she looked and spoke, kneeling reverently 
 before the sacred book, the sun shining upon her golden hair until it 
 made a halo round about her. A dozen of the servants of the house 
 kneeled in a line opposite their mistress. For a while Harry Esmond kept 
 apart from these mysteries, but Doctor Tusher showing him that the 
 prayers read were those of the Church of all ages, and the boy's own 
 inclination prompting him to be always as near as he might to his mistress, 
 and to think all things she did right, from listening to the prayer in the 
 antechamber, he came presently to kneel down with the rest of the house- 
 hold in the parlor; and before a couple of years my lady had made a 
 thorough convert. Indeed the boy loved his catechiser so much that he 
 would have subscribed to anything she bade him, and was never tired 
 of listening to her fond discourse and simple comments upon the book, 
 which she read to him in a voice of which it was difficult to resist the 
 sweet persuasion and tender appealing kindness. This friendly contro- 
 versy, and the intimacy which it occasioned, bound the lad more fondly 
 than ever to his mistress. The happiest period of all his life was this; 
 and the young mother, with her daughter and son, and the orphan lad 
 whom she protected, read and worked and played, and were children 
 together. If the lady looked forward — as what fond woman does not? 
 — towards the future, she had no plans from which Harry Esmond was 
 left out; and a thousand and a thousand times, in his passionate and 
 impetuous way, he vowed that no power should separate him from his 
 mistress ; and only asked for some chance to happen by which he might 
 show his fidelity to her. Now, at the close of his life, as he sits and recalls 
 in tranquillity, the happy and busy scenes of it, he can think, not un- 
 
 59
 
 gratefully, that he has been faithful to that early vow. Such a life is so 
 simple that years may be chronicled in a few lines. But few men's life 
 voyages are destined to be all prosperous; and this calm of which we 
 are speaking was soon to come to an end. 
 
 As Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found of necessity 
 much to read and think of outside that fond circle of kinsfolk who had 
 admitted him to join hands with them. He read more books than they 
 cared to study with him; was alone in the midst of them many a time, 
 and passed nights over labors, futile perhaps, but in which they could 
 not join him. His dear mistress divined his thoughts with her usual 
 jealous watchfulness of affection: began to forebode a time when he 
 would escape from his home nest; and, at his eager protestations to the 
 contrary, would only sigh and shake her head. Before those fatal decrees 
 in life are executed, there are always secret previsions and warning 
 omens. When everything yet seems calm, we are aware that the storm 
 is coming. Ere the happy days were over, two at least of that home-party 
 felt that they were drawing to a close ; and were uneasy, and on the look- 
 out for the cloud which was to obscure their calm. 
 
 'Twas easy for Harry to see, however much his lady persisted in 
 obedience and admiration for her husband, that my lord tired of his 
 quiet life, and grew weary, and then testy, at those gentle bonds with 
 which his wife would have held him. As they say the Grand Lama of 
 Thibet is very much fatigued by his character of divinity, and yawns on 
 his altar as his bonzes kneel and worship him, many a home god grows 
 heartily sick of the reverence with which his family devotees pursue him, 
 and sighs for freedom and for his old life, and to be off the pedestal on 
 which his dependents would have him sit forever, while they adore him, 
 and ply him with flowers and hymns, and incense, and flattery; — so after 
 a few years of his marriage my honest Lord Castlewood began to tire; 
 all the high-flown raptures and devotional ceremonies with which his 
 wife, his chief -priestess, treated him, first sent him to sleep, and then 
 drove him out of doors; for the truth must be told, that my lord was a 
 jolly gentleman, with very little of the august or divine in his nature, 
 though his fond wife persisted in revering it — and, beside?, he had to 
 pay a penalty for this love, which persons of his disposition seldom like 
 to defray: and, in a word, if he had a loving wife, had a very jealous 
 and exacting one. Then he wearied of this jealousy; then he broke away 
 from it; then came, no doubt, complaints and recriminations; then, per- 
 haps, promises of amendment not fulfilled; then upbraidings not the 
 
 60
 
 more pleasant because they were silent, and only sad looks and tearful 
 eyes conveyed them. Then, perhaps, the pair reached that other stage 
 which is not uncommon in married life, when the woman perceives that 
 the god of the honeymoon is a god no more ; only a mortal like the rest 
 of us — and so she looks into her heart, and lo! vacuae sedes et inania 
 arcana. And now, supposing our lady to have a fine genius and a brilliant 
 wit of her own, and the magic spell and infatuation removed from her 
 which had led her to worship as a god a very ordinary mortal — and 
 what follows? They live together, and they dine together, and they say 
 "my dear" and "my love" as heretofore; but the man is himself, and 
 the woman herself: that dream of love is over as everything else is over 
 in life; as flowers and fury, and griefs and pleasures are over. 
 
 Very likely the Lady Castlewood had ceased to adore her husband 
 herself long before she got off her knees, or would allow her household 
 to discontinue worshiping him. To do him justice, my lord never exacted 
 this subservience; he laughed and joked and drank his bottle, and swore 
 when he was angry, much too familiarly for anyone pretending to su- 
 blimity; and did his best to destroy the ceremonial with which his wife 
 chose to surround him. And it required no great conceit on young 
 Esmond's part to see that his own brains were better than his patron's, 
 who, indeed, never assumed any airs of superiority over the lad, or over 
 any dependent of his, save when he was displeased, in which case he 
 would express his mind in oaths very freely; and who, on the contrary, 
 perhaps, spoiled "Parson Harry," as he called young Esmond, by con- 
 stantly praising his parts and admiring his boyish stock of learning. 
 
 It may seem ungracious in one who has received a hundred favors 
 from his patron to speak in any but a reverential manner of his elders; 
 but the present writer has had descendants of his own, whom he has 
 brought up with as little as possible of the servility at present exacted 
 by parents from children (under which mask of duty there often lurks 
 indifference, contempt, or rebellion) : and as he would have his grand- 
 sons believe or represent him to be not an inch taller than Nature has 
 made him: so, with regard to his past acquaintances, he would speak 
 without anger, but with truth, as far as he knows it, neither extenuating 
 nor setting down aught in malice. 
 
 So long, then, as the world moved according to lord Castlewood's 
 wishes, he was good-humored enough; of a temper naturally sprightly 
 and easy, liking to joke, especially with his inferiors, and charmed to 
 receive the tribute of their laughter. All exercises of the body he could 
 
 6 1
 
 perform to perfection — shooting at a mark and flying, breaking horses, 
 riding at the ring, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with great 
 skill. And not only did he do these things well, but he thought he did 
 them to perfection; hence he was often tricked about horses, which he 
 pretended to know better than any jockey; was made to play at ball and 
 billiards by sharpers who took his money, and came back from London 
 woefully poorer each time than he went, as the state of his affairs testified 
 when the sudden accident came by which his career was brought to an 
 end. 
 
 He was fond of the parade of dress, and passed as many hours daily 
 at his toilette as an elderly coquette. A tenth part of his day was spent 
 in the brushing of his teeth and the oiling of his hair, which was curling 
 and brown, and which he did not like to conceal under a periwig, such 
 as almost everybody of that time wore. (We have the liberty of our hair 
 back now, but powder and pomatum along with it. When, I wonder, 
 will these monstrous poll-taxes of our age be withdrawn, and men al- 
 lowed to carry their colors, black, red, or gray, as Nature made them?) 
 And as he liked her to be well dressed, his lady spared no pains in that 
 matter to please him; indeed, she would dress her head or cut it off if he 
 had bidden her. 
 
 It was a wonder to young Esmond, serving as page to my lord and 
 lady, to hear, day after day, to such company as came, the same boisterous 
 stories told by my lord, at which his lady never failed to smile or hold 
 down her head, and Doctor Tusher to burst out laughing at the proper 
 point, or cry, "Fie, my lord, remember my cloth!" but with such a faint 
 show of resistance, that it only provoked my lord further. Lord Castle- 
 wood's stories rose by degrees, and became stronger after the ale at 
 dinner and the bottle afterwards; my lady always taking flight after the 
 very first glass to Church and King, and leaving the gentlemen to drink 
 the rest of the toasts by themselves. 
 
 And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called from duty 
 at this time. "My lord has lived in the army and with soldiers," she 
 would say to the lad, "amongst whom great license is allowed. You have 
 had a different nurture, and I trust these things will change as you grow 
 older; not that any fault attaches to my lord, who is one of the best and 
 most religious men in this kingdom." And very likely she believed so. 
 'Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman yet think him an angel. 
 
 And as Esmond has taken truth for his motto, it must be owned, even 
 with regard to that other angel, his mistress, that she had a fault of 
 
 62
 
 character which flawed her perfections. With the other sex perfectly 
 tolerant and kindly, of her own she was invariably jealous; and a proof 
 that she had this vice is, that though she would acknowledge a thousand 
 faults that she had not, to this which she had she could never be got 
 to own. But if there came a woman with even a semblance of beauty to 
 Castlewood, she was so sure to find out some wrong in her, that my 
 lord, laughing in his jolly way, would often joke with her concerning 
 her foible. Comely servant-maids might come for hire, but none was 
 taken at Castlewood. The housekeeper was old ; my lady's own wait- 
 ing-woman squinted, and was marked with the smallpox; the house- 
 maids and scullion were ordinary country wenches, to whom Lady 
 Castlewood was kind, as her nature made her to everybody almost ; but 
 as soon as ever she had to do with a pretty woman, she was cold, retir- 
 ing, and haughty. The country ladies found this fault in her ; and though 
 the men all admired her, their wives and daughters complained of her 
 coldness and airs, and said that Castlewood was pleasanter in Lady 
 Jezebel's time (as the dowager was called) than at present. Some few 
 were of my mistress's side. Old Lady Blenkinsop Jointure, who had been 
 at Court in King James the First's time, always took her side; and so 
 did old Mistress Crookshank, Bishop Crookshank's daughter, of Hexton, 
 who, with some more of their like, pronounced my lady an angel: but 
 the pretty women were not of this mind ; and the opinion of the country 
 was that my lord was tied to his wife's apron-strings, and that she ruled 
 over him. 
 
 The second fight which Harry £smond had, was at fourteen years of 
 age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's son, of Bramble- 
 brook, who, advancing his opinion, that my lady was jealous and hen- 
 pecked my lord, put Harry in such a fury, that Harry fell on him and 
 with such rage, that the other boy, who was two years older and by far 
 bigger than he, had by far the worst of the assault, until it was interrupted 
 by Doctor Tusher walking out of the dinner-room. 
 
 Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having, indeed, been 
 surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, by the fury of the 
 assault upon him. 
 
 "You little bastard beggar!" he said, "Lll murder you for this!" 
 
 And indeed he was big enough. 
 
 "Bastard or not," said the other, grinding his teeth, "I have a couple 
 of swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, on the terrace to- 
 night " 
 
 63
 
 And here the doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young champions 
 ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did not care to continue 
 a fight with such a ferocious opponent as this had been. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 After Good Fortune Comes Evil 
 
 Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the custom of 
 inoculation from Turkey (a perilous practice many deem it, and only 
 a useless rushing into the jaws of danger), I think the severity of the 
 smallpox, that dreadful scourge of the world, has somewhat been abated 
 in our part of it ; and remember in my time hundreds of the young and 
 beautiful who have been carried to the grave, or have only risen from 
 their pillows frightfully scarred and disfigured by this malady. Many a 
 sweet face hath left its roses on the bed on which this dreadful and 
 withering blight has laid them. In my early days, this pestilence would 
 enter a village and destroy half its inhabitants: at its approach, it may 
 well be imagined not only the beautiful but the strongest were alarmed, 
 and those fled who could. One day in the year 1694 (I have good reason 
 to remember it), Dr. Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a face 
 of consternation, saying that the malady had made its appearance at the 
 blacksmith's house in the village, and that one of the maids there was 
 down in the smallpox. 
 
 The blacksmith, besides his forge and irons for horses, had an ale- 
 house for men, which his wife kept, and his company sat on benches 
 before the inn door, looking at the smithy while they drank their beer. 
 Now, there was a pretty girl at this inn, the landlord's men called Nancy 
 Sievewright, a bouncing, fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as 
 the hollyhocks over the pales of the garden behind the inn. At this time 
 Harry Esmond was a lad of sixteen, and somehow in his walks and ram- 
 bles it often happened that he fell in with Nancy Sievewright's bonny 
 face; if he did not want something done at the blacksmith's he would 
 ^o and drink ale at the "Three Castles," or find some pretext for seeing 
 this poor Nancy. Poor thing, Harry meant or imagined no harm; and 
 she, no doubt, as little ; but the truth is they were always meeting — in 
 the lanes, or by the brook, or at the garden palings, or about Castlewood: 
 
 64
 
 it was, "Lord, Mr. Henry!" and "How do you do, Nanc7?" many and 
 many a time in the week. 'Tis surprising the magnetic attraction which 
 draws people together from ever so far. I blush as I think of poor 
 Nancy now, in a red bodice and buxom purple cheeks and a canvas 
 petticoat; and that I devised schemes, and set traps, and made speeches 
 in my heart, which I seldom had courage to say when in presence of that 
 humble enchantress, who knew nothing beyond milking a cow, and 
 opened her black eyes with wonder when I made one of my fine speeches 
 out of Waller or Ovid. Poor Nancy! from the midst of far-off years 
 thine honest country face beams out ; and I remember thy kind voice as if 
 I had heard it yesterday. 
 
 When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the smallpox was at the 
 "Three Castles," whither a tramper, it was said, had brought the malady, 
 Henry Esmond's first thought was of alarm for poor Nancy, and then of 
 shame and disquiet for the Castlewood family, lest he might have brought 
 this infection ; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in a back 
 room for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was with a little 
 brother who complained of headache, and was lying stupefied and crying, 
 either in a chair by the corner of the fire, or in Nancy's lap, or on mine. 
 
 Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news; and my lord 
 cried out, "God bless me!" He was a brave man, and not afraid of death 
 in any shape but this. He was very proud of his pink complexion and 
 fair hair — but the idea of death by smallpox scared him beyond all other 
 ends. "We will take the children and ride away tomorrow to Walcote": 
 this was my lord's small house, inherited from his mother, near to 
 Winchester. 
 
 "That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads," said Doctor Tusher. 
 " 'Tis awful to think of it beginning at the alehouse; half the people of 
 the village have visited that today, or the blacksmith's, which is the same 
 thing. My clerk Nahum lodges with them — I can never go into my read- 
 ing-desk and have that fellow so near me. I won't have that man near me." 
 
 "If a parishioner dying in the smallpox sent to you, would you not 
 go?" asked my lady, looking up from her frame of work with her calm 
 blue eyes. 
 
 "By the Lord, / wouldn't," said my lord. 
 
 "We are not in a Popish country; and a sick man doth not absolutely 
 need absolution and confession," said the doctor. " 'Tis true they are 
 a comfort and a help to him when attainable, and to be administered with 
 hope of good. But in a case where the life of a parish priest in the midst 
 
 65
 
 of his flock is highly valuable to them, he is not called upon to risk it (and 
 therewith the lives, future prospects, and temporal, even spiritual wel- 
 fare of his own family) for the sake of a single person, who is not 
 very likely in a condition even to understand the religious message 
 whereof the priest is the bringer — being uneducated, and likewise stupe- 
 fied or delirious by disease. If your ladyship or his lordship, my excellent 
 good friend and patron, were to take it " , 
 
 "God forbid !" cried my lord. 
 
 "Amen," continued Dr. Tusher. "Amen to that prayer, my very good 
 lord! for your sake I would lay my life down" — and, to judge from the 
 alarmed look of the doctor's purple face, you would have thought that 
 that sacrifice was about to be called for instantly. 
 
 To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, rather than 
 a merit, in Henry Esmond ; so much so, that he thought almost with a 
 sort of shame of his liking for them, and of the softness into which it 
 betrayed him; and on this day the poor fellow had not only had his 
 young friend, the milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but had been drawing 
 pictures and telling stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who had occu- 
 pied the same place for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of 
 Henry's tales, and his pictures of soldiers and horses. As luck would 
 have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual place, which 
 generally she was glad enough to have, upon her tutor's lap. For Beatrix, 
 from the earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was given to her 
 httle brother Frank. She would fling away even from the maternal arms, 
 if she saw Frank had been there before her ; insomuch that Lady Esmond 
 was obliged not to show her love for her son in the presence of the little 
 girl, and embrace one or the other alone. She would turn pale and red 
 with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or aflfection between Frank 
 and his mother ; would sit apart, and not speak for a whole night, if she 
 thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger cake than hers; would fling 
 away a ribbon if he had one; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her 
 httle chair by the great fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady Castle- 
 wood commonly sat at her embroidery, would utter infantine sarcasms 
 about the favor shown to her brother. These, if spoken in the presence of 
 Lord Castlewood, tickled and amused his humor; he would pretend to 
 love Frank best, and dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at 
 Beatrix's jealousy. But the truth is, my lord did not often witness these 
 scenes, nor very much trouble the quiet fireside at which his lady passed 
 many long evenings. My lord was hunting all day when the season ad- 
 66
 
 mi'tted; he frequented all the cock-fights and fairs in the country, and 
 would ride twenty miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their 
 heads at a cudgeling match ; and he Aked better to sit in his parlor drink- 
 ing ale and punch with Jack and Tom, than in his wife's drawing-room: 
 whither, if he came, he brought only two often bloodshot eyes, a hie- 
 cuping voice, and a reeling gait. The management of the house, and the 
 property, the care of the few tenants and the village poor and the 
 accounts of the estate, were in the hands of his lady and her young secre- 
 tary, Harry Esmond. My lord took charge of the stables, the kennel, and 
 the cellar — and he filled this, and emptied it too. 
 
 So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry Esmond had 
 had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son, alike upon his knee, little 
 Beatrix, who would come to her tutor willingly enough with her book and 
 her writing, had refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother, 
 and, luckily for her, had sat at the further end of the room, away from 
 him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had (and for which, by fits 
 and starts, she would take a great affection) , and talking at Harry Esmond 
 over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the dog, saying that Fido 
 would love her, and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido, all 
 her life. 
 
 When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at the "Three 
 Castles" was ill with the smallpox, poor Harry Esmond felt a shock of 
 alarm, not so much for himself as for his mistress' son, whom he might 
 have brought into peril. Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently (and who, 
 whenever a stranger appeared, began, from infancy almost, to play oflF 
 little graces to catch his attention), her brother being now gone to bed, 
 was for taking her place upon Esmond's knee: for, though the doctor 
 was very obsequious to her, she did not like him, because he had thick 
 boots and dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and because she hated 
 learning the Catechism. 
 
 Because as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where she 
 had been sulking, he started back and placed the great chair on which he 
 was sitting between him and her — saying in the French language to Lady 
 Castlewood, with whom the young lad had read much, and whom he 
 had perfected in this tongue — ""Madam, the child must not approach me; 
 I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's today, and had his little boy 
 upon my lap." 
 
 "Where you took my son afterwards," Lady Castlewood said, very 
 angry, and turning red. "'I thank you, sir, for giving him such company. 
 
 67
 
 Beatrix," she said in English, "I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come 
 .away, child — come to your room. Come to your room — I wish your 
 reverence good night — and you, sir, had you not better go back to your 
 x'riends at the alehouse?" Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, darted flashes of 
 anger as she spoke; and she tossed up her head (which hung down com- 
 monly) with the mien of a princess. 
 
 "Hey-day!" says my lord, who was standing by the fireplace — indeed 
 he was in the position to which he generally came by that hour of the 
 evening — "Hey-day! Rachel, what are you in a passion about? Ladies 
 ought never to be in a passion — ought they, Dr. Tusher? — though it 
 does good to see Rachel in a passion. Damme, Lady Castlewood, you look 
 dev'lish handsome in a passion." 
 
 "It is, my lord, because Mr. Henry Esmond, having nothing to do with 
 his time here, and not having a taste for our company, has been to the 
 alehouse, where he has some friends." 
 
 My lord burst out with a laugh and an oath: "You young slyboots, 
 
 you've been at Nancy Sievewright. D the young hypocrite, who'd 
 
 have thought it in him? I say, Tusher, he's been after " 
 
 "Enough, my lord," said my lady; "don't insult me with this talk." 
 
 "Upon my word," said poor Harry, ready to cry with shame and morti- 
 fication, "the honor of that young person is perfectly unstained for me." 
 
 "Oh, of course, of course," says my lord, more and more laughing 
 and tipsy. "Upon his honor, doctor — Nancy Sieve " 
 
 "Take Mistress Beatrix to bed," my lady cried at this moment to Mrs. 
 Tusher, her woman, who came in with her ladyship's tea. "Put her into 
 my room — no, into yours," she added quickly. "Go, my child: go, I 
 say: not a word!" And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of 
 authority from one who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went 
 out of the room with a scared countenance, and waited even to burst 
 out a-crying until she got to the door with Mrs. Tusher. 
 
 For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and continued 
 to speak eagerly — "My lord," she said, "this young man — your de- 
 pendent — told me just now in French — he was ashamed to speak in his 
 own language — that he had been at the alehouse all day, where he has 
 had that little wretch who is now ill of the smallpox on his knee. And 
 he comes home reeking from that place — yes, reeking from it — and takes 
 my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me, yes, by me. 
 He may have killed Frank for what I know — killed our child. Why was he 
 
 68
 
 brought in to disgrace our house ? Why is he here ? Let him go — let him 
 go, I say, tonight, and pollute the place no more." 
 
 She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry Esmond ; 
 and her cruel words smote the poor boy, so that he stood for some mo- 
 ments bewildered with grief and rage at the injustice of such a stab from 
 such a hand. He turned quite white from red, which he had been. 
 i "I cannot help my birth, madam," he said, "nor my other misfortune. 
 And as for your boy, if — if my coming nigh to him pollutes him now, 
 it was not so always. Good night, my lord. Heaven bless you and yours 
 for your goodness to me. I have tired her ladyship's kindness out, and I 
 will go"; and, sinking down on his knee, Harry Esmond took the rough 
 hand of his benefactor and kissed it. 
 
 "He wants to go to the alehouse — let him go," cried my lady. 
 
 "I'm d d if he shall," said my lord. "I didn't think you could be 
 
 sO d d ungrateful, Rachel." 
 
 Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the room with 
 a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, as my lord, not heeding him, and still 
 in great good-humor, raised up his young client from his kneeling posture 
 (for a thousand kindnesses had caused the lad to revere my lord as a 
 father), and put his broad hand on Harry Esmond's shoulder. 
 
 "She was always so," my lord said ; "the very notion of a woman drives 
 her mad. I took to liquor on that very account, by Jove, for no other 
 reason than that; for she can't be jealous of a beer-barrel or a bottle of 
 
 rum, can she, Doctor ? D it, look at the maids — just look at the maids 
 
 in the house" (my lord pronounced all the words together — just-look-at- 
 the-maze-in-the-house: jever-see-such-maze?) . "You wouldn't take a wife 
 out of Castlewood now, would you, doctor?" and my lord burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 The doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood under his 
 eyelids, said, "But joking apart, and, my lord, as a divine, I cannot treat 
 the subject in a jocular light, nor, as a pastor of this congregation, look 
 with anything but sorrow at the idea of so very young a sheep going 
 astray." 
 
 "Sir," said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, "she told me 
 that you yourself were a horrid old man, and had offered to kiss her in 
 the dairy." 
 
 "For shame, Henry," cried Dr. Tusher, turning as red as a turkey-cock, 
 while my lord continued to roar with laughter. "If you listen to the 
 
 falsehoods of an abandoned girl " 
 
 69
 
 "She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for me," cried 
 out Henry, "and as kind, and as good. For shame on you to mahgn her!" 
 
 "Far be it from me to do so," cried the doctor. "Heaven grant I may 
 be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have a truly precocious genius; 
 but that is not the point at issue at present. It appears that the smallpox 
 broke out in the little boy at the "Three Castles' ; that it was on him when 
 you visited the alehouse, for your own reasons; and that you sat with 
 the child for some time, and immediately afterwards with my young 
 lord." The doctor raised his voice as he spoke, and looked towards my 
 lady, who had now come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief 
 in her hand. 
 
 "This is all very true, sir," said Lady Esmond, looking at the young man. 
 
 " 'Tis to be feared that he may have brought the infection with him." 
 
 "From the alehouse — yes," said my lady. 
 
 "D n it, I forgot when I collared you, boy," cried my lord, stepping 
 
 back. "Keep off, Harry my boy ; there's no good in running into the wolf's 
 jaws, you know." 
 
 My lady looked at him with surprise, and instantly advancing to Henry 
 Esmond, took his hand. "I beg your pardon, Henry," she said; "I spoke 
 very unkindly. I have no right to interfere with you — with your " 
 
 My lord broke out into an oath. "Can't you leave the boy alone, my 
 lady?" She looked a little red, and frankly pressed the lad's hand as she 
 dropped it. 
 
 "There is no use, my lord," she said; "Frank was on his knee as he 
 was making pictures, and was running constantly from Henry to me. 
 The evil is done, if any." 
 
 "Not with me, damme," cried my lord. "Fve been smoking," — and 
 he lighted his pipe again with a coal — "and it keeps off infection; and 
 as the disease is in the village — plague take it ! — I would have you leave 
 it. We'll go tom.orrow to Walcote, my lady." 
 
 "I have no fear," said my lady, "I may have had it as an infant: it 
 broke out in our house then ; and when four of my sisters had it at home, 
 two years before our marriage, I escaped it, and two of my dear sisters 
 died." 
 
 "I won't run the risk," said my lord; "Fm as bold as any man, but Fll 
 not bear that." 
 
 "Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady. "For us the mischief is 
 done; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has had the disease." 
 
 "You take care to choose 'em ugly enough," said my lord^ at which 
 
 70
 
 her ladyship hung down her head and looked fooHsh: and my lord, 
 calling away Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlor and have a pipe. 
 The doctor made a low bow to her ladyship (of which salaams he was 
 profuse), and walked off on his creaking square-toes after his patron. 
 
 When the lady and the young man were alone, there was a silence of 
 some moments, during which he stood at the fire, looking rather vacantly 
 at the dying embers, while her ladyship busied herself with the tambour- 
 frame and needles. 
 
 "I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice, — "I repeat 
 I am sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful for the safety of my son. 
 It was not at all my wish that you should leave us, I am sure, unless you 
 found pleasure elsewhere. But you must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at 
 your age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to 
 stay upon the intimate footing in which you have been in this family. 
 You have wished to go to the University, and I think 'tis quite as well 
 that you should be sent thither. I did not press this matter, thinking you 
 a child, as you are, indeed, in years — quite a child ; and I should never 
 have thought of treating you otherwise until — until these circumstances 
 came to light. And I shall beg my lord to dispatch you as quick as possible: 
 and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can (I owe my father 
 thanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm sure, for much that you have 
 taught me) , — and — and I wish you a good night, Mr. Esmond." 
 
 And with this she dropped a stately curtsey, and, taking her candle, 
 went away through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. 
 Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce 
 seemed to see until she was gone ; and then her image was impressed upon 
 him, and remained forever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, 
 the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her 
 shining golden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, where he 
 tried to read, as his custom was ; but he never knew what he was reading 
 until afterwards he remembered the appearance of the letters of the book 
 (it was in Montaigne's Essays), and the events of the day passed before 
 him — that is, of the last hour of the day; for as for the morning, and the 
 poor milkmaid yonder, he never so much as once thought. And he could 
 not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache, and 
 quite unrefreshed. 
 
 He had brought the contagion with him from the "Three Castles" sure 
 enough, and was presently laid up with the smallpox, which spared the 
 hall no more than it did the cottage. 
 
 71
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 / Prepare to Leave Castlewood 
 
 When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that malady, and 
 returned to health again, he found that little Frank Esmond had also 
 suffered and rallied after the disease, and the lady his mother was down 
 with it, with a couple more of the household. "It was a Providence, for 
 which we all ought to be thankful," Doctor Tusher said, "that my lady 
 and her son were spared, while Death carried off the poor domestics 
 of the house"; and rebuked Harry for asking, in his simple way, for 
 v,'hich we ought to be thankful — that the servants were killed, or the 
 gentlefolks were saved ? Nor could young Esmond agree in the doctor's 
 vehement protestations to my lady, when he visited her during her con- 
 valescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired her charms, 
 and had not been churl enough to injure the fair features of the Vis- 
 countess of Castlewood ; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry 
 thought that her ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the small- 
 pox. When the marks of the disease cleared away, they did not, it is true, 
 leave furrows or scars on her face (except one, perhaps, on her fore- 
 head over her left eyebrow) ; but the delicacy of her rosy color and com- 
 plexion was gone: her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and 
 her face looked older. It was as if a coarse hand had rubbed off the 
 delicate tints of that sweet picture, and brought it, as one has seen un- 
 skillful painting-cleaners do, to the dead color. Also, it must be owned, 
 that for a year or two after the malady, her ladyship's nose was swollen 
 and redder. 
 
 There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but that they 
 actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the world, where a gnat 
 often plays a greater part than an elephant, and a molehill, as we know 
 in King William's case, can upset an empire. When Tusher in his courtly 
 way (at which Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully) 
 vowed and protested that my lady's face was none the worse — the lad 
 broke out and said, "It is worse: and my mistress is not near so handsome 
 as she was" ; on which poor Lady Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and a 
 look into a little Venice glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, 
 that what the stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned away from 
 the glass, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 72
 
 The sight of these in Esmond's heart always created a sort of rage 
 of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom he loved best, 
 the young blunderer sank down on his knees, and besought her to 
 pardon him, saying that he was a fool and an idiot, that he was a brute 
 to make such a speech, he who had caused her malady: and Doctor Tusher 
 told him that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would remain, at which 
 speech poor young Esmond was so dumb-stricken, that he did not even 
 growl. 
 
 "He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, Doctor," my lady said, 
 patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as he was still kneeling at 
 her feet. "How your hair has come off! And mine, too," she added, with 
 another sigh. 
 
 "It is not for myself that I cared," my lady said to Harry, when the 
 parson had taken his leave; "but am I very much changed? Alas! I fear 
 'tis too true." 
 
 "Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest face in the 
 world, I think," the lad said; and indeed he thought and thinks so. 
 
 "Will my lord think so when he comes back.^" the lady asked, with a 
 sigh, and another look at her Venice glass. "Suppose he should think 
 as you do, sir, that I am hideous — yes, you said hideous — he will cease 
 to care for me. 'Tis all men care for in women, our little beauty. Why 
 did he select me from among my sisters ? 'Twas only for that. We reign 
 but for a day or two: and be sure that Vashti knew Esther was coming." 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Esmond, "Ahasuerus was the Grand Turk, and 
 to change was the manner of his country, and according to his law." 
 
 "You are all Grand Turks for that matter," said my lady, "or would 
 be if you could. Come, Frank, come, my child. You are well, praised be 
 Heaven. Your locks are not thinned by this dreadful smallpox: nor 
 your poor face scarred — is it, my angel?" 
 
 Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a misfortune. 
 From the very earliest time the young lord had been taught to admire 
 his beauty by his mother ; and esteemed it as highly as any reigning toast 
 valued hers. 
 
 One day, as he himself was recovering from his fever and illness, a 
 pang of something like shame shot across young Esmond's breast, as he 
 remembered that he had never once during his illness given a thought 
 to the poor girl at the smithy, whose red cheeks but a month ago he had 
 been so eager to see. Poor Nancy! her cheeks had shared the fate of 
 roses, and were withered now. She had taken the illness on the same day 
 
 73
 
 with Esmond — she and her brother were both dead of the smallpox, 
 and buried under the Castlewood yew-trees. There was no bright face 
 looking now from the garden, or to cheer the old smith at his lonely 
 fireside. Esmond would have liked to have kissed her in her shroud (like 
 the lass in Mr. Prior's pretty poem) ; but she rested many a foot below 
 the ground, when Esmond after his malady first trod on it. 
 
 Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity, about which Harry 
 Esmond longed to ask, but did not like. He said almost the whole village 
 had been stricken with the pestilence; seventeen persons were dead of it, 
 among them mentioning the names of poor Nancy and her little brother. 
 He did not fail to say how thankful we survivors ought to be. It being this 
 man's business to flatter and make sermons, it must be owned he was most 
 industrious in it, and was doing the one or the other all day. 
 
 And so Nancy was gone; and Harry Esmond blushed that he had not 
 a single tear for her, and fell to composing an elegy in Latin verses over 
 the rustic little beauty. He bade the dryads mourn and the river-nymphs 
 deplore her. As her father followed the calling of Vulcan, he said that 
 surely she was like a daughter of Venus, though Sievewright's wife was 
 an ugly shrew, as he remembered to have heard afterwards. He made a 
 long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely more sorrowful than a mute at a 
 funeral. These first passions of men and women are mostly abortive ; and 
 are dead almost before they are born. Esmond could repeat, to his last 
 day, some of the doggerel lines in which his muse bewailed his pretty 
 lass ; not without shame to remember how bad the verses were and how 
 good he thought them ; how false the grief, and yet how he was rather 
 proud of it. 'Tis an error, surely, to talk of the simplicitj' of youth. I think 
 no persons are more hypocritical, and have a more affected behavior to 
 one another, than the young. They deceive themselves and each other with 
 artifices that do not impose upon men of the world; and so we get to 
 understand truth better, and grow simpler as we grow older. 
 
 When my lady heard of the fate which had befallen poor Nancy, she 
 said nothing so long as Tusher was by, but when he was gone, she took 
 Harry Esmond's hand and said: 
 
 "Harry, I beg your pardon for those cruel words I used on the night 
 you were taken ill. I am shocked at the fate of the poor creature, and am 
 sure that nothing had happened of that with which, in my anger, I 
 charged you. And the very first day we go out, you must take me to the 
 blacksmith, and we must see if there is anything I can do to console 
 
 74
 
 the poor old man. Poor man ! to lose both his children ! What should I 
 do without mine?" 
 
 And this was, indeed, the very first walk which my lady took, leaning 
 on Esmond's arm, after her illness. But her visit brought no consolation to 
 the old father; and he showed no softness, or desire to speak. "The Lord 
 gave and took away," he said; and he knew what His servant's duty was. 
 He wanted for nothing — less now than ever before, as there were fewer 
 mouths to feed. He wished her ladyship and Master Esmond good morn- 
 ing — he had grown tall in his illness, and was but very little marked; 
 and with this, and a surly bow, he went in from the smithy to the house, 
 leaving my lady, somewhat silenced and shamefaced, at the door. He had 
 a handsome stone put up for his two children, which may be seen in 
 Castlewood churchyard to this very day ; and before a year was out his own 
 name was upon the stone. In the presence of Death, that sovereign ruler, 
 a woman's coquetry is scared; and her jealousy will hardly pass the 
 boundaries of that grim kingdom. 'Tis entirely of the earth that passion, 
 and expires in the cold blue air beyond our sphere. 
 
 At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced that my 
 lord and his daughter would return. Esmond well remembered the day. 
 The lady his mistress was in a flurry of fear: before my lord came, she 
 went into her room, and returned from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate 
 was about to be decided. Her beauty was gone — was her reign, too, over? 
 A minute would say. My lord came riding over the bridge — he could be 
 seen from the great window, clad in scarlet, and mounted on his grey 
 hackney — his little daughter ambled by him in a bright riding-dress of 
 blue, on a shining chestnut horse. My lady leaned against the great mantel- 
 piece, looking on, with one hand on her heart — she seemed only the 
 more pale for those red marks on either cheek. She put her handkerchief 
 to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically — the cloth was quite 
 red with the rouge when she took it away. She ran to her room again, 
 and came back with pale cheeks and red eyes — her son in her hand — just 
 as my lord entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out 
 to meet his protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended from horse- 
 back. 
 
 "What, Harry, boy!" my lord said good-naturedly, "you look as gaunt 
 as a greyhound. The smallpox hasn't improved your beauty, and your 
 side of the house hadn't never too much of it — ho, ho !" 
 
 And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small agility, 
 looking handsome and red, with a jolly face and brown hair, like a 
 
 75
 
 Beefeater; Esmond kneeling again, as soon as his patron had descended, 
 performed his homage, and then went to greet the httle Beatrix, and help 
 her from her horse. 
 
 "Fie! how yellow you look!" she said; "and there are one, two, red 
 holes in your face" ; which, indeed, was very true; Harry Esmond's harsh 
 countenance bearing, as long as it continued to be a human face, the 
 marks of the disease. 
 
 My lord laughed again, in high good-humor. 
 
 "D it!" said he, with one of his usual oaths, "the little slut sees 
 
 everything. She saw the dowager's paint t'other day, and asked her why 
 she wore that red stuff — didn't you, Trix ? and the Tower ; and St. James's ; 
 and the play ; and the Prince George, and the Princess Anne — didn't you, 
 Trix?" 
 
 "They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy," the child said. 
 
 Papa roared with laughing. 
 
 "Brandy!" he said. "And how do you knov/, Miss Pert?" 
 
 "Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I embrace you 
 before I go to bed," said the young lady, who, indeed, was as pert as her 
 father said, and looked as beautiful a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on. 
 
 "And now for my lady," said my lord, going up the stairs, and pass- 
 ing under the tapestry curtain that hung before the drawing-room door. 
 Esmond remem.bered that noble figure, handsomely arrayed in scarlet. 
 Within the last few months he himself had grown from a boy to be 
 a man, and with his figure his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly. 
 
 My lady's countenance, of which Harry Esmond was accustomed to 
 watch the changes, and with a solicitous affection to note and interpret 
 the signs of gladness or care, wore a sad and depressed look for many 
 weeks after her lord's return: during which it seemed as if, by caresses 
 and entreaties, she strove to win him back from some ill-humor he had, 
 and which he did not choose to throw off. In her eagerness to please him 
 she practiced a hundred of those arts which had formerly charmed him, 
 but which seemed now to have lost their potency. Her songs did not 
 amuse him; and she hushed them and the children when in his presence. 
 My lord sat silent at his dinner, drinking greatly, his lady opposite to 
 him, looking furtively at his face, though also speechless. Her silence 
 annoyed him as much as her speech ; and he would peevishly, and with an 
 oath, ask her why she held her tongue and looked so glum. ; or he would 
 roughly check her when speaking, and bid her not talk nonsense. It 
 
 76
 
 .-ieemed as if, since his return, nothing she could do or say could please 
 him. . 
 
 When a master and mistress are at strike in a house, the subordinates 
 in the family take the one side or the other. Harry Esmond stood in so 
 great fear of my lord, that he would run a league barefoot to do a mes- 
 sage for him; but his attachment for Lady Esmond was such a passion 
 of grateful regard, that to spare her a grief, or to do her a service, he 
 would have given his life daily: and it was by the very depth and intensity 
 of this regard that he began to divine how unhappy his adored lady's 
 life was, and that a secret care (for she never spoke of her anxieties) 
 was weighing upon her. 
 
 Can anyone, who has passed through the world and watched the 
 nature of men and women there, doubt what had befallen her? I have 
 seen, to be sure, some people carry down with them into old age the actual 
 bloom of their youthful love, and I know that Mr. Thomas Parr lived to 
 be a hundred and sixty years old. But, for all that, threescore and ten is 
 the age of men, and few get beyond it ; and 'tis certain that a man who 
 marries for mere beaiix yeux, as my lord did, considers this part of the 
 contract at an end when the woman ceases to fulfill hers, and his love does 
 not survive her beauty. I know 'tis often otherwise, I say ; and can think 
 (as most men in their own experience may) of many a house, where, 
 lighted in early years, the sainted lamp of love hath never been ex- 
 tinguished ; but so there is Mr. Parr, and so there is the great giant at the 
 fair that is eight feet high — exceptions to men — and that poor lamp 
 whereof I speak, that lights at first the nuptial chamber, is extinguished 
 by a hundred winds and draughts down the chimney, or sputters out for 
 want of feeding. And then — and then it is Ch'oe, in the dark, stark awake, 
 and Strephon snoring unheeding; or vice versa, 'tis poor Strephon that 
 has married a heartless jilt, and awoke out of that absurd vision of con- 
 jugal felicity, which was to last forever, and is over like any other dream. 
 One and other has made his bed, and so must lie in it, until that final day 
 when life ends, and they sleep separate. 
 
 About this time young Esmond, who had a knack of stringing verses, 
 turned some of Ovid's Epistles into rhymes, and brought them to his 
 lady for her delectation. Those which treated of forsaken women touched 
 her immensely, Harry remarked; and when Oenone called after Paris, 
 and Medea bade Jason come back again, the Lady of Castlewood sighed, 
 and said she thought that part of the verses was the most pleasing. 
 Indeed, she would have chopped up the dean, her old father, in order 
 
 77
 
 to bring her husband back again. But her beautiful Jason was gone, as 
 beautiful Jasons will go, and the poor enchantress had never a spell 
 to keep him. 
 
 My lord was only sulky as long as his wife's anxious face or behavior 
 seemed to upbraid him. When she had got to master these, and to show 
 an outwardly cheerful countenance and behavior, her husband's good- 
 humor returned partially, and he swore and stormed no longer at dinner, 
 but laughed sometimes, and yawned unrestrainedly; absenting himself 
 often from home, inviting more company there, passing the greater part 
 of his days in the hunting-field, or over the bottle as before; but with 
 this difference, that the poor wife could no longer see now, as she had 
 done formerly, the light of love kindled in his eyes. He was with her, 
 but that flame was out: and that once welcome beacon no more shone 
 there. 
 
 What were this lady's feelings when forced to admit the truth whereof 
 her foreboding glass had given her only too true warning, that with her 
 beauty her reign had ended, and the days of her love were over? What 
 does a seaman do in a storm if mast and rudder are carried away? He 
 ships a jury-mast, and steers as he best can with an oar. What happens 
 if your roof falls in a tempest? After the first stun of the calamity the 
 sufferer starts up, gropes around to see that the children are safe, and puts 
 them under a shed cut of the rain. If the palace burns down, you take 
 shelter in the barn. What man's life is not overtaken by one or more of 
 these tornadoes that send us out of the course, and fling us on rocks 
 to shelter as best we may ? 
 
 When Lady Castlewood found that her great ship had gone down, she 
 began as best she might, after she had rallied from the effects of the loss, 
 to put out small ventures of happiness; and hope for little gains and 
 returns, as a merchant on 'Change, indocilis puuperiem pati, having lost 
 his thousands, embarks a few guineas upon the next ship. She laid out 
 her all upon her children, indulging them beyond all measure, as was 
 inevitable with one of her kindness of disposition ; giving all her thoughts 
 to their welfare — learning, that she might teach them; and improving 
 her own many natural gifts and feminine accomplishments, that she 
 might impart them to her young ones. To be doing good for someone 
 else, is the life of most good women. They are exuberant of kindness, as 
 it were, and must impart it to someone. She made herself a good scholar 
 of French, Italian, and Latin, having been grounded in these by her 
 father in her youth; hiding these gifts from her husband out of fear, 
 
 78
 
 perhaps, that they should offend him, for my lord was no bookman — ■ 
 pish'd and psha'd at the notion of learned ladies, and would have been 
 angry that his wife could construe out of a Latin book of which he could 
 scarce understand two words. Young Esmond was usher, or house tutor, 
 under her or over her, as it might happen. During my lord's many 
 absences, these school-days would go on uninterruptedly: the mother 
 and daughter learning with surprising quickness; the latter by fits and 
 starts only, and as suited her wayward humor. As for the little lord, it 
 must be owned that he took after his father in the matter of learning — 
 liked marbles and play, and the great horse and the little one which his 
 father brought him, and on which he took him out a-hunting, a great 
 deal better than Corderius and Lily; marshaled the village boys, and had 
 a little court of them, already flogging them, and domineering ever them 
 with a fine imperious spirit, that made his father laugh when he beheld 
 it, and his mother fondly warn him. The cook had a son, the woodman 
 had two, the big lad at the porter's lodge took his cuffs and his orders. 
 Doctor Tusher said he was a young nobleman of gallant spirit ; and Harry 
 Esmond, who was his tutor, and eight years his little lordship's senior, 
 had hard work sometimes to keep hi? own temper, and hold his authority 
 over his rebellious little chief and kinsman. 
 
 In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen which had robbed 
 Lady Castlewood of a little — a very little — of her beauty, and her care- 
 less nusband's heart (if the truth must be told, my lady had found not 
 only that her reign was over, but that her successor was appointed, a 
 princess of a noble house in Drury Lane somewhere, who was installed 
 and visited by my lord at the town eight miles off — ptidet haec opprobria 
 dicere nobis') — a great change had taken place in her mind, which, by 
 struggles only known to herself, at least never mentioned to anyone, and 
 unsuspected by the person who caused the pain she endured — had been 
 schooled into such a condition as she could not very likely have imagined 
 possible a score of months since, before her misfortunes had begun. 
 
 She had oldened in that time as people do who suffer silently great 
 mental pain ; and learned much that she had never suspected before. She 
 was taught by that bitter teacher Misfortune. A child the mother of 
 other children, but two years back her lord was a god to her ; his words 
 her law; his smile her sunshine; his lazy commonplaces listened to 
 eagerly, as if they were words of wisdom — all his wishes and freaks 
 obeyed with a servile devotion. She had been my lord's chief slave and 
 blind worshiper. Some women bear further than this, and submit not 
 
 79
 
 only to neglect but to unfaithfulness too — but here this lady's allegiance 
 had failed her. Her spirit rebelled, and disowned any more obedience. 
 First she had to bear in secret the passion of losing the adored object; 
 then to get a further initiation, and to find this worshiped being was but 
 a clumsy idol: then to admit the silent truth, that it was she was superior, 
 and not the monarch her master : that she had thoughts which his brains 
 could never master, and was the better of the two ; quite separate from 
 my lord although tied to him, and bound, as almost all people (save a 
 very happy few), to work all her life alone. My lord sat in his chair, 
 laughing his laugh, cracking his joke, his face flushing with wine — my 
 lady in her place over against him — he never suspecting that his superior 
 was there, in the calm resigned lady, cold of manner, with downcast eyes. 
 When he was merry in his cups, he would make jokes about her cold- 
 ness, and "D it, now my lady is gone, we will have t'other bottle," 
 
 he would say. He was frank enough in telling his thoughts, such as they 
 were. There was little mystery about my lord's words or actions. His 
 Fair Rosamond did not live in a labyrinth, like the lady of Mr. Addison's 
 opera, but paraded with painted cheeks and a tipsy retinue in the country 
 town. Had she a mind to be revenged, Lady Castlewood could have found 
 the way to her rival's house easily enough ; and, if she had come with 
 bowl and dagger, would have been routed off the ground by the enemy 
 with a volley of Billingsgate, which the fair person always kept by her. 
 
 Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his benefactress' 
 sweet face had lost none of its charms. It had always the kindest of looks 
 and smiles for him — smiles, not so gay and artless perhaps as those 
 which Lady Castlewood had formerly worn, when, a child herself, 
 playing with her children, her husband's pleasure and authority were all 
 she thought of; but out of her griefs and cares, as will happen I think 
 when these trials fall upon a kindly heart, and are not too unbearable, 
 grew up a number of thoughts and excellences which had never come into 
 existence, had not her sorrow and misfortunes engendered them. Sure, 
 occasion is the father of most that is good in us. As you have seen the 
 awkward fingers and clumsy tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most 
 delicate little pieces of carved work; or achieve the most prodigious 
 underground labors, and cut through walls of masonry, and saw iron bars 
 and fetters; 'tis misfortune that awakens ingenuity, or fortitude, or 
 endurance, in hearts where these qualities had never come to life but 
 for the circumstance which give them a being. 
 
 '"Twas after Jason left her, no doubt," Lady Castlewood once said 
 
 80
 
 with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who was reading to her a 
 version of certain hnes out of Euripides), "that Medea became a learned 
 woman and a great enchantress." 
 
 "And she could conjure the stars out of heaven," the young tutor 
 added, "but she could not bring Jason back again." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked my lady, very angry. 
 
 "Indeed I mean nothing," said the other, "save what I've read in books. 
 What should I know about such matters? I have seen no woman save 
 you and little Beatrix, and the parson's wife, and my late mistress, and 
 your ladyship's woman here." 
 
 "The men who wrote your books," says my lady, "your Horaces, and 
 Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them, all thought ill of us, as 
 all the heroes they wrote about used us basely. We were bred to be 
 slaves always ; and even of our own times, as you are still the only law- 
 givers, I think our sermons seem to say that the best woman is she who 
 bears her master's chains most gracefully. 'Tis a pity there are no 
 nunneries permitted by our Church : Beatrix and I would fly to one, and 
 end our days in peace there away from you." 
 
 "And is there no slavery in a convent?" says Esmond. 
 
 "At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them," answered the 
 lady. "They don't work in street gangs with the public to jeer them: 
 and if they suffer, suffer in private. Here comes my lord home from 
 hunting. Take away the books. My lord does not love to see them. 
 Lessons are over for today, Mr. Tutor." And with a curtsey and a smile 
 she would end this sort of colloquy. 
 
 Indeed "Mr. Tutor," as my lady called Esmond, had now business 
 enough on his hands in Castlewood House. He had three pupils, his 
 lady and her two children, at whose lessons she would always be present ; 
 besides writing my lord's letters, and arranging his accounts for him — 
 when these could be got from Esmond's indolent patron. 
 
 Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, and as my 
 lady would admit no discipline such as was then in use, my lord's son 
 only learned what he liked, which was but little, and never to his life's 
 end could be got to construe more than six lines of Virgil. Mistress 
 Beatrix chattered French prettily, from a very early age; and sang sweetly, 
 but this was from her mother's teaching — not Harry Esmond's, who 
 could scarce distinguish between Green Sleeves and Lillibullero ; al- 
 though he had no greater delight in life than to hear the ladies sing. He 
 sees them now (will he ever forget them?) as they used to sit together 
 
 8t
 
 of the summer evenings — the two golden heads over the page — the child's 
 little hand and the mother's beating the time, with their voices rising 
 and falling in unison. 
 
 But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how eagerly the 
 mother learnt from her young tutor — and taught him too. The happiest 
 instinctive faculty was this lady's — a faculty for discerning latent beauties 
 and hidden graces of books, especially books of poetry, as in a walk she 
 would spy out field-flowers and make posies of them, such as no other 
 hand could. She was a critic, not by reason but by feeling; the sweetest 
 commentator of those books they read together; and the happiest hours 
 of young Esmond's life, perhaps, were those passed in the company of 
 this kind mistress and her children. 
 
 These happy days were to end soon, however; and it was by the 
 Lady Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to a conclusion. It 
 happened about Christmastime, Harry Esmond being now past sixteen 
 years of age, that his old comrade, adversary, and friend, Tom Tusher, 
 returned from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad, 
 who was about to enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and 
 a prospect of after promotion in the Church. Tom Tusher's talk was of 
 nothing but Cambridge now; and the boys, who were good friends, 
 examined each other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had 
 learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which he was pretty 
 well skilled, and also had given himself to mathematical studies under 
 his father's guidance, who was proficient in those sciences, of which 
 Esmond knew nothing; nor could he write Latin so well as Tom, though 
 he could talk it better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit 
 father, for whose memory the lad ever retained the warmest affection, 
 reading his books, keeping his swords clean Ia the little crypt where the 
 father had shown them to Esmond on the nicht of his visit; and often of 
 a night sitting in the chaplain's room, which he inhabited, over his books, 
 his verses, and rubbish, with which the lad occupied himself, he would 
 look up at the window, thinking he wished it might open and let in the 
 good father. He had come and passed away like a dream; but for the 
 swords and books Harry might almost think the father was an imagina- 
 tion of his mind — and for two letters which had come to him, one from 
 abroad full of advice and affection, another soon after he had been con- 
 firmed by the Bishop of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored his 
 falling away. But Harry Esmond felt so confident now of his being in 
 the right, and of his own powers as a casuist, that he thought he was 
 
 82
 
 able to face the father himself in argument, and possibly convert him. 
 
 To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond's kind mistress 
 sent to the library of her father the dean, who had been distinguished in 
 the disputes of the late King's reign ; and, an old soldier now, had hung 
 up his weapons of controversy. These he took down from his shelves 
 willingly for young Esmond, whom he benefited by his own personal 
 advice and instruction. It did not require much persuasion to induce the 
 boy to worship with his beloved mistress. And the good old nonjuring 
 dean flattered himself with a conversion which, in truth, was owing to a 
 much gentler and fairer persuader. 
 
 Under her ladyship's kind eyes (my lord's being sealed in sleep 
 pretty generally) Esmond read many volumes of the works of the 
 famous British divines of the last age, and was familiar with Wake and 
 Sherlock, with Stillingfleet and Patrick. His mistress never tired to listen 
 or to read, to pursue the texts with fond comments, to urge those points 
 which her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. 
 Since the death of her father the dean, this lady had admitted a certain 
 latitude of theological reading which her orthodox father would never 
 have allowed ; his favorite writers appealing more to reason and antiquity 
 than to the passions or imaginations of their readers, so that the works 
 of Bishop Taylor, nay, those of Mr. Baxter and Mr. Law, have in reality 
 found more favor with my Lady Castlewood than the severer volumes 
 of our great English schoolmen. 
 
 In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the controversy, and 
 pursued it in a very different manner, when his patrons had determined 
 for him that he was to embrace the ecclesiastical life. But though his 
 mistress' heart was in this calling, his own never was much. After that 
 first fervor of simple devotion, which his beloved Jesuit priest had in- 
 spired in him, speculative theology took but little hold upon the young 
 man's mind. When his early credulity was disturbed, and his saints and 
 virgins taken out of his worship, to rank little higher than the divinities 
 of Olympus, his belief became acquiescence rather than ardor; and he 
 made his mind up to assume the cassock and bands, as another man does 
 to wear a breast plate and jackboots, or to mount a merchant's desk, for 
 a livelihood, and from obedience and necessity, rather than from choice. 
 There were scores of such men in Mr. Esmond's time at the universities, 
 who were going to the Church with no better calling than his. 
 
 When Thomas Tusher was gone a feeling of no small depression and 
 disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which though he did not complain, 
 
 83
 
 his kind mistress must have divined the cause: for soon after she showed 
 not only that she understood the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could 
 provide a remedy for it. Her habit was thus to watch, unobservedly, 
 those to whom duty or affection bound her, and to prevent their designs, 
 or to fulfill them, when she had the power. It was this lady's disposition 
 to think kindnesses, and devise silent bounties, and to scheme benevo- 
 lence, for those about her. We take such goodness, for the most part, as 
 if it was our due; the Marys who bring omtment for our feet get but 
 little thanks. Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by 
 it to gratitude or acknowledgment; others only recall it years after, when 
 the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and 
 we offer back our return for the debt by a poor tardy payment of tears. 
 Then forgotten tones of love recur to us, and kind glances shine out of 
 the past— oh, so bright and clear! — oh, so longed after! — because they 
 are out of reach; as holiday music from within-side a prison wall — 
 or sunshine seen through the bars; more prized because unattainable 
 — more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude, 
 whence there is no escape. 
 
 All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take of Harry 
 Esmond's melancholy, upon Tom Tusher's departure, was, by a gaiety 
 unusual to her, to attempt to dispel his gloom. She made his three scholars 
 (herself being the chief one) more cheerful than ever they had been 
 before, and more docile, too, all of them learning and reading much 
 more than they had been accustomed to do. "For who knows," said the 
 lady, "what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a 
 learned tutor long?" 
 
 Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any more, 
 and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he liked, if he would 
 come out a-fishing ; and little Beatrix declared she would send for Tom 
 Tusher, and he would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry 
 chose to go away. 
 
 At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer of a letter, 
 with a great black seal, from the dean there, to say that his sister was 
 dead, and had left her fortune of £2000 among her six nieces, the dean's 
 daughters ; and many a time since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed 
 face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady 
 regarded him. She did not pretend to any grief about the deceased rela- 
 tive, from whom she and her family had been many years parted. 
 
 When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any very long 
 
 84
 
 face. "The money will come very handy to furnish the music-room and 
 the cellar, which is gettling low, and buy your ladyship a coach and a 
 couple of horses, that will do indifferent to ride or for the coach. And 
 Beatrix, you shall have a spinet ; and Frank, you shall have a little horse 
 from Hexton Fair; and Harry you shall have five pounds to buy some 
 books," said my lord, who was generous with his own, and indeed with 
 other folks' money. "I wish your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; 
 we could spend your money, and all your sisters', too." 
 
 "I have but one aunt — and — and I have another use for the money, 
 my lord," says my lady, turning very red. 
 
 "Another use, my dear; and what do you know about money?" cries 
 my lord. "And what the devil is there that I don't give you which you 
 want?" 
 
 "I intend to give this money — can't you fancy how, my lord?" 
 
 My lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know in the 
 least what she meant. 
 
 "I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin Harry," says 
 my lady, "you mustn't stay longer in this dull place, but make a name 
 to yourself, and for us, too, Harry." 
 
 "D it, Harr)''s well enough here," says my lord, for a moment 
 
 looking rather sulky. 
 
 "Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will go away?" 
 cry out Frank and Beatrix at one breath. 
 
 "But he will come back: and this will always be his home," cries my 
 lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness: "and his scholars will 
 always love him; won't they?" 
 
 "By G , Rachel, you're a good woman !" says my lord, seizing my 
 
 lady's hand, at which she blushed very much, and shrank back, putting 
 her children before her. "I wish you joy, my kinsman," he continued, 
 giving Harry Esmond a hearty slap on the shoulder. "I won't balk your 
 luck. Go to Cambridge, boy; and when Tusher dies you shall have the 
 living here, if you are not better provided by that time. We'll furnish the 
 dining-room and buy the horses another year. I'll give thee a nag out 
 of the stable: take any one except my hack and the bay gelding and the 
 coach horses; and God speed thee, my boy!" 
 
 "Have the sorrel, Harry; 'tis a good one. Father says 'tis the best in 
 the stable," says little Frank, clapping his hands, and jumping up. "Let's 
 come and see him in the stable." And the other, in his delight and 
 
 85
 
 eagerness, was for leaving the room that instant to arrange about his 
 journey. 
 
 The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating glances. 
 "He wishes to be gone already, my lord," said she to her husband. 
 
 The young man hung back abashed. "Indeed, I would stay forever, 
 if your ladyship bade me," he said. 
 
 "And thou wculdst be a fool for thy pains, kinsman," said my lord. 
 "Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow thy wild oats; and take the 
 best luck that Fate sends thee. I wish I were a boy again, that I might 
 go to college, and taste the Trumpington ale." 
 
 "Ours, indeed, is but a dull home," cries my lady, with a little of sad- 
 ness and, maybe, of satire, in her voice: "an old glum house, half ruined, 
 and the rest only half furnished ; a woman and two children are but poor 
 company for men that are accustomed to better. We are only fit to be 
 your worship's handmaids, and your pleasures must of necessity lie else- 
 where than at home." 
 
 "Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art in earnest or 
 not," said my lord. 
 
 "In earnest, my lord!" says she, still clinging by one of her children. 
 "Is there much subject here for joke?" And she made him a grand 
 curtsey, and giving a stately look to Harry Esmond, which seemed to 
 say, "Remember; you understand me, though he does not," she left the 
 room with her children. 
 
 "Since she found out that confounded Hexton business," my lord 
 said — "and be hanged to them that told her! — she has not been the same 
 woman. She, who used to be as humble as a milkmaid, is as proud as a 
 princess," says my lord. "Take my counsel, Harry Esmond, and keep 
 clear of women. Since I have had anything to do with the jades, they have 
 given me nothing but disgust. I had a wife at Tangier, with whom, as 
 she couldn't speak a word of my language, you'd have thought I might 
 lead a quiet life. But she tried to poison me, because she was jealous of 
 a Jew girl. There was your aunt, for aunt she is — Aunt Jezebel, a pretty 
 life your father led with her! And here's my lady. When I saw her on a 
 pillion riding behind the dean her father, she looked and was such 
 a baby, that a sixpenny doll might have pleased her. And now you see 
 what she is — hands off, highty-ti<^hty, high and mighty, an empress 
 couldn't be grander. Pass us the tankard, Harry my boy. A mug of beer 
 and a toast at morn, says my host. A toast and a mug of beer at noon, 
 says my dear. D it, Polly loves a mug of ale, too, and laced with 
 
 86
 
 brandy, by Jove!" Indeed, I suppose they drank it together; for my lord 
 was often thick in his speech at midday dinner; and at night, at supper, 
 speechless altogether. 
 
 Harry Esmond's departure resolved upon, it seemed as if the Lady 
 Castlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him; for more than once, when the lad, 
 ashamed perhaps at his own secret eagerness to go away (at any rate 
 stricken with sadness at the idea of leaving those from whom he had 
 received so many proofs of love and kindness inestimable), tried to 
 express to his mistress his sense of gratitude to her, and his sorrow at 
 quitting those who had so sheltered and tended a nameless and houseless 
 orphan, Lady Castlewood cut short his protests of love and his lamenta- 
 tions, and would hear of no grief, but only look forward to Harry's fame 
 and prospects in life. "Our little legacy will keep you for four years like 
 a gentleman. Heaven's providence, your own genius, industry, honor, 
 must do the rest for you. Castlewood will always be a home for you ; and 
 these cliildren, whom you have taught and loved, will not forget to love 
 you. And Harry," said she (and this was the only time when she spoke 
 with a tear in her eye, or a tremor in her voice), "it may happen in the 
 course of nature that I shall be called away from them: and their father 
 — and — and they will need true friends and protectors. Promise me that 
 you will be true to them — as — as I think I have been to you — and a 
 mother's fond prayer and blessing go with you." 
 
 "So help me God, madam, I will," said Harry Esmond, falling on his 
 knees, and kissing the hand of his dearest mistress. "If you will have me 
 stay now, I will. What matters whether or no I make my way in life, 
 or whether a poor bastard dies as unknown as he is now? 'Tis enough that 
 I have your love and kindness surely; and to make you happy is duty 
 enough for me." 
 
 "Happy!" says she; "but indeed I ought to be, with my children, 
 and " 
 
 "Not happy!" cried Esmond (for he knew what her life was, though 
 he and his mistress never spoke a word concerning it) . "If not happi- 
 ness, it may be ease. Let me stay and work for you — let me stay and 
 be your servant." 
 
 "Indeed, you are best away," said my lady, laughing, as she put her 
 hand on the boy's head for a moment. "You shall stay in no such dull 
 place. You shall go to college and distinguish yourself as becomes your 
 name. That is how you shall please me best; and — and if my children 
 
 87
 
 want you, or I want you, you shall come to us; and I know we may 
 count on you." 
 
 "May Heaven forsake me if you may not!" Harry said, getting up 
 from his knees. 
 
 "And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he may fight," 
 said my lady, laughing; which speech made Harry Esmond start, and 
 turn red; for indeed the very thought was in his mind, that he would 
 like that some chance should immediately happen whereby he might 
 show his devotion. And it pleased him to think that his lady had called 
 him "her knight," and often and often he recalled to his mind, and 
 prayed that he might be her true knight, too. 
 
 My lady's bedchamber window looked out over the country, and you 
 could see from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood village, the green 
 common between that and the Hall, and the old bridge which crossed 
 over the river. When Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little 
 Frank ran alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped 
 for a moment, and looked back at the house where the best part of his 
 life had been passed. It lay before him with its gray familiar towers, a 
 pinnacle or two shining in the sun, the buttresses and terrace walls 
 casting great blue shades on the grass. And Harry remembered, all his 
 life after, how he saw his mistress at the window looking out on him in a 
 white robe, the little Beatrix's chestnut curls resting at her mother's side. 
 Both waved a farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him. Yes, 
 he would be his lady's true knight, he vowed in his heart; he waved her 
 an adieu with his hat. The village people had Good-bye to say to him 
 too. All knew that Master Harry was going to college, and most of them 
 had a kind word and a look of farewell. I do not stop to say what ad- 
 ventures he began to imagine, or what career to devise for himself 
 before he had ridden three miles from home. He had not read Monsieur 
 Galland's ingenious Arabian tales as yet; but be sure that there are 
 other folks who build castles in the air, and have fine hopes, and kick 
 them down too, besides honest Alnaschar. 
 
 88
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 / Go to Cambridge 
 
 My lord, who said he should like to revisit the old haunts of his youth, 
 kindly accompanied Harry Esmond in his first journey to Cambridge. 
 Their road lay through London, where my lord viscount would also have 
 Harry stay a few days to show him the pleasures of the town before he 
 entered upon his University studies, and whilst here Harry's patron con- 
 ducted the young man to my lady dowager's house at Chelsey near 
 London: the kind lady at Castlewood having specially ordered that the 
 young gentleman and the old should pay a respectful visit in that quarter. 
 
 Her ladyship the viscountess dowager occupied a handsome new house 
 in Chelsey, with a garden behind it, and facing the river, always a bright 
 and animated sight with its swarms of sailors, barges, and wherries. 
 Harry laughed at recognizing in the parlor the well-remembered old piece 
 of Sir Peter Lely, wherein his father's widow was represented as a virgin 
 huntress, armed with a gilt bow-and-arrow, and encumbered only with 
 that small quantity of drapery which it would seem the virgins in King 
 Charles's day were accustomed to wear. 
 
 My lady dowager had left off this peculiar habit of huntress when 
 she married. But thought she was now considerably past sixty years of 
 age, I believe she thought that airy nymph of the picture could still be 
 easily recognized in the venerable personage who gave an audience 
 to Harry and his patron. 
 
 She received the young man with even more favor than she showed 
 to the elder, for she chose to carry on the conversation in French, in 
 which my Lord Castlewood was no great proficient, and expressed her 
 satisfaction at finding that Mr. Esmond could speak fluently in that 
 language. " 'Twas the only one fit for polite conversation," she con- 
 descended to say, "and suitable to persons of high breeding." 
 
 My lord laughed afterwards, as the gentlemen went away, at his 
 kinswoman's behavior. He said he remembered the time when she could 
 speak English fast enough, and joked in his jolly way at the loss he had 
 had of such a lovely wife as that. 
 
 My lady viscountess deigned to ask his lordship news of his wife and 
 children: she had heard that Lady Castlewood had had the smallpox; 
 she hoped she was not so very much disfigured as people said. 
 
 89
 
 At this remark about his wife's malady, my lord viscount winced and 
 turned red; but the dowager, in speaking of the disfigurement of the 
 young lady, turned to her looking-glass and examined her old wrinkled 
 countenance in it with such a grin of satisfaction, that it was all her 
 guests could do to refrain from laughing in her ancient face. 
 
 She asked Harry what his profession was to be; and my lord, saying 
 that the lad was to take orders, and have the living of Castlewood when 
 old Doctor Tusher vacated it, she did not seem to show any particular 
 anger at the notion of Harry's becoming a Church of England clergy- 
 man, nay, was rather glad than otherwise that the youth should be so 
 provided for. She bade Mr. Esmond not to forget to pay her a visit 
 whenever he passed through London, and carried her graciousness so 
 far as to send a purse with twenty guineas for him, to the tavern at which 
 my lord put up (the "Greyhound," in Charing Cross) ; and, along with 
 this welcome gift for her kinsman, she sent a little doll for a present to 
 my lord's little daughter Beatrix, who was growing beyond the age of 
 dolls by this time, and was as tall almost as her venerable relative. 
 
 After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord Castlewood 
 and Esmond rode together to Cambridge, spending two pleasant days 
 upon the journey. Those rapid new coaches were not established, as yet, 
 that performed the whole journey between London and the University 
 in a single day; however, the road was pleasant and short enough to 
 Harry Esmond, and he always gratefully remembered that happy holiday 
 which his kind patron gave him. 
 
 Mr. Esmond was entered a pensioner of Trinity College in Cam- 
 bridge, to which famous college my lord had also in his youth belonged. 
 Doctor Montague was master at this time, and received my lord viscount 
 with great politeness: so did Mr. Bridge, who was appointed to be 
 Harry's tutor. Tom Tusher, who was of Emanuel College, and was by 
 this time a junior soph, came to wait upon my lord, and to take Harry 
 under his protection ; and comfortable rooms being provided for him in 
 the great court close by the gate, and near to the famous Mr. Newton's 
 lodgings, Harry's patron took leave of him with many kind words and 
 blessings, and an admonition to him to behave better at the University 
 than my lord himself had ever done. 
 
 'Tis needless in these memoirs to go at any length into the particulars 
 
 of Harry Esmond's college career. It was like that of a hundred young 
 
 gentlemen of that day. But he had the ill-fortune to be older by a couple 
 
 of years than most of his fellow-students; and by his previous solitary 
 
 90
 
 mode of bringing up, the circumstances of his life, and the peculiar 
 thoughtfulness and melancholy that had naturally engendered, he was, 
 in a great measure, cut off from the society of comrades who were much 
 younger and higher-spirited than he. His tutor, who had bowed down 
 to the ground, as he walked my lord over the college grass-plats, 
 changed his behavior as soon as the nobleman's back was turned, and 
 was — at least Harry thought so — harsh and overbearing. When the lads 
 used to assemble in their greges in hall, Harry found himself alone in 
 the midst of that little flock of boys; they raised a great laugh at him 
 when he was set on to read Latin, which he did with the foreign pro- 
 nunciation taught to him by his old master, the Jesuit, than which he 
 knew no other. Mr. Bridge, the tutor, made him the object of clumsy 
 jokes, in which he was fond of indulging. The young man's spirit was 
 chafed, and his vanity mortified; and he found himself, for some time, 
 as lonely in this place as ever he had been at Castlewood, whither he 
 longed to return. His birth was a source of shame to him, and he fancied 
 a hundred slights and sneers from young and old, who, no doubt, had 
 treated him better had he met them himself more frankly. And as he 
 looks back, in calmer days, upon this period of his life, which he thought 
 so unhappy, he can see that his own pride and vanity caused no small 
 part of the mortifications which he attributed to others' ill-will. The 
 world deals good-naturedly with good-natured people, and I never knew 
 a sulky misanthropist who quarreled with it, but it was he, and not it, 
 that was in the wrong. Tom Tusher gave Harry plenty of good advice 
 on this subject, for Tom had both good sense and good humor; but 
 Mr. Harry chose to treat his senior with a great deal of superfluous dis- 
 dain and absurd scorn, and would by no means part from his darling 
 injuries, in which, very likely, no man believed but himself. As for 
 honest Doctor Bridge, the tutor found, after a few trials of wit with the . 
 pupil, that the young man was an ugly subject for wit, and that the 
 laugh was often turned against him. This did not make tutor and pupil 
 any better friends; but had, so far, an advantage for Esmond, that 
 Mr. Bridge was induced to leave him alone ; and so long as he kept his 
 chapels, and did the college exercises required of him, Bridge was con- 
 tent not to see Harry's glum face in his class, and to leave him to read 
 and sulk for himself in his own chamber. 
 
 A poem or two in Latin and English, which were pronounced to have 
 some merit, and a Latin oration (for Mr. Esmond could write that 
 language better than pronounce it), got him a little reputation both with 
 
 91
 
 the authorities of the University and amongst the young men, with whom 
 he began to pass for more than he was worth. A few victories over their 
 common enemy, Mr. Bridge, made them incline towards him, and look 
 upon him as the champion of their order against the seniors. Such of the 
 lads as he took into his confidence found him not so gloomy and haughty 
 as his appearance led them to believe; and Don Dismallo, as he was 
 called, became presently a person of some little importance in his col- 
 lege, and was, as he believes, set down by the seniors there as rather a 
 dangerous character. 
 
 Don Dismallo was a staunch young Jacobite, like the rest of his family; 
 gave himself many absurd airs of loyalty; used to invite young friends 
 to Burgundy, and give the King's health on King James's birthday; wore 
 black on the day of his abdication; fasted on the anniversary of King 
 William's coronation ; and performed a thousand absurd antics, of which 
 he smiles now to think. 
 
 These follies caused many remonstrances on Tom Tusher's part, who 
 was always a friend to the powers that be, as Esmond was always in 
 opposition to them. Tom was a Whig, while Esmond was a Tory. Tom 
 never missed a lecture, and capped the proctor with the profoundest of 
 bows. No wonder he sighed over Harry's insubordinate courses, and was 
 angry when the others laughed at him. But that Harry was known to have 
 my lord viscount's protection, Tom. no doubt would have broken with 
 him altogether. But honest Tom never gave up a comrade as long as he 
 was the friend of a great man. This was not out of scheming on Tom's 
 part, but a natural inclination towards the great. 'Twas no hypocrisy in 
 him to flatter, but the bent of his mind, which was always perfectly good- 
 humored, obliging, and servile. 
 
 Harry had very liberal allowances, for his dear mistress of Castlewood 
 not only regularly supplied him, but the dowager of Chelsey made her 
 donation annual, and received Esmond at her house near London 
 every Christmas; but, in spite of these benefactions, Esmond was con- 
 stantly poor; whilst 'twas a wonder with how small a stipend from his 
 father Tom Tusher contrived to make a good figure. 'Tis true that 
 Harry both spent, gave, and lent his money very freely, which Thomas 
 never did. I think he was like the famous Duke of Marlborough in 
 this instance, who, getting a present of fifty pieces, when a young man, 
 from some foolish woman who fell in love with his good looks, showed 
 the money to Cadogan in a drawer scores of years after, where it had 
 lain ever since he had sold his beardless honor to procure it. I do not 
 
 92
 
 mean to say that Tom ever let out his good looks so profitably, for nature 
 had not endowed him with any particular charms of person, and he 
 ever was a pattern of moral behavior, losing no opportunity of giving 
 the very best advice to his younger comrade ; with which article, to do 
 him justice, he parted very freely. Not but that he was a merry fellow, 
 too, in his way; he loved a joke, if by good fortune he understood it, 
 and took his share generously of a bottle if another paid for it, and 
 especially if there was a young lord in company to drink it. In these 
 cases there was not a harder drinker in the University than Mr. Tusher 
 could be; and it was edifying to behold him, fresh shaved and with 
 smug face, singing out "Amen!" at early chapel in the morning. In 
 his reading, poor Harry permitted himself to go gadding after all the 
 Nine Muses, and so very likely had but little favor from any of them; 
 whereas Tom Tusher, who had no more turn for poetry than a plow- 
 boy, nevertheless, by a dogged perseverance and obsequiousness in 
 courting the divine Calliope, got himself a prize, and some credit in 
 the University, and a fellowship at his college, as a reward for his 
 scholarship. In this time of Mr. Esmond's life, he got the little reading 
 which he ever could boast of, and passed a good part of his days greedily 
 devouring all the books on which he could lay hand. In this desultory 
 way the works of most of the English, French and Italian poets came 
 under his eyes, and he had a smattering of the Spanish tongue likewise, 
 besides the ancient languages, of which, at least of Latin, he was a 
 tolerable master. 
 
 Then, about midway in his University career, he fell to reading for 
 the profession to which worldly prudence rather than inclination called 
 him, and was perfectly bewildered in theological controversy. In the 
 course of his reading (which was neither pursued with that seriousness 
 nor that devout mind which such a study requires) the youth found him- 
 self at the end of one month a Papist, and was about to proclaim his 
 faith; the next month a Protestant, with Chillingworth ; and the third 
 a skeptic, with Hobbes and Bayle. Whereas honest Tom Tusher never 
 permitted his mind to stray out of the prescribed University path, ac- 
 cepted the Thirty-Nine Articles with all his heart, and would have 
 signed and sworn to other nine-and-thirty with entire obedience. Harry's 
 wilfulness in this matter, and disorderly thoughts and conversation, 
 so shocked and afflicted his senior, that there grew up a coldness and 
 estrangement between them, so that they became scarce more than mere 
 acquaintances, from having been intimate friends when they came to 
 
 93
 
 college first. Politics ran high, too, at the University; and here, also, 
 the young men were at variance. Tom professed himself, albeit a High 
 Churchman, a strong King William's man; whereas Harry brought 
 his family Tory politics to college with him, to which he must add a 
 dangerous admiration for Oliver Cromwell, whose side, or King James's 
 by turns, he often chose to take in the disputes which the young gentle- 
 men used to hold in each other's rooms, where they debated on the 
 state of the nation, crowned and deposed kings, and toasted past and 
 present heroes and beauties in flagons of college ale. 
 
 Thus, either from the circumstances of his birth, or the natural 
 melancholy of his disposition, Esmond came to live very much by him- 
 self during his stay at the University, having neither ambition enough 
 to distinguish himself in the college career, nor caring to mingle with 
 the mere pleasures and boyish frolics of the students, who were, for 
 the most part, two or three years younger than he. He fancied that the 
 gentlemen of the common-room of his college slighted him on account 
 of his birth, and hence kept aloof from their society. It may be that he 
 made the ill-will, which he imagined came from them, by his own be- 
 havior, which, as he looks back on it in after-life, he now sees was 
 morose and haughty. At any rate, he was as tenderly grateful for kind- 
 ness as he was susceptible of slight and wrong; and, lonely as he was 
 generally, yet had one or two very warm friendships for his compan- 
 ions of those days. 
 
 One of these was a queer gentleman that resided in the University, 
 though he was no member of it, and was the professor of a science 
 scarce recognized in the common course of college education. This was 
 a French refugee officer, who had been driven out of his native country 
 at the time of the Protestant persecutions there, and who came to Cam- 
 bridge, where he taught the science of the small-sword, and set up a 
 saloon-of-arms. Though he declared himself a Protestant, 'twas said 
 Mr. Moreau was a Jesuit in disguise; indeed, he brought very strong 
 recommendations to the Tory party, which was pretty strong in that 
 University, and very likely was one of the many agents whom King 
 James had in this country. Esmond found this gentleman's conversa- 
 tion very much more agreeable and to his taste than the talk of the 
 college divines in the common-room; he never wearied of Moreau's 
 stories of the wars of Turenne and Conde, in which he had borne a 
 part; and being familiar with the French tongue from his youth, and 
 in a place where but few spoke it, his company became very agreeable 
 
 94
 
 to the brave old professor of arms, whose favorite pupil he was, and 
 who made Mr. Esmond a very tolerable proficient in the noble science 
 of escrime. 
 
 At the next term Esmond was to take his degree of Bachelor of Arts, 
 and afterwards, in proper season, to assume the cassock and bands which 
 his fond mistress would have him wear. Tom Tusher himself was a 
 parson and a fellow of his college by this time ; and Harry felt that he 
 would very gladly cede his right to the living of Castlewood to Tom, 
 and that his own calling was in no way the pulpit. But as he was bound, 
 before all things in the world, to his dear mistress at home, and knew 
 that a refusal on his part would grieve her, he determined to give her 
 no hint of his unwillingness to the clerical office: and it was in this un- 
 satisfactory mood of mind that he went to spend the last vacation he 
 should have at Castlewood before he took orders. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 / Come Home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and 
 Find a Skeleton in the House 
 
 At his third long vacation, Esmond came as usual to Castlewood, al- 
 ways feeling an eager thrill of pleasure when he found himself once 
 more in the house where he had passed so many years, and beheld the 
 kind familiar eyes of his mistress looking upon him. She and her chil- 
 dren (out of whose company she scarce ever saw him) came to greet 
 him. Miss Beatrix was grown so tall that Harry did not quite know 
 whether he might kiss her or no ; and she blushed and held back when 
 he offered that salutation, though she took it, and even courted it, when 
 they were alone. The young lord was shooting up to be like his gallant 
 father in look, though with his mother's kind eyes: the lady of Castle- 
 wood herself seemed grown, too, since Harry saw her — in her look more 
 stately, in her person fuller, in her face still as ever most tender and 
 friendly, a greater air of command and decision than had appeared in 
 that guileless sweet countenance which Harry remembered so gratefully. 
 The tone of her voice was so much deeper and sadder when she spoke 
 and welcomed him, that it quite startled Esmond, who looked up at 
 
 95
 
 her surprised as she spoke, when she withdrew her eyes from him ; nor 
 did she ever look at him afterwards when his own eyes were gazing 
 upon her. A something hinting at grief and secret, and filhng his mind 
 with alarm undefinable, seemed to speak with that low thrilling voice 
 of hers, and look out of those clear sad eyes. Her greeting to Esmond 
 was so cold that it almost pained the lad (who would have liked to fall 
 on his knees, and kiss the skirt of her robe, so fond and ardent was his 
 respect and regard for her) , and he faltered in answering the questions 
 which she, hesitating on her side, began to put to him. Was he happy 
 at Cambridge? Did he study too hard? She hoped not. He had grown 
 very tall, and looked very well. 
 
 "He has got a moustache!" cries out Master Esmond. 
 
 "Why does he not wear a peruke like my Lord Mohun?" asked Miss 
 Beatrix. "My lord says that nobody wears their own hair." 
 
 "I believe you will have to occupy your old chamber," says my lady. 
 "I hope the housekeeper has got it ready." 
 
 "Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these three days your- 
 self!" exclaims Frank. 
 
 "And she cut some flowers which you planted in my garden — do you 
 remember, ever so many years ago.^ — when I was quite a little girl," 
 cries out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe. "And mamma put them in your 
 window." 
 
 "I remember when you grew well after you were ill that you used to 
 like roses," said the lady, blushing like one of them. They all conducted 
 Harry Esmond to his chamber; the children running before, Harry 
 walking by his mistress hand-in-hand. 
 
 The old room had been ornamented and beautified not a little to 
 receive him. The flowers were in the window in a china vase; and there 
 was a fine new counterpane on the bed, which chatterbox Beatrix said 
 mamma had made too. A fire was crackling on the hearth, although it 
 was June. My lady thought the room wanted warming; everything was 
 done to make him happy and welcome: "And you are not to be a page 
 any longer, but a gentleman and kinsman, and to walk with papa and 
 mamma," said the children. And as soon as his dear mistress and chil- 
 dren had left him to himself, it was with a heart overflowing with love 
 and gratefulness that he flung himself down on his knees by the side 
 of tlie little bed, and asked a blessing upon those who were so kind to 
 him. 
 
 The children, who are always house tell-tales, soon made him ac- 
 
 96
 
 quainted with the little history of the house and family. Papa had been 
 to London twice. Papa often went away now. Papa had taken Beatrix 
 to Westlands, where she was taller than Sir George Harper's second 
 daughter, though she was two years older. Papa had taken Beatrix and 
 Frank both to Bellminster where Frank had got the better of Lord Bell- 
 minster's son in a boxing match — my lord, laughing, told Harry after- 
 wards. Many gentlemen came to stop with papa, and papa had gotten 
 a new game from London, a French gam.e, called billiards — that the 
 French king played it very well: and the Dowager Lady Castlewood 
 had sent Miss Beatrix a present; and papa had gotten a new chaise, 
 with two little horses, which he drove himself, beside the coach which 
 mamma went in; and Doctor Tusher was a cross old plague, and they 
 did not like to learn from him at all ; and papa did not care about them 
 learning, and laughed when they were at their books, but mamma liked 
 them to learn, and taught them; and ""I don't think papa is fond of 
 mamma," said Miss Beatrix, with her great eyes. She had come quite 
 close up to Harry Esmond by the time this prattle took place, and was 
 on his knee, and had examined all the points of his dress, and all the 
 good or bad features of his homely face. 
 
 "You shouldn't say that papa is not fond of mamma," said the boy, 
 at this confession. "Mamma never said so; and mamma forbade you 
 to say it. Miss Beatrix." 
 
 'Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in Lady Castle- 
 wood's eyes, and the plaintive vibrations of her voice. Who does not 
 know of eyes, lighted by love once, where the flame shines no more ! — 
 of lamps extinguished, once properly trimmed and tended? Every man 
 has such in his house. Such mementoes make our most splendid cham- 
 bers look blank and sad; such faces seen in a day cast a gloom upon 
 our sunshine. So oaths mutually sworn, and invocations of Heaven, and 
 priestly ceremonies, and fond belief, and love, so fond and faithful 
 that it never doubted but that it should live forever, are all of no avail 
 towards making love eternal: it dies, in spite of the banns and the 
 priest: and I have often thought there should be a visitation of the sick 
 for it, and a funeral service, and an extreme unction, and an abi in pace. 
 It has of course, like all mortal things — its beginning, progress and 
 decay. It buds and it blooms out into sunshine, and it withers and ends. 
 Strephon and Chloe languish apart; join in a rapture: and presently 
 you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has broken his crook across 
 her back. Can you mend it so as to show no marks of rupture.^ Not all 
 
 97
 
 the priests of Hymen, not all the incantations to the gods, can make it 
 whole ! 
 
 Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college honors, in 
 which for two years Harry Esmond had been immersed, he found him- 
 self, instantly, on his return home, in the midst of this actual tragedy 
 of life, which absorbed and interested him more than all his tutor had 
 taught him. The persons whom he loved best in the world, and to whom 
 he owed most were living unhappily together. The gentlest and kindest 
 of women was suffering ill-usage and shedding tears in secret: the man 
 who made her wretched by neglect, if not by violence, was Harry's 
 benefactor and patron. In houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost 
 flame of love, there is discord at the center, the whole household be- 
 comes hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbor. The husband (or it 
 may be the wife) lies when the visitor comes in, and wears a grin of 
 reconciliation or politeness before him. The wife lies (indeed her busi- 
 ness is to do that, and to smile, however much she is beaten), swallows 
 her tears, and lies to her lord and master; lies in bidding little Jackey 
 respect dear papa; lies in assuring grandpapa that she is perfectly happy. 
 The servants lie, wearing grave faces behind their master's chair, and 
 pretending to be unconscious of the fighting; and so, from morning 
 till bedtime, life is passed in falsehood. And wiseacres call this a proper 
 regard of morals, and point out Baucis and Philemon as examples of 
 a good life. 
 
 If my lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond, my lord was 
 by no means reserved when in his aips, and spoke his mind very freely, 
 bidding Harry in his course way, and with his blunt language, beware 
 of all women as cheats, jades, jilts, and using other unmistakable mono- 
 syllables in speaking of them. Indeed, 'twas the fashion of the day, as 
 I must own ; and there's not a writer of my time of any note, with the 
 exception of poor Dick Steele, that does not speak of a woman as of a 
 slave, and scorn and use her as such. Mr. Pope, Mr. Congreve, Mr. Ad- 
 dison, Mr. Gay, every one of 'em, sing in this key, each according to 
 his nature and politeness, and louder and fouler than all in abuse is 
 Doctor Swift, who spoke of them, as he treated them, worst of all. 
 
 Much of the quarrels and hatred which arise between married people 
 come in my mind from the husband's rage and revolt at discovering 
 that his slave and bedfellow, who is to minister to all his wishes, and 
 is church-sworn to honor and obey him — is his superior; and that be, 
 and not she, ought to be the subordinate of the twain: and in these con- 
 
 98
 
 troversies, I think, lay the cause of my lord's anger against his lady. 
 When he left her, she began to think for herself, and her thoughts were 
 not in his favor. After the illumination, when the love-lamp is put out 
 that anon we spoke of, and by the common daylight we look at the pic- 
 ture, what a daub it looks ! what a clumsy effigy ! How many men and 
 wives come to this knowledge, think you? And if it be painful to a 
 woman to find herself mated for life to a boor, and ordered to love 
 and honor a dullard ; it is worse still for the man himself perhaps, when- 
 ever in his dim comprehension the idea dawns that his slave and drudge 
 yonder is, in truth, his superior; that the woman who does his bidding, 
 and submits to his humor, should be his lord; that she can think a 
 thousand things beyond the power of his muddled brains; and that in 
 yonder head, on the pillow opposite to him, lie a thousand feelings, 
 mysteries of thought, latent scorns and rebellions, whereof he only dimly 
 perceives the existence as they look out furtively from her eyes: treas- 
 ures of love doomed to perish without a hand to gather them; sweet 
 fancies and images of beauty that would grow and unfold themselves 
 into flower; bright wit that would shine like diamonds could it be brought 
 into the sun; and the tyrant in possession crushes the outbreak of all 
 these, drives them back like slaves into the dungeon and darkness, and 
 chafes without that his prisoner is rebellious, and his sworn subject un- 
 dutiful and refractory. So the lamp was out in Castlewood Hall, and 
 the lord and lady there saw each other as they v/ere. With her illness 
 and altered beauty my lord's fire for his wife disappeared; with his 
 selfishness and faithlessness her foolish fiction of love and reverence 
 was rent away. Love! — who is to love what is base and unlovely? Re- 
 spect! — who is to respect what is gross and sensual? Not all the mar- 
 riage oaths sworn before all the parsons, cardinals, ministers, muftis, 
 and rabbis in the world, can bind to that monstrous allegiance. This 
 couple was living apart then; the woman happy to be allowed to love 
 and tend her children (who were never of her own good will away 
 from her) , and thankful to have saved such treasures as these out of the 
 wreck in which the better part of her heart went down. 
 
 These young ones had had no instructors save their mother, and 
 Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally, and had made more 
 progress than might have been expected under a tutor so indulgent and 
 fond as Lady Castlewood. Beatrix could sing and dance like a nymph. 
 Her voice was her father's delight after dinner. She ruled over the 
 house with little imperial ways, which her parents coaxed and laughed 
 
 99
 
 at. She had long learned the value of her bright eyes and tried experi- 
 ments in coquetry, in corpore vili, upon rustics and country squires, 
 until she should prepare to conquer the world and the fashion. She put 
 on a new ribbon to welcome Harry Esmond, made eyes at him, and 
 directed her young smiles at him, not a little to the amusement of the 
 young man, and the joy of her father, who laughed his great laugh, 
 and encouraged her in her thousand antics. Lady Castlewood watched 
 the child gravely, and sadly: the little one was pert in her replies to 
 her mother, yet eager in her protestations of love and promises of amend- 
 ment ; and as ready to cry (after a little quarrel brought on by her own 
 giddiness) and until she had won back her mamma's favor, as she was 
 to risk the kind lady's displeasure by fresh outbreaks of restless vanity. 
 From her mother's sad looks she fled to her father's chair and boozy 
 laughter. She already set the one against the other: and the little rogue 
 delighted in the mischief which she knew how to make so early. 
 
 The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and mother 
 both. He took their caresses as men do, and as if they were his right. 
 He had his hawks and his spaniel dog, his little horse and his beagles. 
 He had learned to ride, and to drink, and to shoot flying: and he had a 
 small court, the sons of the huntsman and woodman, as became the 
 heir-apparent, taking after the example of my lord his father. If he had 
 a headache, his mother was as much frightened as if the plague were 
 in the house: my lord laughed and jeered in his abrupt way — (indeed 
 'twas on the day after New Year's Day, and an excess of mince pie) — 
 
 and said with some of his usual oaths, "D it, Harry Esmond — you 
 
 see how my lady takes on about Frank's megrim. She used to be sorry 
 about me, my boy (pass the tankard, Harry), and to be frightened if 
 I had a headache once. She don't care about my head now. They're 
 like that — women are — all the same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts. 
 Stick to college — stick to punch and buttery ale: and never see a woman 
 that's handsomer than an old cinder-faced bedmaker. That's my counsel." 
 
 It was my lord's custom to fling out many jokes of this nature, in 
 presence of his wife and children, at meals — clumsy sarcasms which my 
 lady turned many a time, or which, sometimes, she affected not to hear, 
 or which now and again would hit their mark and make the poor vic- 
 tim wince (as you could see by her flushing face and eyes filling with 
 tears), or which again worked her up to anger and retort, when, in 
 answer to one of these heavy bolts, she would flash back with a quiver- 
 ing reply. The pair were not happy ; nor indeed was it happy to be with 
 
 ICO
 
 them. Alas that youthful love and truth should end in bitterness and 
 bankruptcy! To see a young couple loving each other is no wonder; 
 but to see an old couple loving each other is the best sight 
 of all. Harry Esmond became the confidant of one and the other — 
 that is, my lord told the lad all his griefs and wrongs (which were in- 
 deed of Lord Castlewood's own making), and Harry divined my lady's; 
 his affection leading him easily to penetrate the hypocrisy under which 
 Lady Castlewood generally chose to go disguised, and see her heart 
 aching whilst her face wore a smile. 'Tis a hard task for women in life, 
 that mask which the world bids them wear. But there is no greater crime 
 than for a. woman who is ill-used and unhappy to show that she is so. 
 The world is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a cheerful face; 
 and our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to go smiling and 
 painted to sacrifice themselves with their husbands ; their relations being 
 the most eager to push them on to their duty, and, under their shouts 
 and applauses, to smother and hush their cries of pain. 
 
 So, into the sad secret of his patron's household, Harry Esmond be- 
 came initiated, he scarce knew how. It had passed under his eyes two 
 years before, when he could not understand it; but reading, and thought, 
 and experience of men, had oldened him ; and one of the deepest sorrows 
 of a life which had never, in truth, been very happy, came upon him 
 now, when he was compelled to understand and pity a grief which he 
 stood quite powerless to relieve. 
 
 It has been said my lord would never take the oath of allegiance, nor 
 his seat as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland, where, indeed, he had but 
 a nominal estate ; and refused an English peerage which King William's 
 government offered him as a bribe to secure his loyalty. 
 
 He might have accepted this, and would, doubtless, but for the earnest 
 remonstrances of his wife, who ruled her husband's opinions better 
 than she could govern his conduct, and who, being a single-hearted 
 woman, with but one rule of faith and right, never thought of swerving 
 from her fidelity to the exiled family, or of recognizing any other sov- 
 ereign but King James; and though she acquiesced in the doctrine of 
 obedience to the reigning power, no temptation, she thought, could in- 
 duce her to acknowledge the Prince of Orange as rightful monarch, 
 nor to let her lord so acknowledge him. So my Lord Castlewood re- 
 mained a nonjuror all his life nearly, though his self-denial caused him 
 many a pang, and left him sulky and out of humor. 
 
 The year after the Revolution, and all through King William's life, 
 
 lOI
 
 'tis known there were constant intrigues for the restoration of the ex- 
 iled family; but if my Lord Castlewood took any share of these, as is 
 probable, 'twas only for a short time, and when Harry Esmond was too 
 young to be introduced into such important secrets. 
 
 But in the year 1695, when that conspiracy of Sir John Fenwick, 
 Colonel Lowick, and others, was set on foot, for waylaying King William 
 as he came from Hampton Court to London, and a secret plot was 
 formed, in which a vast number of the nobility and people of honor 
 were engaged. Father Holt appeared at Castlewood, and brought a 
 young friend with him, a gentleman whom 'twas easy to see that both 
 my lord and the father treated with uncommon deference. Harry Es- 
 mond saw this gentleman, and knew and recognized him in after life, 
 as shall be shown in its place; and he has little doubt now that my lord 
 viscount was implicated somewhat in the transactions which always kept 
 Father Holt employed and traveling here and there, under a dozen dif- 
 ferent names and disguises. The father's companion went by the name 
 of Captain James ; and it was under a very different name and appear- 
 ance that Harry Esmond afterwards saw him. 
 
 It was the next year that the Fenwick conspiracy blew up, which is 
 a matter of public history now, and which ended in the execution of 
 Sir John and many more, who suffered manfully for their treason, and 
 who were attended to Tyburn by my lady's father Dean Armstrong, Mr. 
 Collier, and other stout nonjuring clergymen, who absolved them at 
 the gallows-foot. 
 
 'Tis known that when Sir John was apprehended, discovery was made 
 of a great number of names of gentlemen engaged in the conspiracy: 
 when, with a noble wisdom and clemency, the Prince burned the list 
 of conspirators furnished to him, and said he would know no more. 
 Now it was after this that Lord Castlewood swore his great oath, that 
 he would never, so help him Heaven, be engaged in any transaction 
 against that brave and merciful man; and so he told Holt when the in- 
 defatigable priest visited him, and would have had him engage in a 
 further conspiracy. After this my lord ever spoke of King William as 
 he was — as one of the wisest, the bravest, and the greatest of men. My 
 Lady Esmond (for her part) said she could never pardon the King, 
 first, for ousting his father-in-law from his throne, and, secondly, for 
 not being constant to his wife, the Princess Mary. Indeed, I think if 
 Nero were to rise again, and be King of England, and a good family 
 
 102
 
 man, the ladies would pardon him. My lord laughed at his wife's ob- 
 jections — the standard of virtue did not fit him much. 
 
 The last conference which Mr. Holt had with his lordship took place 
 when Harry was come home for his first vacation from college (Harry 
 saw his old tutor but for a half-hour, and exchanged no private words 
 with him) , and their talk, whatever it might be, left my lord viscount 
 very much disturbed in mind — so much so, that his wife, and his young 
 kinsman, Henry Esmond, could not but observe his disquiet. After Holt 
 was gone, my lord rebuffed Esmond, and again treated him with the 
 greatest deference; he shunned his wife's questions and company, and 
 looked at his children with such a face of gloom and anxiety, mutter- 
 ing, "Poor children — poor children!" in a way that could not but fill 
 those whose life it was to watch him and obey him with great alarm. 
 For which gloom, each person interested in the Lord Castlewood framed 
 in his or her own mind an interpretation. 
 
 My lady, with a laugh of cruel bitterness, said. "I suppose the person 
 at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him" (for my lord's infatuation 
 about Mrs. Marwood was known only too well). Young Esmond feared 
 for his money affairs, into the condition of which he had been initiated ; 
 and that the expenses, always greater than his revenue, had caused Lord 
 Castlewood disquiet. 
 
 One of the causes why my lord viscount had taken young Esmond 
 into his special favor was a trivial one, that has not before been men- 
 tioned, though it was a very lucky accident in Henry Esmond's life. A 
 very few months after my lord's coming to Castlewood, in the winter 
 time— the little boy being a child in a petticoat, trotting about — it hap- 
 pened that little Frank was with his father after dinner, who fell asleep 
 over his wine, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire; and, as 
 good fortune would have it, Esmond was sent by his mistress for the 
 boy just as the poor little screaming urchin's coat was set on fire by a 
 log; when Esmond, rushing forward, tore the dress off the infant, so 
 that his own hands were burned more than the child's, who was fright- 
 ened rather than hurt by this accident. But certainly 'twas providential 
 that a resolute person should have come in at that instant, or the child 
 had been burned to death probably, my lord sleeping very heavily after 
 drinking, and not waking so cool as a man should who had a danger to 
 face. 
 
 Even after this the father, loud in his expressions of remorse and 
 humility for being a tipsy good-for-nothing, and of admiration for
 
 Harry Esmond, whom his lordship would style a hero for doing a very 
 trifling service, had the tenderest regard for his son's preserver, and 
 Harry became quite as one of the family. His burns were tended with 
 the greatest care by his kind mistress, who said that Heaven had sent 
 him to be the guardian of her children, and that she would love him 
 ail her life. 
 
 And it was after this, and from the very great love and tenderness 
 which had grown up in this little household, rather than from the ex- 
 hortations of Dean Armstrong (though these had no small weight with 
 him), that Harry came to be quite of the religion of his house and his 
 dear mistress, of which he has ever since been a professing member. 
 As for Doctor Tusher's boasts that he was the cause of this conversion 
 — even in these young days Mr. Esmond had such a contempt for the 
 doctor, that had Tusher bade him believe anything (which he did not 
 — never meddling at all), Harry would that instant have questioned 
 the truth of it. 
 
 My lady seldom drank wine; but on certain days of the year, such as 
 birthdays (poor Harry had never a one) and anniversaries, she took a 
 little; and this day, the 29th December, was one. At the end, then, of 
 this year, '96, it might have been a fortnight after Mr. Holt's last visit, 
 Lord Castlewood being still very gloomy in mind, and sitting at table — 
 my lady bidding a servant bring her a glass of wine, and looking at her 
 husband with one of her sweet smiles, said: 
 
 "My lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call a toast?" 
 
 "What is it, Rachel?" says he, holding out his empty glass to be filled. 
 
 " 'Tis the 29th of December," says my lady, with her fond look of 
 gratitude: "and my toast is, 'Harry — and God bless him who saved my 
 boy's life!' " 
 
 My lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but clapped it 
 down on the table in a moment, and, with a sort of groan, rose up, and 
 went out of the room. What was the matter? We all knew that some 
 great grief was over him. 
 
 Whether my lord's prudence had made him richer, or legacies had 
 fallen to him, which enabled him to support a greater establishment 
 than that frugal one which had been too much for his small means, 
 Harry Esmond knew not; but the house of Castlewood was now on a 
 scale much more costly than it had been during the first years of his 
 lordship's coming to the title. There were more horses in the stable and 
 more servants in the hall, and many more guests coming and going now 
 104
 
 than formerly, when it was found difficalt enough by the strictest econ- 
 omy to keep the house as befitted one of his lordship's rank, and the 
 estate out of debt. And it did not require very much penetration to find 
 that many of the new acquaintances at Castlewood were not agreeable 
 to the lady there: not that she ever treated them or any mortal with any- 
 thing but courtesy; but they were persons who could not be welcome 
 to her; and whose society a lady so refined and reserved could scarce 
 desire for her children. There came fuddling squires from the country 
 round, who bawled their songs under her windows and drank them- 
 selves tipsy with my lord's punch and ale: there came ofTicers from Hex- 
 ton, in whose company our little lord was made to hear talk and to 
 drink, and swear too, in a way that made the delicate lady tremble for 
 her son. Esmond tried to console her by saying, what he knew of his 
 College experience, that with this sort of company and conversation a 
 man must fall in sooner or later in his course through the world; and 
 it mattered very little whether he heard it at twelve years old or twenty 
 — the youths who quitted mothers' apron-strings the latest being not 
 uncommonly the wildest rakes. But it was about her daughter that Lady 
 Castlewood was the most anxious, and the danger which she thought 
 menaced the little Beatrix from the indulgences which her father gave 
 her (it must be owned that my lord, since these unhappy domestic dif- 
 ferences especially, was at once violent in his language to the children 
 when angry, as he was too familiar, not to say coarse, when he was in 
 a good humor), and from the company into which the careless lord 
 brought the child. 
 
 Not very far off from Castlewood is Sark Castle, where the Marchioness 
 of Sark lived, who was known to have been a mistress of the late King 
 Charles — and to this house, where indeed a great part of the country 
 gentry went, my lord insisted upon going, not only himself, but on 
 taking his little daughter and son, to play with the children there. The 
 children were nothing loth, for the house was splendid, and the wel- 
 come kind enough. But my lady, justly no doubt, thought that the chil- 
 dren of such a mother as that noted Lady Sark had been, could be no 
 good company for her two; and spoke her mind to her lord. His own 
 language when he was thwarted was not indeed of the gentlest: to be 
 brief, there was a family dispute on this, as there had been on many 
 other points — and the lady was not only forced to give in, for the other's 
 will was law — nor could she, on account of their tender age, tell her 
 children what was the nature of her objection to their visit of pleasure, 
 
 105
 
 or indeed mention to them any objection at all — but she had the addi- 
 tional secret mortification to find them returning delighted with their 
 new friends, loaded with presents from them, and eager to be allowed 
 to go back to a place of such delights as Sark Castle. Every year she 
 thought the company there would be more dangerous to her daughter, 
 as from a child Beatrix grew to a woman, and her daily increasing 
 beauty, and many faults of character too, expanded. 
 
 It was Harry Esmond's lot to see one of the visits which the old Lady 
 of Sark paid to the lady of Castlewood Hall: where she came in state 
 with six chestnut horses and blue ribbons, a page on each carriage step, 
 a gentleman of the horse, and armed servants riding before and behind 
 her. And, but that it was unpleasant to see Lady Castlewood's face, it 
 was amusing to watch the behavior of the two enemies: the frigid 
 patience of the younger lady, and the unconquerable good humor of 
 the elder — who would see no offense whatever her rival intended, and 
 who never ceased to smile and to laugh, and to coax the children, and to 
 pay compliments to every man, woman, child, nay dog, or chair and 
 table, in Castlewood, so bent was she upon admiring everything there. 
 She lauded the children, and wished — as indeed she well might — that 
 her own family had been brought up as well as those cherubs. She had 
 never seen such a complexion as dear Beatrix's — though to be sure she 
 had a right to it from father and mother — Lady Castlewood's was in- 
 deed a wonder of freshness, and Lady Sark sighed to think she had not 
 been born a fair woman ; and remarking Harry Esmond, with a fascinat- 
 ing superannuated smile, she complimented him on his wit, which she 
 said she could see from his eyes and forehead ; and vowed that she would 
 never have hhn at Sark until her daughter were out of the way. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 My Lord Mohun Comes Among Us for No Good 
 
 There had ridden along with this old Princess' cavalcade two gentle- 
 men: her son by Lord Firebrace and his friend Lord Mohun, who both 
 were greeted with a great deal of cordiality by the hospitable Lord of 
 Castlewood. My Lord Firebrace was but a feeble-minded and weak- 
 limbed young nobleman, small in stature and limited in understanding 
 1 06
 
 — to judge from the talk young Esmond had with him; but the other 
 was a person of a handsome presence, with the bel air, and a bright 
 daring warlike aspect, which, according to the chronicle of those days, 
 had already achieved for him the conquest of several beauties and teasts. 
 He had fought and conquered in France, as well as in Flanders; he 
 had served a couple of campaigns with the Prince of Baden on the Dan- 
 ube, and witnessed the rescue of Vienna from the Turk. And he spoke 
 of his military exploits pleasantly, and with the manly freedom of a 
 soldier, so as to delight all his hearers at Castlewood, who were little 
 accustomed to meet a companion so agreeable. 
 
 On the first day this noble company came, my lord would not hear 
 of their departure before dinner, and carried away the gentlemen to 
 amuse them, whilst his wife was left to do the honors of her house to 
 the old Marchioness and her daughter within. They looked at the stables 
 where my Lord Mohun praised the horses, though there was but a poor 
 show there: they walked over the old house and gardens, and fought 
 the siege of Oliver's time over again: they played a game of rackets in 
 the old court, where my Lord Castlewood beat my Lord Mohun, who 
 said he loved ball of all things, and would quickly come back to Castle- 
 wood for his revenge. After dinner they played bowls, and drank punch 
 in the green alley: and when they parted they were sworn friends, my 
 Lord Castlewood kissing the other lord before he mounted on horse- 
 back, and pronouncing him the best companion he had met for many 
 a long day. All night long, over his tobacco-pipe, Castlewood did not 
 cease to talk to Harry Esmond in praise of his new friend, and in fact 
 did not leave off speaking of him until his lordship was so tipsy that 
 he could not speak plainly any more. 
 
 At breakfast next day it was the same talk renewed; and when my 
 lady said there was something free in the Lord Mohun's looks and 
 manner of speech which caused her to mistrust him, her lord burst out 
 with one of his laughs and oaths; said that he never liked man, woman, 
 or beast, but what she was sure to be jealous of it; that Mohun was the 
 prettiest fellow in England ; that he hoped to see more of him while in 
 the country ; and that he would let Mohun know what my Lady Prude said 
 of him. 
 
 "Indeed," Lady Castlewood said, "I liked his conversation well enough. 
 'Tis more amusing than that of most people I know. I thought it, I own, 
 too free ; not from what he said, as rather from what he implied." 
 
 "Pshaw! your ladyship does not know the world," said her husband; 
 
 107
 
 "and you have always been as squeamish as when you were a miss of 
 fifteen." 
 
 "You found no fault when I was a miss of fifteen." 
 
 "Begad, madam, you are grown too old for a pinafore now; and I 
 hold that 'tis for me to judge what company my wife shall see," said my 
 lord, slapping the table. 
 
 "Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise," answered my lady, 
 rising and dropping him a curtsey, in which stately action, if there was 
 obedience, there was defiance too; and in which a bystander, deeply in- 
 terested in the happiness of that pair as Harry Esmond was, might see 
 how hopelessly separated they were; what a great gulf of difference and 
 discord had run between them. 
 
 "By G d! Mohun is the best fellow in England; and I'll invite 
 
 ' him here, just to plague that woman. Did you ever see such a frigid 
 insolence as it is, Harry? That's the way she treats me," he broke out, 
 storming, and his face growing red as he clenched his fists and went on. 
 "I'm nobody in my own house. I'm to be the humble servant of that 
 parson's daughter. By Jove! I'd rather she should fling the dish at my 
 head than sneer at me as she does. She puts me to shame before the 
 
 children with her d d airs ; and, I'll swear, tells Frank and Beaty that 
 
 papa's a reprobate, and that they ought to despise me." 
 
 "Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but of respect 
 regarding you," Harry Esmond interposed. 
 
 "No, curse it! I wish she would speak. But she never does. She scorns 
 me, and holds her tongue. She keeps oflf from me, as if I was a pestilence. 
 By George! she was fond enough of her pestilence once. And when I 
 came a-courting, you would see miss blush — blush red, by George ! for 
 joy. Why, what do you think she said to me, Harry? She said herself, 
 
 when I joked with her about her d d smiling red cheeks: ' 'Tis as 
 
 they do at Saint James's; I put up my red flag when my king comes.' 
 I was the king, you see, she meant. But now, sir, look at her ! I believe 
 she would be glad if I was dead; and dead I've been to her these five 
 years — ever since you all of you had the smallpox: and she never for- 
 gave me for going away." 
 
 "Indeed, my lord, though 'twas hard to forgive, I think my mistress 
 forgave it," Harry Esmond said; "and remember how eagerly she 
 watched your lordship's return, and how sadly she turned away when 
 she saw your cold looks." 
 
 "Damme!" cries out my lord; "would you have had me wait and 
 
 io8
 
 catch the smallpox? Where the deuce had been the good of that? I'll 
 bear danger with any man — but not useless danger — no, no. Thank 
 you for nothing. And — you nod your head, and I know very well, 
 Parson Harry, what you mean. There was the — the other affair to make 
 her angry. But is a woman never to forgive a husband who goes tripping ? 
 Do you take me for a saint ?" 
 
 "Indeed, sir, I do not," says Harry, with a smile. 
 
 "Since that time my wife's as cold as the statue at Charing Cross. I 
 tell you she has no forgiveness in her, Henry. Her coldness blights my 
 whole life, and sends me to the punchbowl, or driving about the country. 
 My children are not mine, but hers, when we are together. 'Tis only 
 when she is out of sight with her abominable cold glances, that run 
 through me, that they'll come to me, and that I dare to give them so 
 much as a kiss; and that's why I take 'em and love 'em in other people's 
 houses, Harry. I'm killed by the very virtue of that proud woman. Virtue! 
 give me the virtue that can forgive; give me the virtue that thinks not 
 of preserving itself, but of making other folks happy. Damme, what 
 matters a scar or two if 'tis got in helping a friend in ill fortune?" 
 
 And my lord again slapped the table, and took a great draught from 
 the tankard. Harry Esmond admired as he listened to him, and thought 
 how the poor preacher of this self-sacrifice had fled from the smallpox, 
 which the lady had borne so cheerfully, and which had been the cause of 
 so much disunion in the lives of all in this house. "How well men preach," 
 thought the young man, "and each is the example in his own sermon! 
 How each has a story in a dispute, and a true one, too, and both are right 
 or wrong as you will." Harry's heart was pained within him, to watch 
 the struggles and pangs that tore the breast of this kind, manly friend 
 and protector. 
 
 "Indeed, sir," said he, "I wish to God that my mistress could hear 
 you speak as I have heard you; she would know much that would make 
 her life the happier, could she hear it." But my lord flung away with 
 one of his oaths, and a jeer: he said that Parson Harry was a good 
 fellow; but that as for women, all women were alike — all jades and 
 heartless. So a man dashes a fine vase down, and despises it for being 
 broken. It may be worthless — true: but who had the keeping of it, and 
 who shattered it? 
 
 Harry, who would have given his life to make his benefactress and 
 her husband happy, bethought him, now that he saw what my lord's 
 state of mind was, and that he really had a great deal of that love left 
 
 109
 
 in his heart, and ready for his wife's acceptance if she would take it, 
 whether he could not be a means of reconcihation between these two 
 persons, whom he revered the most in the world. And he cast about 
 how he should break a part of his mind to his mistress, and warn her 
 that in his, Harry's opinion, at least, her husband was still her admirer, 
 and even her lover. 
 
 But he found the subject a very difficult one to handle, when he ven- 
 tured to remonstrate, which he did in the very gravest tone (for long 
 confidence and reiterated proofs of devotion and loyalty had given him 
 a sort of authority in the house, which he resumed as soon as ever he 
 returned to it), and with a speech that should have some effect, as, in- 
 deed, it was uttered with the speaker's own heart, he ventured most 
 gently to hint to his adored mistress that she was doing her husband 
 harm by her ill opinion of him, and that the happiness of all the family 
 depended upon setting her right. 
 
 She, who was ordinarily calm and most gentle, and full of smiles and 
 soft attentions, flushed up when young Esmond so spoke to her, and rose 
 from her chair, looking at him with a haughtiness and indignation that 
 he had never before known her to display. She was quite an altered 
 being for that moment; and looked an angry princess insulted by a vassal. 
 
 "Have you ever heard me utter a word in my lord's disparagement?" 
 she asked hastily, hissing out her words, and stamping her foot. 
 
 "Indeed, no," Esmond said, looking down. 
 
 "Are you come to me as his ambassador — you?" she continued. 
 
 "I would sooner see peace between you than anything else in the 
 world," Harry answered, "and would go of any embassy that had that 
 end." 
 
 "So you are my lord's go-between?" she went on, not regarding this 
 speech. "You are sent to bid me back into slavery again, and inform me 
 that my lord's favor is graciously restored to his handmaid? He is weary 
 of Covent Garden, is he, that he comes home and would have the fatted 
 calf killed?" 
 
 "There's good authority for it surely," said Esmond. 
 
 "For a son, yes; but my lord is not my son. It was he who cast me 
 away from him. It was he who broke our happiness down, and he bids 
 me to repair it. It was he who showed himself to me at last as he was, 
 not as I had thought him. It is he who comes before my children stupid 
 and senseless with wine — who leaves our company for that of frequen- 
 ters of taverns and bagnios — who goes from his home to the city yonder 
 
 no
 
 and his friends there, and when he is tired of them returns here, and 
 expects that I shall kneel and welcome him. And he sends you as his 
 chamberlain! What a proud embassy! Monsieur, I make you my com- 
 pliment of the new place." 
 
 "It would be a proud embassy, and a happy embassy too, could I bring 
 you and my lord together," Esmond replied. 
 
 "I presume you have fulfilled your mission now, sir. 'Twas a pretty 
 one for you to undertake. I don't know whether 'tis your Cambridge 
 philosophy, or time, that has altered your ways of thinking," Lady 
 Castlewood continued, still in a sarcastic tone. "Perhaps you too have 
 learned to love drink, and to hiccup over your wine or punch; — which 
 is your worship's favorite liquor? Perhaps you too put up at the 'Rose' 
 on your way to London, and have your acquaintances in Covent Garden. 
 My services to you, sir, to principal and ambassador, to master and — 
 and lackey." 
 
 "Great heavens, madam!" cried Harry. "What have I done that thus, 
 for a second time, you insult me? Do you wish me to blush for what I 
 used to be proud of, that I lived on your bounty? Next to doing you a 
 service (which my life would pay for), you know that to receive one 
 from you is my highest pleasure. What wrong have I done you that you 
 should wound me so, cruel woman?" 
 
 "What wrong!" she said, looking at Esmond, with wild eyes. "Well, 
 none — none that you know of, Harry, or could help. Why did you bring 
 back the smallpox," she added, after a pause, "from Castlewood village? 
 You could not help it, could you? Which of us knows whither fate 
 leads us? But we were all happy, Henry, till then." 
 
 And Harry went away from this colloquy thinking still that the es- 
 trangement between his patron and his beloved mistress was remediable, 
 and that each had at heart a strong attachment to the other. 
 
 The intimacy between the Lords Mohun and Castlewood appeared to 
 increase as long as the former remained in the country; and my Lord 
 of Castlewood especially seemed never to be happy out of his new com- 
 rade's sight. They sported together, they drank, they played bowls and 
 tennis : my Lord Castlewood would go for three days to Sark, and bring 
 back my Lord Mohun to Castlewood — where indeed his lordship made 
 himself very welcome to all persons, having a joke or a new game at 
 romps for the children, all the talk of the town for my lord, and music 
 and gallantry and plenty of the beau langage for my lady, and for Harry 
 Esmond, who was never tired of hearing his stories of his campaigns and 
 
 III
 
 his life at Vienna, Venice, Paris, and the famous cities of Europe which 
 he had visited both in peace and war. And he sang at my lady's harpsi- 
 cliord, and played cards or backgammon, or his new game of billiards 
 with my lord (of whom he invariably got the better) ; always having 
 a consummate good humor, and bearing himself with a certain manly 
 grace, that might exhibit somewhat of the camp and Alsatia perhaps, 
 but that had its charm, and stamped him a gentleman: and his manner 
 to Lady Castlewood was so devoted and respectful, that she soon re- 
 covered from the first feelings of dislike which she had conceived against 
 him — nay, before long, began to be interested in his spiritual welfare, 
 and hopeful of his conversion, lending him books of piety, which he 
 promised dutifully to study. With her my lord talked of reform, of 
 settling into quiet life, quitting the court and town, and buying some 
 land in the neighborhood — though it must be owned that, when the two 
 lords were together over their burgundy after dinner, their talk was 
 very different, and there was very little question of conversion on my 
 Lord Mohun's part. When they got to their second bottle, Harry Esmond 
 used commonly to leave these two noble topers, who, though they talked 
 freely enough. Heaven knows, in his presence (good Lord, what a set 
 of stories, of Alsatia and Spring Garden, of the taverns and gaming- 
 houses, of the ladies of the Court, and mesdames of the theaters, he can 
 recall out of their godly conversation!) — although, I say, they talked 
 before Esmond freely, yet they seemed pleased when he went away, and 
 then they had another bottle, and then they fell to cards, and then my 
 Lord Mohun came to her ladyship's drawing-room; leaving his boon 
 companion to sleep off his wine. 
 
 'Twas a point of honor with the fine gentlemen of those days to lose 
 or win magnificently at their horse-matches, or games of cards and dice 
 — and you could never tell, from the demeanor of these two lords after- 
 wards, which had been successful and which the loser at their games. 
 And when my lady hinted to my lord that he played more than she 
 liked, he dismissed her with a "pish," and swore that nothing was more 
 equal than play between gentlemen, if they did but keep it up long 
 enough. And these kept it up long enough, you may be sure. A man 
 of fashion of that time often passed a quarter of his day at cards and 
 another quarter at drink: I have known many a pretty fellow, who was 
 a wit, too, ready of repartee, and possessed of a thousand graces, who 
 would be puzzled if he had to write more than his name. 
 
 There is scarce any thoughtful man or woman, I suppose, but can 
 
 112
 
 look back upon his course of past life, and remember some point, trifling 
 as it may have seemed at the time of occurrence, which has nevertheless 
 turned and altered his whole career. 'Tis with almost all of us, as in M. 
 Massillon's magnificent image regarding King William, a grain de sable 
 that perverts or perhaps overthrows us; and so it was but a light word 
 flung in the air, a mere freak of perverse child's temper, that brought 
 down a whole heap of crushing woes upon that family whereof Harry 
 Esmond formed a part. 
 
 Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year of his academ- 
 ical course (wherein he had now obtained some distinction, his Latin 
 poem on the death of the Duke of Gloucester, Princess Anne of Den- 
 mark's son, having gained him a medal, and introduced him to the 
 society of the University wits), Esmond found his little friend and pupil 
 Beatrix grown to be taller than her mother, a slim and lovely young 
 girl, with cheeks mantling with health and roses: with eyes like stars 
 shining out of azure, with waving bronze hair clustered about the fairest 
 young forehead ever seen: and a mien and shape haughty and beautiful, 
 such as that of the famous antique statue of the huntress Diana — at one 
 time haughty, rapid, imperious, with eyes and arrows that dart and kill. 
 Harry watched and wondered at this young creature, and likened her 
 in his mind to Artemis with the ringing bow and shafts flashing death 
 upon the children of Niobe; at another time she was coy and melting 
 as Luna shining tenderly upon Endymion. This fair creature, this lustrous 
 Phoebe, was only young as yet, nor had nearly reached her full splendor: 
 but crescent and brilliant, our young gentleman of the University, his 
 head full of poetical fancies, his heart perhaps throbbing with desires 
 undefined, admired this rising young divinity ; and gazed at her (though 
 only as at some "bright particular star," far above his earth) with end- 
 less delight and wonder. She had been a coquette from the earliest times 
 almost, trying her freaks and jealousies, her wayward frolics and win- 
 ning caresses, upon all that came within her reach; she set her women 
 quarreling in the nursery, and practiced her eyes on the groom as she 
 rode behind him on the pillion. 
 
 She was the darling and torment of father and mother. She intrigued 
 with each secretly; and bestowed her fondness and withdrew it, plied 
 them with tears, smiles, kisses, cajolements; when the mother was angry, 
 as happened often, flew to the father, and sheltering behind him, pur- 
 sued her victim ; when both were displeased, transferred her caresses to 
 the domestics, or watched until she could win back her parents' good 
 
 113
 
 graces, either by surprising them into laughter and good-humor, or ap- 
 peasing them by submission and artful humility. She was saevo laeta 
 negotio, like that fickle goddess Horace describes, and of whose "ma- 
 licious joy" a great poet of our own has written so nobly — who, famous 
 and heroic as he was, was not strong enough to resist the torture of 
 women. 
 
 It was but three years before that the child, then but ten years old, 
 had nearly managed to make a quarrel between Harry Esmond and his 
 comrade, good-natured, phlegmatic Thomas Tusher, who never of his 
 own seeking quarreled with anybody: by quoting to the latter some silly 
 joke which Harry had made regarding him — (it was the merest idlest 
 jest, though it near drove two old friends to blows, and I think such a 
 battle would have pleased her) — and from that day Tom kept at a dis- 
 tance from her; and she respected him, and coaxed him sedulously when- 
 ever they met. But Harry was much more easily appeased, because he 
 was fonder of the child: and when she made mischief, used cutting 
 speeches, or caused her friends pain, she excused herself for her fault 
 not by admitting and deploring it, but by pleading not guilty, and assert- 
 ing innocence so constantly and with such seeming artlessness, that it 
 was impossible to question her plea. In her childhood, they were but 
 mischiefs then which she did; but her power became more fatal as she 
 grew older — as a kitten first plays with a ball, and then pounces on a 
 bird and kills it. 'Tis not to be imagined that Harry Esmond had all this 
 experience at this early stage of his life, whereof he is now writing the 
 history — ^many things here noted were but known to him in later days. 
 Almost everything Beatrix did or undid seemed good, or at least par- 
 donable, to him then, and years afterwards. 
 
 It happened, then, that Harry Esmond came home to Castlewood for 
 his last vacation, with good hopes of a fellowship at his College, and a 
 contented resolve to advance his fortune that way. 'Twas in the first year of 
 the present century, Mr. Esmond (as far as he knew the period of his 
 birth) being then twenty-two years old. He found his quondam pupil 
 shot up into this beauty of which we have spoken, and promising yet 
 more; her brother, my lord's son, a handsome, high-spirited, brave lad, 
 generous and frank, and kind to everybody, save perhaps his sister, v/ith 
 whom Frank was at war (and not from his but her fault) — adoring his 
 mother, whose joy he was: and taking her side in the unhappy matri- 
 monial differences which were now permanent, while of course Mistress 
 Beatrix ranged with her father. When heads of families fall out, it must 
 
 114
 
 naturally be that their dependants wear the one or the other party's color ; 
 and even in the parliaments in the servants' hall or the stables, Harry, 
 who had an early observant turn, could see which were my lord's ad- 
 herents and which my lady's, and conjecture pretty shrewdly how their 
 unlucky quarrel was debated. Our lackeys sit in judgment on us. My 
 lord's intrigues may be ever so stealthily conducted, but his valet knows 
 them ; and my lady's woman carries her mistress's private history to the 
 servants' scandal market, and exchanges it against the secrets of other 
 abigails. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 My Lord Leaves Us 
 
 My Lord Mohun (of whose exploits and fame some of the gentlemen 
 of the University had brought down but ugly reports) was once more 
 a guest at Castlewood, and seemingly more intimately allied with my 
 lord even than before. Once in the spring those two noblemen had ridden 
 to Cambridge from Newmarket, where they had gone for the horse- 
 racing, and had honored Harry Esmond with a visit at his rooms ; after 
 which Doctor Montague, the Master of the College, who had treated 
 Harry somewhat haughtily, seeing his familiarity with these great folks, 
 and that my Lord Castlewood laughed and walked with his hand on 
 Harry's shoulder, relented to Mr. Esmond, and condescended to be very 
 civil to him; and some days after his arrival, Harry, laughing, told this 
 story to Lady Esmond, remarking how strange it was that men famous 
 for learning and renowned over Europe, should, nevertheless, so bow 
 down to a title, and cringe to a nobleman ever so poor. At this Mistress 
 Beatrix flung up her head, and said it became those of low origin to respect 
 their betters; that the parsons made themselves a great deal too proud, 
 she thought; and that she liked the way at Lady Sark's best, where the 
 chaplain, though he loved pudding, as all parsons do, always went 
 away before the custard. 
 
 "And when I am a parson," says Mr. Esmond, "will you give me no 
 custard, Beatrix?" 
 
 "You — you are different," Beatrix answered. "You are of our blood." 
 "My father was a parson, as you call him," said my lady. 
 
 "5
 
 "But mine is a peer of Ireland," says Mistress Beatrix, tossing her 
 head. "Let people know their places. I suppose you will have me go 
 down on my knees and ask a blessing of Mr. Thomas Tusher, that has 
 just been made a curate, and whose mother was a waiting-maid." 
 
 And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty humors 
 then. 
 
 When she was gone, my lady looked so sad and grave, that Harry 
 asked the cause of her disquietude. She said it was not merely what he 
 said of Newmarket, but what she had remarked, with great anxiety and 
 terror, that my lord, ever since his acquaintance with the Lord Mohun 
 especially, had recurred to his fondness for play, which he had renounced 
 since his marriage. 
 
 "But men promise more than they are able to perform in marriage," 
 said my lady, with a sigh. "I fear he has lost large sums; and our prop- 
 erty, always small, is dwindling away under this reckless dissipation. I 
 heard of him in London with very wild company. Since his return letters 
 and lawyers are constantly coming and going: he seems to me to have 
 a constant anxiety, though he hides it under boisterousness and laughter. 
 I looked through — through the door last night, and — and before," said 
 my lady, "and saw them at cards after midnight; no estate will bear that 
 extravagance, much less ours, which will be so diminished that my son 
 will have nothing at all, and my poor Beatrix no portion!" 
 
 "I wish I could help you, madam," said Harry Esmond, sighing, and 
 wishing that unavailingly, and for the thousandth time in his life. 
 
 "Who can? Only God," said Lady Esmond — "only God, in whose 
 hands we are." And so it is, and for his rule over his family, and for 
 his conduct to wife and children — subjects over whom his power is 
 monarchical — anyone who watches the world must think with trem- 
 bling sometimes of the account which many a man will have to render. 
 For in our society there's no law to control the King of the Fireside. 
 He is master of property, happiness — life almost. He is free to punish, 
 to make happy or unhappy — to ruin or to torture. He may kill a wife 
 gradually, and be no more questioned than the Grand Seignior who 
 drowns a slave at midnight. He may make slaves and hypocrites of his 
 children; or friends and freemen; or drive them into revolt and enmity 
 against the natural law of love. I have heard politicians and coffee-house 
 wiseacres talking over the newspapers, and railing at the tyranny of the 
 French King, and the Emperor, and wondered how these (who are 
 monarchs, too, in their way) govern their own dominions at home, where 
 
 ii6
 
 each man rules absolute. When the annals of each little reign are shown 
 to the Supreme Master, under whom we hold sovereignty, histories will 
 be laid bare of household tyrants as cruel as Amurath, and as savage as 
 Nero, and as reckless and dissolute as Charles. 
 
 If Harry Esmond's patron erred, 'twas in the latter way, from a disposi- 
 tion rather self-indulgent than cruel; and he might have been brought 
 back to much better feelings, had time been given to him to bring his 
 repentance to a lasting reform. 
 
 As my lord and his friend Lord Mohun were such close companions. 
 Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the latter; and the two gentlemen 
 often entertained each other by laughing, in their rude boisterous way, 
 at the child's freaks of anger and show of dislike. "When thou art old 
 enough, thou shalt marry Lord Mohun," Beatrix's father would say: 
 on which the girl would pout and say, "I would rather marry Tom 
 Tusher." And because the Lord Mohun always showed an extreme gal- 
 lantry to my Lady Castlewood, whom he professed to admire devotedly, 
 one day, in answer to this old joke of her father's, Beatrix said, "I 
 think my lord would rather marry mamma than marry me; and is wait- 
 ing till you die to ask her." 
 
 The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one night before 
 supper, as the family party were assembled near the great fire. The two 
 lords, who were at cards, both gave a start; my lady turned as red as 
 scarlet, and bade Mistress Beatrix go to her own cham.ber; whereupon 
 the girl, putting on, as her wont was, the most innocent air, said, "I am 
 sure I meant no wrong; I am sure mamma talks a great deal more to 
 Harry Esmond than she does to papa — and she cried when Harry went 
 away, and she never does when papa goes away! And last night she talked 
 to Lord Mohun for ever so long, and sent us out of the room, and cried 
 when we came back, and " 
 
 "D n!" cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all patience. "Go 
 
 out of the room, you little viper!" and he started up and flung down 
 his cards. 
 
 "Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis," her ladyship said, 
 rising up with a scared face, but yet with a great and touching dignity 
 and candor in her look and voice. "Come away with me, Beatrix." 
 Beatrix sprang up too ; she was in tears now. 
 
 "Dearest mamma, what have I done?" she asked. "Sure I meant no 
 harm." And she clung to her mother, and the pair went out sobbing 
 together. 
 
 117
 
 "I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank," my Lord Mohun 
 cried. "Parson Harry may hear it; and, as I hope for heaven, every word 
 I say is true. Last night, with tears in her eyes, your wife implored me 
 to play no more with you at dice or at cards, and you know best whether 
 what she asked was not for your good." 
 
 "Of course it was, Mohun," says my lord, in a dry hard voice. "Of 
 course you are a model of a man: and the world knows what a saint 
 you are." 
 
 My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had many 
 affairs of honor: of which women as usual had been the cause. 
 
 "I am no saint, though your wife is — and I can answer for my actions 
 as other people must for their words," said my Lord Mohun. 
 
 "By G d, my lord, you shall," cried the other, starting up. 
 
 "We have another little account to settle first, my lord," says Lord 
 Mohun. Whereupon Harry Esmond, filled with alarm for the conse- 
 quences to which this disastrous dispute might lead, broke out into the 
 most vehement expostulations with his patron and his adversary. 
 "Gracious heavens!" he said, "my lord, are you going to draw a sword 
 upon your friend in your own house? Can you doubt the honor of a 
 lady who is as pure as heaven, and would die a thousand times rather 
 than do you a wrong? Are the idle words of a jealous child to set friends 
 at variance? Has not my mistress, as much as she dared do, besought 
 your lordship, as the truth must be told, to break your intimacy with 
 my Lord Mohun ; and to give up the habit which may bring ruin on your 
 family ? But for my Lord Mohun's illness, had he not left you ?" 
 
 " 'Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can't run after other men's 
 wives," broke out my Lord Mohun, who indeed was in that way, and 
 with a laugh and a look at his swathed limb so frank and comical, that 
 the other, dashing his fist across his forehead, was caught by that in- 
 fectious good-humor, and said with his oath, "D n it, Harry, I be- 
 lieve thee," and so this quarrel was over, and the two gentlemen, at 
 swords drawn but just now, dropped their points, and shook hands. 
 
 Beat! pacifici. "Go bring my lady back," said Harry's patron. Esmond 
 went away, only too glad to be the bearer of such good news. He found 
 her at the door ; she had been listening there, but went back as he came. 
 She took both his hands, hers were marble cold. She seemed as if she 
 would fall on his shoulder. "Thank you, and God bless you, my dear 
 brother Harry," she said. She kissed his hand, Esmond felt her tears 
 upon it: and leading her into the room, and up to my lord, the Lord 
 
 Ii8
 
 Castlewood, with an outbreak of feeling and affection such as he had 
 not exhibited for many a long day, took his wife to his heart, and bent 
 over and kissed her and asked her pardon. 
 
 " 'Tis time for me to go to roost. I will have my gruel abed," said 
 my Lord Mohun: and limped oflF comically on Harry Esmond's arm. 
 "By George, that woman is a pearl!" he said; "and 'tis only a pig that 
 wouldn't value her. Have you seen the vulgar trapezing orange girl whom 
 Esmond" — but here Mr. Esmond interrupted him, saying, that these 
 were not affairs for him to know. 
 
 My lord's gentleman came in to wait upon his master, who was no 
 sooner in his nightcap and dressing-gown than he had another visitor 
 whom his host insisted on sending to him: and this was no other than 
 the Lady Castlewood herself with the toast and gruel, which her husband 
 bade her make and carry with her own hands in to her guest. 
 
 Lord Castlewood stood looking after his wife as she went on this 
 errand, and as he looked, Harry Esmond could not but gaze on him, 
 and remarked in his patron's face an expression of love, and grief, and 
 care, which very much moved and touched the young man. Lord Castle- 
 wood's hands fell down at his sides, and his head on his breast, and 
 presently he said: 
 
 "You heard what Mohun said, parson?" 
 
 "That my lady was a saint?" 
 
 "That there are two accounts to settle. I have been going wrong these 
 five years, Harry Esmond. Ever since you brought that damned smallpox 
 into the house, there has been a fate pursuing me, and I had best have 
 died of it, and not run away from it like a coward. I left Beatrix with 
 her relations, and went to London; and I fell among thieves, Harry, 
 and I got back to confounded cards and dice, which I hadn't touched 
 since my marriage— no, not since I was in the Duke's Guard, with those 
 wild Mohocks. And I have been playing worse and worse, and going 
 deeper and deeper into it; and I owe Mohun two thousand pounds now; 
 and when it's paid I am little better than a beggar. I don't like to look my 
 boy in the face: he hates me, I know he does. And I have spent Beaty's 
 little portion: and the Lord knows what will come if I live. The best 
 thing I can do is to die, and release what portion of the estate is re- 
 deemable for the boy." 
 
 Mohun was as much master at Castlewood as the owner of the Hall 
 itself; and his equipages filled the stables, where indeed, there was room 
 in plenty for many more horses than Harry Esmond's impoverished patron 
 
 119
 
 could afford to keep. He had arrived on horseback with his people ; but 
 when his gout broke out my Lord Mohun sent to London for a light 
 chaise he had, drawn by a pair of small horses, and running as swift, 
 wherever roads were good, as a Laplander's sled. When this carriage 
 came, his lordship was eager to drive the Lady Castlewood abroad in it, 
 and did so many times, and at a rapid pace, greatly to his companion's 
 enjoyment, who loved the swift motion and the healthy breezes over the 
 downs which lie hard upon Castlewood, and stretch thence towards the 
 sea. As this amusement was very pleasant to her, and her lord, far from 
 showing any mistrust of her intimacy with Lord Mohun, encouraged 
 her to be his companion — as if willing by his present extreme confidence 
 to make up for any past mistrust which his jealousy had shown — the 
 Lady Castlewood enjoyed herself freely in this harmless diversion, which, 
 it must be owned, her guest was very eager to give her; and it seemed 
 that she grew the more free with Lord Mohun, and pleased with his 
 company, because of some sacrifice which his gallantry was pleased to 
 make in her favor. 
 
 Seeing the two gentlemen constantly at cards still of evenings, Harry 
 Esmond one day deplored to his mistress that this fatal infatuation of 
 her lord should continue; and now they seemed reconciled together, 
 begged his lady to hint to her husband that he should play no more. 
 
 But Lady Castlewood, smiling archly and gaily, said she would speak 
 to him presently, and that, for a few nights more at least, he might be 
 let to have his amusement. 
 
 "Indeed, madam," said Harry, "you know not what it costs you; and 
 'tis easy for any observer who knows the game, to see that Lord Mohun 
 is by far the stronger of the two." 
 
 "I know he is," says my lady, still with exceeding good-humor; "he 
 is not only the best player, but the kindest player in the world." 
 
 "Madam, madam!" Esmond cried, transported and provoked. "Debts 
 of honor must be paid some time or other; and my master will be ruined 
 if he goes on." 
 
 "Harry, shall I tell you a secret?" my lady replied, with kindness and 
 pleasure still in her eyes. "Francis will not be ruined if he goes on; he 
 will be rescued if he goes on. I repent of having spoken and thought 
 unkindly of the Lord Mohun when he was here in the past year. He 
 is full of much kindness and good; and 'tis my belief that we shall bring 
 him to better things. I have lent him Tillotson and your favorite Bishop 
 Taylor, and he is much touched, he says ; and as a proof of his repentance 
 
 I20
 
 — (and herein lies my secret) — what do you think he is doing with 
 Francis? He is letting poor Frank win his money back again. He has 
 won already at the last four nights, and my Lord Mohun says that he 
 will not be the means of injuring poor Frank and my dear children." 
 
 "And in God's name, what do you return him for the sacrifice?" 
 asked Esmond, aghast; who knew enough of men, and of this one in 
 particular, to be aware that such a finished rake gave nothing for nothing. 
 "How, in Heaven's name, are you to pay him!" 
 
 "Pay him! With a mother's blessing and a wife's prayers!" cries my 
 lady, clasping her hands together. Harry Esmond did not know whether 
 to laugh, to be angry, or to love his dear mistress more than ever for 
 the obstinate innocency with which she chose to regard the conduct of 
 a man of the world, whose designs he knew better how to interpret. He 
 told the lady, guardedly, but so as to make his meaning quite clear to 
 her, what he knew in respect of the former life and conduct of this noble- 
 man ; of other vv'omen against whom he had plotted, and whom he had 
 overcome; of the conversation which he, Harry himself, had had with 
 Lord Mohun, wherein the lord made a boast of his libertinism, and 
 frequently avowed that he held all women to be fair game (as his lord- 
 ship styled this pretty sport), and that they were all, without exception, 
 to be won. And the return Harry had for his entreaties and remonstrances 
 was a fit of anger on Lady Castlewood's part, who would not listen to 
 his accusations ; she said and retorted that he himself must be very wicked 
 and perverted to suppose evil designs where she was sure none were 
 meant. "And this is the good meddlers get of interfering," Harry thought 
 to himself with much bitterness ; and his perplexity and annoyance were 
 only the greater, because he could not speak to my Lord Castlewood 
 himself upon a subject of this nature, or venture to advise or warn him 
 regarding a matter so very sacred as his own honor, of which my lord 
 was naturally the best guardian. 
 
 But though Lady Castlewood would listen to no advice from her 
 young dependant, and appeared indignantly to refuse it when offered, 
 Harry had the satisfaction to find that she adopted the counsel which 
 she professed to reject; for the next day she pleaded a headache, when 
 my Lord Mohun would have had her drive out, and the next day the 
 headache continued ; and next day, in a laughing gay way, she proposed 
 that the children should take her place in his lordship's car, for they 
 would be charmed with a ride of all things; and she must not have all 
 the pleasure for herself. My lord gave them a drive with a very good 
 
 121
 
 grace, though, I dare say, with rage and disappointment inwardly — not 
 that his heart was very seriously engaged in his designs upon this simple 
 lady: but the life of such men is often one of intrigue, and they can no 
 more go through the day without a woman to pursue, than a fox-hunter 
 without his sport after breakfast. 
 
 Under an affected carelessness of demeanor, and though there was no 
 outward demonstration of doubt upon his patron's part since the quarrel 
 between the two lords, Harry yet saw that Lord Castlewood was watching 
 his guest very narrowly; and caught sight of distrust and smothered 
 rage (as Harry thought) which foreboded no good. On the point of 
 honor Esmond knew how touchy his patron was ; and watched him almost 
 as a physician watches a patient, and it seemed to him that this one was 
 slow to take the disease, though he could not throw off the poison when 
 once it had mingled with his blood. We read in Shakespeare (whom the 
 writer for his part considers to be far beyond Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dryden, 
 or any of the wits of the present period), that when jealousy is once 
 declared, nor poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the 
 East, will ever sooth it or medicine it away. 
 
 In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to this young phy- 
 sician (who, indeed, young as he was, had felt the kind pulses of all 
 those dear kinsmen), that Harry thought it would be his duty to warn 
 my Lord Mohun, and let him know that his designs were suspected and 
 watched. So one day, when in rather a pettish humor his lordship had 
 sent to Lady Castlewood, who had promised to drive with him, and now 
 refused to come, Harry said, "My lord, if you will kindly give me a place 
 by your side I will thank you; I have much to say to you, and would like 
 to speak to you alone." 
 
 "You honor me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry Esmond," 
 says the other, with a very grand bow. My lord was always a fine gentle- 
 man, and young as he was there was that in Esmond's manner which 
 showed that he was a gentleman too, and that none might take a liberty 
 with him — so the pair went out, and mounted the little carriage, which 
 was in waiting for them in the court, with its two little cream-colored 
 Hanoverian horses covered with splendid furniture and champing at 
 the bit. 
 
 "My lord," says Harry Esmond, after they were got into the country, 
 and pointing to my Lord Mohun's foot, which was swathed in flannel, 
 and put up rather ostentatiously on a cushion — "my lord, I studied medi- 
 cine at Cambridge." 
 
 122
 
 "Indeed, Parson Harry," says he; "and are you going to take out a 
 diploma: and cure your fellow-students of the " 
 
 "Of the gout," says Harry, interrupting him, and looking him hard 
 in the face: "I know a good deal about the gout." 
 
 "I hope you may never have it. 'Tis an infernal disease," says my lord, 
 "and its twinges are diabolical. Ah!" and he made a dreadful wry face, 
 as if he just felt a twinge. 
 
 "Your lordship would be much better if you took off all that flannel 
 — it only serves to inflame the toe," Harry continued, looking his man 
 full in the face. 
 
 "Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?" says the other, with 
 an innocent air. 
 
 "If you took ofi^ that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper away, and 
 wore a boot," continues Harry. 
 
 "You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond?" asks my lord. 
 
 "Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your lordship three days ago run down 
 the gallery fast enough," Harry goes on. "I am sure that taking gruel 
 at night is not so pleasant as claret to your lordship; and besides it keeps 
 your lordship's head cool for play, while my patron's is hot and flustered 
 with drink." 
 
 " 'Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don't play fair?" cries my lord, 
 whipping his horses, which went away at a gallop. 
 
 "You are cool when my lord is drunk," Harry continued; "your lord- 
 ship gets the better of my patron. I have watched you as I looked up 
 from my books." 
 
 "You young Argus!" says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry Esmond — 
 and for whose company and wit, and a certain daring manner, Harry 
 had a great liking too — "You young Argus! you may look with all your 
 hundred eyes and see we play fair. I've played away an estate of a night, 
 and I've played my shirt off my back; and I've played away my periwig 
 and gone home in a nightcap. But no man can say I ever took an ad- 
 vantage of him beyond the advantage of the game. I played a dice-cogging 
 scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won 'em, and have one of 'em in 
 my lodging in Bow Street in a bottle of spirits. Harry Mohun will play 
 any man for anything — always would." 
 
 "You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my patron's house," Harry 
 said, "and more games than are on the cards." 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" cries my lord, turning round, with a flush 
 on his face. 
 
 123
 
 "I mean," answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, "that your gout is well 
 — if ever you had it." 
 
 "Sir!" cried my lord, getting hot. 
 
 "And to tell the truth, I believe your lordship has no more gout than 
 I have. At any rate, change of air will do you good, my Lord Mohun. 
 And I mean fairly that you had better go from Castlewood." 
 
 "And were you appointed to give me this message?" cries the Lord 
 Mohun. "Did Frank Esmond commission you?" 
 
 "No one did. 'Twas the honor of my family that commissioned me." 
 
 "And you are prepared to answer this?" cries the other, furiously 
 lashing his horses. 
 
 "Quite, my lord; your lordship will upset the carriage if you whip 
 so hotly." 
 
 "By George, you have a brave spirit!" my lord cried out, bursting into 
 a laugh. "I suppose 'tis that infernal botte de Jesuite that makes you so 
 bold," he added. 
 
 " 'Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world," Harry Esmond 
 said warmly — " 'tis the honor of a noble benefactor — the happiness of 
 my dear mistress and her children. I owe them everything in life, my 
 lord ; and would lay it down for any one of them. What brings you here 
 to disturb this quiet household ? What keeps you lingering month after 
 month in the country? What makes you feign illness and invent pretexts 
 for delay? Is it to win my poor patron's money? Be generous, my lord, 
 and spare his weakness for sake of his wife and children. Is it to practice 
 upon the simple heart of a virtuous lady? You might as vv'ell storm the 
 Tower single-handed. But you may blemish her name by light com- 
 ments on it, or by lawless pursuits — and I don't deny that 'tis in your 
 power to make her unhappy. Spare these innocent people, and leave 
 them." 
 
 "By the lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty Puritan thyself, 
 Master Harry," says my lord, with his reckless, good-humored laugh, 
 and as if he had been listening with interest to the passionate appeal 
 of the young man. "Whisper, Harry. Art thou in love with her thyself? 
 Hath tipsy Frank Esmond come by the way of all flesh?" 
 
 "My lord, my lord," cried Harry, his face flushing and his eyes filling 
 as he spoke, "I never had a mother, but I love this lady as one. I worship 
 her as a devotee worships a saint. To hear her name spoken lightly seems 
 blasphemy to me. Would you dare think of your own mother so, or 
 suffer any one so to speak of her? It is a horror to me to fancy that any 
 
 124
 
 man should think of her impurely. I implore you, I beseech you, to 
 leave her. Danger will come out of it." 
 
 "Danger, pshaw!" says my lord, giving a cut to the horses, which at 
 this minute — for we were got on to the Downs — fairly ran off into a 
 gallop that no pulling could stop. The rein broke in Lord Mohun's hands, 
 and the furious beasts scampered madly forwards, the carriage swaying 
 to and fro, and the persons within it holding on to the sides as best 
 they might until, seeing a great ravine before them, where an upset was 
 inevitable, the two gentlemen leaped for their lives, each out of his 
 side of the chaise. Harry Esmond was quit for a fall on the grass, which 
 was so severe that it stunned him for a minute; but he got up presently 
 very sick, and bleeding at the nose, but with no other hurt. The Lord 
 Mohun was not so fortunate; he fell on his head against a stone, and 
 lay on the ground, dead to all appearance. 
 
 This misadventure happened as the gentlemen were on their return 
 liomewards; and my Lord Castlewood, with his son and daughter, who 
 were going out for a ride, met the ponies as they were galloping with 
 the car behind, the broken traces entangling their heels, and my lord's 
 people turned and stopped them. It was young Frank who spied out 
 Lord Mohun's scarlet coat as he lay on the ground, and the party made 
 up to that unfortunate gentleman and Esmond, who was now standing 
 over him. His large periwig and feathered hat had fallen off, and he was 
 bleeding profusely from a wound on the forehead, and looking, and 
 being indeed, a corpse. 
 
 "Great God! he's dead!" says my lord. "Ride, some one: fetch a 
 doctor — stay. I'll go home and bring back Tusher; he knows surgery," 
 and my lord, with his son after him, galloped away. 
 
 They were scarce gone when Harry Esmond, who was indeed but 
 just come to himself, bethought him of a similar accident which he had 
 seen on a ride from Newmarket to Cambridge, and taking off a sleeve of 
 my lord's coat, Harry, with a pen-knife, opened a vein in his arm, and 
 was greatly relieved, after a moment, to see the blood flow. He was near 
 half-an-hour before he came to himself, by which time Doctor Tusher 
 and little Frank arrived, and found my lord not a corpse indeed, but as 
 pale as one. 
 
 After a time, when he was able to bear motion, they put my lord upon 
 a groom's horse, and gave the other to Esmond, the men walking on 
 each side of my lord, to support him, if need were, and worthy Doctor 
 Tusher with them. Little Frank and Harry rode together at a foot pace. 
 
 125
 
 When we rode together home, the boy said: "We met mamma, who 
 was walking on the terrace with the doctor, and papa frightened her, 
 and told her you were dead " 
 
 ■'That I was dead?" asks Harry. 
 
 "Yes. Papa says: 'Here's poor Harry killed, my dear'; on which 
 mamma gives a great scream; and oh, Harry! she drops down; and I 
 thought she was dead too. And you never saw such a way as papa was 
 in: he swore one of his great oaths: and he turned quite pale; and then 
 he began to laugh somehow, and he told the doctor to take his horse, and 
 me to follow him; and we left him. And I looked back, and saw him 
 dashing water out of the fountain on to mamma. Oh, she was so 
 frightened !" 
 
 Musing upon this curious history — for my Lord Mohun's name was 
 Henry too, and they called each other Frank and Harry often — and not 
 a little disturbed and anxious, Esmond rode home. His dear lady was on 
 the terrace still, one of her women with her, and my lord no longer there. 
 There are steps and a little door thence down into the road. My lord 
 passed, looking very ghastly, with a handkerchief over his head, and 
 without his hat and periwig, which a groom carried ; but his politeness 
 did not desert him, and he made a bow to the lady above, 
 
 "Thank Heaven, you are safe!" she said 
 
 "And so is Harry too, mamma," says litt,,,^ Frank — "huzzay!" 
 
 Harry Esmond got off the horse to run to his mistress, as did little 
 Frank, and one of the grooms took charge of the two beasts, while the 
 other, hat and periwig in hand, walked by my lord's bridle to the front 
 gate, which lay half a mile away. 
 
 "Oh, my boy! what a fright you have given me!" Lady Castlewood 
 said, when Harry Esmond came up, greeting him with one of her shin- 
 ing looks, and a voice of tender welcome; and she was so kind as to 
 kiss the young man ('twas the second time she had so honored him), and 
 she walked into the house between him and her son, holding a hand 
 of each. 
 
 126
 
 CHAPTER XiV 
 
 We Ride After Him to London 
 
 After a repose of a couple of days, the Lord Mohun was so far recovered 
 of his hurt as to be able to announce his departure for the next morning; 
 when, accordingly, he took leave of Castlewood, proposing to ride to 
 London by easy stages, and lie two nights upon the road. His host treated 
 him with a studied and ceremonious courtesy, certainly different from my 
 lord's usual frank and careless demeanor; but there was no reason to 
 suppose that the two lords parted otherwise than good friends, though 
 Harry Esmond remarked that my lord viscount only saw his guest in 
 company with other persons, and seemed to avoid being alone with him. 
 Nor did he ride any distance with Lord Mohun, as his custom was with 
 most of his friends, whom he was always eager to welcome and un- 
 willing to lose; but contented himself, when his lordship's horses were 
 announced, and their owner appeared, booted for his journey, to take 
 a courteous leave of the ladies of Castlewood, by following the Lord 
 Mohun downstairs to his horses, and by bowing and wishing him a 
 good-day in the courtyard. "I shall see you in London before very long, 
 Mohun," my lord said, with a smile; "when we will settle our accounts 
 together." 
 
 "Do not let them trouble you, Frank," said the other good-naturedly, 
 and holdmg out his hand, looked rather surprised at the grim and stately 
 manner in which his host received his parting salutation; and so, fol- 
 lowed by his people, he rode away. 
 
 Harry Esmond was witness of the departure. It was very different to 
 my lord's coming, for which great preparation had been made (the old 
 house putting on its best appearance to welcome its guest), and there 
 was a sadness and constraint about all persons that day, which filled Mr. 
 Esmond with gloomy forebodings, and sad indefinite apprehensions. 
 Lord Castlewood stood at the door watching his guests and his people 
 as they went out under the arch of the outer gate. When he was there, 
 Lord Mohun turned once more, my lord viscount slowly raised his beaver 
 and bowed. His face wore a peculiar livid look, Harry thought. He 
 cursed and kicked away his dogs, which came jumping about him — 
 then he walked up to the fountain in the center of the court, and leaned 
 against a pillar and looked into the basin. As Esmond crossed over to 
 
 127
 
 his own room, late the chaplain's, on the other side of the court, and 
 turned to enter in at the low door, he saw Lady Castlewood looking 
 through the curtains of the great window of the drawing-room over- 
 head, at my lord as he stood regarding the fountain. There was in the 
 court a peculiar silence somehow; and the scene remained long in Es- 
 mond's memory:- — the sky bright overhead ; the buttresses of the building 
 and the sundial casting shadow over the gilt memento mori inscribed 
 underneath ; the two dogs, a black greyhound and a spaniel nearly white, 
 the one with his face up to the sun, and the other snuffing amongst the 
 grass and stones, and my lord leaning over the fountain, which was bub- 
 bling audibly. 'Tis strange how that scene, and the sound of that foun- 
 tain, rem.ained fixed on the memory of a man who has beheld a hundred 
 sights of splendor, and danger, too, of which he has kept no account. 
 
 It was Lady Castlewood — she had been laughing all the morning, 
 and especially gay and lively before her husband and his guest — who as 
 soon as the two gentlemen went together from her room, ran to Harry, 
 the expression of her countenance quite changed now, and with a face 
 and eyes full of care, and said, "Follow them, Harry, I am sure some- 
 thing has gone wrong." And so it was that Esmond was made an caves- 
 dropper at this lady's orders: and retired to his own chamber, to give 
 himself time in truth to try and compose a story which would sooth his 
 mistress, for he could not but have his own apprehension that some serious 
 auarrel was pending between the two gentlemen. 
 
 And now for several days the little company at Castlewood sat at table 
 as of evenings: this care, though unnamed and invisible, being never- 
 theless present always, in the minds of at least three persons there. My 
 lord was exceeding gentle and kind. Whenever he quitted the room, his 
 wife's eyes followed him. He behaved to her with a kind of mournfu? 
 courtesy and kindness remarkable in one of his blunt ways and ordinary 
 rough manner. He called her by her Christian name often and fondly, 
 was very soft and gentle with the children, especially with the boy, whom 
 he did not love, and being lax about church generally, he went there and 
 performed all the offices (down even to listening to Doctor Tusher's 
 sermon) with great devotion. 
 
 "He paces his room all night: what is it? Henry, find out what it is," 
 Lady Castlewood said constantly to her young dependant. "He has sent 
 three letters to London," she said another day. 
 
 "Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer," Harry answered, who knew 
 of these letters, and had seen a part of the correspondence, whicli related 
 
 128
 
 to a new loan my lord was raising; and when the young man remon- 
 strated with his patron, my lord said he "was only raising money to pay 
 off an old debt on the property which must be discharged." 
 
 Regarding the money, Lady Castlewood was not in the least anxious. 
 Few fond women feel money-distressed; indeed you can hardly give a 
 woman a greater pleasure than to bid her pawn her diamonds for the 
 man she loves ; and I remember hearing Mr. Congreve say of my Lord 
 Marlborough, that the reason why my lord was so successful with women 
 as a young man, was because he took money of them. "There are few 
 men who will make such a sacrifice for them," says Mr. Congreve, who 
 knew a part of the sex pretty well. 
 
 Harry Esmond's vacation was just over, and, as has been said, he was 
 preparing to return to the University for his last term before taking his 
 degree and entering into the Church. He had made up his mind for this 
 office, not indeed with that reverence which becomes a man about to 
 enter upon a duty so holy, but with a worldly spirit of acquiescence in 
 the prudence of adopting that profession for his calling. But his reasoning 
 was that he owed all to the family of Castlewood, and loved better to be 
 near them than anywhere else in the world ; that he might be useful to 
 his benefactors, who had the utmost confidence in him and affection for 
 him in return ; that he might aid in bringing up the young heir of the 
 house and acting as his governor; that he might continue to be his dear 
 patron's and mistress's friend and adviser, who both were pleased to say 
 that they should ever look upon him as such; and so, by making himself 
 useful to those he loved best, he proposed to console himself for giving 
 up of any schemes of ambition which he might have had in his own 
 bosom. Indeed, his mistress had told him that she would not have him 
 leave her; and whatever she commanded was will to him. 
 
 The Lady Castlewood's mind was greatly relieved in the last few days 
 of this well-remembered holiday time, by my lord's announcing one 
 morning after the post had brought him letters from London, in a careless 
 tone, that the Lord Mohun was gone to Paris, and was about to make 
 a great journey in Europe; and though Lord Castlewood's own gloom 
 did not wear off, or his behavior alter, yet this cause of anxiety being 
 removed from his lady's mind, she began to be more hopeful and easy 
 in her spirits, striving, too, with all her heart, and by all the means of 
 soothing in her power, to call back my lord's cheerfulness and dissipate 
 his moody humor. 
 
 He accounted for it himself by saying that he was out of health ; that 
 
 129
 
 he wanted to see his physician ; that he would go to London and consult 
 Dr. Cheyne. It was agreed that his lordship and Harry Esmond should 
 make the journey as far as London together; and of a Monday morning, 
 the nth of October, in the year 1700, they set forward towards London 
 on horseback. The day before being Sunday, and the rain pouring down, 
 the family did not visit church; and at night my lord read the service to 
 his family very finely, and with a peculiar sweetness and gravity — speak- 
 ing the parting benediction, Harry thought, as solemn as ever he heard 
 it. And he kissed and embraced his wife and children before they went 
 tO their own chambers with more fondness than he was ordinarily wont 
 to show, and with a solemnity and feeling of which they thought in after 
 days with no small comfort. 
 
 They took horse the next morning (after adieux from the family as 
 tender as on the night previous), lay that night on the road, and entered 
 London at nightfall; my lord going to the "Trumpet," in the Cockpit, 
 Whitehall, a house used by the military in his time as a young man, and 
 accustomed by his lordship ever since. 
 
 An hour after my lord's arrival (which showed that his visit had been 
 arranged beforehand), my lord's man of business arrived from Gray's 
 Inn; and thinking that his patron might wish to be private with the 
 lavk^er, Esmond was for leaving them: but my lord said his business 
 was short; introduced Mr. Esmond particularly to the lawyer, who had 
 been engaged for the family in the old lord's time; who said that he 
 had paid the money, as desired that day, to my Lord Mohun himself, at 
 his lodgings in Bow Street: that his lordship had expressed some surprise, 
 as it was not customary to employ lawyers, he said, in such transactions 
 between men of honor; but, nevertheless, he had returned my lord 
 viscount's note of hand, which he held at his client's disposition. 
 
 "I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris?" cried Mr. Esmond, 
 in great alarm and astonishment. 
 
 "He is come back at my invitation," said my lord viscount. "We have 
 accounts to settle together." 
 
 "I pray Heaven they are over, sir," says Esmond, 
 
 "Oh, quite," replied the other, looking hard at the young man. "He 
 was rather troublesome about that money which I told you I had lost 
 to him at play. And now 'tis paid, and we are quits on that score, and 
 we shall meet good friends again." 
 
 "My lord," cried out Esmond, "I am sure you are deceiving me, and 
 that there is a quarrel between the Lord Mohun and you." 
 
 130
 
 "Quarrel — pish! We shall sup together this very night and drink a 
 bottle. Every man is ill-humored who loses such a sum as I have lost. 
 But now 'tis paid, and my anger is gone with it." 
 
 "Where shall we sup, sir?" says Harry. 
 
 "We! Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked," says my lord 
 viscount, with a laugh. "You go to Duke Street, and see Mr. Betterton. 
 You love the play, I know. Leave me to follow my own devices: and in 
 the morning we'll breakfast together, with what appetite we may, as the 
 play says." 
 
 "By G ! my lord, I will not leave you this night," says Harry 
 
 Esmond. "I think I know the cause of your dispute. I swear to you 'tis 
 nothing. On the very day the accident befell Lord Mohun, I was speak- 
 ing to him about it. I know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry on 
 his part." 
 
 "You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry between Lord 
 Mohun and my wife," says my lord, in a thundering voice — "you knew 
 of this and did not tell me?" 
 
 "I knew more of it than my dear mistress did herself, sir — a thousand 
 times more. How was she, who was as innocent as a child, to know what 
 was the meaning of the covert addresses of a villain?" 
 
 "A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my wife away from 
 me. 
 
 "Sir, she is as pure as an angel," cried young Esmond. 
 
 "Have I said a word against her?" shrieks out my lord. "Did I ever 
 doubt that she was pure? It would have been the last day of her life 
 when I did. Do you fancy I think that she would go astray? No, she 
 hasn't passion enough for that. She neither sins nor forgives. I know 
 her temper — and now I've lost her, by Heaven I love her ten thousand 
 times more than ever I did — yes, when she was young and as beautiful 
 as an angel — when she smiled at me in her old father's house, and used 
 to lie in wait for me there as I came from hunting — when I used to fling 
 my head down on her little knees and cry like a child on her lap — and 
 swear I would reform, and drink no more, and play no more, and follow 
 women no more; when all the men of the Court used to be following 
 her — when she used to look with her child more beautiful, by George, 
 than the Madonna in the Queen's Chapel. I am not good like her, I know 
 it. Who is — by Heaven, who is? I tired and wearied her, I know that 
 very well. I could not talk to her. You men of wit and books could 
 do that, and I couldn't — I felt I couldn't. Why, when you was but a boy 
 
 131
 
 of fifteen I could hear you two together talking your poetry and your 
 books till I was in such a rage that I was fit to strangle you. But you 
 were always a good lad, Harry, and I loved you, you know I did. And 
 I felt she didn't belong to me: and the children don't. And I besotted 
 myself, and gambled, and drank, and took to all sorts of deviltries out 
 of despair and fury. And now comes this Mohun, and she likes him." 
 
 "Indeed, and on my soul, you are wrong, sir," Esmond cried. 
 
 "She takes letters from him," cries my lord — "look here, Harry," and 
 he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of blood upon it. "It fell from 
 him that day he wasn't killed. One of the grooms picked it up from the 
 
 ground and gave it to me. Here it is in their d d comedy jargon. 
 
 'Divine Glorianna — Why look so coldly on your slave who adores you? 
 Have you no compassion on the tortures you have seen me suffering? 
 Do you vouchsafe no reply to billets that are written with the blood of 
 my heart .^' She had more letters from him." 
 
 "But she answered none," cries Esmond. 
 
 "That's not Mohun's fault," says my lord, "and I will be revenged 
 on him, as God's in heaven, I will." 
 
 "For a light word or two, will you risk your lady's honor and your 
 family's happiness, my lord.^" Esmond interposed beseechingly. 
 
 "Pshaw! there shall be no question of my wife's honor," said my 
 lord: "we can quarrel on plenty of grounds beside. If I live, that villain 
 will be punished; if I fall, my family will be only the better: there will 
 only be a spendthrift the less to keep in the world: and Frank has better 
 teaching than his father. My mind is made up, Harry Esmond, and what- 
 ever the event is, I am easy about it. I leave my wife and you as guardians 
 to the children." 
 
 Seeing that my lord was bent upon pursuing this quarrel, and that 
 no entreaties would draw him from it, Harry Esmond (then of a hotter 
 and more impetuous nature than now, when care, and reflection, and 
 gray hairs have calmed him) thought it was his duty to stand by his 
 kind, generous patron, and said, "My lord, if you are determined upon 
 war, you must not go into it alone. 'Tis the duty of our house to stand 
 by its chief; and I should neither forgive myself nor you if you did 
 not call me, or I should be absent from you at a moment of danger." 
 
 "Why Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a parson," says my lord, 
 taking Esmond by the hand very kindly; "and it were a great pity that 
 you should meddle in the matter." 
 
 "Your lordship thought of being a churchman once," Harry answered, 
 
 132
 
 "and your father's orders did not prevent him fighting at Castlewood 
 against the Roundheads. Your enemies are mine, sir ; I can use the foils, 
 as you have seen, indifferently well, and don't think I shall be afraid 
 when the buttons are taken off 'em." And then Harry explained, with 
 some blushes and hesitation (for the matter was delicate, and he feared 
 lest, by having put himself forward in the quarrel, he might have offended 
 his patron), how he had himself expostulated with the Lord Mohun, 
 and proposed to measure swords with him if need were, and he could 
 not be got to withdraw peaceably in this dispute. "And I should have 
 beat him, sir," says Harry, laughing. "He never could parry that hotte 
 I brought from Cambridge. Let us have half-an-hour of it, and rehearse 
 — I can teach it your lordship: 'tis the most delicate point in the world, 
 and if you miss it, your adversary's sword is through you." 
 
 "By George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the house," says my 
 lord gloomily. "You had been a better Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot 
 like me," he added, drawing his hand across his eyes, and surveying his 
 kinsman with very kind and affectionate glances. 
 
 "Let us take our coats off and have half-an-hour's practice before 
 nightfall," says Harry, after thankfully grasping his patron's manly hand. 
 
 "You are but a little bit of a lad," says my lord good-humoredly ; "but, 
 in faith, I believe you could do for that fellow. No, my boy," he con- 
 tinued, "I'll have none of your feints and tricks of stabbing: I can use 
 my sword pretty well too, and will fight my own quarrel my own way." 
 
 "But I shall be by to see fair play.^" cries Harry. 
 
 "Yes, God bless you — you shall be by." 
 
 "When is it, sir?" says Harry, for he saw that the matter had been 
 arranged privately and beforehand by my lord. 
 
 " 'Tis arranged thus: I sent off a courier to Jack Westbury to say that 
 I wanted him specially. He knows for what, and will be here presently, 
 and drink part of that bottle of sack. Then we shall go to the theater 
 in Duke Street, where we shall meet Mohun; and then we shall all go 
 sup at the 'Rose' or the 'Greyhound.' Then we shall call for cards, and 
 there will be probably a difference over the cards — and then, God help 
 us ! — either a wicked villain and traitor shall go out of the world, or a 
 poor worthless devil, that doesn't care to remain in it. I am better away. 
 Hal — my wife will be all the happier when I am gone," says my lord, 
 with a groan, that tore the heart of Harry Esmond, so that he fairly broke 
 into a sob over his patron's kind hand. 
 
 "The business was talked over with Mohun before he left home — 
 
 133
 
 Castlewood I mean," my lord went on. "I took the letter in to him, 
 which I had read, and I charged him with his villainy, and he could 
 make no denial of it, only he said that my wife was innocent." 
 
 "And so she is; before Heaven, my lord, she is!" cries Harry. 
 
 "No doubt, no doubt. They always are," says my lord. "No doubt, 
 when she heard he was killed, she fainted from accident." 
 
 "But, my lord my name is Harry," cried out Esmond, burning red. 
 "You told my lady, 'Harry was killed!' " 
 
 "Damnation! shall I fight you too?" shouts my lord in a fury. "Are 
 you, you little serpent, warming by my fire, going to sting — you? — 
 No, my boy, you're an honest boy; you are a good boy." (And here he 
 broke from rage into tears even more cruel to see.) "You are an honest 
 boy, and I love you; and, by heavens, I am so wretched that I don't care 
 what sword it is that ends me. Stop, here's Jack Westbury. Well, Jack! 
 Welcome, old boy! This is my kinsman, Harry Esmond." 
 
 "Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, sir," says Harry, 
 bowing; and the three gentlemen sat down and drank of that bottle of 
 sack which was prepared for them. 
 
 "Harry is number three," says my lord. "You needn't be afraid of 
 him. Jack." And the colonel gave a look, as much as to say, "Indeed, he 
 doesn't look as if I need." And then my lord explained what he had 
 only told by hints before. When he quarreled with Lord Mohun he 
 was indebted to his lordship in a sum of sixteen hundred pounds, for 
 which Lord Mohun said he proposed to wait until my lord viscount 
 should pay him. My lord had raised the sixteen hundred pounds, and 
 sent them to Lord Mohun that morning, and before quitting home had 
 put his affairs into order, and was now quite ready to abide the issue 
 of the quarrel. 
 
 When we had drunk a couple of bottles of sack, a coach was called, 
 and the three gentlemen went to the Duke's Playhouse, as agreed. The 
 play was one of Mr. Wycherley's — "Love in a Wood." 
 
 Harry Esmond has thought of that play ever since with a kind of 
 terror, and of Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress, who performed the girl's 
 part in the comedy. She was disguised as a page, and came and stood 
 before the gentlemen as they sat on the stage, and looked over her 
 shoulder with a pair of arch black eyes, and laughed at my lord, and 
 asked what ailed the gentleman from the country, and had he had bad 
 news from Bullock Fair? 
 
 Between the acts of the play the gentlemen crossed over and con- 
 
 134
 
 versed freely. There were two of Lord Mohun's party, Captain Macartney, 
 in a military habit, and a gentleman in a suit of blue velvet and silver in 
 a fair periwig, with a rich fall of point of Venice lace — my Lord the 
 Earl of Warwick and Holland. My lord had a paper of oranges, which 
 he ate and offered to the actresses, joking with them. And Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle, when my Lord Mohun said something rude, turned on him, and 
 asked him what he did there, and whether he and his friends had come 
 to stab anybody else, as they did poor Will Mountford } My lord's dark 
 face grew darker at this taunt, and wore a mischievous, fatal look. They 
 that saw it remembered it, and said so afterward. 
 
 When the play was ended the two parties joined company; and my 
 Lord Castlewood then proposed that they should go to a tavern and sup. 
 Lockit's, the "Greyhound," in Charing Cross, was the house selected. 
 All six marched together that way; the three lords going ahead. Lord 
 Mohun's captain, and Colonel Westbury, and Harry Esmond walking 
 behind them. As they walked, Westbury told Harry Esmond about his 
 old friend Dick the Scholar, who had got promotion, and was Cornet of 
 the Guards, and had written a book called the Christian Hero, and had 
 all the Guards to laugh at him for his pains, for the Christian Hero 
 was breaking the commandments constantly, Westbury said, and had 
 fought one or two duels already. And, in a lower tone, Westbury be- 
 sought young Mr. Esmond to take no part in the quarrel. "There was 
 no need for more seconds than one," said the colonel, "and the captain 
 or Lord Warwick might easily withdraw." But Harry said no; he was 
 bent on going through with the business. Indeed, he had a plan in his 
 head, which, he thought, might prevent my lord viscount from engaging. 
 
 They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired a private room and 
 wine and cards, and when the drawer had brought these, they began to 
 drink and call healths, and as long as the servants were in the room 
 appeared very friendly. 
 
 Harry Esmond's plan was no other than to engage in talk with Lord 
 Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first of the quarrel. So when cards 
 were proposed he offered to play. "Pshaw!" says my Lord Mohun 
 (whether wishing to save Harry or not choosing to try the botte de 
 ]e suite, it is not to be known) ; "young gentlemen from College should 
 not play these stakes. You are too young." 
 
 "Who dares say I am too young?" broke out Harry. "Is your lordship 
 afraid?" 
 
 "Afraid!" cries out Mohun. 
 
 135
 
 But my good lord viscount saw the move. "I'll play you for ten 
 moidores, Mohun," says he. "You silly boy, we don't play for groats 
 here as you do at Cambridge." And Harry, who had no such sums in his 
 pocket (for his half-year's salary was always pretty well spent before 
 it was due), fell back with rage and vexation in his heart that he had 
 not money enough to stake. 
 
 "I'll stake the young gentleman with a crown," says the Lord Mohun's 
 captain. 
 
 "I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen of the 
 army," says Harry. 
 
 "Do they birch at College?" says the captain. 
 
 "They birch fools," says Harry, "and they cane bullies, and they fling 
 puppies into the water." 
 
 "Faith, then, there's some escapes drowning," says the captain, who 
 was an Irishman ; and all the gentlemen began to laugh, and made poor 
 Harry only more angry. 
 
 My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle. It was when the drawers 
 brought in fresh bottles and glasses and were in the room — on which 
 my lord viscount said, "The deuce take you, Mohun, how damned awk- 
 ward you are! Light the candle, you drawer." 
 
 "Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my lord," says 
 the other. "Town gentlemen don't use such words, or ask pardon if 
 they do." 
 
 "I'm a country gentleman," says my lord viscount. 
 
 "I see it by your manner," says my Lord Mohun. "No man shall say 
 damned awkward to me." 
 
 "I fling the words in your face, my lord," says the other; "shall I 
 send the cards too?" 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?" cry out Colonel West- 
 bury and my Lord Warwick in a breath. The drawers go out of the room 
 hastily. They tcll the people below of the quarrel upstairs. 
 
 "Enough has been said," says Colonel Westbury. "Will your lordships 
 meet tomorrow morning ?" 
 
 "Will my Lord Castlewood withdraw his words?" asks the Earl of 
 
 Warwick. 
 
 "My Lord Castlewood will be first," said Colonel Westbury. 
 
 "Then we have nothing for it. Take notice, gentlemen, there have 
 been outrageous words — reparation asked and refused." 
 
 136
 
 "And refused," says my Lord Castlewood, putting on his hat. "Where 
 shall the meeting be? and when?" 
 
 "Since my lord refuses me satisfaction, which I deeply regret, there 
 is no time so good as now," says my Lord Mohun. "Let us have chairs 
 and go to Leicester Field." 
 
 "Are your lordship and I to have the honor of exchanging a pass or 
 two?" says Colonel Westbury, with a low bow to my Lord of Warwick 
 and Holland. 
 
 "It is an honor for me," says my lord, with a profound congee, "to 
 be matched with a gentleman who has been at Mons and Namur." 
 
 "Will your Reverence permit me to give you a lesson?" says the 
 captain. 
 
 "Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a side are plenty," says Harry's patron. 
 "Spare the boy. Captain Macartney," and he shook Harry's hand — for 
 the last time, save one, in his life. 
 
 At the bar of the tavern all the gentlemen stopped, and my lord 
 viscount said, laughing, to the barwomen, that those cards set people 
 sadly quarreling; but that the dispute was over now, and the parties 
 were all going away to my Lord Mohun's house in Bow Street, to drink 
 a bottle more before going to bed. 
 
 A half-dozen chairs were now called, and the six gentlemen stepping 
 into them, the word was privately given to the chairmen to go to Leicester 
 Field, where the gentlemen were set down opposite the "Standard 
 Tavern." It was midnight, and the town was abed by this time, and 
 only a few lights in the windows of the houses ; but the night was bright 
 enough for the unhappy purpose which the disputants came about ; and 
 so all six entered into that fatal square, the chairmen standing without 
 the railing and keeping the gate, lest any person should disturb the 
 meeting. 
 
 All that happened there hath been a matter of public notoriety and 
 is recorded, for warning to lawless men, in the annals of our country. 
 After being engaged for not more than a couple of minutes as Harry 
 Esmond thought (though being occupied at the time with his own adver- 
 sary's point, which was active, he may not have taken a good note of time) , 
 a cry from the chairmen without, who were smoking their pipes, and 
 leaning over the railings of the field as they watched the dim combat 
 within, announced that some catastrophe had happened, which caused 
 Esmond to drop his sword and look round, at which moment his enemy 
 wounded him in the right hand. But the young man did not heed this 
 
 137
 
 hurt much, and ran up to the place where he saw his dear master was 
 down. 
 
 My Lord Mohun was standing over him. 
 
 "Are you much hurt, Frank?" he asked, in a hollow voice. 
 
 "I believe I'm a dead man," my lord said from the ground. 
 
 "No, no, not so," says the other; "and I call God to witness, Frank 
 Esmond, that I would have asked your pardon, had you but given me a 
 chance. In — in the first cause of our falling out, I swear that no one was 
 to blame but me, and — and that my lady " 
 
 "Hush!" says my poor lord viscount, lifting himself on his elbow and 
 speaking faintly. " 'Twas a dispute about the cards — the cursed cards. 
 Harry, my boy, are you wounded, too? God help thee! I love thee, Harry, 
 and thou must watch over my little Frank — and — and carry this little 
 heart to my wife." 
 
 And here my dear lord felt in his breast for a locket he wore there, 
 and, in the act, fell back fainting. 
 
 We were all at this terrified, thinking him dead; but Esmond and 
 Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen come into the field; and so my 
 lord was carried to one Mr. Aimes, a surgeon, in Long Acre, who kept 
 a bath, and there the house was wakened up, and the victim of this 
 quarrel carried in. 
 
 My lord viscount was put to bed, and his wound looked to by the 
 surgeon, who seemed both kind and skillful. When he had looked to 
 my lord, he bandaged up Harry Esmond's hand (who, from loss of 
 blood, had fainted too, in the house, and may have been some time un- 
 conscious) ; and when the young man came to himself, you may be sure 
 he eagerly asked what news there was of his dear patron ; on which the 
 surgeon carried him to the room where the Lord Castlewood lay ; who had 
 already sent for a priest; and desired earnestly, they said, to speak with 
 his kinsman. He was lying on a bed, very pale and ghastly, with that 
 fixed, fatal look in his eyes, which betokens death ; and faintly beckon- 
 ing all the other persons away from him with his hand, and crying out 
 "Only Harry Esmond," the hand fell powerless down on the coverlet, as 
 Harry came forward, and knelt down and kissed it. 
 
 "Thou art all but a priest, Harry," my lord viscount gasped out, with 
 a faint smile, and pressure of his cold hand. "Are they all gone? Let me 
 make thee a death-bed confession." 
 
 And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bedfoot, as an awful 
 witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped out his last wishes in 
 
 138
 
 respect of his family; — his humble profession of contrition for his 
 faults ; — and his charity towards the world he was leaving. Some things 
 he said concerned Harry Esmond as much as they astonished him. And 
 my lord viscount, sinking visibly, was in the midst of these strange 
 confessions, when the ecclesiastic for whom my lord had sent, Mr. Atter- 
 bury, arrived. 
 
 This gentleman had reached to no great Church dignity as yet, but 
 was only preacher at St. Bride's, drawing all the town there by his elo- 
 quent sermons. He was godson to my lord, who had been pupil to his 
 father; had paid a visit to Castlewood from Oxford more than once; 
 and it was by his advice, I think, that Harry Esmond was sent to Cam- 
 bridge, rather than to Oxford, of which place Mr. Atterbury, though a 
 distinguished member, spoke but ill. 
 
 Our messenger found the good priest already at his books at five 
 o'clock in the morning, and he followed the man eagerly to the house 
 where my poor lord viscount lay — Esmond watching him, and taking 
 his dying words from his mouth. 
 
 My lord, hearing of Mr. Atterbury's arrival, and squeezing Esmond's 
 hand, asked to be alone with the priest; and Esmond left them there 
 for this solemn interview. You may be sure that his own prayers and 
 grief accompanied that dying benefactor. My lord had said to him that 
 which confounded the young man — informed him of a secret which 
 greatly concerned him. Indeed, after hearing it, he had had good cause 
 for doubt and dismay; for mental anguish as well as resolution. While 
 the colloquy between Mr. Atterbury and his dying penitent took place 
 within, an immense contest of perplexity was agitating Lord Castlewood's 
 young companion. 
 
 At the end of an hour — it may be more — Mr. Atterbury came out of 
 the room, looking very hard at Esmond, and holding a paper. 
 
 "He is on the brink of God's awful judgment," the priest whispered. 
 "He has made his breast clean to me. He forgives and believes, and 
 makes, restitution. Shall it be in public? Shall we call a witness to sign it?" 
 
 "God knows," sobbed out the young man, "my dearest lord has only 
 done me kindness all his life." 
 
 The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He looked at it. It swam 
 before his eyes. 
 
 " 'Tis a confession," he said. 
 
 " 'Tis as you please," said Mr. Atterbury. 
 
 There was a fire in the room, where the cloths were drying for the 
 
 139
 
 baths, and there lay a heap in a corner, saturated with the blood of my 
 dear lord's body. Esmond went to the fire, and threw the paper into it. 
 'Twas a great chimney with glazed Dutch tiles. How we remember such 
 trifles in such awful moments ! — the scrap of the book that we have read 
 in a great grief — the taste of that last dish that we have eaten before a 
 duel, or some such supreme meeting or parting. On the Dutch tiles at 
 the bagnio was a rude picture representing Jacob in hairy gloves, cheat- 
 ing Isaac of Esau's birthright. The burning paper lighted it up. 
 
 '" 'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury," said the young man. He 
 leaned his head against the mantelpiece: a burst of tears came to his eyes. 
 They were the first he had shed as he sat by his lord, scared by this 
 calamity, and more yet by what the poor dying gentleman had told him, 
 and shocked to think that he should be the agent of bringing this double 
 misfortune on those he loved best. 
 
 "Let us go to him," said Mr. Esmond. And accordingly they went into 
 the next chamber, where by this time the dawn had broken, which 
 showed my lord's pale face and wild appealing eyes, that wore that awful 
 fatal look of coming dissolution. The surgeon was with him. He went 
 into the chamber as Atterbury came out. My lord viscount turned round 
 his sick eyes towards Esmond. It choked the other to hear that rattle in his 
 throat. 
 
 "My lord viscount," says Mr. Atterbury, "Mr. Esmond wants no wit- 
 nesses, and hath burned the paper." 
 
 "My dearest master!" Esmond said,' kneehng down, and taking his 
 hand and kissing it. 
 
 My lord viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his arms round 
 Esmond. "God bl — bless" — was all he said. The blood rushed from 
 his mouth, deluging the young man. My dearest lord was no more. He 
 was gone with a blessing on his lips, and love and repentance and kind- 
 ness in his manly heart. 
 
 " Benedict i benedkentes," says Mr. Atterbury, and the young man, 
 kneeling at the bedside, groaned out an "Amen." 
 
 "Who shall take the news to her?" was Mr. Esmond's next thought. 
 And on this he besought Mr. Atterbury to bear the tidings to Castlewood. 
 He could not face his mistress himself with that dreadful news. Mr. 
 Atterbury complying kindly, Esmond wrote a hasty note on his table- 
 book to my lord's man, bidding him get the horses for Mr, Atterbury, 
 and ride with him, and send Esmond's own valise to the Gatehouse 
 prison, where he resolved to go and give himself up. 
 
 140
 
 Book II 
 
 CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER 
 MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 I Am in Prisofj, and Visited, but Not Consoled 
 
 There 
 
 Those may imagine, who have seen death untimely strike down persons 
 revered and beloved, and know how unavailing consolation is, what was 
 Harry Esmond's anguish after being an actor in that ghastly midnight 
 scene of blood and homicide. He could not, he felt, have faced his dear 
 mistress, and told her that story. He was thankful that kind Atterbury con- 
 sented to break the sad news to her: but besides his grief, which he took 
 into prison with him, he had that in his heart which secretly cheered and 
 consoled him. 
 
 A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy stricken kins- 
 man, lying on his deathbed. Were he to disclose it, as in equity and honor 
 he might do, the discovery would but bring greater grief upon those 
 whom he loved best in the world, and who were sad enough already. 
 Should he bring down shame and perplexity upon all those beings to 
 whom he was attached by so many tender ties ot affection and gratitude ? 
 degrade his father's widow? impeach and sully his father's and kinsman's 
 honor ? and for what ? For a barren title, to be worn at the expense of an 
 innocent boy, the son of his dearest benefactress. He had debated this 
 matter in his conscience, whilst his poor lord was making his dying con- 
 fession. On one side were ambition, temptation, justice even; but love, 
 gratitude, and fidelity pleaded on the other. And when the struggle was 
 over in Harry's mind, a glow of righteous happiness filled it ; and it was 
 with grateful tears in his eyes that he returned thanks to God for that 
 decision which he had been enabled to make. 
 
 "When I was denied by my own blood," thought he, "these dearest 
 friends received and cherished me. When I was a nameless orphan my- 
 self, and needed a protector, I found one in yonder kind soul, who has 
 gone to his account repenting of the innocent wrong he has done." 
 
 And with this consoling thought he went away to give himself up at 
 the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor. 
 
 143
 
 It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse prison 
 (where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which inflamed and 
 ached severely), and with those thoughts and resolutions that have just 
 been spoken of, to depress, and yet to console him, that H. Esmond's 
 keeper came and told him that a visitor was asking for him, and though 
 he could not see her face, which was enveloped in a black hood, her whole 
 figure too, being veiled and covered with the deepest mourning, Esmond 
 knew at once that his visitor was his dear mistress. 
 
 He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very weak; and 
 advancing towards her as the retiring keeper shut the door upon him 
 and his guest in that sad place, he put forward his left hand (for the 
 right was wounded and bandaged), and he would have taken that kind 
 one of his mistress, which had done so many offices of friendship for 
 him for so many years. 
 
 But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back her hood, 
 and leaning against the great stanchioned door which the jailer had just 
 closed upon them. Her face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw it, looking 
 from the hood ; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed 
 on him with such a tragic glance of woe and anger, as caused the young 
 man, unaccustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert his own 
 glances from her face. 
 
 "And this, Mr. Esmond," she said, ""is where I see you; and 'tis to this 
 you have brought me!" 
 
 "You have come to console me in my calamity, madam," said he 
 (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, his emotions at 
 beholding her so overpowered him). 
 
 She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, looking out at 
 him from her black draperies, with her small white hands clasped to- 
 gether, and quivering lips and hollow eyes. 
 
 ""Not to reproach me," he continued, after a pause. ""My grief is 
 sufficient as it is." 
 
 ""Take back your hand — do not touch me with it!" she cried. "Look! 
 there's blood on it!" 
 
 "'I wish they had taken it all," said Esmond, "'if you are unkind to me." 
 
 "Where is my husband?" she broke out. "Give me back my husband, 
 Henry! Why did you stand by at midnight and see him murdered? Why 
 did the traitor escape who did it? You, the champion of our house, who 
 oflfered to die for us ! You that he loved and trusted, and to whom I con- 
 fided him — you that vowed devotion and gratitude, and I believed you 
 
 144
 
 — yes, I believed you — why are you here, and my noble Francis gone? 
 Why did you come among us? You have only brought us grief and 
 sorrow ; and repentance, bitter, bitter repentance, as a return for our love 
 and kindness. Did I ever do you a wrong, Henry ? You were but an orphan 
 child when I first saw you — when he first saw you, who was so good, and 
 noble, and trusting. He would have had you sent away, but like a foolish 
 woman, I besought him to let you stay. And you pretended to love us, 
 and we believed you- — and you made our house wretched, and my hus- 
 band's heart went from me: and I lost him through you — I lost him — 
 the husband of my youth, I say. I worshiped him : you know I worshiped 
 him — and he was changed to me. He was no more my Francis of old — 
 my dear, dear soldier. He loved me before he saw you ; and I loved him. 
 Oh, God is my witness how I loved him ! Why did he not send you from 
 among us ? 'Twas only his kindness, that he could refuse me nothing then. 
 And, young as you were — yes, and weak and alone — there was evil, I 
 knew there was evil, in keeping you. I read it in your face and eyes. I saw 
 that they boded harm to us — and it came, I knew it would. Why did you 
 not die when you had the smallpox — and I came myself and watched 
 you, and you didn't know me in your delirium — and you called out for 
 me, though I was there at your side? All that has happened since was a 
 just judgment on my wicked heart — my wicked jealous heart. Oh, I am 
 punished — awfully punished ! My husband lies in his blood — murdered 
 for defending me, my kind, kind, generous lord — and you were by, and 
 you let him die, Henry!" 
 
 These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief by one who was 
 ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a gentle smile and a 
 soothing tone, rung in Esmond's ear; and 'tis said that he repeated many 
 of them in the fever into which he now fell from his wound, and per- 
 haps from the emotion which such passionate, undeserved upbraidings 
 caused him. It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love for his lady and 
 her family were to turn to evil and reproach: as if his presence amongst 
 them was indeed a cause of grief, and the continuance of his life but woe 
 and bitterness to theirs. As the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly, 
 without a tear, he never offered a word of appeal or remonstrance: but 
 sat at the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only with the more pain at 
 thinking it was that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so 
 cruelly, and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words as she spoke 
 struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of his boyhood and 
 youth passed within him ; while his lady, so fond and gentle but yester- 
 
 145
 
 day — this good angel whom he had loved and worshiped — stood before 
 him, pursuing him with keen words and aspect malign. 
 
 "I wish I were in my lord's place," he groaned out. "It was not my 
 fault that I was not there, madam. But Fate is stronger than all of us, 
 and willed what has come to pass. It had been better for me to have died 
 when I had the illness." 
 
 "Yes, Henry," said she — and as she spoke she looked at him with a 
 glance that was at once so fond and so sad, that the young man, tossing 
 up his arms, wildly fell back, hiding his head in the coverlet of the bed. 
 As he turned, he struck against the wall with his wounded hand, dis- 
 placing the ligature ; and he felt the blood rushing again from the wound. 
 He remembered feeling a secret pleasure at the accident — and thinking, 
 "Suppose I were to end now, who would grieve for me?" 
 
 This hemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the luckless young 
 man was at the time of the accident, must have brought on a deliquium 
 presently; for he had scarce any recollection afterwards, save of some- 
 one, his mistress probably, seizing his hand — and then of the buzzing 
 noise in his ears as he awoke, with two or three persons of the prison 
 around his bed, whereon he lay in a pool of blood from his arm. 
 
 It was now bandaged up again by the prison surgeon, who happened 
 to be in the place; and the governor's wife and servant, kind people 
 both, were with the patient. Esmond saw his mistress still in the room 
 when he awoke from his trance; but she went away without a word; 
 though the governor's wife told him that she sat in her room for some 
 time afterward, and did not leave the prison until she heard that Esmond 
 was likely to do well. 
 
 Days afterwards, when Esmond was brought out of a fever which he 
 had, and which attacked him that night pretty sharply, the honest keeper's 
 wife brought her patient a handkerchief fresh washed and ironed, and at 
 the corner of which he recognized his mistress' well-known cipher and 
 viscountess' crown. "The lady had bound it round his arm when he 
 fainted, and before she called for help," the keeper's wife said. "Poor 
 lady ! she took on sadly about her husband. He has been buried today, and 
 a many of the coaches of the nobility went with him — my Lord Marl- 
 borough's and my Lord Sunderland's and many of the officers of the 
 Guards, in which he served in the old King's time: and my lady has been 
 with her two children to the King at Kensington, and asked for Justice 
 against my Lord Mohun, who is in hiding, and my Lord the Earl of 
 
 146
 
 Warwick and Holland, who is ready to give himself up and take his 
 
 trial." 
 
 Such was the news, coupled with assertions about her own honesty and 
 that of Molly, her maid, who would never have stolen a certain trumpery 
 gold sleeve-button of Mr. Esmond's that was missing after his fainting-fit, 
 that the keeper's wife brought to her lodger. His thoughts followed to 
 that untimely grave the brave heart, the kind friend, the gallant gentle- 
 man, honest of word and generous of thought if feeble of purpose (but 
 are his betters much stronger than he?), who had given him bread and 
 shelter when he had none; home and love when he needed them; and 
 who, if he had kept one vital secret from him, had done that of which he 
 repented ere dying — a wrong indeed, but one followed by remorse, and 
 occasioned by almost irresistible temptation. 
 
 Esmond took the handkerchief when his nurse left him, and very 
 likely kissed it, and looked at the bauble embroidered in the corner. "It 
 has cost thee grief enough," he thought, "dear lady, so loving and so 
 tender. Shall I take it from thee and thy children ? No, never ! Keep it, 
 and wear it, my little Frank, my pretty boy ! If I cannot make a name for 
 myself, I can die without one. Some day, when my dear mistress sees my 
 heart, I shall be righted ; or if not here or now, why, elsewhere ; where 
 Honor doth not follow us, but where love reigns perpetual." 
 
 'Tis needless to relate here, as the reports of the lawyers already have 
 chronicled them, the particulars or issue of that trial which ensued upon 
 my Lord Castlewood's melancholy homicide. Of the two lords engaged 
 in that sad matter, the second, my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland, 
 who had been engaged with Colonel Westbury, and wounded by him, was 
 found not guilty by his peers, before whom he was tried (under the presi- 
 dence of the Lord Steward, Lord Somers) ; and the principal, the Lord ' 
 Mohun, being found guilty of the manslaughter (which, indeed, was i 
 forced upon him, and of which he repented most sincerely), pleaded his | 
 clergy, and so was discharged without any penalty. The widow of the 
 i slain nobleman, as it was told us in prison, showed an extraordinary spirit ; 
 and, though she had to wait for ten years before her son was old enough 
 to compass it, declared she would have revenge of her husband's murderer. 
 So much and suddenly had grief, anger, and misfortune appeared to 
 change her. But fortune, good or ill, as I take it, does not change men 
 and women. It but develops their character. As there are a thousand 
 thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the 
 pen to write, so the heart is a secret even to him (or her) who has it in 
 
 147
 
 his own breast. Who has not found himself surprised into revenge, or 
 action, or passion, for good or evil, whereof the seeds lay within him, 
 latent and unsuspected, until the occasion called them forth? With the 
 death of her lord, a change seemed to come over the whole conduct and 
 mind of Lady Castlewood ; but of this we shall speak in the right season 
 and anon. 
 
 The lords being tried then before their peers at Westminster, accord- 
 ing to their privilege, being brought from the Tower with state proces- 
 sions and barges, and accompanied by lieutenants and axemen, the 
 commoners engaged in that melancholy fray took their trial at Newgate, 
 as became them ; and, being all found guilty, pleaded likewise their benefit 
 of clergy. The sentence, as we all know in these cases, is, that the culprit 
 lies a year in prison, or during the King's pleasure, and is burned in 
 the hand, or only stamped with a cold iron; or this part of the punish- 
 ment is altogether remitted at the grace of the sovereign. So Harry Esmond 
 found himself a criminal and a prisoner at two-and -twenty years old ; as 
 for the two colonels, his comrades, they took the matter very lightly. 
 Dueling was a part of their business ; and they could not in honor refuse 
 any invitations of that sort. 
 
 But the case was different with Mr. Esmond. His life was changed by 
 that stroke of the sword which destroyed his kind patron's. As he lay in 
 prison, old Doctor Tusher fell ill and died; and Lady Castlewood ap- 
 pointed Thomas Tusher to the vacant living; about the filling of which 
 she had a thousand times fondly talked to Harry Esmond: how they 
 never should part ; how he should educate her boy ; how to be a country 
 clergyman, like saintly George Herbert or pious Doctor Ken, was the 
 happiest and greatest lot in life; how (if he were obstinately bent on it, 
 though, for her part, she owned rather to holding Queen Bess's opinion, 
 that a bishop should have no wife, and if not a bishop why a clergy- 
 man?) she would find a good wife for Harry Esmond; and so on, with 
 a hundred pretty prospects told by fireside evenings, in fond prattle, as 
 the children played about the hall. All these plans were overthrown now. 
 Thomas Tusher wrote to Esmond, as he lay in prison, announcing that 
 his patroness had conferred upon him the living his reverend father had 
 held for many years; that she never, after the tragical events which had 
 occurred (whereof Tom spoke with a very edifying horror) , could see 
 in the revered Tusher's pulpit, or at her son's table, the man who was 
 answerable for the father's life; that her ladyship bade him to say that 
 she prayed for her kinsman's repentance and his worldly happiness ; that 
 
 148
 
 he was free to command her aid for any scheme of life which he might 
 propose to himself; but that on this side of the grave she would see him 
 no more. And Tusher, for his own part, added that Harry should have 
 his prayers as a friend of his youth, and commended him while he was 
 in prison to read certain works of theology, which his reverence pro- 
 nounced to be very wholesome for sinners in his lamentable condition. 
 
 And this was the return for a life of devotion — this the end of years 
 of affectionate intercourse and passionate fidelity! Harry would have 
 died for his patron, and was held as little better than his murderer: he 
 had sacrificed, she did not know how much, for his mistress, and she 
 threw him aside; he had endowed her family with all they had, and she 
 talked about giving him alms as to a menial ! The grief for his patron's 
 loss: the pains of his own present position, and doubts as to the future: 
 all these were forgotten under the sense of the consummate outrage which 
 he had to endure, and overpowered by the superior pang of that torture. 
 
 He wrote back a letter to Mr. Tusher from his prison, congratulating 
 his reverence upon his appointment to the living of Castlewood: sarcasti- 
 cally bidding him to follow in the footsteps of his admirable father, 
 whose gown had descended upon him; thanking her ladyship for her 
 oflPer of alms, which he said he should trust not to need; and beseeching 
 her to remember that, if ever her determination should change towards 
 him, he would be ready to give her proofs of a fidelity which had never 
 wavered, and which ought never to have been questioned by that house. 
 "And if we meet no more, or only as strangers in this world," Mr. Esmond 
 concluded, "a sentence against the cruelty and injustice of which I dis- 
 dain to appeal; hereafter she will know who was faithful to her, and 
 whether she had any cause to suspect the love and devotion of her kins- 
 man and servant." 
 
 After the sending of this letter, the poor young fellow's mind was 
 more at ease than it had been previously. The blow had been struck, 
 and he had borne it. His cruel goddess had shaken her wings and fled: 
 and left him alone and friendless, but virtute sua. And he had to bear 
 him up, at once the sense of his right and the feeling of his wrongs, his 
 honor and his misfortune. As I have seen men waking and running to 
 arms at a sudden trumpet, before emergency a manly heart leaps up 
 resolute; meets the threatening danger with undaunted countenance; 
 and, whether conquered or conquering, faces it always. Ah! no man 
 knows his strength or his weakness, till occasion proves them. If there 
 be some thoughts and actions of his life from the memory of which a 
 
 149
 
 man shrinks with shame, sure there are some which he may be proud 
 to own and remember: forgiven injuries, conquered temptations (now 
 and then), and difficulties vanquished by endurance. 
 
 It was these thoughts regarding the hving, far more than any great 
 poignancy of grief respecting the dead, which affected Harry Esmond 
 while in prison after his trial ; but it may be imagined that he could take 
 no comrade of misfortune into the confidence of his feelings, and they 
 thought it was remorse and sorrow for his patron's loss which affected 
 the young man, in error of which opinion he chose to leave them. As a 
 companion he was so moody and silent that the two officers, his fellow- 
 suffers, left him to himself mostly, liked little very likely what they 
 knew of him, consoled themselves with dice, cards, and the bottle, and 
 whiled away their own captivity in their own way. It seemed to Esmond 
 as if he lived years in that prison: and was changed and aged when he 
 came out of it. At certain periods of life we live years of emotion in a 
 few weeks— and look back on those times, as on great gaps between the 
 old life and the new. You do not know how much you suffer in those 
 critical maladies of the heart, until the disease is over and you look back 
 on it afterwards. During the time, the suffering is at least sufferable. The 
 day passes in more or less of pain, and the night wears away somehow. 
 'Tis only in after days that we see what the danger has been — as a man 
 out a-hunting or riding for his life looks at a leap, and wonders how he 
 should have survived the taking of it. O dark months of grief and rage ! 
 of wrong and cruel endurance ! He is old now who recalls you. Long ago 
 he has forgiven and blest the soft hand that wounded him : but the mark 
 is there, and the wound is cicatrized only — no time, tears, caresses, or 
 repentance can obliterate the scar. We are indocile to put up with grief, 
 however. Refc/mus rates quassas: we tempt the ocean again and again, 
 and try upon new ventures. Esmond thought of his early time as a noviti- 
 ate, and of this past trial as an initiation before entering into life — as our 
 young Indians undergo tortures silently before they pass to the rank of 
 warriors in the tribe. 
 
 The officers, meanwhile, who were not let into the secret of the grief 
 which was gnawing at the side of their silent young friend, and being 
 accustomed to such transactions, in which one comrade or another was 
 daily paying the forfeit of the sword, did not, of course, bemoan them- 
 selves very inconsolably about the fate of their late companion in arms. 
 This one told stories of former adventures of love, or war, or pleasure, 
 in which poor Frank Esmond had been engaged; the other recollected 
 
 150
 
 how a constable had been bilked, or a tavern-bully beaten : while my lord's 
 poor widow was sitting at his tomb worshiping him as an actual saint 
 and spotless hero — so the visitors said who had news of Lady Castlewood ; 
 and Westbury and Macartney had pretty nearly had all the town to come 
 and see them. 
 
 The duel, its fatal termination, the trial of the two peers and the 
 three commoners concerned, had caused the greatest excitement in the 
 town. The prints and newsletters were full of them. The three gentlemen 
 in Newgate were almost as much crowded as the bishops in the Tower, 
 or a highwayman before execution. We were allowed to live in the 
 governor's house, as has been said, both before trial and after condem- 
 nation, waiting the King's pleasure; nor was the real cause of the fatal 
 quarrel known, so closely had my lord and the two other persons who 
 knew it kept the secret, but everyone imagined that the origin of the 
 meeting was a gambling dispute. Except fresh air, the prisoners had, 
 upon payment, most things they could desire. Interest was made that they 
 should not mix with the vulgar convicts, whose ribald choruses and loud 
 laughter and curses could be heard from their own part of the prison, 
 where they and the miserable debtors were confined pell-mell. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 / Come to the End of My Captivity 
 
 Among the company which came to visit the two officers was an old 
 acquaintance of Harry Esmond ; that gentleman of the Guards, namely, 
 who had been so kind to Harry when Captain Westbury's troop had been 
 quartered at Castlewood more than seven years before. Dick the Scholar 
 was no longer Dick the Trooper now, but Captain Steele of Lucas' 
 Fusileers, and secretary to my Lord Cutts, that famous officer of King 
 William's, the bravest and most beloved man of the English army. The 
 two jolly prisoners had been drinking with a party of friends (for our 
 cellar, and that of the keepers of Newgate, too, were supplied with 
 endless hampers of burgundy and champagne that the friends of the 
 colonels sent in) ; and Harry, having no wish for their drink or their 
 conversation, being too feeble in health for the one, and too sad in spirits 
 for the other, was sitting apart in his little room, reading such books as 
 
 151
 
 he had, one evening, when honest Colonel Westbury, flushed with 
 hquor, and always good-humored in and out of his cups, came laughing 
 into Harry's closet, and said, "Ho, young Killjoy! here's a friend come to 
 see thee; he'll pray with thee, or he'll drink with thee; or he'll drink and 
 pray turn about. Dick, my Christian hero, here's the little scholar of 
 Castlewood." 
 
 Dick came up and kissed Esmond on both cheeks, imparting a strong 
 perfume of burnt sack along with his caress to the young man. 
 
 "What! is this the little man that used to talk Latin and fetch our 
 bowls? How tall thou art grown! I protest I should have known thee 
 anywhere. And so you have turned ruffian and fighter; and wanted to 
 measure swords with Mohun, did you.^ I protest that Mohun said at the 
 Guard dinner yesterday, where there was a pretty company of us, that 
 the young fellow wanted to fight him, and was the better man of the 
 two." 
 
 "I wish we could have tried and proved it, Mr. Steele," says Esmond, 
 thinking of his dead benefactor, and his eyes filling with tears. 
 
 With the exception of that one cruel letter which he had from his 
 mistress, Mr. Esmond heard nothing from her, and she seemed deter- 
 mined to execute her resolve of parting from him and disowning him. 
 But he had news of her, such as it was, which Mr. Steele assiduously 
 brought him from the Prince's and Princess' Court, where our honest 
 captain had been advanced to the post of gentleman-waiter. When off 
 duty there, Captain Dick often came to console his friends in captivity; 
 a good nature and a friendly disposition towards all who were in ill- 
 fortune no doubt prompting him to make his visits, and good-fellowship 
 and good wine to prolong them. 
 
 "Faith," says Westbury, "the little scholar was the first to begin the 
 quarrel — I mind me of it now — at Lockit's. I always hated that fellow 
 Mohun. What was the real cause of the quarrel betwixt him and poor 
 Frank? I would wager 'twas a woman." 
 
 " 'Twas a quarrel about play — on my word, about play," Harry said. 
 "My poor lord lost great sums to his guest at Castlewood. Angry words 
 passed between them ; and though Lord Castlewood was the kindest and 
 most pliable soul alive, his spirit was very high; and hence that meeting 
 which has brought us all here," says Mr. Esmond, resolved never to 
 acknowledge that there had ever been any other cause but cards for 
 the duel. 
 
 "I do not like to use bad words of a nobleman," says Westbury; "but 
 
 152
 
 if my Lord Mohun were a commoner, I would say, 'twas a pity he was 
 not hanged. He was familiar with dice and women at a time other boys 
 are at school being birched ; he was as wicked as the oldest rake, years 
 ere he had done growing; and handled a sword and a foil, and a bloody 
 one too, before he ever used a razor. He held poor Will Mountford in talk 
 that night when bloody Dick Hill ran him through. He will come to a 
 bad end, will that young lord ; and no end is bad enough for him," says 
 honest Mr. Westbury: whose prophecy was fulfilled twelve years after, 
 upon that fatal day when Mohun fell, dragging down one of the bravest 
 and greatest gentlemen in England in his fall. 
 
 From Mr. Steele, then, who brought the public rumor, as well as his 
 own private intelligence, Esmond learned the movements of his un- 
 fortunate mistress. Steele's heart was of very inflammable composition ; 
 and the gentleman-usher spoke in terms of boundless admiration both 
 of the widow (that most beautiful woman, as he said) and of her 
 daughter, who, in the captain's eyes, was a still greater paragon. If the 
 pale widow, whom captain Richard, in his poetic rapture, compared to a 
 Niobe in tears — to a Sigismunda — to a weeping Belvidera — was an object 
 the most lovely and pathetic which his eyes had ever beheld, or for 
 which his heart had melted, even her ripened perfections and beauty 
 were as nothing compared to the promise of that extreme loveliness 
 which the good captain saw in her daughter. It was mater pulcra (ilia 
 pulcrior. Steele composed sonnets while he was on duty in his Prince's 
 antechamber, to the maternal and filial charms. He would speak for hours 
 about them to Harry Esmond; and, indeed, he could have chosen few 
 subjects more likely to interest the unhappy young man, whose heart was 
 now as always devoted to these ladies ; and who was thankful to all who 
 loved them, or praised them, or wished them well. 
 
 Not that his fidelity was recompensed by any answering kindness, or 
 show of relenting even, on the part of a mistress obdurate now after ten 
 years of love and benefactions. The poor young man getting no answer, 
 save Tusher's, to that letter which he had written, and being too proud 
 to write more, opened a part of his heart to Steele, than whom no man, 
 when unhappy, could find a kinder hearer, or more friendly emissary; 
 described (in words which were no doubt pathetic, for they came imo 
 pectore, and caused honest Dick to weep plentifully) his youth, his 
 constancy, his fond devotion to that household which had reared him; 
 his affection, how earned, and how tenderly requited until but yesterday, 
 and (as far as he might) the circumstances and causes for which that 
 
 153
 
 sad quarrel had made of Esmond a prisoner under sentence, a widow and 
 orphans of those whom in Hie he held dearest. In terms that might well 
 move a harder-hearted man than young Esmond's confident — for, in- 
 deed, the speaker's own heart was half broke as he uttered them — he 
 described a part of what had taken place in that only sad interview which 
 his mistress had granted him; how she had left him with anger and 
 almost imprecation, whose words and thoughts until then had been only 
 blessing and kindness; how she had accused him of the guilt of that 
 blood, in exchange for which he would cheerfully have sacrificed his 
 own (indeed, in this the Lord Mohun, the Lord Warwick, and all the 
 gentlemen engaged, as well as the common rumor out of doors- — Steele 
 told him — bore out the luckless young man) ; and with all his heart, and 
 tears, he besought Mr. Steele to inform his mistress of her kinsman's 
 unhappiness, and to deprecate that cruel anger she showed him. Half 
 frantic with grief at the injustice done him, and contrasting it with a 
 thousand soft recollections of love and confidence gone by, that made his 
 present misery inexpressibly more bitter, the poor wretch passed many a 
 lonely day and wakeful night in a kind of powerless despair and rage 
 against his iniquitous fortune. It was the softest hand that struck him, 
 the gentlest and most compassionate nature that persecuted him. "I 
 would as lief," he said, "have pleaded guilty to the murder, and have 
 suffered for it like any other felon, as to have to endure the torture to 
 which my mistress subjects me." 
 
 Although the recital of Esmond's story, and his passionate appeals and 
 remonstrances, drew so many tears from Dick who heard them, they had 
 no effect upon the person whom they were designed to move. Esmond's 
 ambassador came back from the mission with which the poor young 
 gentleman had charged him, with a sad blank face and a shake of the 
 head, which told that there was no hope for the prisoner; and scarce 
 a wretched culprit in that prison of Newgate ordered for execution, and 
 trembling for a reprieve, felt more cast down than Mr. Esmond, innocent 
 and condemned. 
 
 As had been arranged between the prisoner and his counsel in their 
 consultations, Mr. Steele had gone to the dowager's house in Chelsey, 
 where it has been said the widow and her orphans were, had seen my 
 lady viscountess, and pleaded the cause of her unfortunate kinsman. 
 "And I think I spoke well, my poor boy," says Mr. Steele; "for who 
 would not speak well in such a cause, and before so beautiful a judge? I 
 did not see the lovely Beatrix (sure her famous namesake of Florence 
 
 154
 
 was never half so beautiful), only the young viscount was in the room 
 with the Lord Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough's eldest son. But these 
 young gentlemen went off to the garden; I could see them from the 
 window tilting at each other with poles in a mimic tournament (grief 
 touches the young but lightly, and I remember that I beat a drum at the 
 coffin of my own father) . My lady viscountess looked out at the two boys 
 at their game and said, "You see, sir, children are taught to use weapons 
 of death as toys, and to make a sport of murder' ; and as she spoke she 
 looked so lovely, and stood there in herself so sad and beautiful, an in- 
 stance of that doctrine whereof I am a humble preacher, that had I not 
 dedicated my little volume of the Christian Hero — (I perceive, Harry, 
 thou has not cut the leaves of it. The sermon is good, believe me, though 
 the preacher's life may not answer it) — I say, hadn't I dedicated the 
 volume to Lord Cutts, I would have asked permission to place her lady- 
 ship's name on the first page. I think I never saw such a beautiful violet 
 as that of her eyes, Harry. Her complexion is of the pink of the blush- 
 rose, she hath an exquisite turned wrist and dimpled hand, and I make 
 no doubt " 
 
 "Did you come to tell me about the dimples on my lady's hand.-*" 
 broke out Mr. Esmond sadly. 
 
 "A lovely creature in affliction seems always doubly beautiful to me," 
 says the poor captain, who indeed was but too often in a state to see 
 double, and so checked he resumed the interrupted thread of his story. 
 "As I spoke my business," Mr. Steele said, "and narrated to your mistress 
 what all the world knows, and the other side hath been eager to acknowl- 
 edge — that you had tried to put yourself between the two lords, and to 
 take your patron's quarrel on your own point. I recounted the general 
 praises of your gallantry, besides my Lord Mohun's particular testimony 
 to it; I thought the widow listened with some interest, and her eyes — I 
 have never seen such a violet, Harry — looked up at mine once or twice. 
 But after I had spoken on this theme for a while she suddenly broke 
 away with a cry of grief. 'I would to God, sir,' she said, 'I had never 
 heard that word gallantry which you use, or known the meaning of it. 
 My lord might have been here but for that; my home might be happy; 
 my poor boy have a father. It was what you gentlemen call gallantry came 
 into my home, and drove my husband on to the cruel sword that killed 
 him. You should not speak the word to a Christian woman, sir, a poor 
 widowed mother of orphans, whose home was happy until the world 
 
 155
 
 came into it — the wicked godless world, that takes the blood of the 
 innocent, and lets the guilty go free.' 
 
 "As the afflicted lady spoke in this strain, sir," Mr. Steele continued, 
 "it seemed as if indignation moved her, even more than grief. 'Compensa- 
 tion!' she went on passionately, her cheeks and eyes kindling; 'what 
 compensation does your world give the widow for her husband, and the 
 children for the murder of their father? The wretch who did the deed 
 has not even a punishment. Conscience! what conscience has he, who 
 can enter the house of a friend, whisper falsehood and insult to a 
 woman that never harmed him, and stab the kind heart that trusted him.' 
 My lord — my Lord Wretch's, my Lord Villain's, my Lord Murderer's 
 peers meet to try him, and they dismiss him with a word or two of 
 reproof, and send him into the world again, to pursue women with lust 
 and falsehood, and to murder unsuspecting guests that harbor him. That 
 day, my Lord — my Lord Murderer — (I will never name him) — was let 
 loose, a woman was executed at Tyburn for stealing in a shop. But a 
 man may rob another of his life, or a lady of her honor, and shall pay 
 no penalty ! I take my child, run to the throne, and on my knees ask for 
 justice, and the King refuses me. The King ! he is no King of mine^ — he 
 never shall be. He, too, robbed the throne from the King his father — the 
 true King — and he has gone unpunished, as the great do.' 
 
 "I then thought to speak for you," Mr. Steele continued, "and I inter- 
 posed by saying, "There was one, madam, who, at least, would have put 
 his own breast betv/een your husband's and my Lord Mohun's sword. 
 Your poor young kinsman, Harry Esmond, hath told me that he tried 
 to draw the quarrel on himself." 
 
 " 'Are you come from bim?' asked the lady (so Mr. Steele went on), 
 rising up with a great severity and stateliness. 'I thought you had come 
 from the Princess. I saw Mr. Esmond in his prison, and bade him fare- 
 well. He brought misery into my house. He never should have en- 
 tered it.' 
 
 " 'Madam, madam, he is not to blame,' I interposed," continued 
 Mr. Steele. 
 
 " 'Do I blame him to you, sir?' asked the widow, 'If 'tis he who sent 
 you, say that I have taken counsel, where' — she spoke with a very pallid 
 cheek now, and a break in her voice — 'where all who ask may have it: — 
 and that it bids me to part from him, and to see him no more. We met 
 in the prison for the last time — at least for years to come. It may be, 
 in years hence, when — when our knees and our tears and our contrition 
 
 156
 
 have changed our sinful hearts, sir, and wrought our pardon, we may 
 meet again — but not now. After what has passed, I could not bear to see 
 him. I wish him well, sir; but I wish him farewell too; and if he has 
 that — that regard towards us which he speaks of, I beseech him to prove 
 it by obeying me in this.' 
 
 "' 'I shall break the young man's heart, madam, by this hard sentence,' " 
 Mr. Steele said. 
 
 "The lady shook her head," continued my kind scholar. " 'The hearts 
 of young men, Mr. Steele, are not so made,' she said. 'Mr. Esmond will 
 find other — other friends. The mistress of this house has relented very 
 much towards the late lord's son,' she added, with a blush, 'and has 
 promised me, — that is, has promised that she will care for his fortune. 
 Whilst I live in it, after the horrid, horrid deed which has passed. Castle- 
 wood must never be a home to him — never. Nor would I have him write 
 to me — except — no— I would have him never write to me, nor see him 
 
 more. Give him, if you will, my parting Hush ! not a word of this 
 
 before my daughter.' 
 
 "Here the fair Beatrix entered from the river, with her cheeks flush- 
 ing with health, and looking only the more lovely and fresh for the 
 morning habiliments which she wore. And my lady viscountess said — 
 
 " 'Beatrix, this is Mr. Steele, gentleman-usher to the Prince's High- 
 ness. When does your new comedy appear, Mr. Steele.^' I hope thou wilt 
 be out of prison for the first night, Harry." 
 
 The sentimental Captain concluded his sad tale, saying, "Faith, the 
 beauty of Filia pttlcrior drove pulcram maUem out of my head ! and yet 
 as I came down the river, and thought about the pair, the pallid dignity 
 and exquisite grace of the matron had the uppermost, and I thought her 
 ever more noble than the virgin!" 
 
 The party of prisoners lived very well in Newgate, and with comforts 
 very difi^erent to those which were awarded to the poor wretches there 
 (his insensibility to their misery, their gaiety still more frightful, their 
 curses and blasphemy, has struck with a kind of shame since — as proving 
 how selfish, during his imprisonment, his own particular grief was, and 
 how entirely the thoughts of it absorbed him) : if the three gentlemen 
 lived well under the care of the Warden of Newgate, it was because 
 they paid well ; and indeed the cost at the dearest ordinary or the grandest 
 tavern in London could not have furnished a longer reckoning than our 
 host of the "Handcuff Inn" — as Colonel Westbury called it. Our rooms 
 
 157
 
 were the three in the gate over Newgate — on the second story looking 
 up Newgate Street towards Cheapside and Paul's Church. And we had 
 leave to walk on the roof, and could see then Smithfield and the Blue- 
 coat Boys' School, Gardens, and the Chartreux, where, as Harry Esmond 
 remembered, Dick the Scholar and his friend Tom Tusher had had their 
 schooling. 
 
 Harry could never have paid his share of that prodigious heavy reckon- 
 ing which my landlord brought to his guests once a week: for he had but 
 three pieces in his pockets that fatal night before the duel, when the 
 gentlemen were at cards, and offered to play five. But while he was yet 
 ill at the Gatehouse, after Lady Castlewood had visited him there, and 
 before his trial, there came one in an orange-tawny coat and blue lace, 
 the livery which the Esmonds always wore, and brought a sealed packet 
 for Mr. Esmond, which contained twenty guineas, and a note saying that 
 a counsel had been appointed for him, and that more money would be 
 forthcoming whenever he needed it. 
 
 'Twas a queer letter from the scholar as she was, or as she called her- 
 self: the Dowager Viscountess Castlewood, written in the strange bar- 
 barous French which she and many other fine ladies of that time — witness 
 her Grace of Portsmouth — employed. Indeed, spelling was not an article 
 of general commodity in the world, then, and my Lord Marlborough's 
 letters can show that he, for one, had but a little share of this part of 
 grammar : 
 
 "MoNG CoussiN," my Lady Viscountess Dowager wrote, "je scay que 
 vous vous etes bravement batew et grievement blessay — du coste de feu 
 M. le Vicomte. M. le Compte de Varique ne se playt qua parlay de vous: 
 M. de Moon augy. II di que vous avay voulew vous bastre avecque luy — 
 que vous estes plus fort que luy fur I'ayscrimme — quil'y a surtout certaine 
 Botte que vous scavay quil n'a jammay sceu pariay: et que e'en eut ete fay 
 de luy si vouseluy vous vous fussiay battews ansamb. Aincy ce pauv Vi- 
 compte est mort. Mort et peutayt — Mon coussin, mon coussin! jay dans 
 la tayste que vous n'estes quung pety Monst — angcy que les Esmonds ong 
 tousjours este. La veuve est chay moy. J'ay recuilly cet' pauve famme. Elle 
 est furieuse cont vous, allans tous les jours chercher ley Roy (d'icy) de- 
 mandant a gran cri revanche pour son Mary. Elle ne veux voyre ni entende 
 parlay de vous: pourtant elle ne fay qu'en parlay milfoy par jour. Quand 
 vous seray hor prison venay me voyre. J'auray soing de vous. Si cette petite 
 Prude veut se defaire de song pety Monste (Helas je craing quil ne soy 
 trotar!) je m'enchargeray. J'ay encor quelqu interay et quelques escus 
 de costay. 
 
 158
 
 "La Veuve se raccommode avec Miladi Marlboro qui est tout puigante 
 avecque la Princess Anne. Cet dam senteraysent pour la petite prude ; qui 
 pourctant a un fi du mesme asge que vous savay. 
 
 "En sortant de prisong venez icy. Je ne puy vous recevoir chay-moy a 
 cause des mechansetes du monde, may pre du moy vous aurez logement. 
 
 "ISABELLE ViSCOMTESSE D'EsMOND." 
 
 Marchioness of Esmond this lady sometimes called herself, in virtue 
 of that patent which had been given by the late King James to Harry 
 Esmond's father; and in this state she had her train carried by a knight's 
 wife, a cup and cover of assay to drink from, and fringed cloth. 
 
 He who was of the same age as little Francis, whom we shall hence- 
 forth call Viscount Castlewood here, was H. R. H. the Prince of Wales, 
 born in the same year and month with Frank, and just proclaimed, at 
 Saint Germains, King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 / Take the Queen s Pay in Quins Regiment 
 
 The fellow in the orange-tawny livery with blue lace and facings was 
 in waiting when Esmond came out of prison, and, taking the young 
 gentleman's slender baggage, led the way out of that odious Newgate, 
 and by Fleet Conduit down to the Thames, where a pair of oars was 
 called, and they went up the river to Chelsey. Esmond thought the sun 
 had never shone so bright; nor the air felt so fresh and exhilarating. 
 Temple Garden, as they rowed by, looked like the Garden of Eden to 
 him, and the aspect of the quays, wharves, and buildings by the river, 
 Somerset House, and Westminster (where the splendid new bridge was 
 just beginning), Lambeth tower and palace, and that busy shining scene 
 of the Thames swarming with boats and barges, filled his heart with 
 pleasure and cheerfulness — as well such a beautiful scene might to one 
 who had been a prisoner so long, and with so many dark thoughts 
 deepening the gloom of his captivity. They rowed up at length to the 
 pretty village of Chelsey, where the nobility have many handsome 
 country houses; and so came to my lady viscountess' house, a cheerful 
 new house in the row facing the river, with a handsome garden behind 
 it, and a pleasant look-out both towards Surrey and Kensington, where
 
 stands the noble ancient palace of the Lord Warwick, Harry's reconciled 
 adversary. 
 
 Here in her ladyship's salon, the young man saw again some of those 
 pictures which had been at Castlewood, and which she had removed 
 from there on the death of her lord, Harry's father. Specially, and in the 
 place of honor, was Sir Peter Lely's picture of the Honorable Mistress 
 Isabella Esmond as Diana, in yellow satin, with a bow in her hand and 
 a crescent in her forehead ; and dogs frisking about her. 'Twas painted 
 about the time when royal Endymions were said to find favor with this 
 virgin huntress; and, as goddesses have youth perpetual, this one be- 
 lieved to the day of her death that she never grew older: and always 
 persisted in supposing the picture was still like her. 
 
 After he had been shown to her room by the groom of the chamber, 
 who filled many offices besides in her ladyship's modest household, and 
 after a proper interval, his elderly goddess Diana vouchsafed to appear 
 to the young man. A blackamoor in a Turkish habit, with red boots and 
 a silver collar, on which the viscountess's arms were engraven, pre- 
 ceded her and bore her cushion; then came her gentlewoman; a little 
 pack of spaniels barking and frisking about preceded the austere huntress 
 — then, behold, the viscountess herself "dropping odors." Esmond recol- 
 lected from his childhood that rich aroma of musk which his mother-in- 
 law (for she may be called so) exhaled. As the sky grows redder and 
 redder towards sunset, so, in the decline of her years, the cheeks of my 
 lady dowager blushed more deeply. Her face was illuminated with 
 vermilion, which appeared the brighter from the white paint employed 
 to set it off. She wore the ringlets which had been in fashion in King 
 Charles's time ; whereas the ladies of King William's had head-dresses 
 like the towers of Cybele. Her eyes gleamed out from the midst of this 
 queer structure of paint, dyes, and pomatums. Such was my lady vis- 
 countess, Mr. Esmond's father's widow. 
 
 He made her such a profound bow as her dignity and relationship 
 merited, and advanced with the greatest gravity, and once more kissed 
 that hand, upon the trembling knuckles of which glittered a score of 
 
 rings remembering old times when that trembling hand made him 
 
 tremble. "Marchioness," says he, bowing, and on one knee, "is it only the 
 hand I may have the honor of saluting?" for, accompanying that inward 
 laughter, which the sight of such an astonishing old figure might well 
 produce in the young man, there was goodwill too, and the kindness of 
 consanguinity. She had been his father's wife, and was his grandfather's 
 1 60
 
 daughter. She had suffered him in old days, and was kind to him now 
 after her fashion. And now that bar-sinister was removed from Esmond's 
 thought, and that secret opprobrium no longer cast upon his mind, he 
 was pleased to feel family ties and own them — perhaps secretly vain of 
 the sacrifice he had made, and to think that he, Esmond, was really the 
 chief of his house, and only prevented by his own magnanimity from 
 advancing his claim. 
 
 At least, ever since he had learned that secret from his poor patron on 
 his dying bed, actually as he was standing beside it, he had felt an inde- 
 pendency which he had never known before, and which since did not 
 desert him. So he called his old aunt marchioness, but with an air as if 
 he was the Marquis of Esmond who so addressed her. 
 
 Did she read in the young gentleman's eyes, which had now no fear 
 of hers or that superannuated authority, that he knew or suspected the 
 truth about his birth? She gave a start of surprise at his altered manner: 
 indeed, it was quite a different bearing to that of the Cambridge student 
 who had paid her a visit two years since, and whom she had dismissed 
 with five pieces sent by the groom of the chamber. She eyed him, then 
 trembled a little more than was her wont, perhaps, and said, "Welcome, 
 cousin," in a frightened voice. 
 
 His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite different, 
 namely, so to bear himself through life as if the secret of his birth was 
 not known to him ; but he suddenly and rightly determined on a different 
 course. He asked that her ladyship's attendants should be dismissed, and 
 when they were private: "Welcome, nephew, at least, madam, it should 
 be," he said. "A great wrong has been done to me and to you, and to 
 my poor mother who is no more." 
 
 "I declare before heaven that I was guiltless of it," she cried out, 
 giving up her cause at once. "It was your wicked father who " 
 
 "Who brought this dishonor on our family," says Mr. Esmond. "I 
 know it full well. I want to disturb no one. Those who are in present 
 possession have been my dearest benefactors, and are quite innocent of 
 intentional wrong to me. The late lord, my dear patron, knew not the 
 truth until a few months before his death, when Father Holt brought 
 the news to him." 
 
 "The wretch! he had it in confession! he had it in confession!" cried 
 out the dowager lady. 
 
 "Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession," Mr. 
 Esmond answered. "My father, when wounded at the Boyne, told the 
 
 i6i
 
 truth to a French priest, who was in hiding after the battle, as well as 
 to the priest there, at whose house he died. This gentleman did not 
 think fit to divulge the story till he met with Mr. Holt at Saint Omer's. 
 And the latter kept it back for his own purpose, and until he had learned 
 whether my mother was alive or no. She is dead years since, my poor 
 patron told me with his dying breath, and I doubt him not. I do not 
 know even whether I could prove a marriage. I would not if I could. I 
 do not care to bring shame on our name, or grief upon those whom 
 I love, however hardly they may use me. My father's son, madam, won't 
 aggravate the wrong my father did you. Continue to be his widow, and 
 give me your kindness. 'Tis all I ask from you ; and I shall never speak 
 of this matter again." 
 
 "Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme!" breaks out my lady, speak- 
 ing, as usual with her when she was agitated, in the French language. 
 
 "Noblesse oblige," says Mr. Esmond, making her a low bow. "There 
 are those alive to whom, in return for their love to m^e, I often fondly 
 said I would give my life away. Shall I be their enemy now, and quarrel 
 about a title? What matters who has it? 'Tis with the family still." 
 
 "What can there be in that little prude of a woman that makes men 
 so rajfoler about her?" cries out my lady dowager. "She was here for a 
 month petitioning the King. She is pretty, and well -conserved; but she 
 has not the bel air. In his late Majesty's Court all the men pretended to 
 admire her, and she was no better than a little wax doll. She is better 
 now, and locks the sister of her daughter; but what mean you all by 
 bepraising her? Mr. Steele, who was in waiting on Prince George, see- 
 ing her with her two children going to Kensington, writ a poem about 
 her, and says he shall wear her colors, and dress in black for the future. 
 Mr. Congreve says he will write a Mourning W'ldoiu, that shall be better 
 than his Mourning Bride. Though their husbands quarreled and fought 
 when that wretch Churchill deserted the King (for which he deserved 
 to be hung). Lady Marlborough has again gone wild about the little 
 widow; insulted me in my own drawing-room, by saying that 'twas not 
 the old widow, but the young viscountess, she had to come to see. 
 Little Castlewood and little Lord Churchill are to be sworn friends, and 
 have boxed each other twice or thrice like brothers already. 'Twas that 
 wicked young Mohun who, coming back from the provinces last year, 
 where he had disinterred her, raved about her all the winter ; said she was 
 a pearl set before swine ; and killed poor stupid Frank. The quarrel was 
 all about his wife. I know 'twas all about her. Was there anything be- 
 
 162
 
 tween her and Mohun, nephew? Tell me now — was there anything? 
 About yourself, I do not ask you to answer questions." 
 
 Mr. Esmond blushed up. "My lady's virtue is like that of a saint in 
 heaven," he cried out. 
 
 "Eh! mon neveu. Many saints get to heaven after having a deal to 
 repent of. I believe you are like all the rest of the fools, and madly in 
 love with her." 
 
 "Indeed, I loved and honored her before all the world," Esmond 
 answered. "I take no shame in that." 
 
 "And she has shut her door on you — given the living to that horrid 
 young cub, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher, and says she will never 
 see you more. Monsieur mon neveu — we are all like that. When I was 
 a young woman, I'm positive that a thousand duels were fought about 
 me. And when poor Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself in the canal 
 at Bruges because I danced with Count Sprinbock, I couldn't squeeze out 
 a single tear, but danced till five o'clock the next morning. 'Twas the 
 Count — no, 'twas my Lord Ormond that played the fiddles, and His 
 Majesty did me the honor of dancing all night with me. How you are 
 grown ! You have got the hel air. You are a black man. Our Esmonds are 
 all black. The little prude's son is fair; so was his father — fair and stupid. 
 You were an ugly little wretch when you came to Castlewood — you 
 were all eyes, like a young crow. We intended you should be a priest. 
 That awful Father Holt — how he used to frighten me when I was ill! 
 I have a comfortable director now — the Abbe Douillette — a dear man, 
 We make meager on Fridays always. My cook is a devout pious man. You, 
 of course, are of the right way of thinking. They say the Prince of 
 Orange is very ill indeed." 
 
 In this way the old dowager rattled on remorselessly to Mr. Esmond, 
 who was quite astounded with her present volubility, contrasting it with 
 her former haughty behaviour to him. But she had taken him into favor 
 for the moment, and chose not only to like him, as far as her nature 
 permitted, but to be afraid of him; and he found himself to be as 
 familiar with her now as a young man, as, when a boy, he had been 
 timorous and silent. She was as good as her word respecting him. She 
 introduced him to her company, of which she entertained a good deal — 
 of the adherents of King James of course — and a great deal of loud 
 intriguing took place over her card-tables. She presented Mr. Esmond as 
 her kinsman to many persons of honor; she supplied him not illiberally 
 with money, which he had no scruple in accepting from her, considering 
 
 163
 
 the relationship which he bore to her, and the sacrifices which he himself 
 was making in behalf of the family. But he had made up his mind to 
 continue at no woman's apron-strings longer; and perhaps had cast 
 about how he should distinguish himself, and make himself a name, 
 which his singular fortune had denied him. A discontent with his former 
 bookish life and quietude, a bitter feeling of revolt at that slavery in 
 which he had chosen to confine himself for the sake of those whose hard- 
 ness towards him made his heart bleed, a restless wish to see men and 
 the world, led him to think of the military profession: at any rate, to 
 desire to see a few campaigns, and accordingly he pressed his new 
 patroness to get him a pair of colors; and one day had the honor of 
 finding himself appointed an ensign in Colonel Quin's regiment of 
 Fusileers on the Irish establishment. 
 
 Mr. Esmond's commission was scarce three weeks old when that acci- 
 dent befell King William which ended the life of the greatest, the wisest, 
 the bravest, and most clement sovereign whom England ever knew. 'Twas 
 the fashion of the hostile party to assail this great prince's reputation 
 during his life; but the joy which they and all his enemies in Europe 
 showed at his death is a proof of the terror in which they held him. 
 Young as Esmond was, he was wise enough (and generous enough too, 
 let it be said) to scorn that indecency of gratulation which broke out 
 among the followers of King James in London, upon the death of this 
 illustrious prince, this invincible warrior, this wise and moderate states- 
 man. Loyalty to the exiled king's family was traditional, as has been 
 said, in that house to which Mr. Esmond belonged. His father's widow 
 had all her hopes, sympathies, recollections, prejudices, engaged on 
 King James's side; and was certainly as noisy a conspirator as ever 
 asserted the King's rights, or abused his opponent's, over a quadrille 
 table or a dish of bohea. Her ladyship's house swarmed with ecclesiastics, 
 in disguise and out ; while tale-bearers from St. Germains ; and quidnuncs 
 that knew the last news from Versailles: nay, the exact force and number 
 of the next expedition which the French King was to send from Dunkirk, 
 and which was to swallow up the Prince of Orange, his army and his 
 Court. She had received the Duke of Berwick when he landed here in '96. 
 She kept the glass he drank from, vowing she never would use it till she 
 drank King James the Third's health in it on His Majesty's return; she 
 had tokens from the Queen, and relics of the saint who, if the story was 
 true, had not always been a saint as far as she and many others were 
 concerned. She believed in the miracles wrought at his tomb, and had a 
 164
 
 hundred authentic stories of wondrous cures effected by the blessed 
 King's rosaries, the medals which he wore, the locks of his hair, or what 
 not. Esmond remembered a score of marvelous tales which the credulous 
 old woman told him. There was the bishop of Autun, that was healed 
 of a malady he had for forty years, and which left him after he said 
 mass for the repose of the King's soul. There was Monsieur Marais, a 
 surgeon in Auvergne, who had a palsy in both his legs, which was cured 
 through the King's intercession. There was Philip Pitet, of the Bene- 
 dictines, who had a suffocating cough, which well nigh killed him, but 
 he besought relief of Heaven through the merits and intercession of the 
 blessed King, and he straightway felt a profuse sweat breaking out all 
 over him, and was recovered perfectly. And there was the wife of 
 Monsieur Lepervier, dancing-master to the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, who was 
 entirely eased of a rheumatism by the King's intercession, of which 
 miracle there could be no doubt, for her surgeon and his apprentice had 
 given their testimony, under oath, that they did not in any way con- 
 tribute to the cure. Cf these tales, and a thousand like them, Mr. Esmond 
 believed as much as he chose. His kinswoman's greater faith had swallow 
 for them all. 
 
 The English High Church party did not adopt these legends. But truth 
 and honor, as they thought, bound them to the exiled King's side; nor 
 had the banished family any warmer supporter than that kind lady of 
 Castlewood in whose house Esmond was brought up. She influenced her 
 husband, very much more perhaps than my lord knew, who admired his 
 wife prodigiously though he might be inconstant to her, and who, adverse 
 to the trouble of thinking himself, gladly enough adopted the opinions 
 which she chose for him. To one of her simple and faithful heart, 
 allegiance to any sovereign but the one was impossible. To serve King 
 William for interest's sake would have been a monstrous hypocrisy and 
 treason. Her pure conscience could no more have consented to it than 
 to a theft, a forgery, or any other base action. Lord Castlewood might 
 have been won over, no doubt, but his wife never could: and he sub- 
 mitted his conscience to hers in this case as he did in most others, when 
 he was not tempted too sorely. And it was from his affection and gratitude 
 most likely, and from that eager devotion for his mistress which char- 
 acterized all Esmond's youth, that the young man subscribed to this, 
 and other articles of faith, which his fond benefactress sent him. Had 
 she been a Whig, he had been one; had she followed Mr. Fox, and 
 turned Quaker, no doubt he would have abjured ruffles and a periwig, 
 
 165
 
 and have forsworn swords, lace-coats, and clocked stockings. In the 
 scholars' boyish disputes at the University, where parties ran very high, 
 Esmond was noted as a Jacobite, and very likely from vanity as much 
 as affection took the side of his family. 
 
 Almost the whole of the clergy of the country and more than a half 
 of the nation were on this side. Ours is the most loyal people in the 
 world surely; we admire our kings, and are faithful to them long after 
 they have ceased to be true to us. 'Tis a wonder to anyone who looks 
 back at the history of the Stuart family to think how they kicked their 
 crowns away from them; how they flung away chances after chances; 
 what treasures of loyalty they dissipated, and how fatally they were bent 
 on consummating their own ruin. If ever man had fidelity, 'twas they; 
 if ever man squandered opportunity, 'twas they; and, of all the enemies 
 they had, they themselves were the most fatal. 
 
 When the Princess Anne succeeded, the wearied nation was glad 
 enough to cry a truce from all these wars, controversies, and conspiracies, 
 and to accept in the person of a princess of the blood-royal a compromise 
 between the parties into which the country was divided. The Tories could 
 serve under her with easy consciences ; though a Tory herself, she repre- 
 sented the triumph of the Whig opinion. The people of England, always 
 liking that their princes should be attached to their own families, were 
 pleased to think the Princess was faithful to hers; and up to the very 
 last day and hour of her reign, and but for that fatality which he in- 
 herited from his fathers along with their claims to the English crown, 
 King James the Third might have worn it. But he neither knew how 
 to wait an opportunity, nor to use it when he had it; he was venture- 
 some when he ought to have been cautious, and cautious when he ought 
 to have dared everything. 'Tis with a sort of rage at his inaptitude that 
 one thinks of his melancholy story. Do the Fates deaL more specially with 
 kings than with common men? One is apt to imagine so, in considering 
 the history of that royal race, in whose behalf so much fidelity, so much 
 valor, so much blood were desperately and bootlessly expended. 
 
 The King dead then, the Princess Anne (ugly Anne Hyde's daughter, 
 our Dowager at Chelsey called her) was proclaimed by trumpeting 
 heralds all over the town from Westminster to Ludgate Hill, amid im- 
 mense jubilations of the people. 
 
 Next week my Lord Marlborough was promoted to the Garter, and to 
 be Captain-General of Her Majesty's forces at home and abroad. This 
 appointment only inflamed the dowager's rage, or, as she thought it, her 
 1 66
 
 fidelity to her rightful sovereign. "The Princess is but a puppet in the 
 hands of that fury of a woman, who comes into my drawing-room and 
 insults me to my face. What can come to a country that is given over to 
 such a woman?" says the dowager. "As for that double-faced traitor, my 
 Lord Marlborough, he has betrayed every man and every woman with 
 whom he had to deal, except his horrid wife, who makes him tremble. 
 'Tis all over with the country when it has got into the clutches of such 
 wretches as these." 
 
 Esmond's old kinswoman saluted the new powers in this way; but 
 some good fortune at last occurred to a family which stood in great need 
 of it, by the advancement of these famous personages, who benefited 
 humbler people that had the luck of being in their favor. Before Mr. 
 Esmond left England in the month of August, and being then at Ports- 
 mouth, where he had joined his regiment, and was busy at drill, learning 
 the practice and mysteries of the musket and pike, he heard that a pension 
 on the Stamp Office had been got for his late beloved mistress, and that 
 the young Mistress Beatrix was also to be taken into Court. So much 
 good, at least, had come of the poor widow's visit to London, not re- 
 venge upon her husband's enemies, but reconcilement to old friends, who 
 pitied, and seemed inclined to serve her. As for the comrades in prison 
 and the late misfortune. Colonel Westbury was with the Captain-General 
 gone to Holland; Captain Macartney was now at Portsmouth, with his 
 regiment of Fusileers and the force under command of his Grace the 
 Duke of Ormond, bound for Spain it was said ; my Lord Warwick was 
 returned home; and Lord Mohun, so far from being punished for the 
 homicide which had brought so much grief and change into the Esmond 
 family, was gone in company of my Lord Macclesfield's splendid em- 
 bassy to the Elector of Hanover, carrying the Garter to His Highness, 
 and a complimentary letter from the Queen. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Recapitulations 
 
 From such fitful lights as could be cast upon his dark history by th<? 
 broken narrative of his poor patron, torn by remorse and struggling in 
 the last pangs of dissolution, Mr. Esmond had been made to understand 
 
 167
 
 so far that his mother was long since dead; and so there could be no 
 question as regarded her or her honor, tarnished by her husband's deser- 
 tion and injury, to influence her son in any steps which he might take 
 either for prosecuting or relinquishing his own just claims. It ap- 
 peared from my poor lord's hurried confession that he had been made 
 acquainted with the real facts of the case only two years since, when 
 Mr. Holt visited him, and would have implicated him in one of those 
 many conspiracies by which the secret leaders of King James's party 
 in this country were ever endeavoring to destroy the Prince of Orange's 
 life or power: conspiracies so like murder, so cowardly in the means 
 used, so wicked in the end, that our nation has sure done well in throw- 
 ing off all allegience and fidelity to the unhappy family that could not 
 vindicate its right except by such treachery — by such dark intrigue and 
 base agents. There were designs against King William that were no 
 more honorable than the ambushes of cut-throats and footpads. 'Tis 
 humiliating to think that a great prince, possessed of a great and sacred 
 right, and upholder of a great cause, should have stooped to such base- 
 ness of assassination and treasons as are proved by the unfortunate 
 King James's own warrant and sign-manual given to his supporters in 
 this country. What he and they called levying war was, in truth, no 
 better than instigating murder. The noble Prince of Orange burst mag- 
 nanimously through those feeble meshes of conspiracy in which his 
 enemies tried to envelop him: it seemed as if their cowardly daggers 
 broke upon the breast of his undaunted resolution. After King James's 
 death, the Queen and her people at St. Germains — priests and women 
 for the most part — continued their intrigues in behalf of the young 
 Prince, James the Third, as he was called in France and by his party 
 here (this prince, or Chevalier de St. George, was born in the same 
 year with Esmond's young pupil Frank, my lord viscount's son) ; and 
 the prince's affairs, being in the hands of priests and women, were 
 conducted as priests and women will conduct them — artfully, cruelly, 
 feebly, and to a certain bad issue. The moral of the Jesuits' story I think 
 as wholesome a one as ever was written: the artfullest, the wisest, the 
 most toilsome and dexterous plot-builders in the world — there always 
 comes a day when the roused public indignation kicks their flimsy 
 edifice down, and sends its cowardly enemies a-flying. Mr. Swift hath 
 finely described that passion for intrigue, that love of secrecy, slander, 
 and lying, which belongs to weak people, hangers-on of weak courts. 
 'Tis the nature of such to hate and envy the strong, and conspire their 
 1 68
 
 ruin; and the conspiracy succeeds very well, and everything presages 
 the satisfactory overthrow of the great victim; until one day Gulliver 
 rouses himself, shakes off the little vermin of an enemy, and walks 
 away unmolested. Ah ! the Irish soldiers might well say after the Boyne, 
 "Change kings with us, and we will fight it over again." Indeed, the 
 fight was not fair between the two. 'Twas a weak priest-ridden, woman- 
 ridden man, with such puny allies and weapons as his own poor nature 
 led him to choose, contending against the schemes, the generalship, 
 the wisdom, and the heart of a hero. 
 
 On one of these many coward's errands then (for, as I view them 
 now, I can call them no less), Mr. Holt had come to my lord at Castle- 
 wood, proposing some infallible plan for the Prince of Orange's de- 
 struction, in which my lord viscount, loyalist as he was, had indignantly 
 refused to join. As far as Mr. Esmond could gather from his dying 
 words. Holt came to my lord with a plan of insurrection, and ofi^er of 
 the renewal, in his person, of that marquis' title which King James 
 had conferred on the preceding viscount; and on refusal of this bribe, 
 a threat was made, on Holt's part, to upset my lord viscount's claim 
 to his estate and title of Castlewood altogether. To back this astounding 
 piece of intelligence, of which Henry Esmond's patron now had the 
 first hght, Holt came armed with the late lord's dying declaration, 
 after the affair of the Boyne, at Trim, in Ireland, made both to the 
 Irish priest and a French ecclesiastic of Holt's order, that was with 
 King James's army. Holt showed, or pretended to show, the marriage 
 certificate of the late Viscount Esmond with my mother, in the city of 
 Brussels, in the year 1677, when the Viscount, then Thomas Esmond, 
 was serving with the English army in Flanders: he could show, he said, 
 that this Gertrude, deserted by her husband long since, was alive, and 
 a professed nun in the year 1685, at Brussels, in which year Thomas 
 Esmond married his uncle's daughter Isabella, now called Viscountess 
 Dowager of Castlewood; and leaving him, for twelve hours, to con- 
 sider this astounding news (so the poor dying lord said), disappeared 
 with his papers in the mysterious way in which he came. Esmond knew 
 how, well enough: by that window from which he had seen the father 
 issue: — but there was no need to explain to my poor lord, only to 
 gather from his parting lips the words which he would soon be able to 
 utter no more. 
 
 Ere the twelve hours were over, Holt himself was a prisoner, im- 
 plicated in Sir John Fenwick's conspiracy, and locked up at Hexton 
 
 169
 
 first, when he was transferred to the Tower; leaving the poor lord 
 viscount, who was not aware of the other's being taken, in daily ap- 
 prehension of his return, when (as my Lord Castlewood declared, 
 calling God to witness, and with tears in his dying eyes) it had been 
 his intention at once to give up his estate and his title to their proper 
 owner, and to retire to his own house at Walcote with his family. 
 "And would to God I had done it," the poor lord said. "I would not 
 be here now, wounded to death, a miserable, stricken man !" 
 
 My lord waited day after day, and, as may be supposed, no mes- 
 senger came; but at a month's end Holt got means to convey to him a 
 message out of the Tower, which was to this effect: that he should 
 consider all unsaid that had been said, and that things were as they 
 were. 
 
 "I had a sore temptation," said my poor lord. "Since I had come into 
 this cursed title of Castlewood, which hath never prospered with me, 
 I have spent far more than the income of that estate, and my paternal 
 one too. I calculated all my means down to the last shilling, and found 
 I never could pay you back, my poor Harry, whose fortune I had had 
 for twelve years. My wife and children must have gone out of the 
 house dishonored, and beggars. God knows, it hath been a miserable 
 one for me and mine. Like a coward, I clung to that respite which 
 Holt gave me. I kept the truth from Rachel and you. I tried to win 
 money of Mohun, and only plunged deeper into debt; I scarce dared 
 look thee in the face when I saw thee. This sword hath been hanging 
 over my head these two years. I swear I felt happy when Mohun's 
 blade entered my side." 
 
 After lying ten months in the Tower, Holt, against whom nothing 
 could be found except that he was a Jesuit priest, known to be in King 
 James's interest, was put on shipboard by the incorrigible forgiveness 
 of King William, who promised him, however, a hanging if ever he 
 should again set foot on English shore. More than once, while he was 
 in prison himself, Esmond had thought where those papers could be 
 which the Jesuit had shown to his patron, and which had such an 
 interest for himself. They were not found on Mr. Holt's person when 
 that father was apprehended, for had such been the case my Lords of 
 the Council had seen them, and this family history had long since been 
 made public. However, Esmond cared not to seek the papers. His 
 resolution being taken; his poor mother dead; what matter to him 
 that documents existed proving his right to a title which he was deter- 
 
 170
 
 mined not to claim, and of which he vowed never to deprive that family 
 which he loved best in the world ? Perhaps he took a greater pride out 
 of his sacrifice than he would have had in those honors which he was 
 resolved to forego. Again, as long as these titles were not forthcoming, 
 Esmond's kinsman, dear young Francis, was the honorable and undis- 
 puted owner of the Castlewood estate and title. The mere word of a 
 Jesuit could not overset Frank's right of occupancy, and so Esmond's 
 mind felt actually at ease to think the papers were missing, and in 
 their absence his dear mistress and her son the lawful Lady and Lord 
 of Castlewood. 
 
 Very soon after his liberation, Mr. Esmond made it his business to 
 ride to that village of Ealing where he had passed his earliest years in 
 this country, and to see if his old guardians were still alive and in- 
 habitants of that place. But the only relic which he found of old M. 
 Pastoureau was a stone in the churchyard, which told that Athanasius 
 Pastoureau, a native of Flanders, lay there buried, aged eighty-seven 
 years. The old man's cottage, which Esmond perfectly recollected, and 
 the garden (where in his childhood he had passed many hours of play 
 and reverie, and had many a beating from his termagant of a foster- 
 mother) were now in the occupation of quite a different family; and 
 it was with difficulty that he could learn in the village what had come 
 of Pastoureau's widow and children. The clerk of the parish recollected 
 her — the old man was scarce altered in the fourteen years that had passed 
 since last Esmond set eyes on him. It appeared she had pretty soon 
 consoled herself after the death of her old husband, whom she ruled 
 over, by taking a new one younger than herself, who spent her money 
 and ill-treated her and her children. The girl died; one of the boys 
 'listed; the other had gone apprentice. Old Mr. Rogers, the clerk, said 
 he had heard that Mrs. Pastoureau was dead too. She and her husband 
 had left Ealing this seven year; and so Mr. Esmond's hopes of gaining 
 any information regarding his parentage from this family were brought 
 to an end. He gave the old clerk a crown-piece for his news, smiling 
 to think of the time when he and his little playfellows had slunk out 
 of the churchyard or hidden behind the gravestones at the approach 
 of this awful authority. 
 
 Who was his mother? What had her name been? When did she die? 
 Esmond longed to find some one who could answer these questions to 
 him, and thought even of putting them to his aunt the viscountess, who 
 had innocently taken the name which belonged of right to Henry's 
 
 171
 
 mother. But she knew nothing, or chose to know nothing, on this sub- 
 ject, nor, indeed, could Mr. Esmond press her much to speak on it. 
 Father Holt was the only man who could enlighten him, and Esmond 
 felt he must wait until some fresh chance or new intrigue might put 
 him face to face with his old friend, or bring that restless indefatigable 
 spirit back to England again. 
 
 The appointment to his ensigncy, and the preparations necessary for 
 the campaign, presently gave the young gentleman other matters to 
 think of. His new patroness treated him very kindly and liberally; she 
 promised to make interest and pay money, too, to get him a company 
 speedily; she bade him procure a handsome outfit, both of clothes and 
 of arms, and was pleased to admire him when he made his first appear- 
 ance in his laced scarlet coat, and to permit him to salute her on the 
 occasion of this interesting investiture. "Red," says she, tossing up her 
 old head, "hath always been the color worn by the Esmonds." And so 
 her ladyship wore it on her cheeks very faithfully to the last. She would 
 have him be dressed, she said, as became his father's son, and paid cheer- 
 fully for his five-pound beaver, his black buckled periwig, and his fine 
 holland shirts, and his swords, and his pistols mounted with silver. 
 Since the day he was born, poor Harry had never looked such a fine 
 gentleman: his liberal stepmother filled his purse with guineas too, 
 some of which Captain Steele and a few choice spirits helped Harry 
 to spend in an entertainment which Dick ordered (and, indeed, would 
 have paid for, but that he had no money when the reckoning was called 
 for; nor would the landlord give him any more credit) at the "Garter," 
 over against the gate of the Palace, in Pall Mall. 
 
 The old viscountess, indeed, if she had done Esmond any wrong 
 formerly, seemed inclined to repair it by the present kindness of her 
 behavior: she embraced him copiously at parting, wept plentifully, bade 
 him write by every packet, and gave him an inestimable relic, which 
 she begged him to wear round his neck — a medal, blessed by I know 
 not what Pope, and worn by his late sacred Majesty King James. So 
 Esmond arrived at his regiment with a better equipage than most young 
 officers could afford. He was older than most of his seniors, and had a 
 further advantage which belonged but to very few of the army gentle- 
 men in his day — many of whom could do little more than write their 
 names — that he had read much, both at home and at the University, 
 was master of two or three languages, and had that further education 
 which neither books nor years will give, but which some men get from 
 
 172
 
 the silent teaching of Adversity. She is a great schoolmistress, as many 
 i a poor fellow knows, that has held his hand out to her ferrule, and 
 
 whimpered over his lesson before her awful chair. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 I Go on the Vigo Bay Expedition 
 
 The first expedition in which Mr. Esmond had the honor to be engaged 
 rather resembled one of the invasions projected by the redoubted Cap- 
 tain Avory or Captain Kidd, than a war between crowned heads, car- 
 ried on by generals of rank and honor. On the ist day of July, 1702, 
 a great fleet, of a hundred and fifty sail, set sail from Spithead, under 
 the command of Admiral Shovell, having on board 12,000 troops, with 
 his Grace the Duke of Ormond as the Capt.-General of the expedition. 
 One of these 12,000 heroes having never been to sea before, or, at 
 least, only once in his infancy, when he made the voyage to England 
 from that unknown country where he was born — one of those 12,000 
 — the junior ensign of Colonel Quin's regiment of Fusileers — was in a 
 quite unheroic state of corporal prostration a few hours after sailing; 
 and an enemy, had he boarded the ship, would have had easy work of 
 him. From Portsmouth we put into Plymouth, and took in fresh rein- 
 forcements. We were off Finisterre on the 31st of July, so Esmond's 
 table-book informs him: and on the 8th of August made the rock of 
 Lisbon. By this time the ensign was grown as bold as an admiral, and 
 a week afterwards had the fortune to be under fire for the first time — 
 and under water too, — his boat being swamped in the surf in Toros 
 Bay, where the troops landed. The ducking of his new coat was all the 
 harm the young soldier got in this expedition, for, indeed, the Spaniards 
 made no stand before our troops, and were not in strength to do so. 
 
 But the campaign, if not very glorious, was very pleasant. New sights 
 of nature, by sea and land — a life of action, beginning now for the first 
 time — occupied and excited the young man. The many accidents and 
 the routine of shipboard — the military duty — the new acquaintances, 
 both of his comrades in arms and of the officers of the fleet — served 
 to cheer and occupy his mind, and waken it out of that selfish depression 
 into which his late unhappy fortunes had plunged him. He felt as if 
 
 173
 
 the ocean separated him from his past care, and welcomed the new era 
 of life which was dawning for him. Wounds heal rapidly in a heart of 
 two-and-twenty; hopes revive daily; and courage rallies in spite of a 
 man. Perhaps, as Esmond thought of his late despondency and melan- 
 choly, and how irremediable it had seemed to him, as he lay in his 
 prison a few months back, he was almost mortified in his secret mind 
 at finding himself so cheerful. 
 
 To see with one's own eyes men and countries is better than reading 
 all the books of travel in the world: and it was with extreme delight 
 and exultation that the young man found himself actually on his grand 
 tour, and in the view of people and cities which he had read about as 
 a boy. He beheld war for the first time — the pride, pomp, and circ-um- 
 stance of it, at least, if not much of the danger. He saw actually, and 
 with his own eyes, those Spanish cavaliers and ladies whom he had 
 beheld in imagination in that immortal story of Cervantes, which had 
 been the delight of his youthful leisure. 'Tis forty years since Mr. Es- 
 mond witnessed those scenes, but they remain as fresh in his memory 
 as on the day when first he saw them as a young man. A cloud, as of 
 grief, that had lowered over him, and had wrapped the last years of his 
 life in gloom, seemed to clear away from Esmond during this fortunate 
 voyage and campaign. His energies seemed to awaken and to expand 
 under a cheerful sense of freedom. Was his heart secretly glad to have 
 escaped from that fond but ignoble bondage at home? Was it that the 
 inferiority to which the idea of his base birth had compelled him, van- 
 ished with the knowledge of that secret, which though, perforce, kept 
 to himself, was yet enough to cheer and console him ? At any rate, young 
 Esmond of the army was quite a diflferent being to the sad little de- 
 pendent of the kind Castlewood household, and the melancholy student 
 of Trinity Walks; discontented with his fate, and with the vocation 
 into which that drove him, and thinking, with a secret indignation, 
 that the cassock and bands, and the very sacred office with which he 
 had once proposed to invest himself, were, in fact, but marks of a servi- 
 tude which was to continue all his life long. For, disguise it as he might 
 ^o himself, he had all along felt that to be Castlewood's chaplain was 
 to be Castlewood's inferior still, and that his life was but to be a long, 
 hopeless servitude. So, indeed, he was far from grudging his old friend 
 : Tom Tusher's good fortune (as Tom, no doubt, thought it). Had it 
 been a miter and Lambeth which his friends offered him, and not a 
 tjmall living and a country parsonage, he would have felt as much a 
 
 174
 
 slave in one case as in the other, and was quite happy and thankful to 
 be free. 
 
 The bravest man I ever knew in the army, and who had been present 
 in most of King William's actions, as well as in the campaigns of the 
 great Duke of Marlborough, could never be got to tell us of any achieve- 
 ment of his, except that once Prince Eugene ordered him up a tree to 
 reconnoiter the enemy, which feat he could not achieve on account of 
 the horseman's boots he wore; and on another day that he was very 
 nearly taken prisoner because of these packboots, which prevented him 
 from running away. The present narrator shall imitate this laudable 
 reserve, and does not intend to dwell upon his military exploits, which 
 were in truth not very different from those of a thousand other gentle- 
 men. This first campaign of Mr. Esmond's lasted but a few days; and 
 as a score of books have been written concerning it, it may be dismissed 
 very briefly here. 
 
 When our fleet came within view of Cadiz, our commander sent a 
 boat with a white flag and a couple of officers to the Governor of Cadiz, 
 Don Scipio de Brancaccio, with a letter from his Grace, in which he 
 hoped that as Don Scipio had formerly served with the Austrians 
 against the French, 'twas to be hoped that his Excellency would now 
 declare himself against the French King, and for the Austrian, in the 
 war between King Philip and King Charles. But his Excellency, Don 
 Scipio, prepared a reply, in which he announced that, having served 
 his former king with honor and fidelity, he hoped to exhibit the same 
 loyalty and devotion towards his present sovereign, King Philip V. ; and 
 by the time this letter was ready, the two officers had been taken to see 
 the town, and the Alameda, and the theater, where bull-fights are fought, 
 and the convents, where the admirable works of Don Bartholomew 
 Murillo inspired one of them with a great wonder and delight — such 
 as he had never felt before — concerning this divine art of painting; 
 and these sights over, and a handsome refection and chocolate being 
 served to the English gentlemen, they were accompanied back to their 
 shallop with every courtesy, and were the only two officers of the English 
 army that saw at that time that famous city. 
 
 The general tried the power of another proclamation on the Spaniards, 
 in which he announced that we only came in the interest of Spain and 
 King Charles, and for ourselves wanted to make no conquest nor settle- 
 ment in Spain at all. But all this eloquence was lost upon the Spaniards, 
 it would seem: the Captain-General of Andalusia would no more listen 
 
 i7>
 
 to us than the Governor of Cadiz; and in reply to his grace's proclama- 
 tion, the Marquis of Villadarias fired off another, which those who 
 knew the Spanish thought rather the best of the two ; and of this num- 
 ber was Harry Esmond, whose kind Jesuit in old days had instructed 
 him, and who now had the honor of translating for his grace these 
 harmless documents of war. There was a hard touch for his grace, and, 
 indeed, for other generals in Her Majesty's service, in the concluding 
 sentence of the Don: "That he and his council had the generous ex- 
 ample of their ancestors to follow, who had never yet sought their 
 elevation in the blood or in the flight of their kings. 'Mor/ pro patria,* 
 was his device, which the duke might communicate to the Princess who 
 governed England." 
 
 Whether the troops were angry at this repartee or no, 'tis certain 
 something put them in a fury; for, not being able to get possession of 
 Cadiz, our people seized upon Port St. Mary's and sacked it, burning 
 down the merchants' storehouses, getting drunk with the famous wines 
 there, pillaging and robbing quiet houses and convents, murdering and 
 doing worse. And the only blood which Mr. Esmond drew in this 
 shameful campaign, was the knocking down an English sentinel with 
 a half-pike, who was offering insult to a poor trembling nun. Is she 
 going to turn out a beauty? or a princess? or perhaps Esmond's mother 
 that he had lost and never seen? Alas no: it was but a poor wheezy old 
 dropsical woman, with a wart upon her nose. But having been early 
 taught a part of the Roman religion, he never had the horror of it that 
 some Protestants have shown, and seem to think to be a part of ours. 
 
 After the pillage and plunder of St. Mary's, and an assault upon a 
 fort or two, the troops all took shipping, and finished their expedition, 
 at any rate, more brilliantly than it had begun. Hearing that the French 
 fleet with a great treasure was in Vigo Bay, our Admirals, Rooke and 
 Hopson, pursued the enemy thither; the troops landed and carried the 
 forts that protected the bay, Hopson passing the boom first on board 
 his ship the Torbay, and the rest of the ships, English and Dutch, fol- 
 lowing him. Twenty ships were burned or taken in the port of Redon- 
 dilla, and a vast deal more plunder than was ever accounted for; for 
 poor men before that expedition were rich afterwards, and so often 
 was it found and remarked that the Vigo officers came home with pockets 
 full of money, that the notorious Jack Shafto, who made such a figure 
 at the coffee-houses and gaming-tables in London, and gave out that he 
 had been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when he was about to be hanged, 
 
 176
 
 that Bagshot Heath had been his Vigo, and that he only spoke of La 
 Redondilla to turn away people's eyes from the real place where the 
 booty lay. Indeed, Hounslow or Vigo — which matters much ? The latter 
 was a bad business, though Mr. Addison did sing its praises in Latin. 
 That honest gentleman's muse had an eye to the main chance; and I 
 doubt whether she saw much inspiration in the losing side. 
 
 But though Esmond, for his part, got no share of this fabulous booty, 
 one great prize which he had out of the campaign was, that excitement 
 of action and change of scene, which shook off a great deal of his previous 
 melancholy. He learned at any rate to bear his fate cheerfully. He brought 
 back a browned face, a heart resolute enough, and a little pleasant store 
 of knowledge and observation, from that expedition, which was over 
 with the autumn, when the troops were back in England again; and 
 Esmond giving up his post of secretary to General Lumley, whose com- 
 mand was over, and parting with that officer with many kind expressions 
 of good will on the general's side, had leave to go to London, to see if 
 he could push his fortunes, any way further, and found himself once 
 more in his dowager aunt's comfortable quarters at Chelsey, and in 
 greater favor than ever with the old lady. He propitiated her with a 
 present of a comb, a fan, and a black mantle, such as the ladies of Cadiz 
 wear, and which my lady viscountess pronounced became her style of 
 beauty mightily. And she was greatly edified at hearing of that story 
 of his rescue of the nun, and felt very little doubt but that her King 
 James's relic, which he had always dutifully worn in his desk, had kept 
 him out of danger, and averted the shot of the enemy. My lady made 
 feasts for him, introduced him to more company, and pushed his for- 
 tunes with such enthusiasm and success, that she got a promise of a 
 company for him through the Lady Marlborough's interest, who was 
 graciously pleased to accept of a diamond worth a couple of hundred 
 guineas, which Mr. Esmond was enabled to present to her ladyship 
 through his aunt's bounty, and who promised that she would take charge 
 of Esmond's fortune. He had the honor to make his appearance at the 
 Queen's drawing-room occasionally, and to frequent my Lord Marl- 
 borough's levees. The great man received the young one with very 
 especial favor, so Esmond's comrades said, and deigned to say that he 
 had received the best reports of Mr. Esmond, both for courage and 
 ability, whereon you may be sure the young gentleman made a profound 
 bow, and expressed himself eager to serve under the most distinguished 
 captain in the world. 
 
 177
 
 While his business was going on thus prosperously, Esmond had his 
 share of pleasure too, and made his appearance along with other young 
 gentlemen at the coffee-houses, the theaters, and the Mall. He longed 
 to hear of his dear mistress and her family: many a time, in the midst 
 of the gaieties and pleasures of the town, his heart fondly reverted to 
 them ; and often, as the young fellows of his society were making merry 
 at the tavern, and calling toasts (as the fashion of that day was) over 
 their wine, Esmond thought of persons — of two fair women, whom 
 he had been used to adore almost, and emptied his glass with a sigh. 
 
 By this time the elder viscountess had grown tired again of the 
 younger, and whenever she spoke of my lord's widow, 'twas in terms 
 by no means complimentary towards that poor lady: the younger woman 
 not needing her protection any longer, the elder abused her. Most of 
 the family quarrels that I have seen in life (saving always those arising 
 from money-disputes, when a division of twopence halfpenny will often 
 drive the dearest relatives into war and estrangement) spring out of 
 jealousy and envy. Jack and Tom, born of the same family and to the 
 same fortune, live very cordially together, not until Jack is ruined, when 
 Tom deserts him, but until Tom makes a sudden rise in prosperity, which 
 Jack can't forgive. Ten times to one 'tis the unprosperous man that is 
 angry, not the other who is in fault. 'Tis Mrs. Jack who can only afford 
 a chair, that sickens at Mrs. Tom's new coach-and-six, cries out against 
 her sister's airs, and sets her husband against his brother. 'Tis Jack who 
 sees his brother shaking hands with a lord (with whom Jack would like 
 to exchange snuff-boxes himself), that goes home and tells his wife 
 how poor Tom is spoiled, he fears, and no better than a sneak, parasite, 
 and beggar on horseback. I remember how furious the coffee-house wits 
 were with Dick Steele when he set up his coach and fine house at Blooms- 
 bury; they began to forgive him when the bailiffs were after him, and 
 abused Mr. Addison for selling Dick's country house. And yet Dick 
 in the spunging-house, or Dick in the Park, with his four mares and 
 plated harness, was exactly the same gentle, kindly, improvident, jovial 
 Dick Steele: and yet Mr. Addison was perfectly right in getting the 
 money which was his, and not giving up the amount of his just claim, 
 to be spent by Dick upon champagne and fiddlers, laced clothes, fine 
 furniture, and parasites, Jew and Christian, male and female, who clung 
 to him. As, according to the famous maxim of Monsieur de Rochefou- 
 cault, "in our friends' misfortune there's something secretly pleasant 
 to us"; so, on the other hand, their good fortune is disagreeable. If 'tis 
 
 178
 
 hard for a man to bear his own good luck, 'tis harder still for his friends 
 to bear it for him; and but few of them ordinarily can stand that trial: 
 whereas one of the "precious uses" of adversity is, that it is a great 
 reconciler; that it brings back averted kindness, disarms animosity, and 
 causes yesterday's enemy to fling his hatred aside, and hold out a hand 
 to the fallen friend of old days. There's pity and love, as well as envy, 
 in the same heart and towards the same person. The rivalry stops when 
 the competitor tumbles ; and, as I view it, we should look at these agree- 
 able and disagreeable qualities of our humanity humbly alike. They are 
 consequent and natural, and our kindness and meanness both manly. 
 
 So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of Esmond's two 
 kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty, when that had lost some- 
 what of its freshness, perhaps; and forgot most her grievances against 
 the other when the subject of them was no longer prosperous and en- 
 viable; or we may say more benevolently (but the sum comes to the same 
 figures, worked either way), that Isabella repented of her unkindness 
 towards Rachel, when Rachel was unhappy; and, bestirring herself in 
 behalf of the poor widow and her children, gave them shelter and 
 friendship. The ladies were quite good friends as long as the weaker 
 one needed a protector. Before Esmond went away on his first cam- 
 paign, his mistress was still on terms of friendship (though a poor little 
 chit, a woman that had evidently no spirit in her, etc.) with the elder 
 Lady Castlewood ; and Mistress Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty. 
 
 But between the first year of Queen Anne's reign and the second, 
 sad changes for the worse had taken place in the two younger ladies, 
 at least in the elder's description of them. Rachel, Viscountess Castle- 
 wood, had no more face than a dumpling, and Mrs. Beatrix was grown 
 quite coarse, and was losing all her beauty. Little Lord Blandford — (she 
 never would call him Lord Blandford ; his father was Lord Churchill — 
 the King, whom he betrayed, had made him Lord Churchill, and he was 
 Lord Churchill still) — might be making eyes at her; but his mother, 
 that vixen of a Sarah Jennings, would never hear of such a folly. Lady 
 Marlborough had got her to be a maid of honor at Court to the Princess, 
 but she would repent of it. The widow Francis (she was but Mrs. Francis 
 Esmond) was a scheming, artful, heartless hussy. She was spoiling her 
 brat of a boy, and she would end by marrying her chaplain. 
 
 "What, Tusher!" cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange pang of rage 
 and astonishment. 
 
 "Yes — Tusher, my maid's son; and who has got all the qualities of 
 
 179
 
 his father the lackey in black, and his accomplished mamma the waiting- 
 woman," cries my lady. "What do you suppose that a sentimental widow, 
 who will live down in that dingy dungeon of a Castlewood, where she 
 spoils her boy, kills the poor with her drugs, has prayers twice a day, 
 and sees nobody but the chaplain — what do you suppose she can do, 
 mon cousin, but let the horrid parson, with his great square toes and 
 hideous little green eyes, make love to her? Cela c'est vu, mon cousin. 
 When I was a girl in Castlewood, all the chaplains fell in love with me 
 — they've nothing else to do." 
 
 My lady went on with more talk of this kind, though, in truth, Es- 
 mond had no idea of what she said further, so entirely did her first 
 words occupy his thought. Were they true? Not all, nor half, nor a 
 tenth part of what the garrulous old woman said, was true. Could this 
 be so? No ear had Esmond for anything else, though his patroness 
 chatted on for an hour. 
 
 Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond had made 
 acquaintance, had promised to present him to that most charming 
 of actresses, and lively and agreeable of women, Mrs. Bracegirdle, about 
 whom Harry's old adversary Mohun had drawn swords, a few years 
 before my poor lord and he fell out. The famous Mr. Congreve had 
 stamped with his high approval, to the which there was no gainsayirig, 
 this delightful person: and she was acting in Dick Steele's comedies, 
 and finally, and for twenty-four hours after beholding her, Mr. Esmond 
 felt himself, or thought himself, to be as violently enamoured of this 
 lovely brunette, as were a thousand other young fellows about the city. 
 To have once seen her was to long to behold her again ; and to be offered 
 the delightful privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very 
 idea of which set the young lieutenant's heart on fire. A man cannot live 
 with comrades under the tents without finding out that he too is five- 
 and-twenty. A young fellow cannot be cast down by grief and mis- 
 fortune ever so severe but some night he begins to sleep sound, and 
 some day when dinner-time comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak. Time, 
 youth and good health, new scenes and the excitement of action and a 
 campaign, had pretty well brought Esmond's mourning to an end; and 
 his comrades said that Don Dismal, as they called him, was Don 
 Dismal no more. So when a party was made to dine at the "Rose," and 
 go to the playhouse afterward, Esmond was as pleased as another to 
 take his share of the bottle and the play. 
 
 How was it that tlie old aunt's news, or it might be scandal, about 
 180
 
 Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and sudden excitement in Tom's 
 old playfellow? Hadn't he sworn a thousand times in his own mind 
 that the Lady of Castlewood, who had treated him with such kindness 
 once, and then had left him so cruelly, was, and was to remain hence- 
 forth, indifferent to him for ever? Had his pride and his sense of justice 
 not long since helped him to cure the pain of that desertion — was it 
 even a pain to him now? Why, but last night as he walked across the 
 fields and meadows to Chelsey from Pall Mall, had he not composed 
 two or three stanzas of a song, celebrating Bracegirdle's brown eyes, 
 and declaring them a thousand times more beautiful than the brightest 
 blue ones that ever languished under the lashes of an insipid fair beauty! 
 But Tom Tusher! Tom Tusher, the waiting-woman's son, raising up 
 his little eyes to his mistress ! Tom Tusher presuming to think of Castle- 
 wood's widow! Rage and contempt filled Mr. Harry's heart at the very 
 notion ; the honor of the family, of which he was the chief, made it his 
 duty to prevent so monstrous an alliance, and to chastise the upstart 
 who could dare to think of such an insult to their house. 'Tis true Mr. 
 Esmond often boasted of republican principles, and could remember 
 many fine speeches he had made at college and elsewhere, with tvorth 
 and not b'nth for a text: but Tom Tusher to take the place of the noble 
 Castlewood— faugh ! 'twas as monstrous as King Hamlet's widow taking 
 off her weeds for Claudius. Esmond laughed at all widows, all wives, 
 all women ; and were the banns about to be published, as no doubt they 
 were, that very next Sunday at Walcote Church, Esmond swore that he 
 would be present to shout No! in the face of the congregation, and to 
 take a private revenge upon the ears of the bridegroom. t 
 
 Instead of going to dinner then at the "Rose" that night, Mr. Esmond 
 bade his servant pack a portmanteau and get horses, and was at Farnham, 
 half-way on the road to Walcote, thirty miles off, before his comrades 
 had got to their supper after the p'ay. He bade his man give no hint to 
 my lady dowager's household of the expedition on which he was going: 
 and as Chelsey was distant from London, the roads bad, and infested 
 by footpads, and Esmond often in the habit, when engaged in a party 
 of pleasure, of lying at a friend's lodging in town, there was no need 
 that his old aunt should be disturbed at his, absence — indeed, nothing 
 more delighted the old lady than to fancy that mon Cousin, the incorri- 
 gible young sinner, was abroad boxing the watch, or scouring St. Giles'. 
 When she was not at her bocks of devotion, she thought Etheridge and 
 Sedley very good reading. She had a hundred pretty stories about Ro- 
 
 i8i
 
 Chester, Harry Jermyn, and Hamilton; and if Esmond would but have 
 run away with the wife even of a citizen, 'tis my behef she would have 
 pawned her diamonds (the best of them went to our Lady of Chaillot) 
 to pay his damages. 
 
 My Lord's httle house of Walcote — which he inhabited before he 
 took his title and occupied the house of Castlewood — lies about a mile 
 from Winchester, and his widow had returned to Walcote after my 
 lord's death as a place always dear to her, and where her earliest and 
 happiest days had been spent, more cheerful than Castlewood, which 
 was too large for her straitened means, and giving her, too, the protec- 
 tion of the ex-dean her father. The young viscount had a year's school- 
 ing at the famous college there, with Mr. Tusher as his governor. So 
 much news of them Mr. Esmond had had during the past year from the 
 old viscountess, his own father's widow; from the young one there had 
 never been a word. 
 
 Twice or thrice in his benefactor's lifetime, Esmond had been to Wal- 
 cote; and now, taking but a couple of hours' rest only at the inn on the 
 road, he was up again long before daybreak, and made such good speed 
 that he was at Walcote by two o'clock of the day. He rode to the end of 
 the village, where he alighted and sent a man then to Mr. Tusher, with 
 a message that a gentleman from London would speak with him on 
 urgent business. The messenger came back to say the doctor was in town, 
 most likely at prayers in the cathedral. My lady viscountess was there too; 
 she always went to cathedral prayers every day. 
 
 The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester. Esmond mounted 
 again and rode on to the "George" ; when he walked, leaving his grum- 
 bling domestic at last happy with a dinner, straight to the cathedral. 
 The organ was playing: the winter's day was already growing gray: as 
 he passed under the street-arch into the cathedral yard, and made his 
 way into the ancient solemn edifice. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The 2gth December 
 
 There was scarce a score of persons in the cathedral beside the dean 
 and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old that performed 
 the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants, 
 182
 
 and read from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great black 
 periwig: and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, sat Esmond's 
 dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed a 
 noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling 
 brown hair, that fell over his point de Venise — a pretty picture such as 
 Vandyke might have painted. Monsieur Rigaud's portrait of my lord 
 viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of his 
 manly, frank, English face. When he looked up there were two sap- 
 phire beams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color 
 to match, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing that 
 particular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, he 
 kept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long, 
 was asleep. 
 
 But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his 
 eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing 
 with no small tenderness and melancholy upon tv/o persons who had 
 so much of his heart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start, 
 pulled at his mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her 
 book), and said, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on 
 the other side of the church, and the old dean on his throned stall. Lady 
 Castlewood looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a 
 warning finger to Frank ; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart 
 throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the 
 prayers were speedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his 
 mistress, very likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and 
 who never lifted her head again until the service was over, the blessing 
 given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner 
 chapel. 
 
 Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy 
 was fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. 
 "My dear, dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you 
 been to the wars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why 
 didn't you write to us? Come to mother!" 
 
 Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy!" 
 for his heart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad's 
 part: and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he v/as fearful 
 about that other interview which was now to take place: for he knew 
 not if the widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago. 
 
 183
 
 "It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry," Lady Esmond said. 
 "I thought you might come," 
 
 "We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come 
 from Portsmouth?" Frank asked, or my lord viscount, as he now must 
 be called. 
 
 Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his 
 eyes so that he might see his dear friends again once more ; but believing 
 that his mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, and 
 remained at a distance. 
 
 "You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here," he said. 
 
 She gave him her hand, her little fair hand ; there was only her mar- 
 riage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrange- 
 ment was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had 
 never been out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the 
 prison; nor in the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea 
 under the stars of solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious 
 rising of the dawn: not even at the table, where he sat carousing with 
 friends, or at the theater yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes 
 were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more 
 beautiful, but none so dear — no voice so sweet as that of his beloved 
 mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth 
 — goddess now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses ; and by thought, 
 by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she; 
 but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been 
 adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes 
 one little hand the dearest of all? Whoever can unriddle that mystery? 
 Here she was, her son by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping 
 and happy. She took his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a 
 rapture of reconciliation. 
 
 "Here comes Squaretoes," says Frank. "Here's Tusher." 
 
 Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels. Mr. Tom 
 had divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came forward habited 
 in his cassock and great black periwig. How had Esmond ever been for 
 a moment jealous of this fellow? 
 
 "Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher," he said. The chaplain made him a 
 very low and stately bow. "I am charmed to see Captain Esmond," says 
 he. "My lord and I have read the Reddas incolumem precor, and applied 
 it, I am sure, to you. You come back with Gaditanian laurels: when I 
 heard you were bound there, I wished, I am sure, I was another Septimius. 
 
 184
 
 My lord viscount, your lordship remembers Septimi, Gades adilure 
 mecum ?" 
 
 "There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, Tusher," 
 says Mr. Esmond. " 'Tis that one where your reverence has a parsonage, 
 and where our youth was brought up." 
 
 "A house that has so many sacred recollections to me," says Mr. 
 Tusher (and Harry remembered how Tom's father used to flog him 
 there) — "a house near to that of my respected patron, my most honored 
 patroness, must ever be a dear abode to me. But, madam, the verger 
 waits to close the gates on your ladyship." 
 
 "And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my 
 lord. "Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. 
 Beatrix is a maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!" 
 
 "Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow said, in 
 her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed 
 they had never been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder.) 
 "I always thought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity 
 to shut you out from the world. You would but have pined and chafed 
 at Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. 
 I often said so to my dear lord. How he loved you ! 'Twas my lord that 
 made you stay with us." 
 
 "I ask no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you 
 will know where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and 
 eager desires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not 
 to be thought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that 
 you should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a 
 little boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was 
 always wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce 
 can keep him in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he 
 longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord 
 Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. 
 You know how kind they were in my misfortune. And so was your — 
 your father's widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief 
 comes to try us. 'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that 
 Beatrix has her place at Court; and Frank is under my Lord Chamber- 
 lain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to pro- 
 vide for you — has she not?" 
 
 Esmond said, "Yes. As far as present favor ,went, Lady Castlewood 
 
 185
 
 was very good to him. And should her mind change," he added gaily, 
 "as ladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and 
 make my way somehow. Not by the sword, very likely. Thousands have 
 a better genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a 
 young man of good parts and education can get on in the world ; and 
 I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion!" Indeed, he had 
 found patrons already in the army, and amongst persons very able to 
 serve him too; and told his mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. 
 They walked as though they had never been parted, slowly, with the 
 gray twilight closing round them. 
 
 "And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, "I knew 
 you would come, Harry, if — if it was but to forgive me for having 
 spoken unjustly to you after that horrid — horrid misfortune. I was half 
 frantic with grief then when I saw you. And I know now — they have 
 told me. That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: 
 how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, 
 my poor child: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and 
 that my dear lord should fall." 
 
 "He gave me his blessing on his deathbed," Esmond said. "Thank 
 God for that legacy!" 
 
 "Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing his arm. "I knew 
 it. Mr, Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. 
 And I thanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it." 
 
 "You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner," 
 Mr. Esmond said. 
 
 "I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility, 
 as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. 
 "I know how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my 
 dear. I confessed to Mr. Atterbury — I must not tell any more. He — I 
 said I would not write to you or go to you — and it was better even that, 
 having parted, we should part. But I knew you would come back — I 
 own that. That is no one's fault. And today, Henry, in the anthem, 
 when they sang it, 'When the lord turned the captivity of Zion, we 
 were like them that dream,' I thought, yes, like them that dream — 
 them that dream. And then it went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap 
 in joy: and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again 
 with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him'; I looked up from the 
 book, and saw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you 
 would come, my dear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head." 
 
 1 86
 
 She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon 
 was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for 
 the first time now clearly, her sweet careworn face. 
 
 "Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th of 
 December — it is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it — no, 
 no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brain 
 was in a fever ; and we had no wine. But now — now you are come again, 
 bringing your sheaves with you, my dear." She burst into a wild flood 
 of weeping as she spoke ; she laughed and sobbed on the young man's 
 heart, crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves with you — your sheaves 
 with you!" 
 
 As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into 
 the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder 
 at that endless brightness and beauty — in some such a way now, the 
 depth of this pure devotion (which was, for the first time, revealed to 
 him) quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. 
 Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a 
 love should be poured out upon him? Not in vain — not in vain has he 
 lived — hard and thankless should he be to think so — that has such a 
 treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but selfish 
 vanity? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a year hence, 
 when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden away 
 under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin? But 
 only true love lives after you — follows your memory with secret blessing 
 — or precedes you, and intercedes for you. Non omnis mortar — if dying, 
 I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lost and hopeless living, if 
 a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me. 
 
 "If — if 'tis so, dear lady," Mr. Esmond said, "why should I ever 
 leave you ? If God has given me this great boon — and near or far from 
 me, as I know now, the heart of my dearest mistress follows me, let 
 me have that blessing near me, nor ever part with it till death separate 
 us. Come away — leave this Europe, this place which has so many sad 
 recollections for you. Begin a new life in a new world. My good lord 
 often talked of visiting that land in Virginia which King Charles gave 
 us — gave his ancestor. Frank will give us that. No man there will ask 
 if there is a blot on my name, or inquire in the woods what my title is." 
 
 "And my children — and my duty — and my good father, Henry?" 
 she broke out. "He has none but me now! for soon my sister will leave 
 him, and the old man will be alone. He has conformed since the new 
 
 187
 
 Queen's reign ; and here in Winchester, where they love him, they have 
 found a church for him. When the children leave me, I will stay with 
 him. I cannot follow them into the great world, where their way lies 
 — it scares me. They will come and visit me; and you will, sometimes, 
 Henry — yes, sometimes, as now, in the Holy Advent season, when I 
 have seen and blessed you once more." 
 
 "I would leave all to follow you," said Mr. Esmond; "and can you 
 not be as generous for me, dear lady?" 
 
 "Hush, boy!" she said, and it was with a mother's sweet plaintive 
 tone and loo!: that she spoke. "The world is beginning for you. For me 
 I have been so weak and sinful that I must leave it, and pray out an 
 expiation, dear Henry. Had we houses of religion as there were once, 
 and many divines of our Church would have them again, I often think 
 I would retire to one and pass my life in penance. But I would love you 
 still — yes, there is no sin in such a love as mine now ; and my dear lord 
 in heaven may see my heart ; and knows the tears that have washed my 
 sin away — and now — now my duty is here, by my children, whilst they 
 need me, and by my poor old father, and " 
 
 "And not by me.''" Henry said. 
 
 "Hush!" she said again, and raised her hand up to his lip. "I have 
 been your nurse. You could not see me, Harry, when you were in the 
 smallpox, and I came and sat by you. Ah ! I prayed that I might die, but 
 it would have been in sin, Henry. Oh, it is horrid to look back to that 
 time! It is over now and past, and it has been forgiven me. When you 
 need me again, I will come ever so far. When your heart is wounded, then 
 come to me, my dear. Be silent ! let me say all. You never loved me, dear 
 Henry — no, you do not now, and I thank heaven for it. I used to watch 
 you, and knew by a thousand signs that it was so. Do you remember how 
 glad you were to go away to college? 'Twas I sent you. I told my papa 
 that, and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London. And they 
 both gave me absolution — both — and they are godly men, having 
 authority to bind and to loose. And they forgave me, as my dear lord 
 forgave me before he went to heaven." 
 
 "I think the angels are not all in heaven," Mr. Esmond said. And as 
 a brother folds a sister to his heart; and as a mother cleaves to her son's 
 breast — so for a few moments Esmond's beloved mistress came to him 
 and blessed him. 
 
 i88
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 / Am Made Welcome at Walcote 
 
 As THEY came up to the house at "Walcote, the windows from within 
 were lighted up with friendly welcome; the supper table was spread 
 in the oak-parlor; it seemed as if forgiveness and love were awaiting 
 the returning prodigal. Two or three familiar faces of domestics were 
 on the lookout at the porch — the old housekeeper was there, and young 
 Lockwood from Castlewood in my lord's livery of tawny and blue. His 
 dear mistress pressed his arm as they passed into the hall. Her eyes 
 beamed out on him with affection indescribable. "Welcome!" was all 
 she said, as she looked up, putting back her fair curls and black hood. 
 A sweet rosy smile blushed on her face; Harry thought he had never 
 seen her look so charming. Her face was lighted with a joy that was 
 brighter than beauty — she took a hand of her son who was in the hall 
 waiting his mother — she did not quit Esmond's arm. 
 
 "Welcome, Harry!" my young lord echoed after her. "Here, we are 
 all come to say so. Here's old Pincot, hasn't she grown handsome?" and 
 Pincot, who was older, and no handsomer than usual, made a curtsey to 
 the captain, as she called Esmond, and told my lord to "Have done, 
 now!" 
 
 "And here's Jack Lockwood. He'll make a famous grenadier. Jack; 
 and so shall I ; we'll both 'list under you, cousin. As soon as I am seven- 
 teen, I go to the army — every gentleman goes to the army. Look! who 
 comes here — ho, ho!" he burst into a laugh. " 'Tis Mistress Trix, with 
 a new ribbon; I knew she would put one on as soon as she heard a 
 captain was coming to supper." 
 
 This laughing colloquy took place in the hall of Walcote House: in 
 the midst of which is a staircase that leads from an open gallery, where 
 are the doors of the sleeping chambers: and from one of these, a wax 
 candle in her hand, and illuminating her, came Mistress Beatrix — the 
 light falling indeed upon the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon 
 the most brilliant white neck in the world. 
 
 Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown beyond the com- 
 mon height; and arrived at such a dazzling completeness of beauty, that 
 his eyes might well show surprise and delight at beholding her. In hers 
 there was a brightness so lustrous and melting, that I have seen a whole 
 
 189
 
 assembly follow her as if by an attraction irresistible: and that night 
 the great duke was at the playhouse after Ramillies, every soul turned 
 and looked (she chanced to enter at the opposite side of the theater at 
 the same moment) at her, and not at him. She was a brown beauty: 
 that is, her eyes, hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes were dark: her hair 
 curling with rich undulations, and waving over her shoulders; but her 
 complexion was as dazzling white as snow in sunshine: except her cheeks, 
 which were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper crim- 
 son. Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and full, and so they 
 might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes were 
 fire, whose look was love, whose voice was the sweetest low song, whose 
 shape was perfect symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot as it 
 planted itself on the ground was firm but flexible, and whose motion, 
 whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace — agile as a nymph, 
 lofty as a queen — now melting, now imperious, now sarcastic — there 
 was no single movement of hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of her, 
 he who writes feels young again, and remembers a paragon. 
 
 So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, and her 
 taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet Esmond. 
 
 "She has put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes," says my lord, 
 still laughing. "Oh, my fine mistress! Is this the way you set your cap 
 at the captain?" She approached, shining smiles upon Esmond, who 
 could look at nothing but her eyes. She advanced holding forward her 
 head, as if she would have him kiss her as he used to do when she was 
 a child. 
 
 "Stop," she said, "I am grown too big! Welcome, cousin Harry!" 
 and she made him an arch curtsey, sweeping down to the ground almost, 
 with the most gracious bend, looking up the while with the brightest 
 eyes and sweetest smile. Love seemed to radiate from her. Harry eyed 
 her with such a rapture as the first lover is described as having by Milton. 
 
 "N'est-ce pas.-*" says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still hanging on 
 his arm. 
 
 Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he met his mistress' 
 clear eyes. He had forgotten her, rapt in admiration of the fiHa pulcrior. 
 
 "Right foot forward, toe turned out, so; now drop the curtsey, and 
 show the red stockings, Trix. They've silver clocks, Harry. The dowager 
 sent 'em. She went to put 'em on," cries my lord. 
 
 "Hush, you stupid child!" says Miss, smothering her brother with 
 kisses; and then she must come and kiss her mamma, looking all the 
 
 190
 
 while at Harry, over his mistress' shoulder. And if she did not kiss him, 
 she gave him both her hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and 
 said, "Oh, Harry, we're so, so glad you're come!" 
 
 "There are woodcocks for supper," says my lord. "Huzzay! It was 
 such a hungry sermon." 
 
 "And it is the 29th of December; and our Harry has come home." 
 
 "Huzzay, old Pincot!" again says my lord; and my dear lady's lips 
 looked as if they were trembling with a prayer. She would have Harry 
 lead in Beatrix to the supper room, going herself with my young lord 
 viscount: and to this party came Tom Tusher directly, whom four at 
 least out of the company of five wished away. Away he went, however, 
 as soon as the sweetmeats were put down, and then, by the great crackling 
 fire, his mistress or Beatrix, with her blushing graces filling his glass 
 for him, Harry told the story of his campaign, and passed the most de- 
 lightful night his life had ever known. The sun was up long ere he 
 was, so deep, sweet, and refreshing was his slumber. He woke as if angels 
 had been watching at his bed all night. I dare say one that was as pure 
 and loving as an angel had blessed his sleep with her prayers. 
 
 Next morning the chaplain read prayers to the little household at 
 Walcote, as the custom was; Esmond thought Mistress Beatrix did not 
 listen to Tusher's exhortation much: her eyes were wandering every- 
 where during the service, at least whenever he looked up he met them. 
 Perhaps he also was not very attentive to his reverence the chaplain. "This 
 might have been my life," he was thinking; "this might have been my 
 duty from now till old age. Well, were it not a pleasant one to be with 
 these dear friends and part from 'em no more? Until — until the destined 
 lover comes and takes away pretty Beatrix" — and the best part of Tom 
 Tusher's exposition, which may have been very learned and eloquent, 
 was quite lost to poor Harry by this vision of the destined lover, who 
 put the preacher out. 
 
 All the while of the prayers, Beatrix knelt a little way before Harry 
 Esmond. The red stockings were changed for a pair of gray, and black 
 shoes, in which her feet looked to the full as pretty. All the roses of 
 spring could not vie with the brightness of her complexion; Esmond 
 thought he had never seen anything like the sunny luster of her eyes. 
 My lady viscountess looked fatigued, as if with watching, and her face 
 was pale. 
 
 Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her mother and 
 
 191
 
 deplored them. "I am an old woman," says my lady, with a kind smile; 
 "I cannot hope to look as young as you do, my dear." 
 
 "She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's a hundred," 
 says my lord, taking his mother by the waist, and kissing her hand. 
 
 "Do I look very wicked, cousin.''" says Beatrix, turning full round 
 on Esmond, with her pretty face so close under his chin, that the soft 
 perfumed hair touched it. She laid her finger tips on his sleeve as she 
 spoke ; and he put his other hand over hers. 
 
 "I'm like your looking-glass," says he, "and that can't flatter you." 
 
 "He means that you are always looking at him, my dear," says her 
 mother archly. Beatrix ran away from Esmond at this, and flew to her 
 mamma, whom she kissed, stopping my lady's mouth with her pretty 
 hand. 
 
 "And Harry is very good to look at," says my lady, with her fond 
 eyes regarding the young man. 
 
 "If 'tis good to see a happy face," says he, "you see that." My lady 
 said, "Amen," with a sigh; and Harry thought the memory of her dear 
 lord rose up and rebuked her back again into sadness; for her face lost 
 the smile, and resumed its look of melancholy, 
 
 "Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver, and our 
 black periwig!" cries my lord. "Mother, I am tired of my own hair. 
 When shall I have a peruke .-^ Where did you get your steenkirk, Harry?" 
 
 "It's some of my lady dovi^ager's lace," says Harry; "she gave me this 
 and a number of other fine things." 
 
 "My lady dowager isn't such a bad woman," my lord continued. 
 
 "She's not so — so red as she's painted," says Miss Beatrix. 
 
 Her brother broke into a laugh. "I'll tell her you said so; by the Lord, 
 Trix, I will!" he cries out. 
 
 "She'll know that you hadn't the wit to say it, my lord," says Miss 
 Beatrix. 
 
 "We won't quarrel the first day Harry's here, will we, mother?" said 
 the young lord. "We'll see if we can get on to the new year without a 
 fight. Have some of this Christmas pie. And here comes the tankard; 
 no, it's Pincot with the tea." 
 
 "Will the captain choose a dish?" asked Mistress Beatrix. 
 
 "I say, Harry," my lord goes on, "I'll show thee my horses after 
 breakfast; and we'll go a bird-netting tonight, and on Monday there's 
 a cock-match at Winchester — do you love cock-fighting, Harry? — be- 
 tween the gentlemen of Sussex and the gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten 
 
 192
 
 pound the battle, and fifty pound the odd battle to show one-and-twenty 
 cocks." 
 
 "And what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman?" asks my 
 lady. 
 
 "I'll listen to him," says Beatrix. "I am sure he has a hundred things 
 to tell us. And I'm jealous already of the Spanish ladies. Was that a 
 beautiful nun at Cadiz that you rescued from the soldiers? Your man 
 talked of it last night in the kitchen, and Mrs. Betty told me this morn- 
 ing as she combed my hair. And he says you must be in love, for you 
 sat on deck all night, and scribbled verses all day in your table-book." 
 Harry thought if he had wanted a subject for verses yesterday, today he 
 had found one: and not all the Lindamiras and Ardelias of the poets 
 were half so beautiful as this young creature; but he did not say so, 
 though some one did for him. 
 
 This was his dear lady, who, after the meal was over, and the young 
 people were gone, began talking of her children with Mr. Esmond, 
 and of the characters of one and the other, and of her hopes and fears 
 for both of them. " 'Tis not while they are at home," she said, "and in 
 their mother's nest, I fear for them — 'tis when they are gone into the 
 world, where I shall not be able to follow them. Beatrix will begin her 
 service next year. You may have heard a rumor about — about my Lord 
 Blandford.They were both children; and it is but idle talk. I know my 
 kinswoman would never let him make such a poor marriage as our 
 Beatrix would be. There's scarce a princess in Europe that she thinks is 
 good enough for him or for her ambition." 
 
 "There's not a princess in Europe to compare with her," says Esmond. 
 
 "In beauty? No, perhaps not," answered my lady. "She is most beau- 
 tiful, isn't she? 'Tis not a mother's partiality that deceives me. I marked 
 you yesterday when she came down the stair: and read it in your face. 
 We look when you don't fancy us looking, and see better than you 
 think, dear Harry; and just now when they spoke about your poems — 
 you writ pretty lines when you were but a boy — you thought Beatrix was 
 a pretty subject for verse, did not you, Harry?" (The gentleman could 
 only blush for a reply.) "And so she is — nor are you the first her pretty 
 face has captivated. 'Tis quickly done. Such a pair of bright eyes as hers 
 learn their power very soon, and use it very early." And, looking at him 
 keenly with hers, the fair widow left him. 
 
 And so it is — a pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances suffice to 
 subdue a man; to enslave him, and inflame him; to make him even 
 
 193
 
 forget; they dazzle him so that the past becomes straightway dim to 
 him; and he so prizes them that he would give all his life to possess 
 'em. What is the fond love of dearest friends compared to this treasure? 
 Is memory as strong as expectancy? fruition, as hunger? gratitude, as 
 desire? I have looked at royal diamonds in the jewel rooms in Europe, 
 and thought how wars have been made about 'em; Mogul sovereigns 
 deposed and strangled for them, or ransomed with them; millions ex- 
 pended to buy them; and daring lives lost in digging out the little shin- 
 ing toys that I value no more than the button in my hat. And so there 
 are other glittering baubles (of rare water too) for which men have 
 been set to kill and quarrel ever since mankind began; and which last 
 but for a score of years, when their sparkle is over. Where are those 
 jewels now that beamed under Cleopatra's forehead, or shone in the 
 sockets of Helen ? 
 
 The second day after Esmond's coming to Walcote, Tom Tusher had 
 leave to take a holiday, and went off in his very best gown and bands 
 to court the young woman whom his reverence desired to marry, and 
 who was not a viscount's widow, as it turned out, but a brewer's relict 
 at Southampton, with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune: for 
 honest Tom's heart was under such excellent control, that Venus herself 
 without a portion would never have caused it to flutter. So he rode away 
 on his heavy-paced gelding to pursue his jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond 
 to the society of his dear mistress and her daughter, and with his young 
 lord for a companion, who was charmed, not only to see an old friend, 
 but to have the tutor and his Latin books put out of the way. 
 
 The boy talked of things and people, and not a little about himself, 
 in his frank artless way. 'Twas easy to see that he and his sister had the 
 better of their fond mother, for the first place in whose affections, though 
 they fought constantly, and though the kind lady persisted that she 
 loved both equally, 'twas not difficult to understand that Frank was his 
 mother's darling and favorite. He ruled the whole household (always 
 excepting rebellious Beatrix) not less now than when he was a child 
 marshalling the village boys in playing at soldiers, and caning them 
 lustily too, like the sturdiest corporal. As for Tom Tusher, his reverence 
 treated the young lord with that politeness and deference which he 
 always showed for a great man, whatever his age or his stature was. 
 Indeed, with respect to this young one, it was impossible not to love 
 him, so frank and winning were his manners, his beauty, his gaiety, 
 the ring of his laughter, and the delightful tone of his voice. Wherever 
 
 194
 
 he went, he charmed and domineered. I think his old grandfather the 
 dean, and the grim old housekeeper, Mrs. Pincot, were as much his slaves 
 as his mother was : and as for Esmond, he found himself presently sub- 
 mitting to a certain fascination the boy had, and slaving it like the rest 
 of the family. The pleasure which he had in Frank's mere company and 
 converse exceeded that which he ever enjoyed in the society of any other 
 man, however delightful in talk, or famous for wit. His presence brought 
 sunshine into a room, his laugh, his prattle, his noble beauty and bright- 
 ness of look cheered and charmed indescribably. At the least tale of 
 sorrow, his hands were in his purse, and he was eager with sympathy 
 and bounty. The way in which women loved and petted him, when, a 
 year or two afterwards, he came upon the world, yet a mere boy, and 
 the follies which they did for him (as indeed he for them) , recalled the 
 career of Rochester, and outdid the successes of Grammont. His very 
 creditors loved him; and the hardest usurers, and some of the rigid 
 prudes of the other sex too, could deny him nothing. He was no more 
 witty than another man, but what he said, he said and looked as no man 
 else could say or look it. I have seen the women at the com.edy at Bruxelles 
 crowd round him in the lobby: and as he sat on the stage more people 
 looked at him than at the actors, and watched him ; and I remember at 
 Ramillies, when he was hit and fell, a great big red-haired Scotch ser- 
 geant flung his halbert down, burst out crying like a woman, seizing 
 him up as if he had been an infant, and carrying him out of the fire. 
 This brother and sister were the most beautiful couple ever seen ; though 
 after he winged away from the maternal nest this pair were seldom 
 together. 
 
 Sitting at dinner two days after Esmond's arrival (it was the last day 
 of the year), and so happy a one to Harry Esmond, that to enjoy it was 
 quite worth all the previous pain which he had endured and forgot, my 
 young lord, filling a bumper and bidding Harry take another, drank 
 to his sister, saluting her under the title of "Marchioness." 
 
 "Marchioness!" says Harry, not without a pang of wonder, for he 
 was curious and jealous already. 
 
 "Nonsense, my lord," says Beatrix, with a toss of her head. My lady 
 viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond and cast her eyes down. 
 
 "The Marchioness of Blandford," says Frank. "Don't you know — . 
 hath not Rouge Dragon told you?" (My lord used to call the Dowager 
 of Chelsey by this and other names.) "Blandford has a lock of her hair: 
 
 195
 
 the Duchess found him on his knees to Mistress Trix, and boxed his ears, 
 and said Dr. Hare should whip him." 
 
 "I wish Mr. Tusher would whip you too," says Beatrix. 
 
 My lady only said: "I hope you will tell none of these silly stories 
 elsewhere than at home, Francis." 
 
 " 'Tis true, on my word," continues Frank. "Look at Harry scowling, 
 mother, and see how Beatrix blushes as red as the silver-clocked stock- 
 ings." 
 
 "I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine and their 
 talk," says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the air of a young queen, 
 tossing her rustling flowing draperies about her, and quitting the room, 
 followed by her mother. 
 
 Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped down and 
 kissed Frank. "Do not tell those silly stories, child," she said: "do not 
 drink much wine, sir; Harry never loved to drink wine." And she went 
 away, too, in her black robes, looking back on the young man with her 
 fair, fond face. 
 
 "Egad ! it's true," says Frank, sipping his wine with the air of a lord. 
 "What think you of this Lisbon — real Collares? 'Tis better than your 
 heady port: we got it out of one of the Spanish ships that came from 
 Vigo last year: my mother bought it at Southampton, as the ship was 
 lying there — the 'Rose,' Captain Hawkins." 
 
 "Why, I came home in that ship," says Harry. 
 
 "And it brought home a good fellow and good wine," says my lord. 
 "I say, Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed bar sinister." 
 
 "And why not the bar sinister?" asks the other. 
 
 "Suppose I go to the army and am killed — every gentleman goes to 
 the army — who is to take care of the women? Trix will never stop at 
 home; mother's in love with you, — yes, I think mother's in love with 
 you. She was always praising you, and always talking about you; and 
 when she went to Southampton, to see the ship, I found her out. But 
 you see it is impossible: we are of the oldest blood in England; we 
 came in with the Conqueror; we were only baronets, — but what then? 
 we were forced into that. James the First forced our great-grandfather. 
 We are above titles; we old English gentry don't want 'em; the Queen 
 can make a duke any day. Look at Blandford's father, Duke Churchill, 
 and Duchess Jennings, what were they, Harry? Damn it, sir, what are 
 they, to turn up their noses at us? Where were they, when our ancestor 
 rode with King Henry at Agincourt, and filled up the French King's 
 
 1 06
 
 cup after Poictiers? 'Fore George, sir, why shouldn't Blandford marry 
 
 Beatrix ? By G ! he shall marry Beatrix, or tell me the reason why. 
 
 We'll marry with the best blood of England, and none but the best blood 
 of England. You are an Esmond, and you can't help your birth, my boy. 
 Let's have another bottle. What ! no more ? I've drunk three parts of this 
 myself. I had many a night with my father; you stood to him like a man, 
 Harry. You backed your blood; you can't help your misfortune, you 
 know, — no man can help that." 
 
 The elder said he would go in to his mistress' tea-table. The young 
 lad, with a heightened color and voice, began singing a snatch of a song, 
 and marched out of the room. Esmond heard him presently calling his 
 dogs about him, and cheering and talking to them ; and by a hundred of 
 his looks and gestures, tricks of voice and gait, was reminded of the 
 dead lord, Frank's father. 
 
 And so, the Sylvester night passed away; the family parted long before 
 midnight, Lady Castlewood remembering, no doubt, former New Year's 
 Eves, when healths were drunk, and laughter went round in the com- 
 pany of him, to whom years, past, and present, and future, were to be 
 as one; and so cared not to sit with her children and hear the cathedral 
 bells ringing the birth of the year 1703. Esmond heard the chimes as he 
 sat in his own chamber, ruminating by the blazing fire there, and listened 
 to the last notes of them, looking out from his window towards the city, 
 and the great gray towers of the cathedral lying under the frosty sky, 
 with the keen stars shining above. 
 
 The sight of these brilliant orbs no doubt made him think of other 
 luminaries. "And so her eyes have already done execution," thought 
 Esmond — "on whom.^ — who can tell me?" Luckily his kinsman was 
 by, and Esmond knew he would have no difficulty in finding out Mistress 
 Beatrix's history from the simple talk of the boy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Family Tal\ 
 
 What Harry admired and submitted to in the pretty lad his kinsman 
 was (for why should he resist it.'') the calmness of patronage which my 
 young lord assumed, as if to command was his undoubted right, and all 
 
 197
 
 the world (below his degree) ought to bow down to Viscount Castle- 
 wood. 
 
 "I know my place, Harry," he said. "I'm not proud — the boys at 
 Winchester College say I'm proud: but I'm not proud. I am simply 
 Francis James Viscount Castlewood in the peerage of Ireland. I might 
 have been (do you know that?) Francis James Marquis and Earl of 
 Esmond in that of England. The late lord refused the title which was 
 offered to him by my godfather, his late Majesty. You should know that 
 — you are of our family, you know — you cannot help your bar sinister, 
 Harry, my dear fellow; and you belong to one of the best families in 
 
 England, in spite of that; and you stood by my father, and by G ! 
 
 I'll stand by you. You shall never want a friend, Harry, while Francis 
 James Viscount Castlewood has a shilling. It's now 1703 — I shall come 
 of age in 1709. I shall go back to Castlewood; I shall live at Castlewood; 
 I shall build up the house. My property will be pretty well restored by 
 then. The late viscount mismanaged my property, and left it in a very 
 bad state. My mother is living close, as you see, and keeps me in a way 
 hardly befitting a peer of these realms ; for I have but a pair of horses, 
 a governor, and a man that is valet and groom. But when I am of age, 
 these things will be set right, Harry. Our house will be as it should be. 
 You will always come to Castlewood, won't you? You shall always have 
 your two rooms in the court kept for you ; and if anybody slights you, 
 
 d them ! let them have a care of tne. I shall marry early — Trix will 
 
 be a duchess by that time, most likely: for a cannon ball may knock over 
 his grace any day, you know." 
 
 "How?" says Harry. 
 
 "Hush, my dear!" says my lord viscount. "You are of the family — 
 you are faithful to us, by George, and I tell you everything. Blandford 
 
 will marry her — or" and here he put his little hand on his sword — 
 
 "you understand the rest. Blandford knows which of us two is the best 
 weapon. At small-sword, or back-sword, or sword and dagger if he likes, 
 I can beat him. I have tried him, Harry ; and begad he knows I am a man 
 not to be trifled with." 
 
 "But you do not mean," says Harry, concealing his laughter, but not 
 his wonder, "that you can force my Lord Blandford, the son of the first 
 man of this kingdom, to marry your sister at sword's point?" 
 
 "I mean to say that we are cousins by the mother's side, though that's 
 nothing to boast of. I mean to say that an Esmond is as good as a Church- 
 ill; and when the King comes back, the Marquis of Esmond's sister 
 
 198
 
 may be a match for any nobleman's daughter in the kingdom. There are 
 but two marquises in all England, William Herbert Marquis of Powis, 
 and Francis James Marquis of Esmond ; and hark you, Harry — now swear 
 you will never mention this. Give me your honor as a gentleman, for 
 you are a gentleman, though you are a " 
 
 "Well, well?" says Harry, a little impatient. 
 
 "Well, then, when after my late viscount's misfortune, my mother 
 went up with us to London, to ask for justice against you all (as for 
 Mohun, I'll have his blood, as sure as my name is Francis Viscount Es- 
 mond) — we went to stay with our cousin my Lady Marlborough, with 
 whom we had quarreled for ever so long. But when misfortune came, 
 she stood by her blood; — so did the dowager viscountess stand by her 
 blood; — so did you. Well, sir, while my mother was petitioning the 
 late Prince of Orange — for I will never call him King — and while you 
 were in prison, we lived at my Lord Marlborough's house, who was only 
 a little there, being away with the army in Holland. And then — I say, 
 Harry, you won't tell, now?" 
 
 Harry again made a vow of secrecy. 
 
 "Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, you know; my Lady Marl- 
 borough was very fond of us, and she said I was to be her page; and 
 she got Trix to be a maid of honor, and while she was up in her room 
 crying, we used to be always having fun, you know; and the duchess 
 used to kiss me, and so did her daughters, and Blandford fell tremendous 
 in love with Trix, and she liked him; and one day he — he kissed her 
 behind a door — he did though, — and the duchess caught him, and she 
 banged such a box of the ear both at Trix and Blandford — you should 
 have seen it ! And then she said that we must leave directly, and abused 
 my mamma who was cognisant of the business; but she wasn't — never 
 thinking about anything but father. And so we came down to Walcote; 
 Blandford being locked up, and not allowed to see Trix. But / got at 
 him. I climbed along the gutter, and in through the window, where he 
 was crying. 
 
 " 'Marquis,' says I, when he had opened it and helped me in, 'you 
 know I wear a sword,' for I had brought it. 
 
 " 'Oh, viscount,' says he — 'oh, my dearest Frank !' and he threw himself 
 into my arms and burst out a-crying. "I do love Mistress Beatrix so, that 
 I shall die if I don't have her.' 
 
 " 'My dear Blandford,' says I, 'you are young to think of marrying'; 
 
 199
 
 for he was but fifteen, and a young fellow of that age can scarce do so, 
 you know. 
 
 " 'But I'll wait twenty years, if she'll have me,' says he. 'I'll never 
 marry — no, never, never, never, marry anybody but her. No, not a 
 princess, though they would have me do it ever so. If Beatrix will wait 
 for me, her Blandford swears he will be faithful.' And he wrote a paper 
 (it wasn't spelt right, for he wrote 'I'm ready to sine with my blode,' 
 which, you know, Harry, isn't the way of spelling it), and vowing that 
 he would marry none other but the Honorable Mistress Gertrude Beatrix 
 Esmond, only sister of his dearest friend Francis James, fourth Viscount 
 Esmond. And so I gave him a locket of her hair." 
 
 "A locket of her hair?" cries Esmond. 
 
 "Yes. Trix gave me one after the fight with the duchess that very day. 
 I am sure I didn't want it ; and so I gave it him, and we kissed at parting, 
 and said, 'Good-bye, brother!' And I got back through the gutter; and 
 we set off home that very evening. And he went to King's College, in 
 Cambridge, and I'm going to Cambridge soon; and if he doesn't stand 
 to his promise (for he's only wrote once), — he knows I wear a sword, 
 Harry. Come along, and let's go see the cocking-match at Winchester. 
 
 ". . , But I say," he added, laughing, after a pause, "I don't think 
 Trix will break her heart about him. La bless you ! whenever she sees a 
 man, she makes eyes at him; and young Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's 
 Crawley, and Anthony Henley of Alresford, were at swords drawn about 
 her, at the Winchester Assembly, a month ago." 
 
 That night Mr. Harry's sleep was by no means so pleasant or sweet 
 as it had been on the first two evenings after his arrival at Walcote. "So 
 the bright eyes have been already shining on another," thought he, "and 
 the pretty lips, or the cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which 
 they were made for. Here's a girl not sixteen, and one young gentleman 
 is already whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country squires 
 are ready to cut each other's throats that they may have the honor of 
 a dance with her. What a fool am I to be dallying about this passion, 
 and singeing my wings in this foolish flame! Wings! — why not say 
 crutches? There is but eight years' difference between us, to be sure; but 
 in life I am thirty years older. How could I ever hope to please such a 
 sweet creature as that, with my rough ways and glum face? Say that I 
 have merit ever so much, and won myself a name, could she ever listen 
 to me? She must be my lady marchioness, and I remain a nameless bastard. 
 Oh! my master, my master!" (Here he fell to thinking with a passionate 
 
 200
 
 grief of the vow which he had made to his poor dying lord.) "Oh! my 
 mistress, dearest and kindest, will you be contented with the sacrifice 
 which the poor orphan makes for you, whom you love, and who so loves 
 you?" 
 
 And then came a fiercer pang of temptation. "A word from me," 
 Harry thought, "a syllable of explanation, and all this might be changed; 
 but no, I swore it over the dying bed of my benefactor. For the sake of 
 him and his; for the sacred love and kindness of old days; I gave my 
 promise to him, and may kind Heaven enable me to keep my vow !" 
 
 The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what was going on 
 in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily gay and cheerful when 
 he met his friends at the morning meal, his dear mistress, whose clear 
 eyes it seemed no emotion of his could escape, perceived that something 
 troubled him, for she looked anxiously towards him more than once 
 during the breakfast, and when he went up to his chamber afterwards 
 she presently followed him, and knocked at his door. 
 
 As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her at once, 
 for she found our young gentleman packing his valise, pursuant to the 
 resolution which he had come to overnight of making a brisk retreat 
 out of this temptation. 
 
 She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then leaned against 
 it, very pale, her hands folded before her, looking at the young man, 
 who was kneeling over his work of packing. "Are you going so soon?" 
 she said. 
 
 He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so discovered, 
 in the very act, as it were, and took one of her fair little hands — it was 
 that which had her marriage ring on — and kissed it. 
 
 "It is best that it should be so, dearest lady," he said. 
 
 "I knew you were going, at breakfast. I — I thought you might stay. 
 What has happened? Why can't you remain longer with us? What has 
 Frank told you — you were talking together late last night?" 
 
 "I had but three days' leave from Chelsey," Esmond said, as gaily as 
 he could. "My aunt — she lets me call her aunt — is my mistress now! I 
 owe her my lieutenancy and my laced coat. She has taken me into high 
 favor; and my new general is to dine at Chelsey tomorrow — General 
 Lumley, madam — who has appointed me his aide-de-camp, and on whom 
 I must have the honor of waiting. See, here is a letter from the dowager ; 
 the post brought it last night; and I would not speak of it, for fear of 
 disturbing our last merry meeting." 
 
 201
 
 My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile that was 
 somewhat contemptuous. "I have no need to read the letter," says she — 
 (indeed, 'twas as well she did not; for the Chelsey missive, in the poor 
 dowager's usual French jargon, permitted him a longer holiday than he 
 said. "Je vous donne," quoth her ladyship, "oui jour, pour vous fatigay 
 parfaictement de vos parens fatigans") — "I have no need to read the 
 letter," says she. "What was it Frank told you last night?" 
 
 "He told me little I did not know," Mr. Esmond answered. "But I 
 have thought of that little, and here's the result: I have no right to the 
 name I bear, dear lady ; and it is only by your sufferance that I am allowed 
 to keep it. If I thought for an hour of what has perhaps crossed your 
 mind too " 
 
 "Yes, I did, Harry," said she, "I thought of it; and think of it. I 
 would sooner call you my son than the greatest prince in Europe — yes, 
 than the greatest prince. For who is there so good and so brave, and who 
 would love her as you would? But there are reasons a mother can't tell." 
 
 "I know them," said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with a smile. "I 
 know there's Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Mr. Anthony 
 Henley of the Grange, and my Lord Marquis of Blandford that seems 
 to be the favored suitor. You shall ask me to wear my lady marchioness' 
 favors and to dance at her ladyship's wedding." 
 
 "Oh! Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten me," cried 
 out Lady Castlewood. "Lord Churchill is but a child, his outbreak about 
 Beatrix was a mere boyish folly. His parents would rather see him buried 
 than married to one below him in rank. And do you think that I would 
 stoop to sue for a husband for Francis Esmond's daughter; or submit to 
 have my girl smuggled into that proud family to cause a quarrel between 
 son and parents, and to be treated only as an inferior? I would disdain 
 such a meanness. Beatrix would scorn it. Ah! Henry, 'tis not with you 
 the fault lies, 'tis with her. I know you both, and love you: need I be 
 ashamed of that love now? No, never, never, and 'tis not you, dear 
 Harry, that is unworthy. 'Tis for my poor Beatrix I tremble — whose 
 headstrong will frightens me; whose jealous temper (they say I was 
 jealous too, but, pray God, I am cured of that sin) and whose vanity 
 no words or prayers of mine can cure — only suffering, only experience, 
 and remorse afterwards. Oh ! Henry, she will make no man happy who 
 loves her. Go away, my son: leave her: love us always, and think kindly 
 of us : and for me, my dear, you know that these walls contain all that 
 I love in the world." 
 
 202
 
 In after life, did Esmond find the words true which his fond mistress 
 spoke from her sad heart? Warning he had: but I doubt others had 
 warning before his time, and since: and he benefited by it as most men 
 do. 
 
 My young lord viscount was exceedingly sorry when he heard that 
 Harry could not come to the cock-match with him, and must go to Lon- 
 don, but no doubt my lord consoled himself when the Hampshire cocks 
 won the match ; and he saw every one of the battles, and crowed properly 
 over the conquered Sussex gentlemen. 
 
 As Esmond rode towards town his servant, coming up to him, in- 
 formed him, with a grin, that Mistress Beatrix had brought out a new 
 gown and blue stockings for that day's dinner, in which she intended to 
 appear, and had flown into a rage and given her maid a slap on the face 
 soon after she heard he was going away. Mistress Beatrix's woman, the 
 fellow said, came down to the servants' hall crying and with the mark 
 of a blow still on her cheek ; but Esmond peremptorily ordered him to 
 fall back and be silent, and rode on with thoughts enough of his own 
 to occupy him — some sad ones, some inexpressibly dear and pleasant. 
 
 His mistress, from whom he had been a year separated, was his dearest 
 mistress again. The family from which he had been parted, and which 
 he loved with the fondest devotion, was his family once more. If Beatrix's 
 beauty shone upon him, it was with a friendly luster, and he could 
 regard it with much such a delight as he brought away after seeing the 
 beautiful pictures of the smiling Madonnas in the convent at Cadiz, 
 when he was dispatched there with a flag; and as for his mistress, 'twas 
 difficult to say with what a feeling he regarded her. 'Twas happiness to 
 have seen her; 'twas no great pang to part; a filial tenderness, a love 
 that was at once respect and protection, filled his mind as he thought 
 of her ; and near her or far from her, and from that day until now, and 
 from now till death is past, and beyond it, he prays that sacred flame 
 may ever burn. 
 
 203
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 I Ma\e the Campaign of lyo^ 
 
 Mr, Esmond rode up to London then, where, if the dowager had been 
 angry at the abrupt leave of absence he took, she was mightily pleased 
 at his speedy return. 
 
 He went immediately and paid his court to his new General, General 
 Lumley, who received him graciously, having known his father, and 
 also, he was pleased to say, having had the very best accounts of Mr. 
 Esmond from the officer whose aide-de-camp he had been at Vigo. 
 During the winter Mr. Esmond was gazetted to a lieutenancy in Brigadier 
 Webb's regiment of Fusileers, then with their colonel in Flanders ; but 
 being now attached to the suite of Mr. Lumley, Esmond did not join his 
 own regiment until more than a year afterwards, and after his return 
 from the campaign of Blenheim, which was fought the next year. The 
 campaign began very early, our troops marching out of their quarters 
 before the winter was almost over, and investing the city of Bonn, on 
 the Rhine, under the Duke's command. His grace joined the army in 
 deep grief of mind, with crape on his sleeve, and his household in 
 mourning; and the very same packet which brought the commander- 
 in-chief over, brought letters to the forces which preceded him, and 
 one from his dear mistress to Esmond, which interested him not a little. 
 
 The young Marquis of Blandford, his grace's son, who had been en- 
 tered in King's College in Cambridge (where my lord viscount had 
 also gone, to Trinity, with Mr. Tusher as his governor) , had been seized 
 with smallpox, and was dead at sixteen years of age, and so poor Frank's 
 schemes for his sister's advancement were over, and that innocent childish 
 passion nipped in the birth. 
 
 Esmond's mistress would have had him return, at least her letters 
 hinted as much; but in the presence of the enemy this was impossible, 
 and our young man took his humble share in the siege, which need not 
 be described here, and had the good luck to escape without a wound 
 of any sort, and to drink his general's health after the surrender. He was 
 in constant military duty this year, and did not think of asking for a 
 leave of absence, as one or two of his less fortunate friends did, who 
 were cast away in that tremendous storm which happened towards the 
 close of November, that "which of late o'er pale Britannia past" (as 
 
 204
 
 Mr. Addison sang of it), and in which scores of our greatest ships and 
 15,000 of our seamen went down. 
 
 They said that our duke was quite heartbroken by the calamity which 
 had befallen his family; but his enemies found that he could subdue 
 them, as well as master his grief. Successful as had been this great gen- 
 eral's operations in the past year, they were far enhanced by the splendor 
 of his victory in the ensuing campaign. His grace the captain-general 
 went to England after Bonn, and our army fell back into Holland, where, 
 in April 1704, his grace again found the troops, embarking from Har- 
 wich and landing at Maesland Sluys: from there his grace came imme- 
 diately to the Hague, where he received the foreign ministers, general 
 officers, and other people of quality. The greatest honors were paid to 
 his grace everywhere — at the Hague, Utrecht, Ruremonde, and Mae- 
 stricht; the civil authorities coming to meet his coaches; salvoes of 
 cannon saluting him, canopies of state being erected for him where he 
 stopped, and feasts prepared for the numerous gentlemen following in 
 his suite. His grace reviewed the troops of the States-General between 
 Liege and Maestricht, and afterwards the English forces, under the 
 command of General Churchill, near Bois-le-Duc. Every preparation was 
 made for a long march ; and the army heard, with no small elation, that 
 it was the commander-in-chief's intention to carry the war out of the 
 Low Countries, and to march on the Mozelle. Before leaving our camp 
 at Maestricht we heard that the French, under the Marshal Villeroy, 
 were also bound towards the Mozelle. 
 
 Towards the end of May, the army reached Coblentz; and next day, 
 his grace, and the generals accompanying him, went to visit the Elector 
 of Treves at his Castle of Ehrenbreitstein, the horse and dragoons passing 
 the Rhine while the duke was entertained at a grand feast by the Elector. 
 All as yet was novelty, festivity, and splendor — a brilliant march of a 
 great and glorious army through a friendly country, and sure through 
 some of the most beautiful scenes of nature which I ever witnessed. 
 
 The foot and artillery, following after the horse as quick as possible, 
 crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbreitstein, and so to Castle, over against 
 Mayntz, in which city his grace, his generals, and his retinue were re- 
 ceived at the landing-place by the Elector's coaches, carried to his High- 
 ness' palace amid the thunder of cannon, and then once more magnifi- 
 cently entertained. Gidlingen, in Bavaria, was appointed as the general 
 rendezvous of the army, and there, by different routes, the whole forces 
 of English, Dutch, Danes, and German auxiliaries took their way. The 
 
 205
 
 foot and artillery under General Churchill passed the Neckar, at Heidel- 
 berg; and Esmond had an opportunity of seeing that city and palace, 
 once so famous and beautiful (though shattered and battered by the 
 French, under Turenne, in the late war) , where his grandsire had served 
 the beautiful and unfortunate Electress-Palatine, the first King Charles's 
 sister. 
 
 At Mindelsheim, the famous Prince of Savoy came to visit our com- 
 mander, all of us crowding eagerly to get a sight of that brilliant and 
 intrepid warrior; and our troops were drawn up in battalia before the 
 Prince, who was pleased to express his admiration of this noble English 
 army. At length we came in sight of the enemy between Dillingen and 
 Lawingen, the Brentz lying between the two armies. The Elector, judging 
 that Donauwort would be the point of his grace's attack, sent a strong 
 detachment of his best troops to Count Darcos, who was posted at 
 Schellenberg, near that place, where great entrenchments were thrown 
 up, and thousands of pioneers employed to strengthen the position. 
 
 On the 2nd of July his grace stormed the post, with what success on 
 our part need scarce be told. His grace advanced with six thousand foot, 
 English and Dutch, thirty squadrons, and three regiments of Imperial 
 Cuirassiers, the duke crossing the river at the head of the cavalry. Although 
 our troops made the attack with unparalleled courage and fury — rushing 
 up to the very guns of the enemy, and being slaughtered before their 
 works — we were driven back many times, and should not have carried 
 them, but that the Imperialists came up under the Prince of Baden, when 
 the enemy could make no head against us: we pursued him into the 
 trenches, making a terrible slaughter there, and into the very Danube, 
 where a great part of his troops, following the example of their generals. 
 Count Darcos and the Elector himself, tried to save themselves by swim- 
 ming. Our army entered Donauwort, which the Bavarians evacuated ; and 
 where 'twas said the Elector purposed to have given us a warm reception, 
 by burning us in our beds ; the cellars of the houses, when we took pos- 
 session of them, being found stuffed with straw. But though the links 
 were there, the link-boys had run away. The townsmen saved their houses, 
 and our general took possession of the enemy's ammunition in the 
 arsenals, his stores, and magazines. Five days afterwards a great Te 
 Deiim was sung in Prince Lewis's army, and a solemn day of thanks- 
 giving held in our own; the Prince of Savoy's compliments coming to 
 his grace, the captain-general, during the day's religious ceremony, and 
 concluding, as it were, with an Amen. 
 
 206
 
 And now, having seen a great military march through a friendly 
 country; the pomps and festivities of more than one German court; the 
 severe struggle of a hotly contested battle, and the triumph of victory, 
 Mr. Esmond beheld another part of military duty: our troops entering 
 the enemy's territory, and putting all around them to fire and sword; 
 burning farms, wasted fields, shrieking women, slaughtered sons and 
 fathers, and drunken soldiery, cursing and carousing in the midst of 
 tears, terror, and murder. Why does the stately Muse of History, that 
 delights in describing the valor of heroes and the grandeur of conquest, 
 leave out these scenes, so brutal, mean, and degrading, that yet form by 
 far the greater part of the drama of war? You, gentlemen of England, 
 who live at home at ease, and compliment yourselves in the songs of 
 triumph with which our chieftains are praised — you, pretty maidens, 
 that come tumbling down the stairs when the fife and drum call you, 
 and huzza for the British Grenadiers — do you take account that these 
 items go to make up the amount of the triumph you admire, and form 
 part of the duties of the heroes you fondle ? Our chief, whom England 
 and all Europe, saving only the Frenchman, worshiped almost, had this 
 of the godlike in him, that he was impassable before victory, before 
 danger, before defeat. Before the greatest obstacle or the most trivial 
 ceremony ; before a hundred thousand men drawn in battalia, or a peasant 
 slaughtered at the door of his burning hovel ; before a carouse of drunken 
 German lords, or a monarch's court, or a cottage table where his plans 
 were laid, or an enemy's battery, vomiting flame and death, and strewing 
 corpses round about him ; — he was always cold, calm, resolute, like fate. 
 He performed a treason or a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black as 
 Styx, as easily as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He 
 took a mistress, and left her; he betrayed his benefactor, and supported 
 him, or would have murdered him, with the same calmness always, and 
 having no more remorse than Clotho when she weaves the thread, or 
 Lachesis when she cuts it. In the hour of battle I have heard the Prince 
 of Savoy's officers say, the Prince became possessed with a sort of war- 
 like fury; his eyes lighted up; he rushed here and there, raging; he 
 shrieked curses and encouragement, yelling and harking his bloody 
 war-dogs on, and himself always at the first point of the hunt. Our duke 
 was as calm at the mouth of the cannon as at the door of a drawing- 
 room. Perhaps he could not have been the great man he was, had he 
 had a heart either for love or hatred, or pity or fear, or regret or remorse. 
 He achieved the highest deed of daring, or deepest calculation of thought, 
 
 207
 
 as he performed the very meanest action of which a man is capable ; told 
 a lie, or cheated a fond woman, or robbed a poor beggar of a halfpenny, 
 with a like awful serenity and equal capacity of the highest and lowest acts 
 of our nature. 
 
 His qualities were pretty well known in the army, where there were 
 parties of all politics, and of plenty of shrewdness and wit; but there 
 existed such a perfect confidence in him, as the first captain of the world, 
 and such a faith and admiration in his prodigious genius and fortune, 
 that the very men whom he notoriously cheated of their pay, the chiefs 
 whom he used and injured — for he used all men, great and small, that 
 came near him, as his instruments alike, and took something of theirs, 
 either some quality or some property — the blood of a soldier, it might 
 be, or a jeweled hat, or a hundred thousand crowns from a king, or a 
 portion out of a starving sentinel's three-farthings; or (when he was 
 young) a kiss from a woman, and the gold chain off her neck, taking 
 all he could from woman or man, and having, as I have said, this of the 
 godlike in him, that he could see a hero perish or a sparrow fall, with 
 the same amount of sympathy for either. Not that he had no tears: he 
 could always order up this reserve at the proper moment to battle; he 
 could draw upon tears or smiles alike, and whenever need was for using 
 this cheap coin. He would cringe to a shoeblack, as he would flatter a 
 minister or a monarch; be haughty, be humble, threaten, repent, weep, 
 grasp your hand (or stab you whenever he saw occasion) . — But yet 
 those of the army, who knew him best and had suffered most from him, 
 admired him most of all: and as he rode along the lines to battle or 
 galloped up in the nick of time to a battalion reeling from before the 
 enemy's charge or shot, the fainting men and oflficers got new courage 
 as thoy saw the splendid calm of his face, and felt that his will made 
 them irresistible. 
 
 After the great victory of Blenheim the enthusiasm of the army for 
 the duke, even of his bitterest personal enemies in it, amounted to a sort 
 of rage — nay, the very officers who cursed him in their hearts were 
 among the most frantic to cheer him. Who could refuse his meed of 
 admiration to such a victory and such a victor? Not he who writes: a 
 man may profess to be ever so much a philosopher; but he who fought 
 on that day must feel a thrill of pride as he recalls it. 
 
 The French right was posted near to the village of Blenheim, on 
 the Danube, where the Marshal Tallard's quarters were; their line ex- 
 tending through, it may be a league and a half, before Lutzingen and 
 
 208
 
 up to a woody hill, round the base of which, and acting against the 
 Prince of Savoy, were forty of his squadrons. 
 
 Here was a village that the Frenchmen had burned, the wood being, 
 in fact, a better shelter and easier of guard than any village. 
 
 Before these two villages and the French lines ran a little stream, not 
 more than two foot broad, through a marsh (that was mostly dried up 
 from the heat of the weather) , and this stream was the only separation ^ 
 between the two armies — ours coming up and ranging themselves in » 
 line of battle before the French, at six o'clock in the morning; so that j 
 our line was quite visible to theirs; and the whole of this great plain 
 was black and swarming with troops for hours before the cannonading 
 began. 
 
 On one side and the other this cannonading lasted many hours. The 
 French guns being in position in front of their line, and doing severe 
 damage among our horse especially, and on our right wing of Im- 
 perialists under the Prince of Savoy, who could neither advance his 
 artillery nor his lines, the ground before him being cut up by ditches, 
 morasses, and very difficult of passage for the guns. 
 
 It was past mid-day when the attack began on our left, where Lord 
 Cutts commanded, the bravest and most beloved officer in the English 
 army. And now, as if to make his experience in war complete, our young 
 aide-de-camp having seen two great armies facing each other in line 
 of battle, and had the honor of riding with orders from one end to the 
 other of the line, came in for a not uncommon accompaniment of mili- 
 tary glory, and was knocked on the head, along with many hundreds of 
 brave fellows, almost at the very commencement of this famous day of 
 Blenheim. A little after noon, the disposition for attack being com- 
 pleted with much delay and difficulty, and under a severe fire from the 
 enemy's guns, that were better posted and more numerous than ours, 
 a body of English and Hessians, with Major-General Wilkes commanding 
 at the extreme left of our line, marched upon Blenheim, advancing with 
 great gallantry, the major-general on foot, with his officers, at the head of 
 the column, and marching, with his hat off, intrepidly in the face of the 
 enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous fire from his guns and mus- 
 ketry, to which our people were instructed not to reply, except with pike 
 and bayonet when they reached the French palisades. To these Wilkes 
 walked intrepidly, and struck the woodwork with his sword before our 
 people charged it. He was shot down at the instant, with his colonel, 
 major, and several officers; and our troops cheering and huzzaing, and 
 
 209
 
 coming on, as they did, with immense resolution and gallantry, were 
 nevertheless stopped by the murderous fire from behind the enemy's 
 defenses, and then attacked in flank by a furious charge of French horse 
 which swept out of Blenheim, and cut down our men in great numbers. 
 Three fierce and desperate assaults of our foot were made and repulsed 
 by the enemy ; so that our columns of foot were quite shattered, and fell 
 back, scrambling over the little rivulet, which we had crossed so reso- 
 lutely an hour before, and pursued by the French cavalry, slaughtering 
 us and cutting us down. 
 
 And now the conquerors were met by a furious charge of English horse 
 under Esmond's general. General Lumley, behind whose squadrons the 
 flying foot found refuge, and formed again, while Lumley drove back 
 the French horse, charging up to the village of Blenheim and the pali- 
 sades where Wilkes, and many hundred more gallant Englishmen, lay in 
 slaughtered heaps. Beyond this moment, and of this famous victory, Mr. 
 Esmond knows nothing; for a shot brought down his horse and our 
 young gentleman on it, who fell crushed and stunned under the animal, 
 and came to his senses he knows not how long after, only to lose them 
 again from pain and loss of blood. A dim sense, as of people groaning 
 round about him, a wild incoherent thought or two for her who occupied 
 so much of his heart now, and that here his career, and his hopes, and 
 misfortunes were ended, he remembers in the course of these hours. 
 When he woke up, it was with a pang of extreme pain, his breastplate 
 was taken off, his servant was holding his head up, the good and faithful 
 lad of Hampshire ^ was blubbering over his master, whom he found 
 and had thought dead, and a surgeon was probing a wound in the 
 shoulder, which he must have got at the same moment when his horse 
 was shot and fell over him. The battle was over at this end of the field, 
 by this time: the village was in possession of the English, its brave de- 
 fenders prisoners, or fled, or drowned, many of them, in the neighboring 
 waters of Donau. But for honest Lockwood's faithful search after his 
 master, there had no doubt been an end of Esmond here, and of this 
 his story. The marauders were out rifling the bodies as they lay on the 
 field, and Jack had brained one of these gentry with the club-end of 
 his musket, who had eased Esmond of his hat and periwig, his purse, 
 and fine silver-mounted pistols which the dowager gave him, and was 
 
 1 My mistress, before I went this campaign, sent me John Lockwood out of 
 Walcote, who has ever since remained with me. — H. E. 
 
 2IO
 
 fumbling in his pockets for further treasure, when Jack Lockwood came 
 up and put an end to the scoundrel's triumph. 
 
 Hospitals for our wounded were established at Blenheim, and here 
 for several weeks Esmond lay in very great danger of his life; the wound 
 was not very great from which he suffered, and the ball extracted by the 
 surgeon on the spot where our young gentleman received it ; but a fever 
 set in next day, as he was lying in hospital, and that almost carried him 
 away. Jack Lockwood said he talked in the wildest manner during his 
 delirium; that he called himself the Marquis of Esmond, and seizing 
 one of the surgeon's assistants who came to dress his wounds, swore 
 that he was Madame Beatrix, and that he would make her a duchess if 
 she would but say yes. He was passing the days in these crazy fancies, 
 and vana somnia, whilst the army was singing Te Deiim for the victory, 
 and those famous festivities were taking place at which our duke, now 
 made a Prince of the Empire, was entertained by the King of the Romans 
 and his nobility. His grace went home by Berlin and Hanover, and 
 Esmond lost the festivities which took place at those cities, and which 
 his general shared in company of the other general officers who traveled 
 with our great captain. When he could move, it was by the Duke of 
 Wurtemberg's city of Stuttgard that he made his way homewards, re- 
 visiting Heidelberg again, whence he went to Mannheim, and here had 
 a tedious but easy water journey down the river of Rhine, which he had 
 thought a delightful and beautiful voyage indeed, but that his heart 
 was longing for home, and something far more beautiful and delightful. 
 
 As bright and welcome as the eyes almost of his mistress shone the 
 lights of Harwich, as the packet came in from Holland. It was not many 
 hours ere he, Esmond, was in London, of that you may be sure, and 
 received with open arms by the old Dowager of Chelsey, who vowed, 
 in her jargon of French and English, that he had the air noble, that his 
 pallor embellished him, that he was an Amadis and deserved a Gloriana; 
 and oh! flames and darts! what was his joy at hearing that his mistress 
 was come into waiting, and was now with Her Majesty at Kensington! 
 Although Mr. Esmond had told Jack Lockwood to get horses and they 
 would ride for Winchester that night, when he heard this news he 
 countermanded the horses at once; his business lay no longer in Hants; 
 all his hope and desire lay within a couple of miles of him in Kensing- 
 ton Park wall. Poor Harry had never looked in the glass before so eagerly 
 to see whether he had the bel air, and his paleness really did become 
 him; he never took such pains about the curl of his periwig, and the
 
 taste of his embroidery and point-lace, as now, before Mr. Amadis pre- 
 sented himself to Madam Gloriana. Was the fire of the French lines half 
 so murderous as the killing glances from her ladyship's eyes? Oh! darts 
 and raptures, how beautiful were they ! 
 
 And as, before the blazing sun of morning, the moon fades away in 
 the sky almost invisible, Esmond thought, with a blush perhaps, of an- 
 other sweet pale face, sad and faint, and fading out of sight, with its 
 sweet fond gaze of affection : such a last look it seemed to cast as Eurydice 
 might have given, yearning after her lover, when fate and Pluto sum- 
 moned her, and she passed away into the shades. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 All Old Story About a Fool and a Woman 
 
 Any taste for pleasure which Esmond had (and he liked to desipere 
 in loco, neither more nor less than most young men of his age) he could 
 now gratify to the utmost extent, and in the best company which the 
 town afforded. When the army went into winter quarters abroad, those 
 of the officers who had interest or money easily got leave of absence, and 
 found it much pleasanter to spend their time in Pall Mall and Hyde 
 Park, than to pass the winter away behind the fortifications of the dreary 
 old Flanders towns, where the English troops were gathered. Yachts and 
 packets passed daily between the Dutch and Flemish ports and Harwich ; 
 the roads thence to London and the great inns were crowded with army 
 gentlemen; the taverns and ordinaries of the town swarmed with red- 
 coats ; and our great duke's levees at St. James's were as thronged as they 
 had been at Ghent and Brussels where we treated him, and he us, with 
 the grandeur and ceremony of a sovereign. Though Esmond had been 
 appointed to a lieutenancy in the Fusileer regiment, of which that cele- 
 brated officer, Brigadier John Richmond Webb, was colonel, he had 
 never joined the regiment, nor been introduced to its excellent com- 
 mander, though they had made the same campaign together, and been 
 engaged in the same battle. But being aide-de-camp to General Lumley, 
 who commanded the division of horse, and the army marching to its 
 point of destination on the Danube by different routes, Esmond had 
 not fallen in, as yet, with his commander and future comrades of the 
 
 212
 
 fort; and it was in London, in Golden Square, where Major-General 
 Webb lodged, that Captain Esmond had the honor of first paying his 
 respects to his friend, patron, and commander of after days. 
 
 Those who remembered this brilliant and accomplished gentleman 
 may recollect his character, upon which he prided himself, I think, not a 
 little, of being the handsomest man in the army; a poet who wrote a 
 dull copy of verses upon the battle of Oudenarde three years after, 
 describing Webb, says: 
 
 To noble danger Webb conducts the way, 
 His great example all his troops obey; 
 Before the front the General sternly rides, 
 With such an air as Mars to battle strides: 
 Propitious Heaven must sure a hero save. 
 Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave. 
 
 Mr. Webb thought these verses quite as fine as Mr. Addison's on the 
 Blenheim campaign, and, indeed, to be Hector a la mode de Paris was 
 part of this gallant gentleman's ambition. It would have been difficult 
 to find an officer in the whole army, or among the splendid courtiers and 
 cavaliers of the Maison du Roy, that fought under Vendosme and Villeroy 
 in the army opposed to ours, who was a more accomplished soldier and 
 perfect gentleman, and either braver or better-looking. And if Mr. Webb 
 believed of himself what the world said of him, and was deeply convinced 
 of his own indisputable genius, beauty, and valor, who has a right to 
 quarrel with him very much ? This self-content of his kept him in general 
 good-humor, of which his friends and dependants got the benefit. 
 
 He came of a very ancient Wiltshire family, which he respected above 
 all families in the world: he could prove a lineal descent from King 
 Edward the First, and his first ancestor, R.oaldus de Richmond, rode by 
 William the Conqueror's side on Hastings field. "We were gentlemen, 
 Esmond," he used to say, "when the Churchills were horseboys." He 
 was a very tall man, standing in his pumps six feet three inches (in his 
 great jack-boots, with his tall fair periwig, and hat and feather, he could 
 not have been less than eight feet high). "I am taller than Churchill," 
 he would say, surveying himself in the glass, "and I am a better made 
 man; and if the women won't like a man that hasn't a wart on his nose, 
 faith, I can't help myself, and Churchill has the better of me there." 
 Indeed, he was always measuring himself with the duke, and always 
 asking his friends to measure them. And talking in this frank way, as 
 
 2ia
 
 he would do, over his cups, wags would laugh and encourage him; 
 friends would be sorry for him; schemers and flatterers would egg him 
 on, and tale-bearers carry the stories to headquarters, and widen the 
 difference which already existed there between the great captain and one 
 of the ablest and bravest lieutenants he ever had. 
 
 His rancor against the duke was so apparent, that one saw it in the 
 first half -hour's conversation with General Webb; and his lady, who 
 adored her general, and thought him a hundred times taller, handsomer, 
 and braver than a prodigal nature had made him, hated the great duke 
 with such an intensity as it becomes faithful wives to feel against their 
 husbands' enemies. Not that my lord duke was so yet; Mr. Webb had 
 said a thousand things against him, which his superior had pardoned; 
 and his grace, whose spies were everywhere, had heard a thousand things 
 more that Webb had never said. But it cost this great man no pains to 
 pardon; and he passed over an injury or a benefit alike easily. 
 
 Should any child of mine take the pains to read these his ancestor's 
 memoirs, I would not have him judge of the great duke i by what a 
 contemporary has written of him. No man has been so immensely lauded 
 and decried as this great statesman and warrior ; as indeed, no man ever 
 deserved better the very greatest praise and the strongest censure. If the 
 present writer joins with the latter faction, very likely a private pique 
 of his own may be the cause of his ill-feeling. 
 
 On presenting himself at the commander-in-chief's levee, his grace 
 had not the least remembrance of General Lumley's aide-de-camp, and 
 though he knew Esmond's family perfectly well, having served with 
 both lords (my Lord Francis and the Viscount Esmond's father) in 
 Flanders, and in the Duke of York's Guard, the Duke of Marlborough, 
 who was friendly and serviceable to the (so-styled) legitimate repre- 
 sentatives of the Viscount Castlewood, took no sort of notice of the poor 
 lieutenant who bore their name. A word of kindness or acknowledgment, 
 or a single glance of approbation, might have changed Esmond's opinion 
 of the great man; and instead of a satire, which his pen cannot help 
 writing, who knows but that the humble historian might have, taken the 
 other side of panegyric? We have but to change the point of view, and 
 the greatest action looks mean: as we turn the perspective-glass, and a 
 giant appears a pigmy. You may describe, but who can tell whether your 
 
 1 This passage in the Memoirs of Esmond is written on a leaf inserted into the 
 MS. book, and dated 1744, probably after he had heard of the duchess' death. 
 
 214
 
 sight is clear or not, or your means of information accurate? Had the 
 great man said but a word of kindness to the small one (as he would 
 have stepped out of his gilt chariot to shake hands with Lazarus in rags 
 and sores, if he thought Lazarus could have been of any service to him), 
 no doubt Esmond would have fought for him with pen and sword to 
 the utmost of his might ; but my lord the lion did not want master mouse 
 at this moment, and so Muscipulus went off and nibbled in opposition. 
 
 So it was, however, that a young gentleman, who, in the eyes of his 
 family, and in his own, doubtless, was looked upon as a consummate 
 hero, found that the great hero of the day took no more notice of him 
 than of the smallest drummer in his grace's army. The dowager at 
 Chelsey was furious against this neglect of her family, and had a great 
 battle with Lady Marlborough (as Lady Castlewood insisted on calling 
 the duchess). Her grace was now mistress of the robes to Her Majesty, 
 and one of the greatest personages in this kingdom, as her husband was 
 in all Europe, and the battle between the two ladies took place in the 
 Queen's drawing-room. 
 
 The duchess, in reply to my aunt's eager clamor, said haughtily, that 
 she had done her best for the legitimate branch of the Esmonds, and 
 could not be expected to provide for the bastard brats of the family. 
 
 "Bastard !" says the viscountess, in a fury. "There are bastards among 
 the Churchills, as your grace knows, and the Duke of Berwick is pro- 
 vided for well enough." 
 
 "Madam," says the duchess, "you know whose fault it is that there 
 are no such dukes in the Esmond family too, and how that little scheme 
 of a certain lady miscarried." i 
 
 Esmond's friend, Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the Prince, heard 
 the controversy between the ladies at the Court. "And faith," says Dick, 
 "I think, Harry, thy kinswoman had the worst of it." 
 
 He could not keep the story quiet ; 'twas all over the coffee-houses ere 
 night; it was printed in a news-letter before a month was over, and 
 "The Reply of her Grace the Duchess of M-rlb-r-gh to a Popish Lady 
 of the Court, once a favorite of the late K — J-m-s," was printed in 
 half-a-dozen places, with a note stating that "this Duchess, when the 
 head of this lady's family came by his death lately in a fatal duel, never 
 rested until she got a pension for the orphan heir, and widow, from 
 Her Majesty's bounty." The squabble did not advance poor Esmond's 
 promotion much, and indeed made him so ashamed of himself that he 
 dared not show his face at the commander-in-chief's levees again. 
 
 215
 
 During those eighteen months which had passed since Esmond saw his 
 dear mistress, her good father, the old dean, quitted this hfe, firm in 
 his principles to the very last, and enjoining his family always to remem- 
 ber that the Queen's brother, King James the Third, was their rightful 
 sovereign. He made a very edifying end, as his daughter told Esmond, 
 and not a little to her surprise, after his death (for he had lived always 
 very poorly) my lady found that her father had left no less a sum than 
 £3,000 behind him, which he bequeathed to her. 
 
 With this little fortune Lady Castlewood was enabled, when her 
 daughter's turn at Court came, to come to London, where she took a 
 small genteel house at Kensington, in the neighborhood of the Court, 
 bringing her children with her, and here it was that Esmond found his 
 friends. 
 
 As for the young lord, his university career had ended rather abruptly. 
 Honest Tusher, his governor, had found my young gentleman quite 
 ungovernable. My lord worried his life away with tricks; and broke 
 out, as home-bred lads will, into a hundred youthful extravagances, so 
 that Doctor Bentley, the new Master of Trinity, thought fit to write to 
 the Viscountess Castlewood, my lord's mother, and beg her to remove 
 the young gentleman from a college where he declined to learn, and 
 where he only did harm by his riotous example. Indeed, I believe he 
 nearly set fire to Nevil's Court, that beautiful new quadrangle of our 
 College, which Sir Christopher Wren had lately built. He knocked down 
 a proctor's man that wanted to arrest him in a midnight prank; he gave a 
 dinner party on the Prince of Wales's birthday, which was within a fort- 
 night of his own, and the twenty young gentlemen then present sallied 
 out after their wine, having toasted King James's health with open 
 windows, and sung cavalier songs, and shouted "God Save the King!" 
 in the great court, so that the Master came out of his lodge at midnight, 
 and dissipated the riotous assembly. 
 
 This was my lord's crowning freak, and the Rev. Thomas Tusher, 
 domestic chaplain to the Right Honorable the Lord Viscount Castle- 
 wood, finding his prayers and sermons of no earthly avail to his lordship, 
 gave up his duties of governor; went and married his brewer's widow 
 at Southampton, and took her and her money to his parsonage house at 
 Castlewood. 
 
 My lady could not be angry with her son for drinking King James's 
 health, being herself a loyal Tory, as all the Castlewood family were, 
 and acquiesced with a sigh, knowing, perhaps, that her refusal would 
 
 216
 
 be of no avail to the young lord's desire for a military life. She would 
 have liked him to be in Mr. Esmond's regiment, hoping that Harry 
 might act as a guardian and adviser to his wayward young kinsman ; but 
 my young lord would hear of nothing but the Guards, and a commission 
 was got for him in the Duke of Ormond's regiment ; so Esmond found 
 my lord ensign and lieutenant when he returned from Germany after 
 the Blenheim campaign. 
 
 The effect produced by both Lady Castlewood's children when they 
 appeared in public was extraordinary, and the whole town speedily rang 
 with their fame: such a beautiful couple, it was declared, never had been 
 seen; the young maid of honor was toasted at every table and tavern, and 
 as for my young lord, his good looks were even more admired than his 
 sister's. A hundred songs were written about the pair, and as the fashion 
 of that day was, my young lord was praised in these Anacreontics as 
 warmly as Bathyllus. You may be sure that he accepted very complacently 
 the town's opinion of him, and acquiesced with that frankness and charm- 
 ing good-humor he always showed in the idea that he was the prettiest 
 fellow in all London. 
 
 The old dowager at Chelsey, though she could never be got to acknowl- 
 edge that Mistress Beatrix was any beauty at all (in which opinion, as 
 it may be imagined, a vast number of the ladies agreed with her), yet, 
 on the very first sight of young Castlewood, she owned she fell in love 
 with him ; and Henry Esmond, on his return to Chelsey, found himself 
 quite superseded in her favor by her younger kinsman. The feat of drink- 
 ing the King's health at Cambridge would have won her heart, she said, 
 if nothing else did. "How had the dear young fellow got such beauty?" 
 she asked. "Not from his father — certainly not from his mother. How 
 had he come by such noble manners, and the perfect bel air? That countri- 
 fied Walcote widow could never have taught him." Esmond had his 
 own opinion about the countrified Walcote widow, who had a quiet grace 
 and serene kindness, that had always seemed to him the perfection of 
 good breeding, though he did not try to argue this point with his aunt. 
 But he could agree in most of the praises which the enraptured old 
 dowager bestowed on my lord viscount, than whom he never beheld a 
 more fascinating and charming gentleman. Castlewood had not wit so 
 much as enjoyment. "The lad looks good things," Mr. Steele used to 
 say; "and his laugh lights up a conversation as much as ten repartees 
 from Mr. Congreve. I would as soon sit over a bottle with him as with 
 Mr. Addison; and rather listen to his talk than hear Nicolini. Was ever 
 
 217
 
 man so gracefully drunk as my Lord Castlewood? I would give any- 
 thing to carry my wine" (though, indeed, Dick bore his very kindly, 
 and plenty of it, too) "like this incomparable young man. When he is 
 sober he is delightful; and when tipsy, perfectly irresistible." And re- 
 ferring to his favorite, Shakespeare (who was quite out of fashion until 
 Steele brought him back into the mode), Dick compared Lord Castle- 
 wood to Prince Hal, and was pleased to dub Esmond as Ancient Pistol. 
 
 The mistress of the robes, the greatest lady in England after the 
 Queen, or even before Her Majesty, as the world said, though she never 
 could be got to say a civil word to Beatrix, whom she had promoted to 
 her place as maid of honor, took her brother into instant favor. When 
 young Castlewood, in his new uniform, and looking like a prince out 
 of a fairy tale, went to pay his duty to her grace, she looked at him for 
 a minute in silence, the young man blushing and in confusion before her, 
 then fairly burst out a-crying, and kissed him before her daughters and 
 company. "He was my boy's friend," she said, through her sobs. "My 
 Blandford might have been like him." And everybody saw, after this 
 mark of the duchess' favor, that my young lord's promotion was secure, 
 and people crowded round the favorite's favorite, who became vainer 
 and gayer, and more good-humored than ever. 
 
 Meanwhile Madame Beatrix was making her conquests on her own 
 side, and among them was one poor gentlem.an, who had been shot by 
 her young eyes two years before, and had never been quite cured of 
 that wound; he knew, to be sure, how hopeless any passion might be, 
 directed in that quarter, and had taken that best, though ignoble, re- 
 medium amor'is, a speedy retreat from before the charmer, and a long 
 absence from her; and not being dangerously smitten in the first instance, 
 Esmond pretty soon got the better of his complaint, and if he had it still, 
 did not know he had it, and bore it easily. But when he returned after 
 Blenheim, the young lady of sixteen, who had appeared the most beau- 
 tiful object his eyes had ever looked on two years back, was now ad- 
 vanced to a perfect ripeness and perfection of beauty, such as instantly 
 enthralled the poor devil, who had already been a fugitive from her 
 charms. Then he had seen her but for two days, and fled ; now he beheld 
 her day after day, and when she was at Court watched after her; when 
 she was at home, made one of the family party; when she went abroad, 
 rode after her mother's chariot; when she appeared in public places, 
 was in the box near her, or in the pit looking at her; when she went 
 to church was sure to be there, though he might not listen to the sermon, 
 
 218
 
 and be ready to hand her to her chair if she deigned to accept of his 
 services, and select him from a score of young men who were always 
 hanging round about her. When she went away, accompanying Her 
 Majesty to Hampton Court, a darkness fell over London. Gods, what 
 nights has Esmond passed, thinking of her, rhyming about her, talking 
 about her! His friend Dick Steele was at this time courting the young 
 lady, Mrs. Scurlock, whom he married; she had a lodging in Kensington 
 Square, hard by my Lady Castlewood's house there. Dick and Harry, 
 being on the same errand, used to meet constantly at Kensiq^on. They 
 were always prowling about that place, or dismally walking thence, or 
 eagerly running there. They emptied scores of bottles at the "King's 
 Arms," each man prating of his love, and allowing the other to talk 
 on condition that he might have his own turn as a listener. Hence arose 
 an intimacy between them, though to all the rest of their friends they 
 ' must have been insufferable, Esmond's verses to "Gloriana at the 
 Harpsichord," to "Gloriana's Nosegay," to "Gloriana at Court," ap- 
 peared this year in the Observator. — Have you never read them? Thej- 
 were thought pretty poems, and attributed by some to Mr. Prior. 
 
 This passion did not escape — how should it? — the clear eyes of Es- 
 mond's mistress: he told her all; what will a man not do when frantic 
 with love? To what baseness will he not demean himself? What pangs 
 will he not make others suffer, so that he may ease his selfish heart of 
 a part of its own pain? Day after day he would seek his dear mistress, 
 pour insane hopes, supplications, rhapsodies, raptures, into her ear. She 
 hstened, smiled, consoled, with untiring pity and sweetness. Esmond 
 was the eldest of her children, so she was pleased to say; and as for her 
 kindness, who ever had or would look for aught else from one who was 
 an angel of goodness and pity? After what has been said, 'tis needless 
 almost to add that poor Esmond's suit was unsuccessful. What was a 
 nameless, penniless lieutenant to do, when some of the greatest in the 
 land were in the field? Esmond never so much as thought of asking 
 permission to hope so far above his reach as he knew this prize was — 
 and passed his foolish, useless life in mere abject sighs and impotent 
 longing. What nights of rage, what days of torment, of passionate un- 
 fulfilled desire, of sickening jealousy can he recall ! Beatrix thought no 
 more of him than of the lackey that followed her chair. His complaints 
 did not touch her in the least; his raptures rather fatigued her; she cared 
 for his verses no more than for Dan Chaucer's, who's dead these ever 
 
 219
 
 so many hundred years; she did not hate him; she rather despised him, 
 and just suffered him. 
 
 One day, after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear, fond constant 
 mistress — for hours — for all day long — pouring out his flame and his 
 passion, his despair and rage, returning again and again to the theme, 
 pacing the room, tearing up the flowers on the table, twisting and break- 
 ing into bits the wax out of the stand-dish, and performing a hundred 
 mad freaks of passionate folly; seeing his mistress at last quite pale 
 and tired out with sheer weariness of compassion, and watching over his 
 fever for the hundredth time, Esmond seized up his hat and took his 
 leave. As he got into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse came over 
 him for the wearisome pain he had been inflicting upon the dearest and 
 kindest friend ever man had. He went back to the house, where the 
 servant still stood at the open door, ran up the stairs, and found his 
 mistress where he had left her in the embrasure of the window, looking 
 over the fields towards Chelsey. She laughed, wiping away at the same 
 time the tears which were in her kind eyes ; he flung himself down on 
 his knees, and buried his head in her lap. She had in her hand the stalk 
 of one of the flowers, a pink, that he had torn to pieces. "Oh, pardon me, 
 pardon me, my dearest and kindest," he said; "I am in hell, and you 
 are the angel that brings me a drop of water." 
 
 "I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you always," she said, 
 holding her hands over him: and he went away comforted and humbled 
 in mind, as he thought of that amazing and constant love and tenderness 
 with which this sweet lady ever blessed and pursued him. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Famous Mr. Joseph Addison 
 
 The gentlemen -ushers had a table at Kensington and the Guard a very 
 splendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either of which ordinaries Es- 
 mond was free to dine. Dick Steele liked the Guard table better than 
 his own at the gentlemen-ushers', where there was less wine and more 
 ceremony; and Esmond had many a jolly afternoon in company of his 
 friend, and a hundred times at least saw Dick into his chair. If there 
 is verity in wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable-natured 
 
 220
 
 character Dick's must have been! In proportion as he took in wine he 
 overflowed with kindness. His talk was not witty so much as charming. 
 He never said a word that could anger anybody, and only became the 
 more benevolent the more tipsy he grew. Many of the wags derided 
 the poor fellow in his cups, and chose him as a butt for their satire: 
 but there was a kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy, that 
 seemed to Esmond far more charming than the pointed talk of the 
 brightest wits with their elaborate repartees and affected severities. I 
 think Steele shone rather than sparkled. Those famous beaux-esprits 
 of the coffee-houses (Mr. William Congreve, for instance, when his 
 gout and his grandeur permitted him to come among us) would make 
 many brilliant hits — half-a-dozen in a night sometimes — but, like sharp- 
 shooters, when they had fired their shot, they were obliged to retire 
 under cover until their pieces were loaded again, and wait till they got 
 another chance at their enemy; whereas Dick never thought that his 
 bottle companion was a butt to aim at — only a friend to shake by the 
 hand. The poor fellow had half the town in his confidence; everybody 
 knew everything about his loves and his debts, his creditors or his 
 mistress' obduracy. When Esmond first came on to the town, honest 
 Dick was all flames and raptures for a young lady, a West India fortune, 
 whom he married. In a couple of years the lady was dead, the fortune 
 was all but spent, and the honest widower was as eager in pursuit of a 
 new paragon of beauty as if he had never courted and married and buried 
 the last one. 
 
 Quitting the Guard table one Sunday afternoon, when by chance Dick 
 had a sober fit upon him, he and his friend were making their way down 
 Germain Street, and Dick all of a sudden left his companion's arm, and 
 ran after a gentleman who was poring over a folio volume at the book- 
 shop near to St. James's Church. He was a fair, tall man, in a snuff- 
 colored suit, with a plain sword, very sober, and almost shabby in 
 appearance — at least when compared to Captain Steele, who loved to 
 adorn his jolly round person with the finest of clothes, and shone in 
 scarlet and gold lace. The captain rushed up, then, to the student of 
 the book-stall, took him in his arms, hugged him, and would have kissed 
 him — for Dick was always hugging and bussing his friends — but the 
 other stepped back with a flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this 
 public manifestation of Steele's regard. 
 
 "My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this age?" cries the 
 
 221
 
 captain, still holding both his friend's hands; "I have been languishing 
 for thee this fortnight." 
 
 "A fortnight is not an age, Dick," says the other, very good-humoredly. 
 (He had light-blue eyes, extraordinarily bright, and a face perfectly 
 regular and handsome, like a tinted statue.) "And I have been hiding 
 myself — where do you think.'*" 
 
 "What! not across the water, my dear Joe?" says Steele, with a look 
 of great alarm: "thou knowest I have always " 
 
 "No," says his friend, interrupting him with a smile: "we are not 
 come to such straits as that, Dick. I have been hiding, sir, at a place 
 where people never think of finding you — at my own lodgings, whither 
 I am going to smoke a pipe now and drink a glass of sack: will your 
 honor come?" 
 
 "Harry Esmond, come hither," cries out Dick. "Thou hast heard me 
 talk over and over again of my dearest Joe, my guardian angel ?" 
 
 "Indeed," says Mr. Esmond, with a bow, "it is not from you only 
 that I have learnt to admire Mr. Addison. We loved good poetry at 
 Cambridge as well as at Oxford; and I have some of yours by heart, 
 though I have put on a red coat. . . . 'O qui canoro blandius Orpheo 
 vocale duc'is carmen' \ shall I go on, sir?" says Mr. Esmond, who, indeed, 
 had read and loved the charming Latin poems of Mr. Addison, as every 
 scholar of that time knew and admired them. 
 
 "This is Captain Esmond, who was at Blenheim," says Steele. 
 
 "Lieutenant Esmond," says the other, with a low bow, "at Mr. Addi- 
 son's service." 
 
 "I have heard of you," says Mr. Addison, with a smile; as, indeed, 
 everybody about town had heard that unlucky story about Esmond's 
 dowager aunt and the duchess. 
 
 "We were going to the 'George' to take a bottle before the play," says 
 Steele: "wilt thou be one, Joe?" 
 
 Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard by, where he was still 
 rich enough to give a good bottle of wine to his friends; and invited 
 the two gentlemen to his apartment in the Haymarket, where we ac- 
 cordingly went. 
 
 "I shall get credit with my landlady," says he, with a smile, "when 
 she sees two such fine gentlemen as you come up my stair." And he 
 politely made his visitors welcome to his apartment, which was indeed 
 but a shabby one, though no grandee of the land could receive his 
 guests with a more perfect and courtly grace than this gentleman. A 
 
 222
 
 frugal dinner, consisting of a slice of meat and a penny loaf, was await- 
 ing the owner of the lodgings. "My wine is better than my meat," says 
 Mr. Addison; "my Lord Halifax sent me the burgundy." And he set a 
 bottle and glasses before his friends, and ate his simple dinner in a very 
 few minutes, after which the three fell to and began to drink. "You see," 
 says Mr. Addison, pointing to his writing-table, whereon was a map of 
 the action at Hochstedt, and several other gazettes and pamphlets relat- 
 ing to the battle, "that I, too, am busy about your affairs, captain. I am 
 engaged as a poetical gazetteer, to say truth, and am writing a poem on 
 the campaign." 
 
 So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he knew about 
 the famous battle, drew the river on the table aliquo mero, and with the 
 aid of some bits of tobacco-pipe, showed the advance of the left wing, 
 where he had been engaged. 
 
 A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table beside our bottles 
 and glasses, and Dick having plentifully refreshed himself from the 
 latter, took up the pages of manuscript, wrote out with scarce a blot or 
 correction, in the author's slim, neat handwriting, and began to read 
 therefrom with great emphasis and volubility. At pauses of the verse, 
 the enthusiastic reader stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause. 
 
 Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. "You are like 
 the German Burghers," says he, "and the Princes on the Mozelle: when 
 our army came to a halt, they always sent a deputation to compliment 
 the chief, and fired a salute with all their artillery from their walls." 
 
 "And drunk the great chief's health afterward, did not they?" says 
 Captain Steele, gaily filling up a bumper — he never was tardy at that 
 sort of acknowledgment of a friend's merit. 
 
 "And the duke, since you will have me act his grace's part," says Mr. 
 Addison, with a smile, and something of a blush, "pledged his friends 
 in return. Most Serene Elector of Covent Garden, I drink to your high- 
 ness' health," and he filled himself a glass. Joseph required scarce more 
 pressing than Dick to that sort of amusement; but the wine never seemed 
 at all to fluster Mr. Addison's brains ; it only unloosed his tongue: whereas 
 Captain Steele's head and speech were quite overcome by a single bottle. 
 
 No matter what the verses were, and, to say truth, Mr. Esmond found 
 some of them more than indifferent, Dick's enthusiasm for his chief 
 never faltered, and in every line from Addison's pen Steele found a 
 masterstroke. By the time Dick had come to that part of the poem 
 wherein the bard describes as blandly as though he were recording a 
 
 223
 
 dance at the opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic cudgeling at a village 
 fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our campaign, with the remembrance 
 whereof every soldier who bore a part in it must sicken with shame — 
 when we were ordered to ravage and lay waste the Elector's country; 
 and with fire and murder, slaughter and crime, a great part of his 
 dominions was overrun — when Dick came to the lines: 
 
 In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand 
 With sword and fire, and ravages the land, 
 In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn, 
 A thousand villages to ashes turn. 
 To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat, 
 And mixed with bellowing herds confusedly bleat. 
 Their trembling lords the common shade partake. 
 And cries of infants sound in every brake. 
 The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands. 
 Loth to obey his leader's just commands. 
 The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed, 
 To see his just commands so well obeyed ; — 
 
 by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a perfectly 
 maudlin state, and he hiccupped out the last line with a tenderness that 
 set one of his auditors a-laughing. 
 
 "I admire the license of your poets," says Esmond to Mr. Addison. 
 (Dick, after reading of the verses, was fain to go off, insisting on kissing 
 his two dear friends before his departure, and reeling away with his 
 periwig over his eyes.) "I admire your art: the murder of the campaign 
 is done to military music, like a battle at the opera, and the virgins shriek 
 in harmony as our victorious grenadiers march into their villages. Do 
 you know what a scene it was?" — (by this time, perhaps, the wine had 
 warned Mr. Esmond's head too) — "what a triumph you are celebrating? 
 what scenes of shame and horror were enacted, over which the com- 
 mander's genius presided, as calm as though he didn't belong to our 
 sphere? You la.lk of the 'listening soldier fixed in sorrow,' the 'leader's 
 grief swayed by generous pity': to my belief the leader cared no more 
 for bleating flocks than he did for infants' cries, and many of our ruf- 
 fians butchered one or the other with equal alacrity. I was ashamed of 
 my trade when I saw those horrors perpetrated which came under every 
 man's eyes. You hew out of your polished verses a stately image of smil- 
 ing victory! I tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol; hideous, 
 bloody, and barbarous. The rites performed before it are shocking to 
 
 224
 
 think of. You great poets should show it as it is — ugly and horrible, not 
 beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, believe me, 
 you never would have sung it so." 
 
 During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening, smoking out 
 of his long pipe, and smiling very placidly. "What would you have?" 
 says he. "In our polished days, and according to the rules of art, 'tis 
 impossible that the Muse should depict tortures or begrime her hands 
 with the horrors of war. These are indicated rather than described; as 
 in the Greek tragedies, that, I daresay, you have read (and sure there 
 can be no more elegant specimens of composition), Agamemnon is 
 slain, or Medea's children destroyed, away from the scene; — the chorus 
 occupying the stage and singing of the action to pathetic music. Some- 
 thing of this I attempt, my dear sir, in my humble way: 'tis a panegyric 
 I mean to write, and not a satire. Were I to sing as you would have me, 
 the town would tear the poet in pieces, and burn his book by the hands 
 of the common hangman. Do you not use tobacco? Of all the weeds 
 grown on earth, sure the nicotian is the most soothing and salutary. We 
 must paint our great Duke," Mr. Addison went on, "not as a man, which 
 no doubt he is, with weaknesses like the rest of us, but as a hero, 'Tis 
 in a triumph, not a battle, that your humble servant is riding his sleek 
 Pegasus. We College poets trot, you know, on very easy nags; it hath 
 been, time out of mind, part of the poet's profession to celebrate the 
 actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which you men of war 
 perform. I must follow the rules of my art, and the composition of such 
 a strain as this must be harmonious and majestic, not familiar, or too 
 near the vulgar truth. Si parva licet: if Virgil could invoke the divine 
 Augustus, a humbler poet from the banks of the Isis may celebrate a 
 victory and a conqueror of our own nation, in whose triumphs every 
 Briton has a share, and whose glory and genius contributes to every 
 citizen's individual honor. When hath there been, since our Henrys' and 
 Edwards' days, such a great feat of arms as that from which you yourself 
 have brought away marks of distinction ? If 'tis in my power to sing that 
 song worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my Muse. If I fail as a 
 poet, as a Briton at least I will show my loyalty, and fling up my cap 
 and huzza for the conqueror: 
 
 . . . Rheni pacator et Istri, 
 Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit 
 Ordinibus: laetatur eques, plauditque senator, 
 Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori." 
 
 225
 
 "There were as brave men on that field," says Mr. Esmond (who 
 never could be made to love the Duke of Marlborough, nor to forget 
 those stories which he used to hear in his youth regarding that great 
 chief's selfishness and treachery) — "There were men at Blenheim as 
 good as the leader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded, nor 
 voices plebeian or patrician favored, and who lie there forgotten, under 
 the clods. What poet is there to sing them?" 
 
 "To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades !" says Mr. Addison, 
 with a smile. "Would you celebrate them all.'' If I may venture to ques- 
 tion anything in such an admirable work, the catalogue of ships in 
 Homer hath always appeared to me as somewhat wearisome: what had 
 the poem been, supposing the writer had chronicled the names of cap- 
 tains, lieutenants, rank and file? One of the greatest of a great man's 
 qualities is success; 'tis the result of all the others; 'tis a latent power 
 in him which compels the favor of the gods, and subjugates fortune. 
 Of all his gifts I admire that one in the great Marlborough. To be brave? 
 every man is brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy there is 
 something divine. In presence of the occasion, the great soul of the 
 leader shines out, and the god is confessed. Death itself respects him, 
 and passes by him to lay others low. War and carnage flee before him 
 to ravage other parts of the field, as Hector from before the divine 
 Achilles. You say he hath no pity : no more have the gods, who are above 
 it, and superhuman. The fainting battle gathers strength at his aspect; 
 and, wherever he rides, victory charges with him." 
 
 A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited his poetic friend, 
 he found this thought, struck out in the fervor of conversation, improved 
 and shaped into those famous lines, which are in truth the noblest in 
 the poem of the "Campaign." As the two gentlemen sat engaged in talk, 
 Mr. Addison solacing himself with his customary pipe, the little maid- 
 servant that waited on his lodging came up, preceding a gentleman in 
 fine laced clothes, that had evidently been figuring at Court or a great 
 man's levee. The courtier coughed a little at the smoke of the pipe, and 
 looked around the room curiously, which was shabby enough, as was 
 the owner in his worn snuff-colored suit and plain tie-wig. 
 
 "How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?" says the Court gen- 
 tleman, on looking down at the papers that were on the table. 
 
 "We were but now over it," says Addison (the greatest courtier in 
 the land could not have a more splendid politeness, or greater dignity 
 of manner) . "Here is the plan," says he, "on the table: hac that Simois, 
 
 lid
 
 here ran the little river Nebel: hie est S'lgeia telhis, here are Tallard's 
 quarters, at the bowl of this pipe, at the attack of which Captain Esmond 
 was present. I have the honor to introduce him to Mr. Boyle; and Mr. 
 Esmond was but now depicting al'iquo praelia mixta mero, when you 
 came in." In truth, the two gentlemen had been so engaged when the 
 visitor arrived, and Addison in his smiling way speaking of Mr. Webb, 
 colonel of Esmond's regiment (who commanded a brigade in the action, 
 and greatly distinguished himself there), was lamenting that he could 
 find never a suitable rhyme for Webb, otherwise the brigade should 
 have had a place in the poet's verses. "And for you, you are but a lieu- 
 tenant," says Addison, "and the Muse can't occupy herself with any 
 gentleman under the rank of a field officer." 
 
 Mr. Boyle was all impatient to hear, saying that my Lord Treasurer 
 and my Lord Halifax were equally anxious; and Addison, blushing, 
 began reading of his verses, and, I suspect, knew their weak parts as 
 well as the most critical hearer. When he came to the lines describing 
 the angel that 
 
 Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
 
 And taught the doubtful battle where to rage, 
 
 he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much as to say, 
 "You know where that simile came from — from our talk, and our bottle 
 or burgundy, the other day." 
 
 The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, and applauded 
 the verses with all their might. The gentlemen of the Court sprang up 
 in great delight. "Not a word more, my dear sir," says he. "Trust me 
 with the papers — I'll defend them with my life. Let me read them over 
 to my Lord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see in half-an-hour. I 
 venture to promise, the verses shall lose nothing by my reading, and 
 then, sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to complain that 
 his friend's pension is no longer paid." And without more ado, the 
 courtier in lace seized the manuscript pages, placed them in his breast 
 with his ruffled hand over his heart, executed a most gracious wave of the 
 hat with the disengaged hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room, 
 leaving an odor of pomander behind him. 
 
 "Does not the chamber look quite dark?" says Addison, surveying it, 
 "after the glorious appearance and disappearance of that gracious mes- 
 senger? Why, he illuminated the whole room. Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond, 
 will bear any light ; but this threadbare old coat of mine, how very worn 
 
 227
 
 it looked under the glare of that splendor ! I wonder whether they will 
 do anything for me," he continued. "When I came out of Oxford into 
 the world, my patrons promised me great things; and you see where 
 their promises have landed me, in a lodging up two pair of stairs, with 
 a sixpenny dinner from the cook's shop. Well, I suppose this promise 
 will go after the others, and fortune will jilt me, as the jade has been 
 doing any time these seven years. 'I puff the prostitute away,' " says he, 
 smiling, and blowing a cloud out of his pipe. "There is no hardship in 
 poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable; no hardship even in honest de- 
 pendence that an honest man may not put up with. I came out of the 
 lap of Alma Mater, puffed up with her praises of me, and thinking to 
 make a figure in the world with the parts and learning which had got 
 me no small name in our College. The world is the ocean, and Isis and 
 Charwell are but little drops, of which the sea takes no account. My 
 reputation ended a mile beyond Maudlin Tower; no one took note of 
 me; and I learned this at least, to bear up against evil fortune with a 
 cheerful heart. Friend Dick hath made a figure in the world, and has 
 passed me in the race long ago. What matters a little name or a little 
 fortune? There is no fortune that a philosopher cannot endure. I have 
 been not unknown as a scholar, and yet forced to live by turning bear- 
 leader, and teaching a boy to spell. What then ? The life was not pleasant, 
 but possible — the bear was bearable. Should this venture fail, I will go 
 back to Oxford: and some day, when you are a general, you shall find 
 me a curate in a cassock and bands, and I shall welcome your honor to 
 my cottage in the country, and to a mug of penny ale. 'Tis not poverty 
 that's the hardest to bear, or the least happy lot in life," says Mr. Addi- 
 son, shaking the ash out of his pipe. "See, my pipe is smoked out. Shall 
 we have another bottle? I have still a couple in the cupboard, and of 
 the right sort. No more? Let us go abroad and take a turn on the Mall, 
 or look in at the theater and see Dick's comedy. 'Tis not a masterpiece 
 of wit ; but Dick is a good fellow, though he doth not set the Thames 
 on fire." 
 
 Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket had come up a 
 prodigious prize in the lottery of life. All the town was in an uproai 
 of admiration of his poem, the "Campaign," which Dick Steele was 
 spouting at every coffee-house in Whitehall and Covent Garden. The 
 wits on the other side of Temple Bar saluted him at once as the greatest 
 poet the world had seen for ages; the people huzzaed for Marlborough 
 and for Addison, and, more than this, the party in power provided for 
 
 228
 
 the meritorious poet, and Mr. Addison got the appointment of Commis- 
 sioner of Excise, which the famous Mr. Locke vacated, and rose from 
 this place to other dignities and honors ; his prosperity from henceforth 
 to the end of his hfe being scarcely ever interrupted. But I doubt whether 
 he was not happier in his garret in the Haymarket, than ever he was in 
 his splendid palace at Kensington; and I believe the fortune that came 
 to him in the shape of the countess his wife, was no better than a shrew 
 and a vixen. 
 
 Gay as the town was, 'twas but a dreary place for Mr. Esmond, whether 
 his charmer was in or out of it, and he was glad when his general gave 
 him notice that he was going back to his division of the army, which lay 
 in winter quarters at Bois-le-Duc. His dear mistress bade him farewell 
 with a cheerful face; her blessing he knew he had always, and where- 
 soever fate carried him. Mistress Beatrix was away in attendance on Her 
 Majesty at Hampton Court, and kissed her fair fingertips to him, by 
 way of adieu, when he rode there to take his leave. She received her kins- 
 man in a waiting-room where there were half-a-dozen more ladies of 
 the Court, so that his high-flown speeches, had he intended to make any 
 (and very likely he did), were impossible; and she announced to her 
 friends that her cousin was going to the army, in as easy a manner as she 
 would have said he was going to a chocolate-house. He asked with a 
 rather rueful face if she had any orders for the army? and she was pleased 
 to say that she would like a mantle of Mechlin lace. She made him a 
 saucy curtsey in reply to his own dismal bow. She deigned to kiss her 
 fingertips from the window, where she stood laughing with the other 
 ladies, and chanced to see him as he made his way to the "Toy." The 
 Dowager at Chelsey was not sorry to part with him this time. "Mon 
 cher, vous etes triste comme un sermon," she did him the honor to say 
 to him; indeed, gentlemen in his condition are by no means amusing 
 companions, and besides, the fickle old woman had now found a much 
 more amiable favorite, and rajfole'd for her darling lieutenant of the 
 Guard. Frank remained behind for a while, and did not join the army 
 till later, in the suite of his grace the commander-in-chief. His dear 
 mother, on the last day before Esmond went away, and when the three 
 dined together, made Esmond promise to befriend her boy, and besought 
 Frank to take the example of his kinsman as of a loyal gentleman and 
 brave soldier, so she was pleased to say; and at parting, betrayed not 
 the least sign of faltering or weakness, though, God knows, that fond 
 
 229
 
 heart was fearful enough when others were concerned, though so resolute 
 in bearing its own pain. 
 
 Esmond's general embarked at Harwich. 'Twas a grand sight to see 
 Mr. Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck, waving his hat as our yacht 
 put off, and the guns saluted from the shore. Harry did not see his 
 viscount again, until three months after, at Bois-le-Duc, when his grace 
 the duke came to take the command, and Frank brought a budget of 
 news from home: how he had supped with this actress, and got tired 
 of that ; how he had got the better of M. St. John, both over the bottle, 
 and with Mrs. Mountford, of the Haymarket Theater (a veteran charmer 
 of fifty, with whom the young scapegrace chose to fancy himself in love) ; 
 how his sister was always at her tricks, and had jilted a young baron for 
 an old earl. "I can't make out Beatrix," he said; "she cares for none of 
 us — she only thinks about herself; she is never happy unless she is quar- 
 reling; but as for my mother- — my mother, Harry, is an angel." Harry 
 tried to impress on the young fellow the necessity of doing everything in 
 his power to please that angel: not to drink too much; not to go into 
 debt; not to run after the pretty Flemish girls, and so forth, as became 
 a senior speaking to a lad. "But Lord bless thee!" the boy said; "I may 
 do what I like, and I know she will love me all the same" ; and so, indeed, 
 he did what he liked. Everybody spoiled him, and his grave kinsman as 
 much as the rest. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 / Get a Company in the Campaign of iyo6 
 
 On Whit Sunday, the famous 23 rd of May, 1706, m.y young lord 
 first came under the fire of the enemy, whom we found posted in order 
 of battle, their lines extending three miles or more, over the high ground 
 behind the little Gheet river, and having on his left the little village of 
 Anderkirk or Autreeglise, and on his right Ramillies, which has given 
 its name to one of the most brilliant and disastrous days of battle that 
 history ever hath recorded. 
 
 Our duke here once more met his old enemy of B'enheim, the Bavarian 
 Elector and the Marechal Villeroy, over whom the Prince of Savoy had 
 gained the famous victory of Chiari. What Englishman or Frenchman 
 doesmot know the issue of that day? Having chosen his own ground, hav- 
 
 230
 
 ing a force superior to the English, and besides the excellent Spanish and 
 Bavarian troops, the whole Maison-du-Roy with him, the most splendid 
 body of horse in the world, — in an hour (and in spite of the prodigious 
 gallantry of the French royal household, who charged through the 
 center of our line and broke it) this magnificent army of Villeroy was 
 utterly routed by troops that had been marching for twelve hours, and 
 by the intrepid skill of a commander who did, indeed, seem in the pres- 
 ence of the enemy to be the very Genius of Victory. 
 
 I think it was more from conviction than policy, though that policy 
 was surely the most prudent in the world, that the great duke always 
 spoke of his victories with an extraordinary modesty, and as if it was 
 not so much his own admirable genius and courage which achieved 
 these amazing successes, but as if he was a special and fatal instrument 
 in the hands of Providence, that willed irresistibly the enemy's overthrow. 
 Before his actions he always had the church service read solemnly, and 
 professed an undoubting belief that our Queen's arms were blessed 
 and our victory sure. All the letters which he wrote after his battles show 
 awe rather than exultation ; and he attributes the glory of these achieve- 
 ments, about which I have heard mere petty officers and men bragging 
 with a pardonable vainglory, in nov/ise to his own bravery or skill, 
 but to the superintending protection of Heaven, which he ever seemed 
 to think was our special ally. And our army got to believe so, and the 
 enemy learned to think so too ; for we never entered into a battle without 
 a perfect confidence that it was to end in a victory; nor did the French, 
 after the issue of Blenheim, and that astonishing triumph of Ramillies, 
 ever meet us without feeling that the game was lost before it was begun 
 to be played, and that our general's fortune was irresistible. Here, as 
 at Blenheim, the duke's charger was shot, and 'twas thought for a mo- 
 ment he was dead. As he mounted another, Binfield, his master of the 
 horse, kneeling to hold his grace's stirrup, had his head shot away by 
 a cannon-ball. A French gentleman of the royal household, that was a 
 prisoner with us, told the writer that at the time of the charge of the 
 household, when their horse and ours were mingled, an Irish officer 
 recognized the prince-duke, and calling out, "Marlborough, Marlbor- 
 ough!" fired his pistol at him a bout-portant, and that a score more 
 carbines and pistols were discharged at him. Not one touched him: he 
 rode though the French Cuirassiers sword in hand, and entirely unhurt, 
 and calm and smiling, rallied the German horse, that was reeling before 
 the enemy, brought these and twenty squadrons of Orkney's back upon 
 
 2^^
 
 them, and drove the French across the river, again leading the charge 
 himself, and defeating the only dangerous move the French made that 
 day. 
 
 Major-General Webb commanded on the left of our line, and had 
 his own regiment under the orders of their beloved colonel. Neither 
 he nor they belied their character for gallantry on this occasion; but it 
 was about his dear young lord that Esmond was anxious, never having 
 sight of him save once, in the whole course of the day, when he brought 
 an order from the commander-in-chief to Mr. Webb. When our horse, 
 having charged round the right flank of the enemy by Overkirk, had 
 thrown him into entire confusion, a general advance was made, and 
 our whole line of foot, crossing the little river and the morass, ascended 
 the high ground where the French were posted, cheering as they went, 
 the enemy retreating before them. 'Twas a service of more glory than 
 danger, the French battalions never waiting to exchange push of pike 
 or bayonet with ours; and the gunners flying from their pieces, which 
 our line left behind us as they advanced, and the French fell back. 
 
 At first it was a retreat orderly enough ; but presently the retreat be- 
 came a rout, and a frightful slaughter of the French ensued on this 
 panic: so that an army of sixty thousand men was utterly crushed and 
 destroyed in the course of a couple of hours. It was as if a hurricane had 
 seized a compact numerous fleet, flung it all to the winds, shattered, 
 sunk, and annihilated it: afflavit Deus, et dissipati sunt. The French army 
 of Flanders was gone; their artillery, their standards, their treasure, pro- 
 visions, and ammunition were all left behind them: the poor devils had 
 even fled without their soup-kettles, which are as much the palladia of 
 the French infantry as of the Grand Seignior's Janissaries, and round 
 which they rally even more than round their lilies. 
 
 The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage which ensued (for the dregs of 
 a battle, however brilliant, are ever a base residue of rapine, cruelty, and 
 drunken plunder), was carried far beyond the field of Ramillies. 
 
 Honest Lockwood, Esmond's servant, no doubt wanted to be among 
 the marauders himself and take his share of the booty; for when, the 
 action over, and the troops got to their ground for the night, the captain 
 bade Lockwood get a horse, he asked, with a very rueful countenance, 
 whether his honor would have him come too; but his honor only bade 
 him go about his own business, and Jack hopped away quite delighted 
 as soon as he saw his master mounted. Esmond made his way, and not 
 without danger and difficulty, to his grace's headquarters, and found 
 
 232
 
 for himself very quickly where the aide-de-camps' quarters were, in an 
 outbuilding of a farm, where several of these gentlemen were seated, 
 drinking and singing, and at supper. If he had any anxiety about his 
 boy, 'twas relieved at once. One of the gentlemen was singing a song 
 to a tune that Mr. Farquhar and Mr. Gay both had used in their ad- 
 mirable comedies, and very popular in the army of that day; and after 
 the song came a chorus, "Over the hills and far away"; and Esmond 
 heard Frank's fresh voice, soaring, as it were, over the songs of the rest 
 of the young men — a voice that had always a certain artless, indescribable 
 pathos with it, and indeed which caused Mr. Esmond's eyes to fill with 
 tears now, out of thankfulness to God the child was safe and still alive 
 to laugh and sing. 
 
 When the song was over Esmond entered the room, where he knew 
 several of the gentlemen present, and there sat my young lord, having 
 taken off his cuirass, his waistcoat open, his face flushed, his long yellow 
 hair hanging over his shoulders, drinking with the rest; the youngest, 
 gayest, handsomest there. As soon as he saw Esmond, he clapped down 
 his glass, and running towards his friend, put both his arms round him 
 and embraced him. The other's voice trembled with joy as he greeted 
 the lad ; he had thought but now as he stood in the courtyard under the 
 clear-shining moonlight, "Great God ! what a scene of murder is here 
 within a mile of us; what hundreds and thousands have faced danger 
 today; and here are these lads singing over their cups, and the same 
 moon that is shining over yonder horrid field is looking down on Walcote 
 very likely, while my lady sits and thinks about her boy that is at the 
 war." As Esmond embraced his young pupil now, 'twas with the feeling 
 of quite religious thankfulness and an almost paternal pleasure that he 
 beheld him. 
 
 Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that was made of 
 small brilliants and might be worth a hundred crowns. "Look," says he, 
 "won't that be a pretty present for mother?" 
 
 "Who gave you the Order?" says Harry, saluting the gentleman: "did 
 you win it in battle?" 
 
 "I won it," cried the other, "with my sword and my spear. There was 
 a mousquetaire that had it round his neck — such a big mousquetaire, as 
 big as General Webb. I called out to him to surrender, and that Ed give 
 him quarter: he called me a petit polisson and fired his pistol at me, and 
 then sent it at my head with a curse. I rode at him, sir, drove my sword 
 right under his arm-hole, and broke it in the rascal's body. I found a 
 
 233
 
 purse in his holster with sixty-five louis in it, and a bundle of love- 
 letters, and a flask of Hungary-water. Vive la guerre! there are the ten 
 pieces you lent me. I should like to have a fight every day" ; and he pulled 
 at his little moustache and bade a servant bring a supper to Captain 
 Esmond. 
 
 Harry fell to with a very good appetite: he had tasted nothing since 
 twenty hours ago, at early dawn. Master Grandson, who read this, do 
 you look for the history of battles and sieges? Go, find them in the 
 proper books; this is only the story of your grandfather and his family. 
 Far more pleasant to him than the victory, though for that too he may 
 say mem'inisse juvat, it was to find that the day was over, and his dear 
 young Castlewood was unhurt. 
 
 And would you, sirrah, wish to know how it was that a sedate captain 
 of foot, a studious and rather solitary bachelor of eight or nine and 
 tv\^enty years of age, who did not care very much for the jollities which 
 his comrades engaged in, and was never known to lose his heart in any 
 garrison-town — should you wish to know why such a man had so 
 prodigious a tenderness, and tended so fondly a boy of eighteen, wait, 
 my good friend, until thou art in love with thy schoolfellow's sister, 
 and then see how mighty tender thou wilt be towards him. Esmond's 
 general and his grace the prince-duke were notoriously at variance, and 
 the former's friendship was in nowise likely to advance any man's pro- 
 motion of whose services Webb spoke well; but rather likely to injure 
 him, so the army said, in the favor of the greater man. However, Mr. 
 Esmond had the good fortune to be mentioned very advantageously by 
 Major-General Webb in his report after the action; and the major of 
 his regiment and two of the captains having been killed upon the day 
 of RamiUies, Esmond, who was second of the lieutenants, got his com- 
 pany, and had the honor of serving as Captain Esmond in the next cam- 
 paign. 
 
 My lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid to follow 
 him. His dear mistress wrote him letters more than once, thanking him, 
 as mothers know how to thank, for his care and protection of her boy, 
 extolling Esmond's own merits with a great deal more praise than they 
 deserved ; for he did his duty no better than any other officer ; and speak- 
 ing sometimes, though gently and cautiously, of Beatrix. News came 
 from home of at least half-a-dozen grand matches that the beautiful 
 maid of honor was about to make. She was engaged to an earl, our 
 gentleman of St. James's said, and then jilted him for a duke, who, in his 
 
 234
 
 turn, had drawn off. Earl or duke it might be who should win this Helen, 
 Esmond knew she would never bestow herself on a poor captain. Her 
 conduct, it was clear, was little satisfactory to her mother, who scarcely 
 mentioned her, or else the kind lady thought it was best to say nothing, 
 and leave time to work out its cure. At any rate, Harry was best away 
 from the fatal object which always wrought him so much mischief; and 
 so he never asked for leave to go home, but remained with his regiment 
 that was garrisoned in Brussels, which city fell into our hands when the 
 victory of Ramillies drove the French out of Flanders. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 / Meet an Old Acquaintance in Fla?iders 
 
 Being one day in the Church of St. Gudule, at Brussels, admiring the 
 antique splendor of the architecture (and always entertaining a great 
 tenderness and reverence for the Mother Church, that has been as wick- 
 edly persecuted in England as ever she herself persecuted in the days of 
 her prosperity) , Esmond saw kneeling at a side altar an officer in a green 
 uniform coat, very deeply engaged in devotion. Something familiar in 
 the figure and posture of the kneeling man struck Captain Esmond, even 
 before he saw the officer's face. As he rose up, putting away into his 
 pocket a little black breviary, such as priests use, Esmond beheld a coun- 
 tenance so like that of his friend and tutor of early days. Father Holt, 
 that he broke out into an exclamation of astonishment and advanced 
 a step towards the gentleman, who was making his way out of church. 
 The German officer too looked surprised when he saw Esmond, and his 
 face from being pale grew suddenly red. By this mark of recognition 
 the Englishmari knew that he could not be mistaken; and though the 
 other did not stop, but on the contrary rather hastily walked away towards 
 the door, Esmond pursued him and faced him once more, as the officer, 
 helping himself to holy water, turned mechanically towards the altar, 
 to bow to it ere he quitted the sacred edifice. 
 
 "My father!" says Esmond in English. 
 
 "Silence ! I do not understand. I do not speak English," says the other 
 in Latin. 
 
 Esmond smiled at this sign of confusion, and replied in the same 
 
 235
 
 language, "I should know my father in any garment, black or white, 
 shaven or bearded"; for the Austrian officer was habited quite in the 
 military manner, and had as warlike a mustachio as any Pandour. 
 
 He laughed — we were on the church steps by this time, passing 
 through the crowd of beggars that usually is there holding up little 
 trinkets for sale and whining for alms. "You speak Latin," says he, "in 
 the English way, Harry Esmond; you have forsaken the old true Roman 
 tongue you once knew." His tone was very frank, and friendly quiet; 
 the kind voice of fifteen years back; he gave Esmond his hand as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Others have changed their coats too, my father," says Esmond, glanc- 
 ing at his friend's military decoration. 
 
 "Hush! I am Mr. or Captain von Holtz, in the Bavarian Elector's 
 service and on a mission to his Highness the Prince of Savoy. You can 
 keep a secret I know from old times." 
 
 "Captain von Holtz," says Esmond, "I am your very humble servant." 
 
 "And you, too, have changed your coat," continues the other, in his 
 laughing way. "I have heard of you at Cambridge and afterwards: we 
 have friends everywhere; and I am told that Mr. Esmond at Cambridge 
 was as good a fencer as he was a bad theologian." (So, thinks Esmond, 
 my old mmtre d'armes was a Jesuit, as they said.) 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," says the other, reading his thoughts quite 
 as he used to do in old days; "you were all but killed at Hochstedt of 
 a wound in the left side. You were before that at Vigo, aide-de-camp to 
 the Duke of Ormond. You got your company the other day after Ra- 
 millies; your general and the prince-duke are net friends; he is of the 
 Webbs of Lydiard Tregoze, in the county of York, a relation of my Lord 
 St. John. Your cousin, M. de Castlewood, served his first campaign this 
 year in the Guard. Yes, I do know a few things, as you see." 
 
 Captain Esmond laughed in his turn. "You have indeed a curious 
 knowledge," he says. A foible of Mr. Holt's, who did know more about 
 books and men than, perhaps, almost any person Esmond had ever met, 
 was omniscience; thus in every point he here professed to know, he 
 was nearly right, but not quite. Esmond's wound was in the right side, 
 not the left; his first General was General Lumley; Mr. Webb came out 
 of Wiltshire, not of Yorkshire; and so forth. Esmond did not think fit 
 to correct his old master in these trifling blunders, but they served to 
 give him a knowledge of the other's character, and he smiled to think 
 
 236
 
 that this was his oracle of early days ; only now no longer infallible or 
 divine. 
 
 "Yes," continues Father Holt, or Captain von Holtz, "for a man who 
 has not been in England these eight years, I know what goes on in Lon- 
 don very well. The old dean is dead, my Lady Castlewood's father. Do 
 you know that your recusant bishops wanted to consecrate him Bishop 
 of Southampton, and that Collier is Bishop of Thetford by the same 
 imposition.'' The Princess Anne has the gout and eats too much; when 
 the King returns. Collier will be an archbishop." 
 
 "Amen!" says Esmond, laughing; "and I hope to see your eminence 
 no longer in jackboots, but red stockings at Whitehall." 
 
 "You were always with us — I know that — I heard of that when you 
 were at Cambridge ; so was the late lord ; so is the young viscount." 
 
 "And so was my father before me," said Mr. Esmond, looking calmly 
 at the other, who did not, however, show the least sign of intelligence 
 in his impenetrable gray eyes — how well Harry remembered them and 
 their look ! only crows' feet were wrinkled round them — marks of black 
 old Time had settled there. 
 
 Esmond's face chose to show no more sign of meaning than the 
 father's. There may have been on the one side and the other just the 
 faintest glitter of recognition as you see a bayonet shining out of an 
 ambush ; but each party fell back, when everything was again dark. 
 
 "And you, mon capitaine, where have you been?" says Esmond, turn- 
 ing away the conversation from this dangerous ground, where neither 
 chose to engage. 
 
 "I may have been in Pekin," says he, "or I may have been in Paraguay — 
 who knows where? I am now Captain von Holtz, in the service of his 
 Electoral Highness, come to negotiate exchange of prisoners with his 
 Highness of Savoy." 
 
 'Twas well known that very many officers in our army were well-affected 
 towards the young King at St. Germains, whose right to the throne was 
 undeniable, and whose accession to it, at the death of his sister, by far the 
 greater part of the English people would have preferred, to the having a 
 petty German prince for a sovereign, about whose cruelty, rapacity, boor- 
 ish manners, and odious foreign ways, a thousand stories were current. It 
 wounded our English pride to think that a shabby High-Dutch duke, 
 whose revenues were not a tithe as great as those of many of the princes 
 of our ancient English nobility, who could not speak a word of our lan- 
 guage, and whom we chose to represent as a sort of German boor, feeding 
 
 237
 
 on train-oil and sauerkraut with a bevy of mistresses in a barn, should 
 come to reign over the proudest and most polished people in the world. 
 Were we, the conquerors of the Grand Monarch, to submit to that ignoble 
 domination? What did the Hanoverian's Protestantism matter to us? Was 
 it not notorious (we were told and led to believe so) that one of the 
 daughters of this Protestant hero was being bred up with no religion at 
 all, as yet, and ready to be made Lutheran or Roman, according as the 
 husband might be whom her parents should find for her? This talk, very 
 idle and abusive much of it was, went on at a hundred mess-tables in the 
 army; there was scarce an ensign that did not hear it, or join in it, and 
 everybody knew, or affected to know, that the commander-in-chief him- 
 self had relations with his nephew, the Duke of Berwick ('twas by an 
 Englishman, thank God, that we were beaten at Almanza), and that his 
 grace was most anxious to restore the royal race of his benefactors, and 
 to repair his former treason. 
 
 This is certain, that for a considerable period no officer in the duke's 
 army lost favor with the commander-in-chief for entertaining or proclaim- 
 ing his loyalty towards the exiled family. When the Chevalier de St. 
 Geor.rre, as the King of England called himself, came with the dukes of the 
 French blood-royal, to join the French army under Vendosme, hundreds 
 of ours saw him and cheered him, and we all said he was like his father in 
 this, who, seeing the action of La Hogue fought between the French ships 
 and ours, was on the side of his native country during the battle. But this 
 at least the chevalier knew, and everyone knew, that, however well our 
 troops and their general might be inclined towards the Prince personally, 
 in the face of the enemy there was no question at all. Wherever my lord 
 duke found a French army, he would fight and beat it, as he did at 
 Oudenarde, two years after Ramillies, where his grace achieved another 
 of his transcendent victories ; and the noble young prince, who charged 
 gallantly along with the magnificent Maison-du-Roy, sent to compliment 
 his conquerors after the action. 
 
 In this battle, where the young Electoral Prince of Hanover behaved 
 himself very gallantly, fighting on our side, Esmond's dear General Webb 
 distinguished himself prodigiously, exhibiting consummate skill and 
 coolness as a general, and fighting with the personal bravery of a com- 
 mon soldier. Esmond's good luck again attended him ; he escaped without 
 a hurt, although more than a third of his regiment was killed, had again 
 the honor to be favorably mentioned in his commander's report, and was 
 advanced to the rank of major. But of this action there is little need to 
 
 238
 
 speak, as it has been related in every gazette, and talked of in every ham- 
 let in this country. To return from it to the writer's private affairs, which 
 here, in his old age, and at a distance, he narrates for his children who 
 come after him. Before Oudenarde, after that chance rencontre with Cap- 
 tain von Holtz at Brussels, a space of more than a year elapsed, during 
 which the captain of Jesuits and the captain of Webb's Fusileers were 
 thrown very much together. Esmond had no difficulty in finding out (in- 
 deed, the other made no secret of it to him, being assured from old times 
 of his pupil's fidelit}') that the negotiator of prisoners was an agent from 
 St. Germains, and that he carried intelligence between great personages 
 in our camp and that of the French. "My business," said he— "and I tell 
 you, both because I can trust you and your keen eyes have already discov- 
 ered it — is between the King of England and his subjects here engaged in 
 fighting the French King. As between you and them, all the Jesuits in the 
 world will not prevent your quarreling: fight it out, gentlemen. St. George 
 for England, I say — and you know who says so, wherever he may be." 
 
 I think Holt loved to make a parade of mystery, as it were, and would 
 appear and disappear at our quarters as suddenly as he used to return and 
 vanish in the old days at Castlewood. He had passes between both armies, 
 and seemed to know (but with that inaccuracy which belonged to the good 
 father's omniscience) equally well what passed in the French camp and 
 in ours. One day he would give Esmond news of a great feast that took 
 place in the French quarters, of a supper of Monsieur de Rohan's where 
 there was play and violins, and then dancing and masks ; the King drove 
 there in Marshal Villars' own guinguette. Another day he had the news 
 of His Majesty's ague: the King had not had a fit these ten days, and 
 might be said to be well. Captain Holtz made a visit to England during 
 this time, so eager was he about negotiating prisoners, and 'twas on 
 returning from this voyage that he began to open himself more to Esmond, 
 and to make him, as occasion served, at their various meetings, several of 
 those confidences which are here set down all together. 
 
 The reason of his increased confidence was this : upon going to London, 
 the old director of Esmond's aunt, the dowager, paid her ladyship a visit 
 at Chelsey, and there learnt from her that Captain Esmond was acquainted 
 with the secret of his family, and was determined never to divulge it. The 
 knowledge of this fact raised Esmond in his old tutor's eyes, so Holt was 
 pleased to say, and he admired Harry very much for his abnegation. 
 
 "The family at Castlewood have done far more for me than my own 
 ever did," Esmond said. "I would give my life for them. Why should I
 
 grudge the only benefit that 'tis in my power to confer on them?" The 
 good father's eyes filled with tears at this speech, which to the other 
 seemed very simple: he embraced Esmond, and broke out into many ad- 
 miring expressions ; he said he was a noble coeur, that he was proud of 
 him, and fond of him as his pupil and friend — regretted more than ever 
 that he had lost him, and been forced to leave him in those early times, 
 when he might have had an influence over him, have brought him into 
 that only true Church to which the father belonged, and enlisted him in 
 the noblest army in which a man ever engaged — meaning in his own 
 Society of Jesus, which numbers (says he) in its troops the greatest heroes 
 the world ever knew: — warriors brave enough to dare or endure anything, 
 to encounter any odds, to die any death ; — soldiers that have won triumphs 
 a thousand times more brilliant than those of the greatest general ; that 
 have brought nations on their knees to their sacred banner, the Cross; 
 that have achieved glories and palms incomparably brighter than those 
 awarded to the most splendid earthly conquerors — crowns of immortal 
 light, and seats in the high places of heaven. 
 
 Esmond was thankful for his old friend's good opinion, however little 
 he might share the Jesuit Father's enthusiasm. "I have thought of that 
 question, too," says he, "dear father," and he took the other's hand — - 
 "thought it out for myself, as all men must, and contrive to do the right, 
 and trust to Heaven as devoutly in my way as you in yours. Another six 
 months of you as a child, and I had desired no better. I used to weep upon 
 my pillow at Castlewood as I thought of you, and I might have been a 
 brother of your order; and who knows," Esmond added with a smile, 
 "a priest in full orders, and with a pair of mustachios, and a Bavarian 
 uniform!" 
 
 "My son," says Father Holt, turning red, "in the cause of religion and 
 loyalty all disguises are fair." 
 
 "Yes," broke in Esmond, "all disguises are fair, you say; and all uni- 
 forms, say I, black or red — a black cockade or a white one — or a laced hat, 
 or a sombrero, with a tonsure under it. I cannot believe that Saint Francis 
 Xavier sailed over the sea in a cloak, or raised the dead — I tried, and very 
 nearly did once, but cannot. Suffer me to do the right, and to hope for the 
 best in my own way." 
 
 Esmond wished to cut short the good Father's theology, and succeeded ; 
 and the other, sighing over his pupil's invincible ignorance, did not with- 
 draw his affection from him, but gave him his utmost confidence — as 
 
 240
 
 much, that is to say, as a priest can give: more than most do; for he was 
 naturally garrulous, and too eager to speak. 
 
 Holt's friendship encouraged Captain Esmond to ask, what he long 
 wished to know, and none could tell him, some history of the poor mother 
 whom he had often imagined in his dreams, and whom he never knew. 
 He described to Holt those circumstances which are already put down in 
 the first part of this story — the promise he had made to his dear lord, and 
 that dying friend's confession ; and he besought Mr. Holt to tell him what 
 he knew regarding the poor woman from whom he had been taken. 
 
 "She was of this very town," Holt said, and took Esmond to see the 
 street where her father lived, and where, as he believed, she was born. 
 "In 1676, when your father came hither, in the retinue of the late King, 
 then Duke of York, and banished hither in disgrace. Captain Thomas 
 Esmond became acquainted with your mother, pursued her, and made a 
 victim of her; he hath told me in many subsequent conversations, which 
 I felt bound to keep private then, that she was a woman of great virtue 
 and tenderness, and in all respects a most fond, faithful creature. He 
 called himself Captain Thomas, having good reason to be ashamed of his 
 conduct towards her, and hath spoken to me many times with sincere 
 remorse for that, as with fond love for her many amiable qualities. He 
 owned to having treated her very ill: and that at this time his life was one 
 of profligacy, gambling, and poverty. She became with child of you; was 
 cursed by her own parents at that discovery; though she never upbraided, 
 except by her involuntary tears, and the misery depicted on her coun- 
 tenance, the author of her wretchedness and ruin. 
 
 "Thomas Esmond — Captain Thomas, as he was called — became en- 
 gaged in a gaming-house brawl, of which the consequence was a duel, 
 and a wound so severe that he never — his surgeon said — could outlive it. 
 Thinking his death certain, and touched with remorse, he sent for a priest 
 of the very Church of St. Gudule, where I met you ; and on the same day, 
 after his making submission to our Church, was married to your mother 
 a few weeks before you were born. My Lord Viscount Castlewood, Mar- 
 quis of Esmond, by King James's patent, which I myself took to your 
 father, your lordship was christened at St. Gudule by the same cure who 
 married your parents, and by the name of Henry Thomas, son of E. 
 Thomas, officer Anglois, and Gertrude Maes. You see you belong to us 
 from your birth, and why I did not cliristen you when you became my dear 
 little pupil at Castlewood. 
 
 "Your father's wound took a favorable turn — perhaps his conscience 
 
 241
 
 was eased by the right he had done — and to the surprise of the doctors he 
 recovered. But as his health came back, his wicked nature, too, returned. 
 He was tired of the poor girl whom he had ruined ; and receiving some 
 remittance from his uncle, my lord the old viscount, then in England, he 
 pretended business, promised return, and never saw your poor mother 
 more. 
 
 "He owned to me, in confession first, but afterwards in talk before your 
 aunt, his wife, else I never could have disclosed what I now tell you, that 
 on coming to London he wrote a pretended confession to poor Gertrude 
 Maes— <jertrude Esmond — of his having been married in England previ- 
 ously, before uniting himself with her; said that his name was not 
 Thomas ; that he was about to quit Europe for the Virginian plantations, 
 where, indeed, your family had a grant of land from King Charles the 
 First ; sent her a supply of money, the half of the last hundred guineas he 
 had, entreated her pardon, and bade her farewell. 
 
 "Poor Gertrude never thought that the news in this letter might be 
 untrue as the rest of your father's conduct to her. But though a young man 
 of her own degree, who knew her history, and whom she liked before she 
 saw the English gentleman who was the cause of all her misery, offered to 
 marry her, and to adopt you as his own child, and give you his name, she 
 refused him. This refusal only angered her father, who had taken her 
 home; she never held up her head there, being the subject of constant 
 unkindness after her fall; and some devout ladies of her acquaintance 
 offering to pay a little pension for her, she went into a convent, and you 
 were put out to nurse. 
 
 "A sister of the young fellow who would have adopted you as his son 
 was the person who took charge of you. Your mother and this person were 
 cousins. She had just lost a child of her own, which you replaced, your 
 own mother being too sick and feeble to feed you; and presently your 
 nurse grew so fond of you, that she even grudged letting you visit the 
 convent where your mother was, and where the nuns petted the little 
 infant, as they pitied and loved its unhappy parent. Her vocation became 
 stronger every day, and at the end of two years she was received as a 
 sister of the house. 
 
 "Your nurse's family were silk weavers out of France, whither they 
 returned to Arras in French Flanders, shortly before your mother took 
 her vows, carrying you with them, then a child of three years old. 'Twas 
 a town, before the late vigorous measures of the French King, full of 
 Protestants, and here your nurse's father, old Pastoureau, he with whom 
 
 242
 
 you afterwards lived at Ealing, adopted the reformed doctrines, pervert- 
 ing all his house with him. They were expelled thence by the edict of His 
 Most Christian Majesty, and came to London, and set up their looms in 
 Spittlefields. The old man brought a little money with him, and carried 
 on his trade, but in a poor way. He was a widower; by this time his daugh- 
 ter, a widow too, kept house for him, and his son and he labored together 
 at their vocation. Meanwhile your father had publicly owned his conver- 
 sion just before King Charles's death (in whom our Church had much 
 such another convert), was reconciled to my Lord Viscount Castlewood, 
 and married, as you know, to his daughter. 
 
 "It chanced that the younger Pastoureau, going with a piece of brocade 
 to the mercer who employed him, on Ludgate Hill, met his old rival com- 
 ing out of an ordinary there. Pastoureau knew your father at once, seized 
 him by the collar, and upbraided him as a villain, who had seduced his 
 mistress, and afterwards deserted her and her son. Mr. Thomas Esmond 
 also recognized Pastoureau at once, besought him to calm his indignation, 
 and not to bring a crowd round about them; and bade him to enter into 
 the tavern, out of which he had just stepped, when he would give him any 
 explanation. Pastoureau entered, and heard the landlord order a drawer to 
 show Captain Thomas to a room ; it was by his Christian name that your 
 father was familiarly called at his tavern haunts, which, to say the truth, 
 were none of the most reputable. 
 
 "I must tell you that Captain Thomas, or my lord viscount afterwards, 
 was never at a loss for a story, and could cajole a woman or a dun with a 
 volubility, and an air of simplicity at the same time, of which many a 
 creditor of his has been the dupe. His tales used to gather verisimilitude as 
 he went on with them. He strung together fact after fact with a wonderful 
 rapidity and coherence. It required, saving your presence, a very long 
 habit of acquaintance with your father to know when his lordship was 
 1 , — telling, the truth or no. 
 
 "He told me with rueful remorse when he was ill — for the fear of 
 death set him instantly repenting, and with shrieks of laughter when he 
 was well, his lordship having a very great sense of humor — how in half- 
 an-hour's time, and before a bottle was drunk, he had completely suc- 
 ceeded in biting poor Pastoureau. The seduction he owned too: that he 
 could not help: he was quite ready with tears at a moment's warning, and 
 shed them profusely to melt his credulous listener. He wept for your 
 mother even more than Pastoureau did, who cried very heartily, poor 
 fellow, as my lord informed me; he swore upon his honor that he had 
 
 243
 
 twice sent money to Brussels, and mentioned the name of the merchant 
 with whom it was lying for poor Gertrude's use. He did not even know 
 whether she had a child or no, or whether she was aHve or dead; but got 
 these facts easily out of honest Pastoureau's answers to him. When he 
 heard that she was in a convent, he said he hoped to end his days in one 
 himself, should he survive his wife, whom he hated, and had been forced 
 by a cruel father to marry; and when he was told that Gertrude's son was 
 alive, and actually in London, 'I started,' says he; "for then, damme, my 
 wife was expecting to lie-in, and I thought should this old Put, my father- 
 in-law, run rusty, here would be a good chance to frighten him.' 
 
 "He expressed the deepest gratitude to the Pastoureau family for the 
 care of the infant: you were now near six years old; and on Pastoureau 
 bluntly telling him, when he proposed to go that instant and see the 
 darling child, that they never wished to see his ill-omened face again 
 within their doors; that he might have the boy, though they should all be 
 very sorry to lose him ; and that they would take his money, they being 
 poor, if he gave it; or bring him up, by God's help, as they had hitherto 
 done, without: he acquiesced in this at once, with a sigh, said, "Well, 'twas 
 better that the dear child should remain with friends who had been so 
 admirably kind to him' ; and in his talk to me afterwards, honestly praised 
 and admired the weaver's conduct and spirit; owned that the Frenchman 
 was a right fellow, and he, the Lord have mercy upon him, a sad villain. 
 
 "Your father," Mr. Holt went on to say, "was good-natured with his 
 monev when he had it ; and having that day received a supply from his 
 uncle, gave the weaver ten pieces with perfect freedom, and promised 
 him further remittances. He took down eagerly Pastoureau's name and 
 place of abode in his table-book, and when the other asked him for his 
 own, gave, with the utmost readiness, his name as Captain Thomas, New 
 Lodge, Penzance, Cornwall; he said he was in London for a few days only 
 on business connected with his wife's property; described her as a shrew, 
 though a woman of kind disposition ; and depicted his father as a Cornish 
 squire, in an infirm state of health, at whose death he hoped for something 
 handsome, when he promised richly to reward the admirable protector of 
 his child, and to provide for the boy. 'And by gad, sir,' he said to me in 
 his strange laughing way, 'I ordered a piece of brocade of the very same 
 pattern as that which the fellow was carrying, and presented it to my wife 
 for a morning wrapper, to receive company after she lay-in of our little 
 boy.' 
 
 244
 
 "Your little pension was paid regularly enough; and when your father 
 became Viscount Castlewood on his uncle's demise, I was employed to 
 keep a watch over you, and 'twas at my instance that you were brought 
 home. Your foster-mother was dead ; her father made acquaintance with 
 a woman whom he married, who quarreled with his son. The faithful crea- 
 ture came back to Brussels to be near the woman he loved, and died, too, 
 a few months before her. Will you see her cross in a convent cemetery ? 
 The Superior is an old penitent of mine, and remembers Soeur Marie 
 Madeline fondly still." 
 
 Esmond came to this spot in one sunny evening of spring, and saw, 
 amidst a thousand black crosses, casting their shadows across the grassy 
 mounds, that particular one which marked his mother's resting-place. 
 Many more of those poor creatures that lay there had adopted that same 
 name, with which sorrow had rebaptized her, and which fondly seemed 
 to hint their individual story of love and grief. He fancied her in tears 
 and darkness, kneeling at the foot of her cross, under which her cares 
 were buried. Surely he knelt down, and said his own prayer there, not 
 in sorrow so much as in awe (for even his memory had no recollection 
 of her) , and in pity for the pangs which the gentle soul in life had been 
 made to suffer. To this cross she brought them ; for this heavenly bride- 
 groom she exchanged the husband who had wooed her, the traitor who 
 had left her. A thousand such hillocks lay round about, the gentle daisies 
 springing out of the grass over them, and each bearing its cross and 
 requiescat. A nun, veiled in black, was kneeling hard by, at a sleeping 
 sister's bedside (so fresh made, that the spring had scarce had time to 
 spin a coverlid for it) ; beyond the cemetery walls you had glimpses 
 of life and the world, and the spires and gables of the city. A bird came 
 down from a roof opposite, and lit first on a cross, and then on the grass 
 below it, when it flew away presently with a leaf in its mouth; then 
 came a sound as of chanting, from the chapel of the sisters hard by; 
 others had long since filled the place which poor Mary Magdalene once 
 had there, were kneeling at the same stall, and hearing the same hymns 
 and prayers in which her stricken heart had found consolation. Might 
 she sleep in peace — might she sleep in peace; and we, too, when our 
 struggles and pains are over! But the earth is the Lord's as the heaven 
 is ; we are alike His creatures here and yonder. I took a little flower of the 
 hillock and kissed it, and went my way, like the bird that had just 
 lighted on the cross by me, back into the world again. Silent receptacle 
 
 2}5
 
 of death; tranquil depth of calm, out of reach of tempest and trouble! 
 I felt as one who had been walking below the sea, and treading amid 
 the bones of shipwrecks. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The Campaign of lyoy, iyo8 
 
 During the whole of the year which succeeded that in which the glorious 
 battle of Ramillies had been fought, our army made no movement of 
 importance, much to the disgust of very many of our officers remaining 
 inactive in Flanders, who said that his grace the captain-general had 
 had fighting enough, and was all for money now, and the enjoyment of 
 his five thousand a year and his splendid palace at Woodstock, which 
 was now being built. And his grace had sufficient occupation fighting 
 his enemies at home this year, where it began to be whispered that his 
 favor was decreasing, and his duchess losing her hold on the Queen, who 
 was transferring her royal affections to the famous Mrs. Masham, and 
 Mrs. Masham's humble servant, Mr. Harley. Against their intrigues, our 
 duke passed a great part of his time intriguing. Mr. Harley was got out 
 of office, and his grace, in so far, had a victory. But Her Majesty, con- 
 vinced against her will, was of that opinion still, of which the poet says 
 people are when so convinced, and Mr. Harley before long had his 
 
 revenge. 
 
 Meanwhile the business of fighting did not go on any way to the 
 satisfaction of Marlborough's gallant lieutenants. During all 1707, with 
 the French before us, we had never so much as a battle; our army in 
 Spain was utterly routed at Almanza by the gallant Duke of Berwick; 
 and we of "Webb's, which regiment the young duke had commanded 
 before his father's abdication, were a little proud to think that it was 
 our colonel who had achieved this victory. "I think if I had had Galway's 
 place, and my Fusileers," says our general, "we would not have laid 
 down cur arms, even to our old colonel, as Galway did" ; and Webb's 
 officers swore if we had had Webb, at least we would not have been 
 taken prisoners. Our dear old general talked incautiously of himself 
 and of ethers; a braver or a more brilliant soldier never lived than he; 
 but he blew his honest trumpet rather more loudly than became a com- 
 
 246
 
 mander of his station, and, mighty man of valor as he was, shook his 
 great spear and blustered before the army too fiercely. 
 
 Mysterious Mr. Holtz went off on a secret expedition in the early part 
 of 1708, with great elation of spirits and a prophecy to Esmond that a 
 wonderful something was about to take place. This secret came out on 
 my friend's return to the army, whither he brought a most rueful and 
 dejected countenance, and owned that the great something he had been 
 engaged upon, had failed utterly. He had been indeed with that luckless 
 expedition of the Chevalier de St. George, who was sent by the French 
 King with ships and an army from Dunkirk, and was to have invaded 
 and conquered Scotland. But that ill wind which ever opposed all the 
 projects upon which the Prince ever embarked, prevented the chevalier's 
 invasion of Scotland, as 'tis known, and blew poor Monsieur von Holtz 
 back into our camp again, to scheme and foretell, and to pry about as 
 usual. The chevalier (the King of England, as some of us held him) 
 went from Dunkirk to the French army to make the campaign against 
 us. The Duke of Burgundy had the command this year, having the Duke 
 of Berry with him, and the famous Mareschal Vendosme and the Duke 
 of Matignon to aid him in the campaign. Holtz, who knew everything 
 that was passing in Flanders and France (and the Indies for what I 
 know), insisted that there would be no more fighting in 1708 than there 
 had been in the previous year, and that our commander had reasons for 
 keeping him quiet. Indeed, Esmond's general, who was known as a 
 grumbler, and to have a hearty mistrust of the great duke, and hundreds 
 more officers besides, did not scruple to say that these private reasons 
 came to the duke in the shape of crown-pieces from the French King, 
 by whom the generalissimo was bribed to avoid a battle. There were 
 plenty of men in our lines, quidnuncs, to whom Mr. Webb listened only 
 too willingly, who could specify the exact sums the duke got, how much 
 fell to Cadogan's share, and what was the precise fee given to Doctor 
 Hare. 
 
 And the successes with which the French began the campaign of 1708 
 served to give strength to these reports of treason, which were in every- 
 body's mouth. Our general allowed the enemy to get between us and 
 Ghent, and declined to attack him though for eight-and-forty hours the 
 armies were in presence of each other. Ghent was taken, and on the 
 same day Monsieur de la Mothe summoned Bruges ; and these two great 
 cities fell into the hands of the French without firing a shot. A few days 
 afterwards La Mothe seized upon the fort of Plashendall: and it began 
 
 247
 
 to be supposed that all Spanish Flanders, as well as Brabant, would fall 
 into the hands of the French troops; when the Prince Eugene arrived 
 from the Mczelle, and then there was no more shilly-shallying. 
 
 The Prince of Savoy always signalized his arrival at the army by a 
 great feast (my lord duke's entertainments were both seldom and 
 shabby) ; and I remember our general returning from this dinner wilh 
 the two commanders-in-chief; his honest head a little excited by wine, 
 which was dealt out much more liberally by the Austrian than by the 
 English commander: "Now," says my general, slapping the table, with 
 
 an oath, "he must fight; and when he is forced to it, d it, no man 
 
 in Europe can stand up against Jack Churchill." Within a week the battle 
 of Oudenarde was fought, when, hate each other as they might, Esmond's 
 general and the commander-in-chief were forced to admire each other, 
 so splendid was the gallantry of each upon this day. 
 
 The brigade commanded by Major-General Webb gave and received 
 about as hard knocks as any that were delivered in that action, in which 
 Mr. Esmond had the fortune to serve at the head of his own company 
 in his regiment, under the command of their own colonel as major- 
 general ; and it was his good luck to bring the regiment out of action 
 as commander of it, the four senior officers above him being killed in the 
 prodigious slaughter which happened on that day. I like to think that 
 Jack Haythorn, who sneered at me for being a bastard and a parasite 
 of Webb's, as he chose to call me, and with whom I had had words, 
 shook hands with me the day before the battle begun. Three days be- 
 fore, poor Brace, our lieutenant-colonel, had heard of his elder brother's 
 death, and was heir to a baronetcy in Norfolk, and four thousand a 
 year. Fate, that had left him harmless through a dozen campaigns, seized 
 on him just as the world was worth living for, and he went into action 
 knowing, as he said, that the luck was going to turn against him. The 
 major had just joined us — a creature of Lord Marlborough, put in much 
 to the dislike of the ether officers, and to be a spy upon us, as it was said. 
 I know not whether the truth was so, nor who took the tattle of our mess 
 to headquarters, but Webb's regiment, as its colonel, was known to be 
 in the commander-in-chief's black books: "And if he did not dare to 
 break it up at home," our gallant old chief used to say, "he was de- 
 termined to destroy it before the enemy" ; so that poor Major Proudfoot 
 was put into a post of danger. 
 
 Esmond's dear young viscount, serving as aide-de-camp to my lord 
 duke, received a wound, and won an honorable name for himself in the 
 248
 
 Gazette; and Captain Esmond's name was sent in for promotion by his 
 general, too, whose favorite he was. It made his heart beat to think that 
 certain eyes at home, the brightest in the world, might read the page 
 on which his humble services were recorded; but his mind was made 
 up steadily to keep out of their dangerous influence, and to let time and 
 absence conquer that passion he had still lurking about him. Away from 
 Beatrix, it did not trouble him ; but he knew as certain that if he returned 
 home, his fever would break out again, and avoided Walcote as a Lincoln- 
 shire man avoids returning to his fens, where he is sure that the ague is 
 lying in wait for him. 
 
 We of the English party in the army, who were inclined to sneer at 
 everything that came out of Hanover, and to treat as little better than 
 boors and savages the Elector's Court and family, were yet forced to 
 confess that, on the day of Oudenarde, the young Electoral Prince, then 
 making his first campaign, conducted himself with the spirit and courage 
 of an approved soldier. On this occasion his Electoral Highness had 
 better luck than the King of England, who was Vv^itli his cousins in the 
 enemy's camp, and had to run with them at the ignominious end of the 
 day. With the most consummate generals in the world before them, and 
 an admirable commander on their own side, they chose to neglect the 
 counsels, and to rush into a combat with the former, which would have 
 ended in the utter annihilation of their army but for the great skill and 
 bravery of the Duke of Vendosme, who remedied, as far as courage and 
 genius might, the disasters occasioned by the squabbles and follies of his 
 kinsmen, the legitimate princes of the blood-rcyal, 
 
 "If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the army, the fate of the 
 day would have been very different," was all that poor Mr. von Holt2 
 could say; "and you would have seen that the hero of Almanza was fit 
 to measure swords with the conqueror of Blenheim." 
 
 The business relative to the exchange of prisoners was always going 
 on, and was at least that ostensible one which kept Mr. Holtz perpetually 
 on the move between the forces of the French and the Allies. I can answer 
 for it, that he was once very near hanged as a spy by Major-General 
 Wayne, when he was released and sent on to Headquarters, by a special 
 order of the commander-in-chief. He came and went always favored, 
 wherever he was, by some high though occult protection. He carried 
 messages between the Duke of Berwick and his uncle, our duke. He 
 seemed to know as well what was taking place in the Prince's quarter 
 as our own : he brought the compliments of the King of England to some 
 
 249
 
 of our officers, the gentlemen of Webb's among the rest, for their behavior 
 on that great day; and after Wynendael, when our general was chafing 
 at the neglect of our commander-in-chief, he said he knew how that action 
 was regarded by the chiefs of the French army, and that the stand made 
 before Wynendael Wood was the passage by which the Allies entered 
 Lille. 
 
 "Ah !" says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to Iis,ten to him) , 
 "if the King came by his own, how changed the conduct of affairs 
 would be! His Majesty's very exile has this advantage, that he is en- 
 abled to read England impartially, and to judge honestly of all the 
 eminent men. His sister is always in the hand of one greedy favorite 
 or another, through whose eyes she sees, and to whose flattery or de- 
 pendants she gives away everything. Do you suppose that His Majesty, 
 knowing England so well as he does, would neglect such a man as Gen- 
 eral Webb? He ought to be in the House of Peers, as Lord Lydiard. 
 The enemy and all Europe know his merit; it is that very reputation 
 which certain great people, who hate all equality and independence, can 
 never pardon." It was intended that these conversations should be car- 
 ried to Mr. Webb. They were welcome to him, for great as his services 
 were, no man could value them more than John Richmond Webb did 
 himself, and the differences between him and Marlborough being no- 
 torious, his grace's enemies in the army and at home began to court 
 Webb, and set him up against the all-grasping, domineering chief. And 
 soon after the victory of Oudenarde, a glorious opportunity fell into 
 General Webb's way, which that gallant warrior did not neglect, and 
 which gave him the means of immensely increasing his reputation at 
 home. 
 
 After Oudenarde, and against the counsels of Marlborough, it was 
 said, the Prince of S.avoy sat down before Lille, the capital of French 
 Flanders, and commenced that siege, the most celebrated of our time, 
 and almost as famous as the siege of Troy itself for the feats of valor 
 performed in the assault and the defense. The enmity of the Prince of 
 Savoy against the French King was a furious personal hate, quite unlike 
 the calm hostility of our great English general, who was no more moved 
 by the game of war than that of billiards, and pushed forward his 
 squadrons, and drove his red battalions hither and thither, as calmly 
 as he would combine a stroke or make a cannon with the balls. The 
 game over (and he played it so as to be pretty sure to win it), not the 
 least animosity against the other party remained in the breast of this 
 
 250
 
 consummate tactician. Whereas between the Prince of Savoy and the 
 French it was guerre a mort. Beaten off in one quarter, as he had been 
 in Toulon in the last year, he was back again on another frontier of 
 France, assaihng it with his indefatigable fury. When the Prince came 
 to the army, the smouldering fires of war were lighted up, and burst 
 out into a flame. Our phlegmatic Dutch allies were made to advance at 
 a quick march — our calm duke forced into action. The Prince was an 
 army in himself against the French ; the energy of his hatred, prodigious, 
 indefatigable — infectious over hundreds of thousands of men. The 
 Emperor's general was repaying, and with a vengeance, the slight the 
 French King had put upon the fiery little Abbe of Savoy. Brilliant and 
 famous as a leader himself, and beyond all measure daring and intrepid, 
 and enabled to cope with almost the best of those famous men of war 
 who commanded the armies of the French King, Eugene had a weapon, 
 the equal of which could not be found in France since the cannon-shot 
 of Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, and could hurl Marlborough at 
 the heads of the French host, and crush them as with a rock, under which 
 all the gathered strength of their strongest captains must go down. 
 
 The English duke took little part in that vast siege of Lille, which 
 the Imperial generalissimo pursued with all his force and vigor, further 
 than to cover the besieging lines from the Duke of Burgundy's army, 
 between which and the Imperialists our duke lay. Once, when Prince 
 Eugene was wounded, our duke took his Highness' place in the trenches; 
 but the siege was with the Imperialists, not with us. A division under 
 Webb and Rantzau was deta-^ched into Artois and Picardy upon the most 
 painful and odious service that Mr. Esmond ever saw in the course of 
 his military life. The wretched towns of the defenseless provinces, whose 
 young men had been drafted away into the French armies, which year 
 after year the insatiable war devoured, were left at our mercy; and our 
 orders were to show them none. We found places garrisoned by invalids, 
 and children and women; poor as they were, and as the costs of this 
 miserable war had made them, our commission was to rob these almost 
 starving wretches — to tear the food out of their granaries, and strip 
 them of their rags. 'Twas an expedition of rapine and murder we were 
 sent on: our soldiers did deeds such as an honest man must blush to 
 remember. We brought back money and provisions in quantity to the 
 duke's camp; there had been no one to resist us, and yet who dares to 
 tell with what murder and violence, with what brutal cruelty, outrage, 
 
 251
 
 insult, that ignoble booty had been ravished from the innocent and 
 miserable victims of the war? 
 
 Meanwhile, gallantly as the operations before Lille had been con- 
 ducted, the Allies had made but little progress, and 'twas said when we 
 returned to the Duke of Marlborough's camp, that the siege would never 
 be brought to a satisfactory end, and that the Prince of Savoy would 
 be forced to raise it. My Lord Marlborough gave this as his opinion 
 openly; those who mistrusted him, and Mr. Esmond owns himself to 
 be of the number, hinted that the duke had his reasons why Lille should 
 not be taken, and that he was paid to that end by the French King. If 
 this was so, and I believe it, General Webb had now a remarkable op- 
 portunity of gratifying his hatred of the commander-in-chief, of balking 
 that shameful avarice, which was one of the basest and most notorious 
 qualities of the famous duke, and of showing his own consummate skill 
 as a commander. And when I consider all the circumstances preceding 
 the event which will now be related, that my lord duke was actually 
 offered certain millions of crowns provided that the siege of Lille should 
 be raised ; that the Imperial army before it was without provisions and 
 ammunition, and must have decamped but for the supplies that they 
 received ; that the march of the convoy destined to relieve the siege was 
 accurately known to the French ; and that the force covering it was shame- 
 fully inadequate to that end, and by six times inferior to Count de la 
 Mothe's army, which was sent to intercept the convoy ; when 'tis certain 
 that the Duke of Berwick, De la Mothe's chief, was in constant cor- 
 respondence with his uncle, the English generalissimo: I believe on my 
 conscience that 'twas my Lord Marlborough's intention to prevent those 
 supplies, of which the Prince of Savoy stood in absolute need, from 
 ever reaching His Highness; that he meant to sacrifice the little army 
 which covered this convoy, and to betray it as he had betrayed Tollemache 
 at Brest; as he had betrayed every friend he had, to further his own 
 schemes of avarice or ambition. But for the miraculous victory which 
 Esmond's general won over an army six or seven times greater than his 
 own, the siege of Lille must have been raised ; and it must be remem- 
 bered that our gallant little force was under the command of a general 
 whom Marlborough hated, that he was furious with the conqueror, and 
 tried by the most open and shameless injustice afterwards to rob him of 
 the credit of his victory. 
 
 252
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 General Webb Wins Battle of Wynendael 
 
 By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most brilliant feats 
 of valor were performed that ever illustrated any war. On the French 
 side (whose gallantry was prodigious, the skill and bravery of Marshal 
 Boufllers actually eclipsing those of his conqueror, the Prince of Savoy) 
 may be mentioned that daring action of Messieurs de Luxembourg and 
 Tournefort, who, with a body of horse and dragoons, carried powder 
 into the town, of which the besieged were in extreme want, each soldier 
 bringing a bag with forty pounds of powder behind him; with which 
 perilous provision they engaged our own horse, faced the fire of the 
 foot brought cut to meet them: and though half of the men were blown 
 up in the dreadful errand they rode on, a part of them got into the town 
 with the succors of which the garrison was so much in want. A French 
 officer. Monsieur du Bois, performed an act equally daring, and per- 
 fectly successful. The duke's great army lying at Helchin, and covering 
 the siege, and it being necessary for M. de Vendosme to get news of the 
 condition of the place. Captain du Bois performed his famous exploit: 
 not only passing through the lines of the siege, but swimming after- 
 wards no less than seven moats and ditches: and coming back the same 
 way, swimming with his letters in his mouth. 
 
 By these letters Monsieur de Boufflers said that he could undertake 
 to hold the place till October; and that if one of the convoys of the 
 Allies could be intercepted, they must raise the siege altogether. 
 
 Such a convoy as has been said was now prepared at Ostend, and about 
 to march for the siege; and on the 27th September (we and the French 
 too) had news that it was on its way. It was composed of 700 wagons, 
 containing ammunition of all sorts, and was escorted out of Ostend by 
 2,000 infantry and 300 horse. At the same time M. de la Mothe quitted 
 Bruges, having with him five-and-thirty battalions, and upwards of sixty 
 squadrons and forty guns, in pursuit of the convoy. 
 
 Major-General Webb had meanwhile made up a force of twenty bat- 
 talions and three squadrons of dragoons at Turout, when he moved to 
 cover the convoy and pursue La Mothe: with whose advanced guard ours 
 came up upon the great plain of Turout, and before the little wood and 
 castle of Wynendael ; behind which the convoy was marching. 
 
 253
 
 As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced troops were 
 halted, with the wood behind them, and the rest of our force brought 
 up as quickly as possible, our httle body of horse being brought forward 
 to the opening of the plain, as our general said, to amuse the enemy. 
 When M. de la Mothe came up, he found us posted in two lines in front 
 of the wood; and formed his own army in battle facing ours, in eight 
 lines, four of infantry in front, and dragoons and cavalry behind. 
 
 The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade which lasted 
 three hours, v/hen they made their attack, advancing in eight lines, four 
 of foot and four of horse, upon the allied troops in the wood where 
 we were posted. Their infantry behaved ill: they were ordered to charge 
 with the bayonet, but, instead, began to fire, and almost at the very first 
 discharge from our men, broke and fled. The cavalry behaved better; 
 with these alone, who were three or four times as numerous as our whole 
 force, Monsieur de la Mothe might have won victory: but only two of our 
 battalions were shaken in the least; and these speedily rallied: nor could 
 the repeated attacks of the French horse cause our troops to budge an inch 
 from the position in the wood in which our general had placed them. 
 
 After attacking for two hours, the French retired at nightfall, entirely 
 foiled. With all the loss we had inflicted upon him, the enemy was still 
 three times stronger than we: and it could not be supposed that our 
 general could pursue M. de la Mothe, or do much more than hold our 
 ground about the wood, from which the Frenchman had in vain at- 
 tempted to dislodge us. La Mothe retired behind his forty guns, his 
 cavalry protecting them better than it had been able to annoy us; and 
 meanwhile the convoy, which was of more importance than all our little 
 force, and the safe passage of which we would have dropped to the last 
 man to accomplish, marched away in perfect safety during the action, and 
 joyfully reached the besieging camp before Lille. 
 
 Major-General Cadogan, my Lord Duke's Quartermaster-General (and 
 between whom and Mr. Webb there was no love lost), accompanied 
 the convoy, and joined Mr. Webb with a couple of hundred horse just 
 as the battle was over, and the enemy in full retreat. He offered, readily 
 enough, to charge with his horse upon the French as they fell back; but 
 his force was too weak to inflict any damage upon them ; and Mr. Webb, 
 commanding as Cadogan's senior, thought enough was done in holding 
 our ground before an enemy that might still have overwhelmed us had 
 we engaged him in the open territory, and in securing the safe passage 
 of the convoy. Accordingly, the horse brought up by Cadogan did not 
 
 254
 
 draw a sword ; and only prevented, by the good countenance they showed, 
 any disposition the French might have had to renew the attack on us. 
 And no attack coming, at nightfall General Cadogan drew off with his 
 squadron, being bound for headquarters, the two generals at parting 
 grimly saluting each other. 
 
 "He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my lord duke's trenchers at 
 supper," says Mr. Webb. 
 
 Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that night, and our 
 general had his supper in the little castle there. 
 
 "If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day's work," Gen- 
 eral Webb said; "and, Harry, thou shouldst have a regiment. Thou hast 
 been reported in the last two actions ; thou wert near killed in the first. 
 I shall mention thee in my despatch to his grace the commander-in-chief, 
 and recommend thee to poor Dick Harwood's vacant majority. Have 
 you ever a hundred guineas to give Cardonnel ? Slip them into his hand 
 tomorrow, when you go to headquarters with my report." 
 
 In this report the major-general was good enough to mention Captain 
 Esmond's name with particular favor; and that gentleman carried the 
 despatch to headquarters the next day, and was not a little pleased to^ 
 bring back a letter by his grace's secretary, addressed to Lieutenant- 
 General Webb. The Dutch officer despatched by Count Nassau Wouden- 
 bourg, Vaelt-Mareschal Auverquerque's son, brought back also a com- 
 plimentary letter to his commander, who had seconded Mr. Webb in 
 the action with great valor and skill. 
 
 Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented his despatch, 
 and saluted Mr. Webb as lieutenant-general, as he gave it in. The gentle- 
 men round about him — he was riding with his suite on the road to Menin 
 as Esmond came up with him — gave a cheer, and he thanked them, and 
 opened the despatch with rather a flushed, eager face. 
 
 He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read it. " 'Tis 
 not even writ with his own hand. Read it out, Esmond." And Esmond 
 read it out: 
 
 Sir, — Mr. Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted me with 
 the success of the action you had yesterday in the afternoon against the 
 body of troops commanded by M. de la Mothe, at Wynendael, which 
 must be attributed chiefly to your good conduct and resolution. You may 
 be sure I shall do you justice at home, and be glad on all occasions to 
 own the service you have done in securing this convoy. — Yours, etc., 
 
 M. 
 
 255
 
 "Two lines by that d d Cardonnel, and no more, for the taking 
 
 of Lille — for beating five times our number — for an action as brilliant as 
 the best he ever fought," says poor Mr. Webb. "Lieutenant-General! 
 
 That's not his doing. I was the oldest major-general. By , I believe 
 
 he had been better pleased if I had been beat." 
 
 The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer and more 
 complimentary than that to Mr. Webb. 
 
 "And this is the man," he broke out, "that's gorged with gold — that's 
 covered with titles and honors that we won for him — and that grudges 
 even a line of praise to a comrade in arms! Hasn't he enough? Don't 
 we fight that he may roll in riches? Well, well, wait for the Gazette, 
 gentlemen. The Queen and the country will do us justice if his grace 
 denies it us." There were tears of rage in the brave warrior's eyes as he 
 spoke; and he dashed them off his face on to his glove. He shook his 
 fist in the air. "Oh, by the Lord !" says he, "I know what I had rather have 
 than a peerage!" 
 
 "And what is that, sir?" some of them asked. 
 
 "I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John Churchill, on a fair 
 green field, and only a pair of rapiers between my shirt and his " 
 
 "Sir!" interposes one. 
 
 "Tell him so! I know that's what you mean. I know every word goes 
 to him that's dropped from every general oflicer's mouth. I don't say 
 he's not brave. Curse him, he's brave enough; but we'll wait for the 
 Gazette, gentlemen. God save Her Majesty! she'll do us justice." 
 
 The Gazette did not come to us till a month afterwards; when my 
 general and his officers had the honor to dine with Prince Eugene in 
 Lille; His Highness being good enough to say that we had brought the 
 provisions, and ought to share in the banquet. 'Twas a great banquet. 
 His Grace of Marlborough was on His Highness' right, and on his left 
 the Mareschal de Bouffiers, who had so bravely defended the place. The 
 chief officers of either army were present ; and you may be sure Esmond's 
 general was splendid this day: his tall noble person, and manly beauty 
 of face, made him remarkable anywhere; he wore, for the first time, the 
 star of the Order of Generosity, that His Prussian Majesty had sent to 
 him for his victory. His Highness the Prince of Savoy called a toast to 
 the conqueror of Wynendael. My lord duke drank it with rather a sickly 
 smile. The aides-de-camp were present ; and Harry Esmond and his dear 
 young lord were together, as they always strove to be when duty would 
 permit: they were over against the table where the generals were, and 
 
 256
 
 could see all that passed pretty well. Frank laughed at my lord duke's 
 glum face: the affair of Wynendael, and the captain-general's conduct 
 to Webb, had been the talk of the whole army. When His Highness 
 spoke, and gave, Le vainqueur de Wynendael; son ar?nee et sa vktoire," 
 adding, "qui nous jont diner a Lille au]ourd' buy" — there was a great 
 cheer through the hall; for Mr. Webb's bravery, generosity, and very 
 weaknesses of character caused him to be beloved in the army. 
 
 "Like Hector handsome, and like Paris brave!" whispers Frank 
 Castlewood. "A Venus, an elderly Venus, couldn't refuse him a pippin. 
 Stand up, Harry! See, we are drinking the army of Wynendael. Ramillies 
 is nothing to it. Huzzay! huzzay!" 
 
 At this very time, and just after our general had made his acknowl- 
 edgment, someone brought in an English Gazette — and was passing it 
 from hand to hand down the table. Officers were eager enough to read 
 it; mothers and sisters at home must have sickened over it. There scarce 
 came out a Gazette for six years that did not tell of some heroic death or 
 some brilliant achievement. 
 
 "Here it is — action of Wynendael — here you are, general," says 
 Frank, seizing hold of the little dingy paper that soldiers love to read 
 so; and scrambling over from our bench, he went to where the general 
 sat, who knew him, and had seen many a time at his table his laughing, 
 handsome face, which everybody loved who saw. The generals in their 
 great perukes made way for him. He handed the paper over General 
 Dohna's buff-coat to our general on the opposite side. 
 
 He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat: "I thought he'd like 
 it, Harry," the young fellow whispered. "Didn't I like to read my name 
 after Ramillies, in the London Gazette? — Viscount Castlewood serving a 
 volunteer 1 say, what's yonder?" 
 
 Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, looked very strange — slapped it down 
 on the table — then sprang up in his place, and began, "Will your High- 
 ness please to " 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too — "There's 
 some mistake, my dear General Webb." 
 
 "Your grace had better rectify it," says Mr. Webb, holding out the 
 letter; but he was five off his grace the prince duke, who, besides, was 
 higher than the general (being seated with the Prince of Savoy, the 
 Electoral Prince of Hanover, and the envoys of Prussia and Denmark, 
 under a baldaquin), and Webb could not reach him, tail as he was. 
 
 "Stay," says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea, and then, 
 
 257
 
 with a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he ran the Gazette through 
 with the point, and said, "Permit me to hand it to your grace." 
 
 The duke looked very black. "Take it," says he, to his Master of the 
 Horse, who was waiting behind him. 
 
 The lieutenant-general made a very low bow, and retired and finished 
 his glass. The Gazette in which Mr. Cardonnel, the duke's secretary, 
 gave an account of the victory of Wynendael, mentioned Mr. Webb's 
 name, but gave the sole praise and conduct of the action to the duke's 
 favorite, Mr. Cadogan. 
 
 There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this strange 
 behavior of General Webb, who had almost drawn a sword upon the 
 commander-in-chief; but the general, after the first outbreak of his anger, 
 mastered it outwardly altogether; and, by his subsequent behavior, had 
 the satisfaction of even more angering the commander-in-chief, than he 
 could have done by any public exhibition of resentment. 
 
 On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his chief adviser, 
 Mr. Esmond, who was now entirely in the general's confidence, and 
 treated by him as a friend, and almost a son, Mr. Webb wrote a letter 
 to his grace the commander-in-chief, in which he said: 
 
 Your grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of the London 
 Gazette, in which your grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, hath mentioned 
 Major-General Cadogan's name as the officer commanding in the late 
 action of Wynendael, must have caused a feeling of anything but pleasure 
 to the general who fought that action. 
 
 Your grace must be aware that Mr. Cadogan was not even present at 
 the battle, though he arrived with squadrons of horse at its close, and put 
 himself under the command of his superior officer. And as the result of 
 the battle of Wynendael, in which Lieutenant-General Webb had the 
 good fortune to command, was the capture of Lille, the relief of Brussels, 
 then invested by the enemy under the Elector of Bavaria, the restoration 
 of the great cities of Ghent and Bruges, of which the enemy (by treason 
 within the walls) had got possession in the previous year, Mr. Webb 
 cannot consent to forego the honors of such a success and service, for the 
 benefit of Mr. Cadogan, or any other person. 
 
 As soon as the military operations of the year are over, Lieutenant- 
 General Webb will request permission to leave the army, and return to 
 his place in Parliament, where he gives notice to his grace the commander- 
 in-chief, that he shall lay his case before the House of Commons, the 
 country, and Her Majesty the Queen. 
 
 By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the Gazette, which 
 
 258
 
 had been written by his grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, Mr. Webb, not 
 being able to reach his grace the commander-in-chief on account of the 
 gentlemen seated between them, placed the paper containing the false 
 statement on his sword, so that it might more readily arrive in the hands 
 of his grace the Duke of Marlborough, who surely would wish to do 
 justice to every officer of his army. 
 
 Mr. Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubordination to his 
 superior officer, or of using his sword in a campaign against any but the 
 enemies of Her Majesty. He solicits permission to return to England im- 
 mediately the military duties will permit, and take with him to England 
 Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who acted as his aide-de-camp, and 
 was present during the entire action, and noted by his watch the time 
 when Mr. Cadogan arrived at its close. 
 
 The commander-in-chief could not but grant this permission, nor 
 could he take notice of Webb's letter, though it was couched in terms 
 the most insulting. Half the army believed that the cities of Ghent and 
 Bruges were given up by a treason, which some in our army very well 
 understood ; that the com.mander-in-chief would not have relieved Lille, 
 if he could have helped himself; that he would not have fought that 
 year had not the Prince of Savoy forced him. When the battle once began, 
 then, for his own renown, my Lord Marlborough v/ould fight as no man 
 in the world ever fought better ; and no bribe on earth could keep him 
 from beating the enemy.^ 
 
 But the matter was taken up by the subordinates; and half the army 
 might have been by the ears, if the quarrel had not been stopped. Gen- 
 
 1 Our grandfather's hatred of the Duke of Marlborough appears all through his 
 account of these campaigns. He always persisted that the duke was the greatest 
 traitor and soldier history ever told of; and declared that he took bribes on all 
 hands during the war. My lord marquis (for so we may call him here, though he 
 never went by any other name than Colonel Esmond) was in the habit of telling 
 many stories which he did not set down in his Memoirs, and which he had from 
 his friend the Jesuit, who was not always correctly informed, and who persisted 
 that Marlborough v/as looking for a bribe of two millions of crowns before the 
 campaign of Ramillies. 
 
 And our grandmother used to tell us children, that on his first presentation to 
 my lord duke, the duke turned his back upon my grandfather; and said to the 
 duchess, who told my Lady Dowager at Chelsey, who afterwards told Colonel 
 Esmond: 'Tom Esmond's bastard has been to my levee: he has the hang-dog look 
 of his rogue of a father" — an expression which my grandfather never forgave. 
 He was as constant in his dislikes as in his attachments ; and exceedingly partial to 
 Webb, whose side he took against the more celebrated general. We have General 
 Webb's portrait now at Castlewood, Va. 
 
 259
 
 eral Cadogan sent an intimation to General Webb to say that he v/as 
 ready if Webb hked, and would meet him. This was a kind of invitation 
 our stout old general was always too ready to accept, and 'twas with 
 great difficulty we got the gener?.l to reply that he had no quarrel 
 with Mr. Cadogan, who had behaved with perfect gallantry, but only with 
 those at headquarters, who had belied him. Mr. Cardonnel offered Gen- 
 eral Webb reparation; Mr. Webb said he had a cane at the service of 
 Mr. Cardonnel, and the only satisfaction he wanted from him was one 
 he was not likely to get, namely, the truth. The officers in our staff of 
 Webb's, and those in the immediate suite of the general, were ready to 
 come to blows; and hence arose the only affair in which Mr. Esmond 
 ever engaged as principal, and that was from a revengeful wish to wipe 
 off an old injury. 
 
 My Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield's regiment 
 of the Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the duke. He had sunk by 
 this time to the very worst reputation ; he had had another fatal duel in 
 Spain; he had married, and forsaken his wife; he was a gambler, a 
 profligate, and debauchee. He joined just before Oudenarde; and, as 
 Esmond feared, as soon as Frank Castlewood heard of his arrival, Frank 
 was for seeking him out, and killing him. The wound my lord got at 
 Oudenarde prevented their meeting, but that was nearly healed, and Mr. 
 Esmond trembled daily lest any chance should bring his boy and this 
 known assassin together. They met at the mess-table of Handyside's regi- 
 ment at Lille; the officer commanding not knowing of the feud between 
 the two noblemen. 
 
 Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of Mohun for nine 
 years, since they had met on that fatal night in Leicester Field. It was 
 degraded with crime and passion now; it wore the anxious look of a 
 man who has three deaths, and who knows how many hidden shames, 
 and lusts, and crimes on his conscience. He bowed with a sickly low 
 bow, and slunk away when our host presented us round to one another. 
 Frank Castlewood had not known him till then, so changed was he. He 
 knew the boy well enough. 
 
 'Twas curious to look at the two — especially the young man, whose 
 face flushed up when he heard the hated name of the other; and who 
 said in his bad French and his brave boyish voice, "He had long been 
 anxious to meet my Lord Mohun." The other only bowed, and moved 
 away from him. "'"o do him justice, he wished to have no quarrel with 
 the lad. 
 
 260
 
 Esmond put himself between them at table. "D it," says Frank, 
 
 "why do you put yourself in the place of a man who is above you in 
 degree? My Lord Mohun should walk after me. I want to sit by my 
 Lord Mohun." 
 
 Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun, that Frank was hurt in the leg 
 at Oudenarde; and besought the other to be quiet. Quiet enough he 
 was for some time; disregarding the many taunts which young Castle- 
 wood flung at him, until after several healths, when my Lord Mohun 
 got to be rather in liquor. 
 
 ""Will you go away, my lord?" Mr. Esmond said to him, imploring 
 him to quit the table. 
 
 "No, by G ," says my Lord Mohun. "Ell not go away for any 
 
 man" ; he was quite flushed with wine by this time. 
 
 The talk got round to the affairs of yesterday. Webb had offered to 
 challenge the commander-in-chief: Webb had been ill-used: Webb was 
 the bravest, handsomest, vainest man in the army. Lord Mohun did not 
 know that Esmond was Webb's aide-de-camp. He began to tell some 
 stories against the general ; which, from t'other side of Esmond, young 
 Castlewood contradicted. 
 
 "I can't bear any more of this," says my Lord Mohun. 
 
 "Nor can I, my lord," says Mr. Esmond, starting up. "The story my 
 Lord Mohun has told respecting General Webb is false, gentlemen — 
 false, I repeat," and making a low bow to Lord Mohun, and without a 
 single word more, Esmond got up and left the dining-room. These 
 affairs were common enough among the military of those days. There 
 was a garden behind the house, and all the party turned instantly into 
 it; and the two gentlemen's coats were off and their points engaged 
 within two minutes after Esmond's words had been spoken. If Captain 
 Esmond had put Mohun out of the world, as he might, a villain would 
 have been punished and spared further villainies — but who is one man 
 to punish another? I declare upon my honor that my only thought was 
 to prevent Lord Mohun from mischief with Frank, and the end of this 
 meeting was, that after half-a-dozen passes my lord went home with i 
 hurt which prevented him from lifting his right arm for three months. 
 
 "Oh, Harry ! why didn't you kill the villain ?" young Castlewood asked. 
 "I can't walk without a crutch: but I could have met him on horseback 
 with sword and pistol." But Harry Esmond said, " 'Twas best to have 
 no man's life on one's conscience, not even that villain's." And this 
 affair, which did not occupy three minutes, being over, the gentlemen 
 
 261
 
 •went back to their wine, and my Lord Mohun to his quarters, where he 
 was laid up with a fever which had spared mischief had it proved fatal. 
 And very soon after this ajffair Harry Esmond and his general left the 
 camp for London; whither a certain reputation had preceded the cap- 
 tain, for my Lady Castlewood of Chelsey received him as if he had been 
 a conquering hero. She gave a great dinner to Mr. Webb, where the 
 general's chair was crowned with laurels; and her ladyship called Es- 
 mond's health in a toast, to which my kind general was graciously pleased 
 to bear the strongest testimony: and took down a mob of at least forty 
 coaches to cheer our general as he came out of the House of Commons, 
 the day when he received the thanks of Parliament for his action. The 
 mob hu22a'd and applauded him, as well as the fine company: it was 
 splendid to see him waving his hat, and bowing, and laying his hand 
 upon his Order of Generosity. He introduced Mr. Esmond to Mr. St. 
 John and the Right Honorable Robert Harley, Esquire, as he came out 
 of the House walking between them; and was pleased to make many 
 flattering observations regarding Mr. Esmond's behavior during the three 
 last campaigns. 
 
 Mr. St. John (who had the most winning presence of any man I ever 
 saw, excepting always my peerless young Frank Castlewood) said he 
 had heard of Mr. Esmond before from Captain Steele, and how he had 
 helped Mr. Addison to write his famous poem of the "Campaign." 
 
 " 'Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim itself," 
 Mr. Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron of letters, and 
 so, perhaps, it may be — though for my part I think there are twenty 
 beautiful lines, but all the rest is commonplace, and Mr. Addison's hymn 
 worth a thousand such poems. 
 
 All the town was indignant at my lord duke's unjust treatment of 
 General Webb, and applauded the vote of thanks which the House of 
 Commons gave to the general for his victory at Wynendael. 'Tis certain 
 that the capture of Lille was the consequence of that lucky achievement, 
 and the humiUation of the old French King, who was said to suffer more 
 at the loss of this great city, than from any of the former victories our 
 troops had won over him. And, I think, no small part of Mr. Webb's 
 exultation at his victory arose from the idea that Marlborough had been 
 disappointed of a great bribe the French King had promised him, should 
 the siege be raised. The very sum of money offered to him was men- 
 tioned by the duke's enemies; and honest Mr. Webb chuckled at the 
 notion, not only of beating the French, but of beating Marlborough too, 
 
 262
 
 and intercepting a convoy of three millions of French crowns, that were 
 on their way to the generahssimo's insatiable pockets. When the general's 
 lady went to the Queen's drawing-room, all the Tory women crowded 
 round her with congratulations, and made her a train greater than the 
 Duchess of Marlborough's own. Feasts were given to the general by 
 all the chiefs of the Tory party, who vaunted him as the duke's equal 
 in military skill; and perhaps used the worthy soldier as their instru- 
 ment, while he thought they were but acknowledging his merits as a 
 commander. As the general's aide-de-camp and favorite officer, Mr. 
 Esmond came in for a share of his chief's popularity, and was presented 
 to Her Majesty and advanced to the rank of lieutenant-colonel at the 
 request of his grateful chief. 
 
 We may be sure there was one family in which any good fortune that 
 happened to Esmond caused such a sincere pride and pleasure, that he, 
 for his part, was thankful he could make them so happy. With these fond 
 friends Blenheim and Oudenarde seemed to be mere trifling incidents 
 of the war; and Wynendael was its crowning victory. Esmond's mistress 
 never tired to hear accounts of the battle; and I think General Webb's 
 lady grew jealous of her, for the general was for ever at Kensington, and 
 talking on that delightful theme. As for his aide-de-camp, though, no 
 doubt, Esmond's own natural vanity was pleased at the little share of 
 reputation which his good fortune had won him, yet it was chiefly precious 
 to him (he may say so, now that he has long since outlived it) because 
 it pleased his mistress, and, above all, because Beatrix valued it. 
 
 As for the old Dowager of Chelsey, never was an old woman in all 
 England more delighted nor more gracious than she. Esmond had his 
 quarters in her ladyship's house, where the domestics were instructed to 
 consider him as their master. She bade him give entertainments, of which 
 she defrayed the charges, and was charmed when his guests were car- 
 ried away tipsy in their coaches. She must have his picture taken; and 
 accordingly he was painted by Mr. Jervas, in his red coat, and smiling 
 upon a bombshell, which was bursting at the corner of the piece. She 
 vowed that unless he made a great match, she should never die easy, 
 and was forever bringing young ladies to Chelsey with pretty faces and 
 pretty fortunes, at the disposal of the colonel. He smiled to think how 
 times were altered with him, and of the early days in his father's life- 
 time, when a trembling page he stood before her, with her ladyship's 
 basin and ewer, or crouched in her coach-step. The only fault she found 
 with him was, that he was more sober than an Esmond ought to be ; and 
 
 263
 
 would neither be carried to bed by his valet, nor lose hi$. '^eart to any 
 beauty, whether of St. James's or Covent Garden. 
 
 What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the birth of it? 
 'Tis a state of mind that men fail into, and depending on the man rather 
 than the woman. We love being in love, that's the truth on't. If we had 
 not met Joan, we should have met Kate, and adored her. We know our 
 mistresses are no better than many other women, nor no prettier, nor no 
 wiser, nor no wittier. 'Tis not for these reasons we love a woman, or for 
 any special quality or charm I know of; we might as well demand that 
 a lady should be the tallest woman in the world, like the Shropshire 
 giantess,! ^s that she should be a paragon in any other character, before 
 we began to love her. Esmond's mistress had a thousand faults beside 
 her charms ; he knew both perfectly well ! She was imperious, she was 
 light-minded, she was flighty, she was false, she had no reverence in 
 her character; she was in everything, even in beauty, the contrast of her 
 mother, who was the most devoted and the least selfish of women. Well, 
 from the very first moment he saw her on the stairs at Walcote, Esmond 
 knew he loved Beatrix. There might be better women — he wanted that 
 one. He cared for none other. Was it because she was gloriously beautiful ? 
 Beautiful as she was, he had heard people say a score of times in their 
 company that Beatrix's mother looked as young, and was the hand- 
 somer of the two. Why did her voice thrill in his ear so? She could not 
 sing near so well as Nicolini or Mrs. Tofts ; nay, she sang out of tune, 
 and yet he liked to hear her better than St. Cecelia. She had not a finer 
 complexion than Mrs. Steele (Dick's wife, whom he had now got, and 
 who ruled poor Dick with a rod of pickle) , and yet to see her dazzled 
 Esmond; he would shut his eyes, and the thought of her dazzled him 
 all the same. She was brilliant and lively in talk, but not so incomparably 
 witty as her mother, who, when she was cheerful, said the finest things; 
 but yet to hear her, and to be v/ith her, was Esmond's greatest pleasure. 
 Days passed away between him and these ladies, he scarce knew how. 
 He poured his heart out to them, so as he never could in any other com- 
 pany, where he has generally passed for being moody, or supercilious 
 and silent. This society- was more delightful than that of the greatest 
 wits to him. May Heaven pardon him the lies he told the Dowager at 
 
 1 'Tis not thus woman loves; Col. E. hath owned to this folly for a score of 
 women besides. — R. 
 
 2 And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand times more charming, 
 for where was his equal .-' — ^R. 
 
 264
 
 Cheisey in crder to get a pretext for going away to Kensington: the 
 business at the Ordnance which he invented; the interviews with his 
 general, the courts and statesmen's levees which he didn't frequent, and 
 described ; who wore a new suit on Sunday at St. James's or at the Queen's 
 birthday; how many coaches filled the street at Mr. Harley's levee; bow 
 many bottles he had had the honor to drink over-night with Mr. St. John 
 at the "Cocoa-Tree," or at the "Garter" with Mr. Walpole and Mr. Steele. 
 
 Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the point of 
 making great matches, so the Court scandal said ; but for his part Esmond 
 never would believe the stories against her; and came back, after three 
 years' absence from her, not so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still 
 hungering after her and no other; still hopeful, still kneeling, with his 
 heart in his hand for the young lady to take. We were now got to 1709. 
 She was near twenty-two years old, and three years at Court and without 
 a husband. 
 
 " 'Tis not for want of being asked," Lady Castlewood said, looking 
 into Esmond's heart, as she could, with that perceptiveness affection 
 gives. "But she will make no mean match, Harry; she will not marry as 
 I would have her; the person whom I should like to call my son, and 
 Henry Esmond knows who that is, is best served by my not pressing his 
 claim. Beatrix is so wilful, that what I would urge on her, she would 
 be sure to resist. The man who would marry her will not be happy with 
 her, unless he be a great person, and can put her in a great position. 
 Beatrix loves admiration more than love; and longs, beyond all things, 
 for command. Why should a mother speak so of her child? You are 
 my son, too, Hirry. You should know the truth about your sister. I 
 thought you might cure yourself of your passion," my lady added fondly. 
 "Other people can cure themselves of that folly, you know. But I see 
 you are still as infatuated as ever. When we read your name in the 
 Gazette, I pleaded for you, my poor boy. Poor boy, indeed! You are 
 growing a grave old gentleman, now, and I am an old woman. She 
 likes your fa.Tie well enough, and she likes your person. She says you 
 have wit, and fire, and good breeding, and are more natural than the 
 fine gentlemen of the Court. But this is not enough. She wants a com- 
 mander-in-chief, and not a colonel. Were a duke to ask her, she would 
 have an earl whom she had promised. I told you so before. I know not 
 how my poor girl is so worldly." 
 
 "Well," says Esmond, "a man can but give his best and his all. She 
 has that from me. What little reputation I have won, I swear I cared for 
 
 265
 
 it because I thought Beatrix would be pleased with it. What care I to 
 be a colonel, or a general? Think you 'twill matter a few score years 
 hence, what our foolish honors today are? I would have had a little 
 fame, that she might wear it in her hat. If I had anything better, I would 
 endow her with it. If she wants my life, I would give it her. If she marries 
 another, I will say God bless him. I make no boast, nor no complaint. 
 I think my fidelity is folly perhaps. But so it is. I cannot help myself. 
 I love her. You are a thousand times better: the fondest, the fairest, the 
 dearest of women. Sure my dear lady, I see all Beatrix's faults as well 
 as you do. But she is my fate. 'Tis endurable. I shall not die for not 
 having her. I thing I should be no happier if I won her. Que voulez-vous? 
 as my Lady of Chelsey would say. ]e Vahne." 
 
 '"i wish she would have you," said Harry's fond mistress, giving a 
 hand to him. He kissed the fair hand ('twas the prettiest dimpled little 
 hand in the world, and my Lady Castlewood, though now almost forty 
 years old, did not look to be within ten years of her age) . He kissed and 
 kept her fair hand as they talked together. 
 
 "Why," says he, "should she hear me? She knows what I would say. 
 Far or near, she knows I'm her slave. I have sold myself for nothing, 
 it may be. Well, 'tis the price I choose to take. I am worth nothing, or 
 I am worth all." 
 
 "You are such a treasure," Esmond's mistress was pleased to say; "that 
 the woman who has your love, shouldn't change it away against a king- 
 dom, I think. I am a country-bred woman, and cannot say but the ambi- 
 tions of the town seem mean to me. I never was awestricken by my 
 lady duchess's rank and finery, or afraid," she added, with a sly laugh, 
 "of anything but her temper. I hear of Court ladies who pine because 
 Her Majesty looks cold on them; and great noblemen who would give 
 a limb that they might wear a garter on the other. This worldliness, 
 which I can't comprehend, was born with Beatrix, who, on the first day 
 of her waiting, was a perfect courtier. We are like sisters, and she the 
 elder sister, somehow. She tells me I have a mean spirit. I laugh, and 
 say she adores a coach-and-six. I cannot reason her out of her ambition. 
 'Tis natural to her, as to me to love quiet and be indifferent about rank 
 and riches. What are they, Harry? and for how long do they last? Our 
 home is not here." She smiled as she spoke, and looked like an angel 
 that was only on earth on a visit. "Our home is where the just are, and 
 where our sins and sorrows enter not. My father used to rebuke me, 
 and say that I was too hopeful about heaven. But I cannot help my 
 266
 
 nature, and grow obstinate as I grow to be an old woman ; and as I love 
 my children so, sure our Father loves us with a thousand and a thousand 
 times greater love. It must be that we shall meet yonder, and be happy. 
 Yes, you — and my children, and my dear lord. Do you know, Harry, 
 since his death, it has always seemed to me as if his love came back to 
 me, and that we are parted no more. Perhaps he is here now, Harry — I 
 think he is. Forgiven I am sure he is: even Mr. Atterbury absolved him, 
 and he died forgiving. Oh, what a noble heart he had! How generous 
 he was ! I was but fifteen and a child when he married me. How good he 
 was to stoop to me! He was always good to the poor and humble." She 
 stopped, then presently, with a peculiar expression, as if her eyes were 
 looking into heaven, and saw my lord there, she smiled, and gave a little 
 laugh. "I laugh to see you, sir," she says; "when you come, it seerr" as 
 if you never were away." One may put her words down, and remember 
 them, but how describe her sweet tones, sweeter than music! 
 
 My young lord did not come home at the end of the campaign, and 
 wrote that he was kept at Bruxelles on military duty. Indeed, I believe 
 he was engaged in laying siege to a certain lady, who was of the suite 
 of Madame de Soissons, the Prince of Savoy's mother, who was just 
 dead, and who, like the Flemish fortress, was taken and retaken a great 
 number of times during the war, and occupied by French, English and 
 Imperialists. Of course, Mr. Esmond did not think fit to enlighten Lady 
 Castlewood regarding the young scapegrace's doings ; nor had he said a 
 word about the affair with Lord Mohun, knowing how abhorrent that 
 man's name was to his mistress. Ffank did not waste much time or money 
 on pen and ink; and, when Harry came home with his general, only 
 wrote two lines to his mother, to say his wound in the leg was almost 
 healed, that he would keep his coming of age next year — that the duty 
 aforesaid would keep him at Br\ixelles, and that Cousin Harry would tell 
 all the news. 
 
 But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood always liked 
 to have a letter about the famous 29th of December, my lord wrote her a 
 long and full one, and in this he must have described the affair with 
 Mohun ; for when Mr. Esmond came to visit his mistress one day, early 
 in the new year, to his great wonderment, she and her daughter both came 
 up and saluted him, and after them the Dowager of Chelsey, too, whose 
 chairman had just brought her Ladyship from her village to Kensington 
 across the fields. After this honor, I say, from the two ladies of Castle- 
 wood, the dowager came forward in great state, with her grand tall 
 
 267
 
 head-dress of King James's reign, that she never forsook, and said, 
 "Cousin Henry, all our family have met ; and we thank you, cousin, for 
 your noble conduct towards the head of our house." And pointing to her 
 blushing cheek, she made Mr. Esmond aware that he was to enjoy the 
 rapture of an embrace there. Having saluted one cheek, she turned to 
 him the other. "Cousin Harry," said both the other ladies, in a little 
 chorus, "we thank you for your noble conduct" ; and then Harry became 
 aware that the story of the Lille affair had come to his kinswomen's ears. 
 It pleased him to hear them all saluting him as one of their family. 
 
 The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great entertainment; 
 and the ladies were in gala dresses— my Lady of Chelsey in her highest 
 tour, my lady viscountess out of black, and looking fair and happy 
 a ravir; and the maid of honor attired with that splendor which naturally 
 distinguished her, and wearing on her beautiful breast the French officer's 
 star, which Frank had sent home after Ramillies. 
 
 "You see, 'tis a gala day with us," says she, glancing down to the star 
 complacently, "and we have our orders on. Does not mamma look charm- 
 ing? 'Twas I dressed her!" Indeed, Esmond's dear mistress, blushing as 
 he looked at her, with her beautiful fair hair, and an elegant dress, accord- 
 ing to the mode, appeared to have the shape and complexion of a girl of 
 twenty. 
 
 On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard, and a beauti- 
 ful chased silver handle, with a blue riband for a sword-knot. "What is 
 this?" says the captain, going up to look at this pretty piece. 
 
 Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. "Kneel dov/n," says she: "we dub 
 you our knight with this" — and she waved the sword over his head. 
 "My lady dowager hath given the sword; and I give the riband, and 
 mamma hath sewn on the fringe." 
 
 "Put the sword on him, Beatrix," says her mother. "You are our knight, 
 Harry— our true knight. Take a mother's thanks and prayers for de- 
 fending her son, my dear dear friend." She could say no more, and even 
 the dowager was affected, for a couple of rebellious tears made sad marks 
 down those wrinkled old roses which Esmond had just been allowed to 
 salute. 
 
 "We had a letter from dearest Frank," his mother said, "three days 
 since, while you were on your visit to your friend Captain Steele, at 
 Hampton. He told us all that you had done, and how nobly you had 
 put yourself between him and that— that wretch." 
 
 "And I adopt you from this day," says the dowager; "and I wish I 
 
 268
 
 was richer, for your sake, son Esmond," she added with a wave of her 
 hand ; and as Mr. Esmond dutifully went down on his knee before her 
 ladyship, she cast her eyes up to the ceiling (the gilt chandelier, and the 
 twelve wax-candles in it, for the party was numerous), and invoked a 
 blessing from that quarter upon the newly adopted son. 
 
 "Dear Frank," says the other viscountess, "how fond he is of his mili- 
 tary profession! He is studying fortification very hard. I wish he were 
 here. We shall keep his coming of age at Castlewood next year." 
 
 "If the campaign permit us," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "I am never afraid when he is with you," cries the boy's mother. "I 
 am sure my Henry will always defend him." 
 
 "But there will be a peace before next year; we know it for certain," 
 cries the maid of honor. "Lord Marlborough will be dismissed, and that 
 horrible duchess turned out of all her places. Her Majesty won't speak 
 to her now. Did you see her at Bushy, Harry? She is furious, and she 
 ranges about the park like a lioness, and tears people's eyes out." 
 
 "And the Princess Anne will send for somebody," says my Lady of 
 Chelsey, taking out her medal and kissing it. 
 
 "Did you see the King at Oudenarde, Harry?" his mistress asked. 
 She was a staunch Jacobite, and would no more have thought of deny- 
 ing her King than her God. 
 
 "I saw the young Hanoverian only," Harry said. "The Chevalier de 
 St. George " 
 
 "The King, sir, the King!" said the ladies and Miss Beatrix; and she 
 clapped her pretty hands, and cried, "V^e le Roy!" 
 
 By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove in the doors 
 of the house almost. It was three o'clock, and the company were arriving; 
 and presently the servant announced Captain Steele and his lady. 
 
 Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had driven to 
 Kensington from their country house, the Hovel at Hampton Wick. 
 "Not from our mansion in Bloomsbury Square," as Mrs. Steele took care 
 to inform the ladies. Indeed, Harry had ridden away from Hampton that 
 very morning, leaving the couple by the ears; for from the chamber 
 where he lay, in a bed that was none of the cleanest, and kept awake by 
 the company which he had in his own bed, and the quarrel which was 
 going on in the next room, he could hear both night and morning the 
 curtain lecture which Mrs. Steele was in the habit of administering to 
 poor Dick, 
 
 At night it did not matter so much for the culprit; Dick was fuddled, 
 
 269
 
 and when in that way no scolding could interrupt his benevolence. 
 Mr. Esmond could hear him coaxing and speaking in that maudlin man- 
 ner, which punch and claret produce, to his beloved Prue, and beseech- 
 ing her to remember that there was a distiwisht officer ithe rex roob, 
 who would overhear her. She went on, nevertheless, calling him a 
 drunken wretch, and was only interrupted in her harangues by the 
 captain's snoring. 
 
 In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache and con- 
 sciousness, and the dialogue of the night was resumed. "Why do you 
 bring captains home to dinner when there's not a guinea in the house? 
 How am I to give dinners when you leave me without a shilling?^ How 
 am I to go trapesing to Kensington in my yellow satin sack before all the 
 fine company? I've nothing fit to put on; I never have": and so the dis- 
 pute went on — Mr. Esmond interrupting the talk when it seemed to be 
 growing too intimate by blowing his nose as loudly as ever he could, 
 at the sound of which trumpet there came a lull. But Dick was charming, 
 though his wife was odious, and 'twas to give Mr. Steele pleasure that 
 the ladies of Castlewood, who were ladies of no small fashion, Invited 
 Mrs. Steele. 
 
 Besides the captain and his lady there was a great and notable assem- 
 blage of company: my Lady of Chelsey having sent her lackeys and 
 liveries to aid the modest attendance at Kensington. There was 
 Lieutenant-General Webb, Harry's kind patron, of whom the dowager 
 took possession, and who resplended in velvet and gold lace; there was 
 Harry's new acquaintance, the Right Honorable Henry St. John, Esquire, 
 the general's kinsman, who was charmed with the Lady Castlewood, even 
 more than with her daughter; there was one of the greatest noblemen 
 in the kingdom, the Scots Duke of Hamilton, just created Duke of 
 Brandon in England, and two other noble lords of the Tory party, my 
 Lord Ashburnham, and another I have forgot; and for ladies, her grace 
 the Duchess of Ormond and her daughters, the Lady Mary and the 
 Lady Betty, the former one of Mistress Beatrix's colleagues in waiting 
 on the Queen. 
 
 "What a party of Tories!" whispered Captain Steele to Esmond, as 
 we were assembled in the parlor before dinner. Indeed, all the company 
 present, save Steele, were of that faction. 
 
 Mr. St. John made his special compliments to ^L's. S!;ecle, and so 
 charmed her that she declared she would have Steele a Tory too. 
 
 270
 
 "Or will you have me a Whig?" says Mr. St. John. "I think, madam, 
 you could convert a man to anything." 
 
 "If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will teach him 
 what I know," says Mrs. Steele, dropping her handsome eyes. "Do you 
 know Bloomsbury Square?" 
 
 "Do I know the Mall? Do I know the Opera? Do I know the reign- 
 ing toast? Why, Bloomsbury is the very height of the mode," says Mr. 
 St. John. " 'Tis rus in urhe. You have gardens all the way to Hampstead, 
 and palaces round about you— Southampton House and Montague 
 House." 
 
 "Where you wretches go and fight duels," cries Mrs. Steele. 
 
 "Of which the ladies are the cause!" says her entertainer. "Madam, 
 is Dick a good swordsman ? How charming the Tatler is ! We all recog- 
 nized your portrait in the 49th number, and I have been dying to know 
 you ever since I read it. "Aspasia must be allowed to be the first of the 
 beauteous order of love.' Doth not the passage run so? 'In this accom- 
 j plished lady love is the constant effect, though it is never the design; 
 yet though her mien carries much more invitation than command, to 
 behold her is an immediate check to loose behavior, and to love her is a 
 liberal education.' " 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to understand a 
 word of what the gentleman was saying. 
 
 "Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress?" says 
 Mr. St. John, still gallant and bowing. 
 
 "Mistress! upon my word, sir!" cries the lady. "If you mean me, sir, 
 I would have you know that I am the captain's wife." 
 
 "Sure we all know it," answers Mr. St. John, keeping his countenance 
 very gravely; and Steele broke in saying, " 'Twas not about Mrs. Steele I 
 wrote that paper — though I am sure she is worthy of any compliment 
 I can pay her — but of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings." 
 
 "I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a poet," says Mr. 
 St. John. "Is it true that his hand is to be found in your Tatler, Mr. 
 Steele?" 
 
 "Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can come near 
 him," cries Steele. 
 
 "A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison" ; cries out his lady: "a gentleman 
 who gives himself such airs and holds his head so high now. I hope 
 your ladyship thinks as I do: I can't bear those very fair men with white 
 eyelashes — a black man for me." (All the black men at table applauded, 
 
 271
 
 and made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) "As for this Mr. 
 Addison," she went on, "he comes to dine with the captain sometimes, 
 never says a word to me, and then they walk upstairs, both tipsy, to a 
 dish of tea. I remember your Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to 
 his back, and that with a patch at the elbow." 
 
 "Indeed — a patch at the elbow! You interest me," says Mr. St. John. 
 " 'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters from the charming wife 
 of another." 
 
 "La, I could tell you ever so much about 'em," continues the voluble 
 lady. "What do you think the captain has got now? — a little hunchback 
 fellow — a little hop-o'-my-thumb creature that he calls a poet — a little 
 Popish brat !" 
 
 "Hush! there are two in the room," whispers her companion. 
 
 "Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope," says the lady. 
 " 'Tis only my joking way. And this little dwarf of a fellow has wrote 
 a pastoral poem — all about shepherds and shepherdesses, you know." 
 
 "A shepherd should have a little crook," says my mistress, laughing 
 from her end of the table; on which Mrs. Steele said, "She did not know, 
 but the captain brought home this queer little creature when she was in 
 bed with her first boy, and it was a mercy he had come no sooner ; and 
 Dick raved about his genus, and was always raving about some non- 
 sense or other." 
 
 "Which of the Tatlers do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?" asked Mr. St. John. 
 
 "I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, sir," says 
 the lady. "Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as 
 it all is ! There's the captain going on still with the burgundy — I know 
 he'll be tipsy before he stops — Captain Steele!" 
 
 "I drink to your eyes, my dear," says the captain, who seemed to 
 think his wife charming, and to receive as genuine all the satiric compli- 
 ments which Mr. St. John paid her. 
 
 All this while the maid of honor had been trying to get Mr. Esmond 
 to talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow. For, by some mistake, 
 just as he was going to pop into the vacant place, he was placed far 
 away from Beatrix's chair, who sat between his grace and my Lord Ash- 
 burnham, and shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and cast a look as if 
 to say, "Pity me," to her cousin. My lord duke and his young neighbor 
 were presently in a very animated and close conversation. Mrs. Beatrix 
 could no more help using her eyes than the sun can help shining, and 
 setting those it shines on a-burning. By the time the first course was done 
 
 272 
 
 !
 
 the dinner seemed long to Esmond ; by the time the soup came he fancied 
 they must have been hours at table; and as for the sweets and jellies he 
 thought they never would be done. 
 
 At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian glance at her 
 duke as she retreated ; a fresh bottle and glasses were fetched, and toasts 
 were called. Mr. St. John asked his grace the Duke of Hamilton and the 
 company to drink to the health of his grace the Duke of Brandon. An- 
 other lord gave General Webb's health, "and may he get the command 
 the bravest officer in the world deserves." Mr. Webb thanked the com- 
 pany, complimented his aide-de-camp, and fought his famous battle 
 over again. 
 
 "II est fatiguant," whispers Mr. St. John, "avec sa trompette de 
 Wynendael." 
 
 Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the health of 
 the Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the age. 
 
 "I drink to the greatest general with all my heart," says Mr. Webb; 
 "there can be no gainsaying that character of him. My glass goes to the 
 general, and not to the duke, Mr. Steele." And the stout old gentleman 
 emptied his bumper; to which Dick replied by filling and emptying a 
 pair of brimmers, one for the general and one for the duke. 
 
 And now his Grace of Hamilton, rising up with flashing eyes (we 
 had all been drinking pretty freely), proposed a toast to the lovely, to 
 the incomparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond; we all drank it with cheers, 
 and my Lord Ashburnham especially, with a shout of enthusiasm. 
 
 "What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton!" whispers St. John, 
 who drank more wine and yet was more steady than most of the others, 
 and we entered the drawing-room where the ladies were at their tea. 
 As for poor Dick, v/e were obliged to leave him alone at the dininr^ table, 
 where he was hiccupping out the lines from the Campaign, in which the 
 greatest poet had celebrated the greatest general in the world; and Harry 
 Esmond found him, half-an-hour afterwards, in a more advanced stage 
 of liquor, and weeping about the treachery of Tom Boxer. 
 
 The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of the grand 
 illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him. When my lord duke went 
 away, she practised upon the next in rank, and plied my young Lord 
 Ashburnham with all the fire of her eyes and the fascinations of her wit. 
 Most of the party were set to cards, and Mr. St. John, after yawning in 
 the face of Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care to pursue any more; and 
 talking in his most brilliant animated way to Lady Castlewood, whom 
 
 273
 
 he pronounced to be beautiful, of a far higher order of beauty than her 
 daughter, presently took his leave, and went his way. The rest of the 
 company speedily followed, my Lord Ashburnham the last, throwing 
 fiery glances at the smiling young temptress, who had bewitched more 
 hearts than his in her thrall. 
 
 No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought fit to be 
 the last of all in it; he remained after the coaches had rolled away — 
 after his dowager's aunt's chair and flambeaux had marched off in the 
 darkness towards Chelsey, and the town's people had gone to bed, 
 who had been drawn into the square to gape at the unusual assemblage 
 of chairs and chariots, lackeys and torchmen. The poor mean wretch 
 lingered yet for a few minutes, to see whether the girl would vouchsafe 
 him a smile, or a parting word of consolation. But her enthusiasm of the 
 morning was quite died out, or she chose to be in a different mood. She 
 fell to joking about the dowdy appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked 
 the vulgarity of Mrs. Steele: and then she put up her little hand to her 
 mouth and yawned, lighted a taper, and shrugged her shoulders, and 
 dropping Mr. Esmond a saucy curtsey, sailed off to bed. 
 
 "The day began so well, Henry, that I had hoped it might have 
 ended better," was all the consolation that poor Esmond's fond mistress 
 could give him; and as he trudged home through the dark alone, he 
 thought with bitter rage in his heart, and a feeling of almost revolt 
 against the sacrifice he had made: "She would have me," thought he, 
 "had I but a name to give her. But for my promise to her father, I might 
 have my rank and my mistress too." 
 
 I suppose a man's vanity is stronger than any other passion in him; 
 for I blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of those distant days, 
 the memory of which still smarts, though the fever of balked desire has 
 passed away more than a score of years ago. When the writer's descen- 
 dants come to read this Memoir, I wonder will they have lived to 
 experience a similar defeat and shame? Will they ever have knelt to a 
 woman, who has listened to them, and played with them, and laughed 
 with them — who beckoning them with lures and caresses, and with Yes 
 smiling from her eyes, has tricked them on to their knees, and turned 
 her back and left them? All this shame Mr. Esmond had to undergo; 
 and he submitted, and revolted, and presently came crouching back 
 for more. 
 
 After this feste, my young Lord Ashburnham's coach was for ever 
 rolling in and out of Kensington Square; his lady-mother came to visit 
 
 274
 
 Esmond's mistress, and at every assembly in the town, wherever the maid 
 of honor made her appearance, you might be pretty sure to see the young 
 gentleman in a new suit every week, and decked out in all the finery that 
 his tailor or embroiderer could furnish for him. My lord was for ever 
 paying Mr. Esmond compliments; bidding him to dinner, offering him 
 horses to ride, and giving him a thousand uncouth marks of respect and 
 goodwill. At last, one night at the coffee-house, whither my lord came 
 considerably flushed and excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr. Esmond, 
 and cries out, "Give me joy, my dearest colonel: I am the happiest 
 of men." 
 
 "The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him joy," 
 says Mr. Esmond. "What is the cause of this supreme felicity?" 
 
 "Haven't you heard .^" says he. "Don't you know? I thought the family 
 told you everything: the adorable Beatrix has promised to be mine." 
 
 "What!" cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy hours with 
 Beatrix that very morning — had written verses for her, that she had 
 sung at the harpsichord. 
 
 "Yes," says he; "I waited on her today. I saw you walking towards 
 Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach; and she looked so lovely, and 
 spoke so kind, that I couldn't help going down on my knees, and — and 
 — sure I am the happiest of men in all the world; and I'm very young; 
 but she says I shall get older: and you know I shall be of age in four 
 months ; and there's very little difference between us ; and I'm so happy. 
 I should like to treat the company to something. Let us have a bottle — a 
 dozen bottles — and drink the health of the finest woman in England." 
 
 Esmond left the young lord tossing off bumper after bumper, and 
 strolled away to Kensington to ask whether the news was true. 'Twas 
 only too sure: his mistress' sad, compassionate face told him the story: 
 and then she related what particulars of it she knew, and how my 
 young lord had made his offer, half-an-hour after Esmond went away 
 that morning, and in the very room where the song lay yet on the harpsi- 
 chord, which Esmond had written, and they had sung together. 
 
 275
 
 Book III 
 
 CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES 
 
 IN ENGLAND
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 / Come to an End of My Battles and Bruises 
 
 That feverish desire to gai? a little reputation which Esmond had had, 
 left him now perhaps that he had attained some portion of his wish, 
 and the great motive of his arr/bition was over. His desire for military 
 honor was that it might raise him in Beatrix's eyes. 'Twas, next to nobility 
 and wealth, the only kind of rank she valued. It was the stake quickest 
 won or lost too; for law is a very long game that requires a life to 
 practice; and to be distinguished in letters or the Church would not have 
 forwarded the poor gentleman's plans in the least. So he had no suit to 
 play but the red one, and he played it; and this, in truth, was the reason 
 of his speedy promotion; for he exposed himself more than most gen- 
 tlemen do, and risked more to win more, is he the only man that has set 
 his life against a stake which may be not worth the winning? Another 
 risks his life (and his honor, too, sometimes) against a bundle of bank- 
 notes, or a yard of blue riband, or a seat in Parliament; and some for the 
 mere pleasure and excitement of the sport; as a field of a hundred 
 huntsmen will do, each out-bawling and out-galloping the other at the 
 tail of a dirty fox, that is to be the prize of the foremost happy con- 
 queror. 
 
 When he heard this news of Beatrix's engagement in marriage. 
 Colonel Esmond knocked under to his fate, and resolved to surrender 
 his sword, that could win him nothing now he cared for; and in this 
 dismal frame of mind he determined to retire from the regiment, to the 
 great delight of the captain next in rank to him, who happened to be a 
 young gentleman of good fortune, who eagerly paid Mr. Esmond a 
 thousand guineas for his majority in Webb's regiment, and was knocked 
 on the head the next campaign. Perhaps Esmond would not have been 
 sorry to share his fate ; he was more the Knight of the Woeful Counte- 
 nance than ever he had been. His moodiness must have made him per- 
 fectly odious to his friends under the tents, who like a jolly fellow, and 
 laugh at a melancholy warrior always sighing after Dulcinea at home. 
 
 279
 
 Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr. Esmond qivcting the 
 army, and his kind General coincided in his wish of re-irement and 
 helped in the transfer of his commission, which brought a pretty 
 sum into his pocket. But when the commander-in-chief came home, and 
 was forced, in spite of himself, to appoint Lieutenait-General Webb to 
 the command of a division of the army in Flanders, the lieutenant- 
 general prayed Colonel Esmond so urgently to ^e his aide-de-camp and 
 military secretary, that Esmond could not resist his kind patron's en- 
 treaties, and again took the field, not attached to any regiment, but under 
 Webb's orders. What must have been tne continued agonies of fears ^ 
 and apprehensions which racked the geatle breasts of wives and matrons 
 in those dreadful days, when every Gazette brought accounts of deaths 
 and battles, and when, the present arxiety over, and the beloved person 
 escaped, the doubt still remained that a battle might be fought, possibly, 
 of which the next Flanders lette.." would bring the account ; so they, the 
 poor tender creatures, had to go on sickening and trembling through 
 the whole campaign. Whatever these terrors were on the part of Esmond's 
 mistress (and that tendereit of women must have felt them most keenly 
 for both her sons, as she called them) , she never allowed them outwardly 
 to appear, but hid her apprehension as she did her charities and devotion. 
 'Twas only by chance that Esmond, wandering in Kensington, found his 
 mistress coming out of a mean cottage there, and heard that she had a 
 score of poor retainers, whom she visited and comforted in their sick- 
 ness and poverty, and who blessed her daily. She attended the early 
 church daily (though of a Sunday, especially, she encouraged and ad- 
 vanced all sorts of cheerfulness and innocent gaiety in her little house- 
 hold) : and by notes entered into a table-book of hers at this time, and 
 devotional compositions written with a sweet artless fervor, such as the 
 best divines could not surpass, showed how fond her heart was, how 
 humble and pious her spirit, what pangs of apprehension she endured 
 silently, and with what a faithful reliance she committed the care of those 
 she loved to the awful Dispenser of death and life. 
 
 As for her ladyship at Chelsey, Esmond's newly adopted mother, she 
 was now of an age when the danger of any second party doth not disturb 
 the rest much. She cared for trumps more than for most things in life. 
 She was firm enough in her own faith, but no longer very bitter against 
 ours. She had a very good-natured, easy French director, Monsieur 
 
 1 What indeed? Psm. xci. 2, 3, 7. — R. E. 
 280
 
 Gauthier by name, who was a gentleman of the world, and would take 
 a hand of cards with Dean Atterbury, my lady's neighbor at Chelsey, and 
 was well with all the High Church party. No doubt Monsieur Gauthier 
 knew what Esmond's peculiar position was, for he corresponded with 
 Holt, and always treated Colonel Esmond with particular respect and 
 kindness; but for good reasons the colonel and the Abbe never spoke 
 on this matter together, and so they remained perfect good friends. 
 
 All the frequenters of my Lady of Chelsey's house were of the Tory 
 and High Church party. Madam Beatrix was as frantic about the King 
 as her elderly kinswoman: she wore his picture on her heart; she had 
 a piece of his hair; she vowed he was the most injured, and gallant, and 
 accomplished, and unfortunate, and beautiful of princes. Steele, who 
 quarreled with very many of his Tory friends, but never with Esmond, 
 used to tell the colonel that his kinswoman's house was a rendezvous of 
 Tory intrigues; that Gauthier was a spy; that Atterbury was a spy; that 
 letters were constantly going from that house to the Queen of St. Ger- 
 mains ; on which Esmond, laughing, would reply, that they used to say 
 in the army the Duke of Marlborough was a spy too, and as much in 
 correspondence with that family as any Jesuit. And without entering 
 very eagerly into the controversy, Esmond had frankly taken the 
 side of his family. It seemed to him that King James the Third was 
 undoubtedly King of England by right; and at his sister's death it would 
 be better to have him than a foreigner over us. No man admired King 
 William more; a hero and a conqueror, the bravest, justest, wisest of 
 men — but 'twas by the sword he conquered the country, and held and 
 governed it by the very same right that the great Cromwell held it, who 
 was truly and greatly a sovereign. But that a foreign despotic prince, 
 out of Germany, who happened to be descended from King James the 
 First, should take possession of this empire, seemed to Mr. Esmond a 
 monstrous injustice — at least, every Englishman had a right to pro- 
 test, and the English prince, the heir-at-law, the first of all. What man 
 of spirit with such a cause would not back it? What man of honor with 
 such a crown to win would not fight for it? But that race was destined. 
 That prince had himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome. 
 He never dared to draw his sword, though he had it. He let his chances 
 slip by as he lay in the lap of opera-girls, or sniveled at the knees of 
 priests asking pardon ; and the blood of heroes, and the devotedness of 
 honest hearts, and endurance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him 
 in vain. 
 
 281
 
 But let us return to my Lady of Chelsey, who, when her son Esmond 
 armounced to her ladyship that he proposed to make the ensuing cam- 
 paign, took leave of him with perfect alacrity, and was down to piquet 
 with her gentlewoman before he had well quitted the room on his 
 last visit. "Tierce to a king," were the last words he ever heard her 
 say: the game of life was pretty nearly over for the good lady, and 
 three months afterwards she took to her bed, where she flickered out 
 without any pain, so the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to Mr. Esmond, then 
 with his general on the frontier of France. The Lady Castlewood was 
 with her at her ending, and had written too, but these letters must have 
 been taken by a privateer in the packet that brought them; for Esmond 
 knew nothing of their contents until his return to England. 
 
 My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel Esmond "as a 
 reparation for the wrong done to him"; 'twas writ in her will. But her 
 fortune was not much, for it never had been large, and the honest 
 Viscountess had wisely sunk most of the money she had upon an annuity 
 which terminated with her life. However, there was the house and 
 furniture, plate and pictures at Chelsey, and a sum of money lying at 
 her merchant's. Sir Josiah Child, which altogether would realize a sum 
 of near three hundred pounds per annum, so that Mr. Esmond found 
 himself, if not rich, at least easy for life. Likewise there were the famous 
 diamonds which had been said to be worth fabulous sums, though the 
 goldsmith pronounced they would fetch no more than four thousand 
 pounds. These diamonds, however. Colonel Esmond reserved, having a 
 special use for them; but the Chelsey house plate, goods, etc., with the 
 exception of a few articles which he kept back, were sold by his orders; 
 and the sums resulting from the sale invested in the public securities 
 so as to realize the aforesaid annual income of three hundred pounds. 
 
 Having now something to leave, he made a will and despatched it 
 home. The army was now in the presence of the enemy; and a great 
 battle expected every day. 'Twas known that the general-in-chief was in 
 disgrace, and the parties at home strong against him, and there was no 
 stroke this great and resolute player would not venture to recall his 
 fortune when it seemed desperate. Frank Castlewood was with Colonel 
 Esmond ; his general having gladly taken the young nobleman on to his 
 staff. His studies of fortification at Bruxelles were over by this time. 
 The fort he was besieging had yielded, I believe, and my lord had not 
 only marched in with flying colors, but marched out again. He used 
 
 282 
 
 I
 
 to tell his boyish wickednesses with admirable humor, and was the most 
 charming young scapegrace in the army. 
 
 'Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every penny of his 
 little fortune to this boy. It was the colonel's firm conviction that the 
 next battle would put an end to him: for he felt aweary of the sun, and 
 quite ready to bid that and the earth farewell. Frank would not listen to 
 his comrade's gloomy forebodings, but swore they would keep his birth- 
 day at Castlewood that autumn, after the campaign. He had heard of 
 the engagement at home. "If Prince Eugene goes to London," says Frank, 
 "and Trix can get hold of him, she'll jilt Ashburnham for his High- 
 ness. I tell you, she used to make eyes at the Duke of Marlborough, 
 when she was only fourteen, and ogling poor little Blandford. / wouldn't 
 marry her, Harry — no, not if her eyes were twice as big. I'll take my 
 fun. I'll enjoy for the next three years every possible pleasure. I'll sow 
 my wild oats then, and marry some quiet, steady, modest, sensible vis- 
 countess; hunt my harriers; and settle down at Castlewood. Perhaps 
 I'll represent the county — no, damme, you shall represent the county. 
 You have the brains of the family. By the Lord, my dear old Harry, 
 you have the best head and the kindest heart in the army ; and every man 
 says so — and when the Queen dies, and the King comes back, why 
 shouldn't you go to the House of Commons, and be a Minister, and 
 be made a Peer, and that sort of thing ? You be shot in the next action ! I 
 wager a dozen of burgundy you are not touched. Mohun is well of his 
 wound. He is always with Corporal John now. As soon as ever I see his 
 ugly face I'll spit in it. I took lessons of Father — of Captain Holt at 
 Bruxelles. What a man that is! He knows everything." Esmond bade 
 Frank have a care; that Father Holt's knowledge was rather dangerous; 
 not, indeed, knowing as yet how far the father had pushed his instruc- 
 tions with his young pupil. 
 
 The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and English side, have 
 given accounts sufficient of that bloody battle of Blaregnies or Mal- 
 plaquet, which was the last and the hardest earned of the victories of the 
 great Duke of Marlborough. In that tremendous combat near upon 
 two hundred and fifty thousand men were engaged, more than thirty 
 thousand of whom.were slain or wounded (the Allies lost twice as many 
 men as they killed of the French, whom they conquered) : and this 
 dreadful slaughter very likely took place because a great general's 
 credit was shaken at home, and he thought to restore it by a victory. 
 If such were the motives which induced the Duke of Marlborough to 
 
 283
 
 venture that prodigious stake, and desperately sacrifice thirty thousand 
 brave lives, so that he might figure once more in a Gazette, and hold 
 his places and pensions a little longer, the event defeated the dreadful 
 and selfish design, for the victory was purchased at a cost which no 
 nation, greedy of glory as it may be, would willingly pay for any 
 triumph. The gallantry of the French was as remarkable as the furious 
 bravery of their assailants. We took a few score of their flags, and a 
 few pieces of their artillery; but we left twenty thousand of the bravest 
 soldiers of the world round about the intrenched lines, from which the 
 enemy was driven. He retreated in perfect good order; the panic-spell 
 seemed to be broke under which the French had labored ever since the 
 disaster of Hochstedt; and, fighting now on the threshold of their 
 country, they showed an heroic ardor of resistance, such as had never 
 met us in the course of their aggressive war. Had the battle been more 
 successful, the conqueror might have got the price for which he waged it. 
 As it was (and justly, I think), the party adverse to the duke in Eng- 
 land were indignant at the lavish extravagance of slaughter, and de- 
 manded more eagerly than ever the recall of a chief whose cupidity 
 and desperation might urge him further still. After this bloody fight of 
 Malplaquet, I can answer for it, that in the Dutch quarters and our own, 
 and among the very regiments and commanders whose gallantry was 
 most conspicuous upon this frightful day of carnage, the general cry was, 
 that there was enough of the war. The French were driven back into 
 their own boundary, and all their conquests and booty of Flanders 
 disgorged. As for the Prince of Savoy, with whom our commander- 
 in-chief, for reasons of his own, consorted more closely than ever, 
 'twas known that he was animated not merely by a political hatred, 
 but by personal rage against the old French King: the Imperial general- 
 issimo never forgot the slight put by Lewis upon the Abbe de Savoie; 
 and in the humiliation or ruin of His Most Christian Majesty, the Holy 
 Roman Emperor found his account. But what were these quarrels to us, 
 the free citizens of England and Holland? Despot as he was, the 
 French monarch v/as yet the chief of European civilization, more vener- 
 able in his age and misfortunes than at the period of his most splendid 
 successes; while his opponent was but a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a 
 pillaging, murderous horde of Croats and Pandours, composing a half 
 of his army, filling our camp with their strange figures, bearded like 
 the miscreant Turks their neighbors, and carrying into Christian war- 
 fare their native heatlien habits of rapine, lust, and murder. Why should 
 284
 
 the best blood in England and France be shed in order that the holy 
 Roman and Apostolic master of these ruffians should have his revenge 
 over the Christian King? And it was to this end we were fighting; for 
 this that every village and family in England was deploring the death 
 of beloved sons and fathers. We dared not speak to each other, even 
 at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful were the gaps left in our army by 
 the cannon of that bloody action. 'Twas heartrending for an officer who 
 had a heart to look down his line on a parade-day afterwards, and miss 
 hundreds of faces of comrades — humble or of high rank — that had 
 gathered but yesterday full of courage and cheerfulness round the torn 
 and blackened flags. Where were our friends? As the great duke re- 
 viewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of prancing aides- 
 de-camp and generals, stopping here and there to thank an officer with 
 those eager smiles and bows of which his grace was always lavish, scarce 
 a huzzah could be got for him, though Cadogan, with an oath, rode up 
 
 and cried, "D you, why don't you cheer?" But the men had no 
 
 heart for that: not one of them but was thinking, "Where's my com- 
 rade? — where's my brother that fought by me, or my dear captain that 
 led me yesterday?" 'Twas the most gloomy pageant I ever looked on; 
 and the Te Deum sung by our chaplains, the most woeful and dreary 
 satire. 
 
 Esmond's general added one more to the many marks of honor which 
 he had received in the front of a score of battles, and got a wound in 
 the groin, which laid him on his back; and you may be sure he consoled 
 himself by abusing the commander-in-chief, as he lay groaning: "Cor- 
 poral John's as fond of me," he used to say, "as King David was of 
 General Uriah; and so he always gives me the post of danger." He 
 persisted, to his dying day, in believing that the duke intended he 
 should be beat at Wynendael, and sent him purposely with a small force, 
 hoping that he might be knocked on the head there. Esmond and Frank 
 Castlewood both escaped without hurt, though the division which our 
 general commanded suffered even more than any other, having to sus- 
 tain not only the fury of the enemy's cannonade, which was very hot and 
 well-served, but the furious and repeated charges of the famous Maison 
 du Roy, which we had to receive and beat off again and again, with 
 volleys of shot and hedges of iron, and our four lines of musketeers and 
 pikemen. They said the King of England charged us no less than twelve 
 times that day, along with the French Household. Esmond's late regi- 
 ment. General Webb's own Fusileers, served in the division which their 
 
 285
 
 Colonel commanded. The general was thrice in the center of the square 
 of the Fusileers, calling the fire at the French charges, and, after the 
 action, his grace the Duke of Berwick sent his compliments to his old 
 regiment and their colonel for their behavior on the field. 
 
 We drank my Lord Castlewood's health and majority, the 25th of 
 September, the army being then before Mons ; and here Colonel Esmond 
 was not so fortunate as he had been in actions much more dangerous, 
 and was hit by a spent ball just above the place where his former wound 
 was, which caused the old wound to open again, fever, spitting of blood, 
 and other ugly symptoms, to ensue; and, in a word, brought him near 
 to death's door. The kind lad, his kinsman, attended his elder comrade 
 with a very praiseworthy affectionateness and care until he was pro- 
 nounced out of danger by the doctors, when Frank went off, passed 
 the winter at Bruxelles, and besieged, no doubt, some other fortress there. 
 Very few lads would have given up their pleasures so long and so gaily 
 as Frank did; his cheerful prattle soothed many long days of Esmond's 
 pain and languor. Frank was supposed to be still at his kinsman's bedside 
 for a month after he had left it, for letters came from his mother at 
 home full of thanks to the younger gentleman for his care of his elder 
 brother (so it pleased Esmond's mistress now affectionately to style him) ; 
 nor was Mr. Esmond in a hurry to undeceive her, when the good young 
 fellow was gone for his Christmas holiday. It was as pleasant to Esmond 
 on his couch to watch the young man's pleasure at the idea of being 
 free, as to note his simple efforts to disguise his satisfaction on going 
 away. There are days when a flask of champagne at a cabaret, and a 
 red-cheeked partner to share it, are too strong temptations for any 
 young fellow of spirit. I am not going to play the moralist, and cry 
 "Fie!" For ages past, I know how old men preach, and what young 
 men practise; and that patriarchs have had their weak moments too, 
 long since Father Noah toppled over after discovering the vine. Frank 
 went off, then, to his pleasures at Bruxelles, in which capital many young 
 fellows of our army declared they found infinitely greater diversion even 
 than in London: and Mr. Henry Esmond remained in his sick room 
 where he writ a fine comedy, that his mistress pronounced to be sublime, 
 and that was acted no less than three successive nights in London in 
 the next year. 
 
 Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr. Holt reappeared, and 
 stopped a whole month at Mons, where he not only won over Colonel 
 Esmond to the King's side in politics (that side being always held by 
 
 286
 
 the Esmond family) ; but where he endeavored to re-open the contro- 
 versial question between the Churches once more, and to recall Esmond 
 to that religion in which, in his infancy, he had been baptised. Holt was 
 a casuist, both dexterous and learned, and presented the case between 
 the English Church and his own in such a way that those who granted 
 his premises ought certainly to allow his conclusions. 
 
 He touched on Esmond's delicate state of health, chance of dissolu- 
 tion, and so forth ; and enlarged upon the immense benefits that the sick 
 man was likely to forego — benefits which the Church of England did not 
 deny to those of the Roman Communion, as how should she, being 
 derived from that church, and only an offshoot from it ? But Mr. Esmond 
 said that his Church was the church of his country, and to that he chose 
 to remain faithful: other people were welcome to worship and to sub- 
 scribe any other set of articles, whether at Rome or at Augsburg. But if 
 the good father meant that Esmond should join the Roman communion 
 for fear of consequences, and that all England ran the risk of being 
 damned for heresy, Esmond, for one, was perfectly willing to take his 
 chance of the penalty along with the countless millions of his fellow- 
 countrymen, who were bred in the same faith, and along with some of the 
 noblest, the truest, the purest, and wisest, the most pious and learned 
 men and women in the world. 
 
 As for the political question, in that Mr. Esmond could agree with 
 the father much more readily, and had come to the same conclusion, 
 though, perhaps, by a different way. The right divine, about which Dr. 
 Sacheverel and the High Church party in England were just now making 
 a bother, they were welcome to hold as they chose. If Richard Crom- 
 well and his father before him had been crowned and anointed (and 
 bishops enough would have been found to do it), it seemed to Mr. 
 Esmond that they would have had the right divine just as much as any 
 Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart. But the desire of the country being 
 unquestionably for an hereditary monarchy, Esmond thought an English 
 king out of St. Germains was better and fitter than a German prince 
 from Herrenhausen, and that if he failed to satisfy the nation, some other 
 Englishman might be found to take his place; and so, though with no 
 frantic enthusiasm, or worship of that monstrous pedigree which the 
 Tories chose to consider divine, he was ready to say, "God save King 
 James!" when Queen Anne went the way of kings and commoners. 
 
 "I fear, colonel, you are no better than a republican at heart," says 
 the priest, with a sigh. 
 
 287
 
 "I am an Englishman," says Harry, "and take my country as I find 
 her. The will of the nation being for Church and King, I am for Church 
 and King, too ; but English Church and English King ; and that is why 
 your Church isn't mine, though your King is." 
 
 Though they lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French who were 
 elated by that action, while the conquerors were dispirited by it; and 
 the enemy gathered together a larger army than ever, and made prodigious 
 efforts for the next campaign. Marshal Berwick was with the French this 
 year; and we heard that Mareschal Villars was still suffering of his 
 wound, was eager to bring our duke to action, and vowed he would 
 fight us in his coach. Young Castlewood came flying back from Bruxelles 
 as soon as he heard that fighting was to begin; and the arrival of the 
 Chevalier de St. George was announced about May. "It's the King's 
 third campaign, and it's mine," Frank liked saying. He was come back 
 a greater Jacobite than ever, and Esmond suspected that some fair con- 
 spirators at Bruxelles had been inflaming the young man's ardor. In- 
 deed, he owned that he had a message from the Queen, Beatrix's god- 
 mother, who had given her name to Frank's sister the year before he 
 and his sovereign were born. 
 
 However desirous Mareschal Villars might be to fight, my lord duke 
 did not seem disposed to indulge him this campaign. Last year his grace 
 had been all for the Whigs and Hanoverians; but finding, on going 
 to England, his country cold towards himself, and the people in a fer- 
 ment of High Church loyalty, the duke comes back to his army cooled 
 towards the Hanoverians, cautious with the Imperialists, and particu- 
 larly civil and polite towards the Chevalier de St. George. 'Tis certain 
 that messengers and letters were continually passing between his grace 
 and his brave nephew, the Duke of Berwick, in the opposite camp. No 
 man's caresses were more opportune than his grace's, and no man ever 
 uttered expressions of regard and affection more generously. He pro- 
 fessed to Monsieur de Torcy, so Mr. St. John told the writer, quite an 
 eagerness to be cut in pieces for the exiled Queen and her family; nay 
 more, I believe, this year he parted with a portion of the most precious 
 part of himself — his money — which he sent over to the royal exiles. Mr. 
 Tunstal, who was in the Prince's service, was twice or thrice in and out 
 of our camp; the French, in theirs of Arlieu and about Arras. A little 
 river, the Canihe I think 'twas called (but this is writ away from books 
 and Europe; and the only map the writer hath of these scenes of his 
 youth, bears no mark of this little stream), divided our picquets from 
 
 288
 
 the enemy's. Our sentries talked across the stream, when they could 
 make themselves understood to each other, and when they could not, 
 grinned, and handed each other their brandy-flasks or their pouches of 
 tobacco. And one fine day of June, riding thither with the officer who 
 visited the outposts (Colonel Esmond was taking an airing on horse- 
 back, being too weak for military duty) , they came to this river, where 
 a number of English and Scots were assembled, talking to the good- 
 natured enemy on the other side. 
 
 Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long fellow, with 
 a great curling red moustache, and blue eyes, that was half a dozen inches 
 taller than his swarthy little comrades on the French side of the stream, 
 and being asked by the colonel, saluted him, and said that he belonged 
 to the Royal Cravats. 
 
 From his way of saying "Royal Cravat," Esmond at once knew that 
 the fellow's tongue had first wagged on the banks of the Liffey, and not 
 the Loire; and the poor soldier — a deserter probably — did not like to 
 venture very deep into French conversation, lest his unlucky brogue 
 should peep out. He chose to restrict himself to such few expressions 
 in the French language as he thought he had mastered easily; and his 
 attempt at disguise was infinitely amusing. Mr. Esmond whistled Lilli- 
 bullero, at which Teague's eyes began to twinkle, and then flung him a 
 dollar, when the poor boy broke out with a "God bless — that is, Dieu 
 benisse votre honor," that would infallibly have sent him to the provost- 
 marshal had he been on our side of the river. 
 
 While this parley was going on, three officers on horseback, on the 
 French side, appeared at some little distance, and stopped as if eyeing 
 us, when one of them left the other two, and rode close up to us who 
 were by the stream. "Look, look!" says the Royal Cravat, with great agita- 
 tion, "pas lui, that's he; not him, I'autre," and pointed to the distant officer 
 on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun, and over it a 
 broad blue ribbon. 
 
 "Please to take Mr. Hamilton's services to my Lord Marlborough — my 
 lord duke," says the gentleman in English; and looking to see that the 
 party were not hostilely disposed, he added, with a smile, "There's a 
 friend of yours, gentlemen, yonder ; he bids me to say that he saw some 
 of your faces on the nth of September last year." 
 
 As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up, and came 
 quite close. We knew at once who it was. It was the King, then two- 
 and-twenty years old, tall and slim, with deep brown eyes, that looked 
 
 289
 
 melancholy, though his lips wore a smile. We took off our hats and 
 saluted him. No man, sure, could see for the first time, without emotion, 
 the youthful inheritor of so much fame and misfortune. It seemed to 
 Mr. Esmond that the Prince was not unlike young Castlewood, whose 
 age and figure he resembled. The Chevalier de St. George acknowledged 
 the salute, and looked at us hard. Even the idlers on our side of the river 
 set up a hurrah. As for the Royal Cravat, he ran to the Prince's stirrup, 
 knelt down and kissed his boot, and bawled and looked a hundred ejacu- 
 lations and blessings. The Prince bade the aide-de-camp give him a piece 
 of money; and when the party saluting us had ridden away, Cravat spat 
 upon the piece of gold by way of benediction, and swaggered away, 
 pouching his coin and twirling his honest carroty moustache. 
 
 The officer in whose company Esmond was, the same little captain of 
 Handyside's regiment, Mr. Sterne, who had proposed the garden at Lille, 
 when my Lord Mohun and Esmond had their affair, was an Irishman too, 
 and as brave a little soul as ever wore a sword. "Bedad," says Roger 
 Sterne, "that long fellow spoke French so beautiful that I shouldn't 
 have known he wasn't a foreigner, till he broke out with his hulla- 
 ballooing, and only an Irish calf can bellow like that." And Roger 
 made another remark in his wild way, in which there was sense as well 
 as absurdity: "If that young gentleman," says he, "would but ride over 
 to our camp, instead of Villar's, toss up his hat, and say, "Here am I, 
 the King, who'll follow me?' by the Lord, Esmond, the whole army 
 would rise and carry him home again, and beat Villars, and take Paris 
 by the way." 
 
 The news of the Prince's visit was all through the camp quickly, and 
 scores of ours went down in hopes to see him. Major Hamilton, whom 
 we had talked with, sent back by a trumpet several silver pieces for 
 officers with us. Mr. Esmond received one of these; and that medal, and 
 a recompense not uncommon among princes, were the only rewards 
 he ever had from a royal person whom he endeavored not very long after 
 to serve. 
 
 Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this, following his 
 general home; and, indeed, being advised to travel in the fine weather 
 and attempt to take no further part in the campaign. But he heard from 
 the army, that of the many who crowded to see the Chevalier de St. 
 George, Frank Castlewood had made himself most conspicuous: my lord 
 viscount riding across the little stream bare-headed to where the Prince 
 was, and dismounting and kneeling before him to do him homage. Some 
 
 290
 
 said that the Prince had actually knighted him, but my lord denied that 
 statement, though he acknowledged the rest of the story, and said: "From 
 having been out of favor with Corporal John," as he called the duke, 
 "before his grace warned him not to commit those follies, and smiled 
 on him cordially ever after." 
 
 "And he was so kind to me," Frank writ, "that I thought I would put 
 in a good word for Master Harry, but when I mentioned your name 
 he looked as black as thunder, and said he had never heard of you." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 / Go Home, and Harp 07i the Old String 
 
 After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for a packet 
 at Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his young kinsman Castlewood at 
 Bruxelles, conveying intelligence whereof Frank besought him to be 
 the bearer to London, and which caused Colonel Esmond no small 
 anxiety. 
 
 The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, and being 
 anxious to sow his "wild otes," as he wrote, had married Mademoiselle 
 de Wertheim, daughter of Count de Wertheim, Chamberlain to the 
 Emperor, and having a post in the household of the Governor of the 
 Netherlands. "P.S.," the young gentleman wrote: "Clotilda is older 
 than me, which perhaps may be objected to her: but I am so old a raik 
 that the a^e makes no difference, and I am determined to reform. We 
 were married at St. Gudule, by Father Holt. She is heart and soul for 
 the good cause. And here the cry is V/f-le-Roy, which my mother will 
 join in, and Trix too. Break this news to 'em gently: and tell Mr. Finch, 
 my agent, to press the people for their rents, and send me the ryno any- 
 how. Clotilda sings, and plays on the spinet beautifully. She is a fair 
 beauty. And if it's a son, you shall stand Godfather. I'm going to leave 
 the army, having had enuf of soldiering; and my Lord Duke recommends 
 me. I shall pass the winter here; and stop at least until Clo's lying-in. I 
 call her old Clo, but nobody else shall. She is the cleverest woman in 
 all Bruxelles: understanding painting, music, poetry, and perfect at 
 cookery and puddens. I boarded with the Count, that's how I came to 
 know her. There are four Counts, her brothers. One an Abbey — three 
 
 291
 
 with the Prince's army. They have a lawsuit for an immense fortune: 
 but are now in a pore way. Break this to Mother,, who'll take anything 
 from you. And write, and bid Finch write amediately. Hostel de I'Aigle 
 Noire, Bruxelles, Flanders." 
 
 So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir was 
 expected, and Mr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence to his mastress 
 at London. 'Twas a difficult embassy; and the colonel felt not a little 
 tremor as he neared the capital. 
 
 He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington to an- 
 nounce his arrival and visit the next morning. The messenger brought 
 back news that the Court was at Windsor, and the fair Beatrix absent 
 and engaged in her duties there. Only Esmond's mistress remained in 
 her house at Kensington. She appeared in Court but once in the year; 
 Beatrix was quite the mistress and ruler of the little mansion, inviting the 
 company thither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of town 
 pleasure; while her mother, acting as the young lady's protectress and 
 elder sister, pursued her own path, which was quite modest and secluded. 
 
 As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been awake long 
 before the town), he took a coach for Kensington, and reached it so 
 early that he met his dear mistress coming home from morning prayers. 
 She carried her prayer-book, never allowing a footman to bear it, as 
 everybody else did: and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what 
 her occupation had been. He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped 
 out as she looked towards him. She wore her hood as usual, and she 
 turned quite pale when she saw him. To feel that kind little hand near 
 to his heart seemed to give him strength. They were soon at the door 
 of her ladyship's house — and within it. 
 
 With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it. 
 
 "How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear Henry!" she 
 said. 
 
 'Tis certain the colonel did look like a ghost, except that ghosts do 
 not look very happy, 'tis said. Esmond always felt so on returning to her 
 after absence, indeed whenever he looked in her sweet kind face. 
 
 "I am come back to be nursed by my family," says he. "If Frank had 
 not taken care of me after my wound, very likely I should have gone 
 altogether." 
 
 "Poor Frank, good Frank!" says his mother. "You'll always be 
 kind to him, my lord," she went on. "The poor child never knew he was 
 doing you a wrong." 
 
 292
 
 "My lord," cries out Colonel Esmond. "What do you mean, dear 
 iady?" 
 
 "I am no lady," says she; "I am Rachel Esmond, Francis Esmond's 
 widow, my lord. I cannot bear that title. Would we never had taken it 
 from him who has it now. But we did all in our power, Henry: we did 
 all in our power; and my lord and I — that is — " 
 
 "Who told you this tale, dearest lady?" asked the colonel. 
 
 "Have you not had the letter I writ you.-* I writ to you at Mons 
 directly I heard it," says Lady Esmond. 
 
 "And from whom?" again asked Colonel Esmond — and his mistress 
 then told him that on her deathbed the dowager countess, sending for 
 her, had presented her with this dismal secret as a legacy. " 'Twas very 
 malicious of the dowager," Lady Esmond said, "to have had it so long, 
 and to have kept the truth from me. 'Cousin Rachel,' she said — and 
 Esmond's mistress could not forbear smiling as she told the story — 
 'Cousin Rachel,' cries the dowager, "I have sent for you, as the doctors 
 say I may go off any day in this dysentery ; and to ease my conscience of 
 a great load that has been on it. You always have been a poor creature 
 and unfit for great honor, and what I have to say won't, therefore, affect 
 you so much. You must know. Cousin Rachel, that I have left my house, 
 plate, and furniture, three thousand pounds in money, and my diamonds 
 that my late revered Saint and Sovereign, King James, presented me 
 with, to my Lord Viscount Castlewood.' 
 
 " 'To my Frank?' " says Lady Castlewood: " "I was in hopes — ' " 
 
 " 'To Viscount Castlewood, my dear; Viscount Castlewood and Baron 
 Esmond of Shandon in the Kingdom of Ireland, Earl and Marquis of 
 Esmond under patent of His Majesty King James the Second, conferred 
 upon my husband the late Marquis — for I am Marchioness of Esmond 
 before God and man.' 
 
 " 'And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness?' asks 
 Lady Castlewood (she hath told me the story completely since with her 
 quite arch way; the most charming any woman ever had: and I set down 
 the narrative here at length, so as to have done with it) . " 'And have you 
 left poor Harry nothing?' " asks my dear lady; "for you know, Henry," 
 she says with her sweet smile, "I used always to pity Esau — and I think 
 I am on his side — though papa tried very hard to convince me the 
 other way. 
 
 ""Poor Harry!' says the old lady. 'So you want something left 
 to poor Harry; he, — he! (reach me the drops Cousin). Well, then, my 
 
 293
 
 dear, since you want poor Harry to have a fortune, you must under- 
 stand that ever since the year 1691, a week after the battle of the Boyne, 
 where the Prince of Orange defeated his royal sovereign and father, 
 for which crime he is now suffering in flames (ugh! ugh!), Henry Es- 
 mond hath been Marquis of Esmond and Earl of Castlewood in the 
 United Kingdom, and Baron and Viscount Castlewood of Shandon in 
 Ireland, and a Baronet — and his eldest son will be, by courtesy, styled 
 Earl of Castlewood — he! he! What do you think of that, my dear?' " 
 
 " 'Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?' " cries the other 
 lady (thinking perhaps that the old marchioness was wandering in her 
 wits) . 
 
 " 'My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked wretch,' " the 
 sick sinner continued. " 'When he was in the Low Countries he seduced 
 a weaver's daughter ; and added to his wickedness by marrying her. And 
 then he came to this country and married me — a poor girl — a poor 
 innocent young thing — I say,' — though she was past forty, you know, 
 
 Harry, when she married: and as for being innocent 'Well,' she 
 
 went on, 'I knew nothing of my lord's wickedness for three years after 
 cur marriage, and after the burial of our poor little boy I had it done 
 over again, my dear: I had myself married by Father Holt in Castle- 
 wood chapel, as soon as ever I heard the creature was dead — and having 
 a great illness then, arising from another sad disappointment I had, the 
 priest came and told me that my lord had a son before our marriage, 
 and that the child was at nurse in England ; and I consented to let the 
 brat be brought home, and a queer little melancholy child it was when 
 it came. 
 
 " 'Our intention was to make a priest of him: and he was bred for 
 this, until you perverted him from it, you wicked woman. And I had 
 again hopes of giving an heir to my lord, when he was called away upon 
 the King's business, and died fighting gloriously at the Boyne water. 
 
 " 'Should I be disappointed — I owed your husband no love, my dear, 
 for he had jilted me in the most scandalous way — I thought there woud be 
 time to declare the little weaver's son for the true heir. But I was carried 
 off to prison, where your husband was so kind to me — urging all his 
 friends to obtain my release, and using all his credit in my favor — that 
 I relented towards him, especially as my director counselled me to be 
 silent; and that it was for the good of the King's service that the title of 
 our family should continue with your husband the late viscount, whereby 
 his fidelity would be always secured to the King. And a proof of this is, 
 
 294
 
 that a year before your husband's death, when he thought of taking a place 
 under the Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told him what 
 the state of the matter was, and obliged him to raise a large sum for 
 His Majesty, and engaged him in the true cause so heartily, that we were 
 sure of his support on any day when it should be considered advisable 
 to attack the usurper. Then his sudden death came; and there was a 
 thought of declaring the truth. But 'twas determined to be best for the 
 King's service to let the title still go with the younger branch ; and there's 
 no sacrifice a Castlewood would not make for that cause, my dear. 
 
 " 'As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already.' " ("And then, 
 Harry," my mistress said, "she told me of what had happened at my 
 dear husband's death-bed.") " 'He doth not intend to take the title, 
 though it belongs to him. But it eases my conscience that you should 
 know the truth, my dear. And your son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood 
 so long as his cousin doth not claim the rank.' " 
 
 This was the substance of the dowager's revelation. Dean Atterbury 
 had knowledge of it. Lady Castlewood said, and Esmond very well knows 
 how: that divine being the clergyman for whom the late lord had sent on 
 his death-bed ; and when Lady Castlewood would instantly have written 
 to her son, and conveyed the truth to him, the dean's advice was that 
 a letter should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather: that the matter should 
 be submitted to his decision, by which alone the rest of the family were 
 bound to abide. 
 
 "And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?" says the colonel. 
 
 "It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house." 
 
 "It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord's bedside," says 
 Colonel Esmond. "The children must know nothing of this. Frank and 
 his heirs after him must bear our name. 'Tis his rightfully: I have not 
 even a proof of that marriage of my father and mother, though my poor 
 lord, on his death-bed, told me that Father Holt had brought such a 
 proof to Castlewood. I would not seek it when I was abroad. I went and 
 looked at my poor mother's grave in her convent. What matter to her 
 now? No court of law on earth, upon my mere word, would deprive my 
 lord viscount and set me up. I am the head of the house, dear lady; 
 but Frank is Viscount of Castlewood still. And rather than disturb him, 
 I would turn monk, or disappear in America." 
 
 As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would have been 
 willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice any day, the fond 
 creature flung herself down on her knees before him, and kissed both his 
 
 295
 
 hands in an outbreak of passionate love and gratitude, such as could not 
 but melt his heart, and make him feel very proud and thankful that God 
 had given him the powder to show his love for her, and to prove it by 
 some little sacrifice on his own part. To be able to bestow benefits or 
 happiness on those one loves is sure the greatest blessing conferred 
 upon a man — and what wealth or name, or gratification of ambition or 
 vanity, could compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being able 
 to confer some kindness upon his best and dearest friends ? 
 
 "Dearest saint," says he — "purest soul, that has had so much to suffer, 
 that has blest the poor lonely orphan with such a treasure of love ! 'Tis 
 for me to kneel, not for you; 'tis for me to be thankful that I can make 
 you happy. Hath my life any other aim? Blessed be God that I can serve 
 you ! What pleasure, think you, could all the world give me compared 
 to that?" 
 
 "Don't raise me," she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who would have 
 lifted her. "Let me kneel — let me kneel, and — and — worship you." 
 
 Before such a partial judge as Esmond's dear mistress owned herself 
 to be, any cause which he might plead was sure to be given in his favor ; 
 and accordingly he found little difficulty in reconciling her to the news 
 whereof he was bearer, of her son's marriage to a foreign lady, Papist 
 though she was. Lady Castlewood never could be brought to think so ill 
 of that religion as other people in England thought of it: she held that 
 ours was undoubtedly a branch of the Catholic Church, but that the 
 Roman was one of the main stems, on which, no doubt, many errors had 
 been grafted (she was, for a woman, extraordinarily well versed in this 
 controversy, having acted, as a girl, as secretary to her father, the late 
 dean, and written many of his sermons, under his dictation) : and if 
 Frank had chosen to marry a lady of the Church of South Europe, as 
 she would call the Roman communion, there was no need why she should 
 not welcome her as a daughter-in-law: and accordingly she wrote to her 
 new daughter a very pretty, touching letter (as Esmond thought, who had 
 cognizance of it before it went), in which the only hint of reproof was 
 a gentle remonstrance that her son had not written to herself, to ask a 
 fond mother's blessing for that step which he was about taking. "Castle- 
 wood knew very well," so she wrote to her son, "that she never denied 
 him anything in her power to give, much less would she think of op- 
 posing a marriage that was to make his happiness, as she trusted, and 
 keep him out of wild courses, which had alarmed her a good deal": and 
 she besought him to come quickly to England, to settle down in his 
 
 296
 
 family house of Castlewood ("It is his family house," says she to Colonel 
 Esmond, "though only his own house by your forbearance") and to 
 receive the accompt of her stewardship during his ten years' minority. 
 By care and frugality, she had got the estate into a better condition than 
 ever it had been since the Parliamentary wars; and my lord was now 
 master of a pretty, small income, not encumbered of debts, as it had been 
 during his father's ruinous time. "But in saving my son's fortune," says 
 she, "I fear I have lost a great part of my hold on him." And, indeed, 
 this was the case: her ladyship's daughter complaining that their mother 
 did all for Frank, and nothing for her; and Frank himself being dis- 
 satisfied at the narrow, simple way of his mother's living at Walcote, 
 where he had been brought up more like a poor parson's son than a 
 young nobleman that was to make a figure in the world. 'Twas this mis- 
 take in his early training, very likely, that set him so eager upon pleasure 
 when he had it in his pov/er; nor is he the first lad that has been 
 spoiled by the over-careful fondness of women. No training is so useful 
 for children, great or small, as the company of their betters in rank and 
 natural parts; in whose society they lose the overweening sense of their 
 own importance, which stay-at-home people very commonly learn. 
 
 But, as a prodigal that's sending in a schedule of his debts to his 
 friends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure, the rogue keeps back 
 some immense swingeing bill, that he doesn't dare to own ; so the poor 
 Frank had a very heavy piece of news to break to his mother, and which 
 he hadn't the courage to introduce into his first confession. Some mis- 
 givings Esmond might have, upon receiving Frank's letter, and know- 
 ing into what hands the boy had fallen ; but whatever these misgivings 
 were, he kept them to himself, not caring to trouble his mistress with ■ 
 any fears that might be groundless. 
 
 However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after Frank had 
 received his mother's letters there, brought back a joint composition 
 from himself and his wife, who could spell no better than her young 
 scapegrace of a husband, full of expressions of thanks, love, and duty to 
 the dowager viscountess, as my poor lady now was styded; and along 
 with this letter (which was read in a family council, namely, the vis- 
 countess. Mistress Beatrix, and the writer of this Memoir, and which 
 was pronounced to be vulgar by the maid of honor, and felt to be so by 
 the other two) there came a private letter for Colonel Esmond from 
 poor Frank, with another dismal commission for the colonel to execute, 
 at his best opportunity; and this was to announce that Frank had seen 
 
 297
 
 fit, "by the exhortation of Mr. Holt, the influence of his Clotilda, and 
 the blessing of heaven and the saints," says my lord demurely, "to change 
 his religion, and be received into the bosom of that Church of which his 
 sovereign, many of his family, and the greater part of the civilized world, 
 were members." And his lordship added a postscript, of which Esmond 
 knew the inspiring genius very well, for it had the genuine twang of the 
 Seminary, and was quite unlike poor Frank's ordinary style of writing 
 and thinking; in which he reminded Colonel Esmond that he too was, 
 by birth, of that Church; and that his mother and sister should have 
 his lordship's prayers to the saints (an estimable benefit, truly!) for 
 their conversion. 
 
 If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret, he could not; for a day 
 or two after receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles appeared in 
 the Post-Boy and other prints, announcing that "a young Irish lord, 
 
 the Viscount C-stlew d, just come to his majority, and who had 
 
 served the last campaigns with great credit, as aide-de-camp to his 
 grace the Duke of Marlborough, had declared for the Popish religion 
 at Bruxelles, and had walked in a procession barefoot, with a wax- 
 taper in his hand." The notorious Mr. Holt, who had been employed 
 as a Jacobite agent during the last reign, and many times pardoned by 
 King William, had been, the Post-Boy said, the agent of the conversion. 
 
 The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news as Miss 
 Beatrix was indignant at it. "So," says she, "Castlewood is no longer 
 a home for us, mother. Frank's foreign wife will bring her confessor, 
 and there will be frogs for dinner ; and all Tusher's and my grandfather's 
 sermons are flung away upon my brother. I used to tell you that you 
 killed him with the Catechism, and that he would turn wicked as soon 
 as he broke from his mammy's leading-strings. Oh, mother, you would 
 not believe that the young scapegrace was playing you tricks, and that 
 sneak of a Tusher was not a fit guide for him. Oh, those parsons, I hate 
 'em all!" says Miss Beatrix, clapping her hands together; "yes, whether 
 they wear cassocks and buckles, or beards and bare feet. There's a horrid 
 Irish wretch who never misses a Sunday at Court, and who pays me 
 compliments there, the horrible man; and if you want to know what 
 parsons are, you should see his behavior, and hear him talk of his own 
 cloth. They're all the same, whether they're bishops, or bonzes, or 
 Indian fakirs. They try to domineer, and they frighten us with kingdom 
 come; and they wear a sanctified air in public, and expect us to go down 
 on our knees and ask their blessing; and they intrigue, and they grasp, 
 
 298
 
 and they backbite, and they slander worse than the worst courtier or 
 the wickedest old woman. I heard this Mr. Swift sneering at my Lord 
 Duke of Marlborough's courage the other day. He! that Teague from 
 Dubhn ! because his grace is not in favor, dares to say this of him ; and 
 he says this that it may get to Her Majest)''s ear, and to coax and wheedle 
 Mrs. Masham. They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen mistresses 
 in his court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king over us, I wager 
 that the bishops and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, will coax and 
 wheedle them. Oh, those priests and their grave airs! I'm sick of their 
 square toes and their rustling cassocks. I should like to go to a country 
 where there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of 'em; and I 
 would, only the dress is not becoming, and I've much too pretty a figure 
 to hide it. Haven't I, cousin.^" and here she glanced at her person and 
 the looking-glass, which told her rightly that a more beautiful shape 
 and face never were seen. 
 
 "I made that onslaught on the priests," says Miss Beatrix, afterwards, 
 "in order to divert my poor dear mother's anguish about Frank. Frank 
 is as vain as a girl, cousin. Talk of us girls being vain, what are ive to 
 you? It was easy to see that the first woman who chose would make a 
 fool of him, or the first robe — I count a priest and a woman all the 
 same. We are always caballing; we are not answerable for the fibs we 
 tell; we are always cajoling and coaxing, or threatening; and we are 
 always making mischief. Colonel Esmond— mark my word for that, 
 who know the world, sir, and have to make my way in it. I see as 
 well as possible how Frank's marriage hath been managed. The count, 
 our papa-in-law, is always away at the coffee-house. The countess, 
 our mother, is always m the kitchen looking after the dinner. The Coun- 
 tess, our sister, is at the spinet. When my lord comes to say he is going 
 on the campaign, the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears, and faints — so; 
 he catches her in his arms — no, sir, keep your distance, cousin, if you 
 please, — she cries on his shoulder, and he says, "Oh, my divine, my 
 adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry to part with me?' 'Oh, my 
 Francisco,' says she, 'oh, my lord !' and at this very instant mamma and 
 a couple of young brothers, with moustaches and long rapiers, come 
 in from the kitchen where they have been eating bread and onions. 
 Mark my word, you will have all this woman's relations at Castlewood 
 three months after she has arrived there. The old count and countess, 
 and the young counts, and all the little countesses her sisters. Counts! 
 every one of these wretches says he is a count. Guiscard, that stabbed 
 
 299
 
 Mr. Harley, said he was a count; and I believe he was a barber. All 
 Frenchmen are barbers — Fiddledee ! don't contradict me — or else danc- 
 ing-masters, or else priests." And so she rattled on. 
 
 "Who was it taught you to dance, Cousin Beatrix?" says the colonel. 
 
 She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low curtsey, coming 
 up to the recover with the prettiest little foot in the world pointed out. 
 Her mother came in as she was in this attitude; my lady had been in 
 her closet, having taken poor Frank's conversion in a very serious way; 
 the madcap girl ran up to her mother, put her arms round her waist, 
 kissed her, tried to make her dance, and said, "Don't be silly, you kind 
 little mamma, and cry about Frank turning Papist. What a figure he 
 must be, with a white sheet and a candle, walking in a procession bare- 
 foot!" And she kicked off her little slippers (the wonderfulest little 
 shoes, with wonderful tall red heels: Esmond pounced upon one as it 
 fell close beside him), and she put on the drollest little moue, and 
 marched up and down the room holding Esmond's cane by way of taper. 
 Serious as her mood was. Lady Castlewood could not refrain from 
 laughing; and as for Esmond, he looked on with that delight with which 
 the sight of this fair creature always inspired him: never had he seen 
 any woman so arch, so brilliant, and so beautiful. 
 
 Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her slipper. The 
 colonel knelt down. "If you will be Pope I will turn Papist," says he; 
 and her holiness gave him gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged foot 
 before he put the slipper on. 
 
 Mamma's feet began to pat on the floor during this operation, and 
 Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw that little mark of im- 
 patience. She ran up and embraced her mother, with her usual cry of, 
 "Oh, you silly little mamma: your feet are quite as pretty as mine," 
 says she: "they are, cousin, though she hides 'em; but the shoemaker 
 will tell you that he makes for both off the same last." 
 
 "You are taller than I am, dearest," says her mother, blushing over 
 her whole sweet face — "and — and it is your hand, my dear, and not 
 your foot he wants you to give him"; and she said it with a hysteric 
 laugh, that had more of tears than laughter in it; laying her head on 
 her daughter's fair shoulder, and hiding it there. They made a very 
 pretty picture together, and looked like a pair of sisters — the sweet 
 simple matron seeming younger than her years, and her daughter, if 
 not older, yet somehow, from a commanding manner and grace which 
 she possessed above most women, her mother's superior and protectress. 
 
 300
 
 "But oh!" cries my mistress, recovering herself after this scene, and 
 returning to her usual sad tone, " 'tis a shame that we should laugh 
 and be making merry on a day when we ought to be down on our knees 
 and asking pardon." 
 
 "Asking pardon for what?" says saucy Miss Beatrix — "because Frank 
 takes it into his head to fast on Fridays and worship images ? You know 
 if you had been born a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have re- 
 mained to the end of your days. 'Tis the religion of the King and of 
 some of the best quality. For my part, Fm no enemy to it, and think 
 Queen Bess was not a penny better than Queen Mary." 
 
 "Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and remember of 
 what parentage you come," cries my lady. Beatrix was ordering her 
 ribbons, and adjusting her tucker, and performing a dozen provokingly 
 pretty ceremonies before the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. 
 She never at that time could be brought to think but of the world and 
 her beauty; and seemed to have no more sense of devotion than some 
 people have of music, that cannot distinguish one air from another. 
 Esmond saw this fault in her, as he saw many others — a bad wife would 
 Beatrix Esmond make, he thought, for any man under the degree of a 
 prince. She was born to shine in great assemblies, and to adorn palaces, 
 and to command everywhere — to conduct an intrigue of politics, or to 
 glitter in a queen's train. But to sit at a homely table, and mend the 
 stockings of a poor man's children! that was no fitting duty for her, 
 or at least one that she wouldn't have broke her heart in trying to do. 
 She was a princess, though she had scarce a shilling to her fortune; 
 and one of her subjects — the most abject and devoted wretch, sure, 
 that ever drivelled at a woman's knees — was this unlucky gentleman; 
 who bound his good sense, and reason, and independence, hand and 
 foot, and submitted them to her. 
 
 And who does not know how ruthlessly women will tyrannize when 
 they are let to domineer? and who does not know how useless advice 
 is? I could give good counsel to my descendants, but I know they'll 
 follow their own way, for all their grandfather's sermon. A man gets 
 his own experience about women, and will take nobody's hearsay; nor, 
 indeed, is the young fellow worth a fig that would. 'Tis I that am in 
 love with my mistress, not my old grandmother that counsels me: 'tis 
 I that have fixed the value of the thing I would have, and know the 
 price I would pay for it. It may be worthless to you, but 'tis all my life 
 to me. Had Esmond possessed the Great Mogul's crown and all his 
 
 301
 
 diamonds, or all the Duke of Marlborough's money, or all the ingots 
 sunk at Vigo, he would have given them all for this woman. A fool 
 he was, if you will; but so is a sovereign a fool, that will give half a 
 principality for a little crystal as big as a pigeon's egg, and called a 
 diamond; so is a wealthy nobleman a fool, that will face danger or 
 death, and spend half his life, and all his tranquillity, caballing for a 
 blue riband; so is a Dutch merchant a fool, that hath been known to 
 pay ten thousand crowns for a tulip. There's some particular prize we 
 all of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture his life for. 
 With this, it may be to achieve a great reputation for learning; with 
 that, to be a man of fashion, and the admiration of the town ; with an- 
 other, to consummate a great work of art or poetry, and go to immor- 
 tality that way: and with another, for a certain time of his life, the sole 
 object and aim is a woman. 
 
 While Esmond was under the domination of this passion, he re- 
 members many a talk he had with his intimates, who used to rally Our 
 Knight of the Rueful Countenance at his devotion, whereof he made 
 no disguise, to Beatrix ; and it was with replies such as the above he met 
 his friends' satire. "Granted, I am a fool," says he, "and no better than 
 you; but you are no better than I. You have your folly you labor for; 
 give me the charity of mine. What flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop 
 to whisper in the ears of a queen's favorite? What nights of labor doth 
 not the laziest man in the world endure, foregoing his bottle, and his 
 boon companions, foregoing Lais, in whose lap he would like to be 
 yawning, that he may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three 
 hundred stupid country gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get 
 the hiccupping cheers of the October Club ! What days will you spend 
 in your joking chariot" (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, and es- 
 pecially, of later days, with the secretary) . "What hours will you pass 
 on your gouty feet — and how humbly will you kneel down to present 
 a despatch— you, the proudest man in the world, that has not knelt to 
 God since you were a boy, and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore 
 almost, a stupid woman, that's often boozy with too much meat and 
 drink, when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience! If my pursuit is vanity, 
 sure yours is too." And then the Secretary would fly out in such a rich 
 flow of eloquence as this pen cannot pretend to recall; advocating his 
 scheme of ambition, showing the great good he would do for his coun- 
 try when he was the undisputed chief of it; backing his opinion with 
 a score of pat sentences from Greek and Roman authorities (of which 
 
 302
 
 kind of learning he made rather an ostentatious display) , and scornfully 
 vaunting the very arts and meannesses by which fools were to be made 
 to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters converted, 
 and enemies overawed. 
 
 "I am Diogenes," says Esmond, laughing, "that is taken up for a 
 ride in Alexander's chariot. I have no desire to vanquish Darius or to 
 tame Bucephalus. I do not want what you want, a great name or a high 
 place: to have them would bring me no pleasure. But my moderation 
 is taste, not virtue; and I know that what I do want is as vain as that 
 which you long after. Do not grudge me my vanity, if I allow yours: 
 or rather, let us laugh at both indifferently, and at ourselves, and at 
 each other." 
 
 "If your charmer holds out," says St. John, "at this rate she may 
 keep you twenty years besieging her, and surrender by the time you 
 are seventy, and she is old enough to be a grandmother. I do not say 
 the pursuit of a particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any 
 other kind of hunting," he added; "only, for my part, I find the game 
 won't run long enough. They knock under too soon — that's the fault 
 I find with 'em." 
 
 "The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, and 
 used to being pulled down," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?" says the other. "Well, 
 honest Harry, go and attack windmills — perhaps thou art not more 
 mad than other people," St. John added, with a sigh. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Paper Out of the ''Spectator' 
 
 Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read his old 
 grandfather's papers, chance to be presently suffering under the passion 
 of Love.^ There is a humiliating cure, but one that is easy and almost 
 specific for the malady — which is, to try an alibi. Esmond went away 
 from his mistress and was cured a half-dozen times; he came back to 
 her side, and instantly fell ill again of the fever. He vowed that he 
 could leave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty well, 
 at least, succeed in quelling that rage and longing he had whenever 
 
 503
 
 he was with her ; but as soon as he returned he was as bad as ever again. 
 Truly a ludicrous and pitiable object, at least exhausting everybody's 
 pity but his dearest mistress', Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast 
 he reposed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing 
 him and pleading for him. 
 
 Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then again he would 
 be plagued with despair, at some impertinence or coquetry of his mis- 
 tress. For days they would be like brother and sister, or the dearest 
 friends — she, simple, fond, and charming — he, happy beyond measure 
 at her good behavior. But this would all vanish on a sudden. Either he 
 would be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would rebuff ^him 
 instantly, and give his vanity a box on the ear; or he would be jealous, 
 and with perfect good reason, of some new admirer that had sprung 
 up, or some rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town, that this 
 incorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmond 
 remonstrated, the little rebel would say, "Who are you? I shall go my 
 own way, sirrah, and that way is towards a husband, and I don't want 
 you on the way. I am for your betters, colonel, for your betters: do you 
 hear that? You might do if you had an estate and were younger: only 
 eight years older than I, you say! pish, you are a hundred years older. 
 You are an old old Graveairs, and I should make you miserable, that 
 would be the only comfort I should have in marrying you. But you 
 have not money enough to keep a cat decently after you have paid 
 your man his wages, and your landlady her bill. Do you think I am 
 going to live in a lodging, and turn the mutton at a string while your 
 honor nurses the baby? Fiddlestick, and why did you not get this non- 
 sense knocked out of your head when you were in the wars? You are 
 come back more dismal and dreary than ever. You and mamma are fit 
 for each other. You might be Darby and Joan, and play cribbage to 
 the end of your lives." 
 
 "At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix," says her 
 mother. 
 
 "Worldliness! Oh, my pretty lady! Do you think that I am a child 
 in the nursery, and to be frightened by Bogey? Worldliness, to be sure; 
 and pray, madam, where is the harm of wishing to be comfortable? 
 When you are gone, you dearest old woman, or when I am tired of you 
 and have run away from you, where shall I go ? Shall I go and be head 
 nurse to my Popish sister-in-law, take the children their physic, and 
 whip 'em, and put 'em to bed when they are naughty? Shall I be Castle- 
 
 304
 
 wood's upper servant, and perhaps marry Tom Tusher? Merci! I have 
 been long enough Frank's humble servant. Why am I not a man? I 
 have ten times his brains, and had I worn the — well, don't let your 
 ladyship be frightened — had I worn a sword and periwig instead of 
 this mantle and commode to which nature has condemned me — (though 
 'tis a pretty stuff, too — Cousin Esmond! you will go to the Exchange 
 tomorrow, and get the exact counterpart of this ribbon, sir; do you 
 hear?) — I would have made our name talked about. So would Graveairs 
 here have made something out of our name if he had represented it. 
 My Lord Graveairs would have done very well. Yes, you have a very 
 pretty way, and would have made a very decent, grave speaker." And 
 here she began to imitate Esmond's way of carrying himself and speak- 
 ing to his face, and so ludicrously that his mistress burst out a-laughing, 
 and even he himself could see there was some likeness in the fantastical 
 malicious caricature. 
 
 "Yes," says she, "I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that I want a 
 good husband. Where's the harm of one? My face is my fortune. Who'll 
 come? — buy, buy, buy! I cannot toil, neither can I spin, but I can play 
 twenty-three games on the cards. I can dance the last dance, I can hunt 
 the stag, and I think I could shoot flying. I can talk as wicked as any 
 woman of my years, and know enough stories to amuse a sulky husband 
 for at least one thousand and one nights. I have a pretty taste for dress, 
 diamonds, gambling, and old China, I love sugar-plums, Malines lace 
 (that you brought me, cousin, is very pretty) , the opera, and everything 
 that is useless and costly. I have got a monkey and a little black boy — ■ 
 Pompey, sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to Colonel Graveairs — 
 and a parrot and a spaniel, and I must have a husband. Cupid, you hear?" 
 
 "Iss, Missis!" says Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord Peterborow 
 gave her, with a bird of paradise in his turbant, and a collar with his 
 mistress' name on it. 
 
 "Iss, Missis!" says Beatrix, imitating the child. "And if husband not 
 come, Pompey must go fetch one." 
 
 And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate tray as Miss 
 Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her sally of mischief in her 
 common way, with a kiss — no wonder that upon paying such a penalty 
 her fond judge pardoned her. 
 
 When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still shattered; and 
 he took a lodging near to his mistresses, at Kensington, glad enough 
 
 305
 
 to be served by them, and to see them day after day. He was enabled 
 to see a httle company — and of the sort he hked best. Mr. Steele and 
 Mr. Addison both did him the honor to visit him; and drank many a 
 glass of good claret at his lodging, while their entertainer, through his 
 wound, was kept to diet-drink and gruel. These gentlemen were Whigs, 
 and great adm.irers of my Lord Duke of Marlborough ; and Esmond was 
 entirely of the other party. But their different views of politics did not 
 prevent the gentlemen from agreeing in private, nor from allowing, 
 on one evening when Esmond's kind old patron, Lieutenant-General 
 Webb, with a stick and a crutch, hobbled up to the colonel's lodging 
 (which was prettily situate at Knightsbridge, between London and 
 Kensington, and looking over the Gardens), that the lieutenant-general 
 was a noble and gallant soldier — and even that he had been hardly used 
 in the Wynendael affair. He took his revenge in talk, that must be 
 confessed; and if Mr. Addison had had a mind to write a poem about 
 Wynendael, he might have heard from the commander's own lips the 
 story a hundred times over. 
 
 Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to literature for a 
 relaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the prompter's copy lies 
 in my walnut escritoire, sealed up and docketed, "The Faithful Fool, 
 a Comedy, as it was performed by Her Majesty's Servants." 'Twas a 
 very sentimental piece; and Mr. Steele, who had more of that kind of 
 sentiment than Mr. Addison, admired it, while the other rather sneered 
 at the performance; though he owned that, here and there, it contained 
 some pretty strokes. He was bringing out his own play of Cato at the 
 time, the blaze of which quite extinguished Esmond's farthing candle; 
 and his name was never put to the piece, which was printed as by a 
 Person of Quality. Only nine copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, 
 the great critic, praised it, and said 'twas a work of great merit; and 
 Colonel Esmond had the whole impression burned one day in a rage, 
 by Jack Lockwood, his man. 
 
 All this comedy was full of bitter satiric strokes against a certain young 
 lady. The plot of the piece was quite a new one. A young woman was 
 represented with a great number of suitors, selecting a pert fribble of 
 a peer, in place of the hero (but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilks, the 
 Faithful Fool), who persisted in admiring her. In the fifth act, Tera- 
 minta was made to discover the merits of Eugenio (the F. F.), and to 
 feel a partiality for him too late; for he announced that he had bestowed 
 his hand and estate upon Rosaria, a country lass, endowed with every 
 
 306
 
 virtue. But it must be owned that the audience yawned through the 
 play; and that it perished on the third night, with only half-a-dozen 
 persons to behold its agonies. Esmond and his two mistresses came to 
 the first night, and Miss Beatrix fell asleep; while her mother, who 
 had not been to a play since King James the Second's time, thought the 
 piece, though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral. 
 
 Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose and verse 
 at this time of leisure. When displeased with the conduct of Miss Beatrix, 
 he would compose a satire, in which he relieved his mind. When smart- 
 ing under the faithlessness of women, he dashed off a copy of verses, in 
 which he held the whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one of these 
 moods, he made a little joke, in which (swearing him to secrecy) he 
 got his friend Dick Steele to help him; and, composing a paper, he had 
 it printed exactly like Steele's paper, and by his printer, and laid on 
 his mistress' breakfast table the following: 
 
 Spectator 
 
 "No, 341. ''Tuesday, April i, 1712. 
 
 Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur. — Horace. 
 Thyself the moral of the Fable see. — Creech. 
 
 "Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and as one of 
 the most amiable persons of this court and country. She is at home two 
 mornings of the week, and all the wits and a few of the beauties of London 
 flock to her assemblies. When she goes abroad to Tunbridge or the Bath, 
 a retinue of adorers rides the journeys with her; and besides the London 
 beaux, she has a crowd of admirers at the Wells, the polite amongst the 
 natives of Sussex and Somerset pressing round her tea-tables, and being 
 anxious for a nod from her chair. Jocasta's acquaintance is thus very 
 numerous. Indeed, 'tis one smart writer's work to keep her visiting book — 
 a strong footman is engaged to carry it; and it would require a much 
 stronger head even that Jocasta's own to remember the names of all her 
 dear friends. 
 
 "Either at Epsom Wells or Tunbridge (for of this important matter 
 Jocasta cannot be certain) it was her Ladyship's fortune to become ac- 
 quainted with a young gentleman, whose conversation was so sprightly, 
 and manners amiable, that she invited the agreeable young spark to visit 
 her if he ever came to London, where her house in Spring Garden should 
 be open to him. Charming as he was, and without any manner of doubt 
 a pretty fellow, Jocasta hath such a regiment of the like continually march- 
 ing round her standard, that 'tis no wonder her attention is distracted 
 amongst them. And so, though this gentleman made a considerable im- 
 pression upon her, and touched her heart for at least three-and-twenty
 
 minutes, it must be owned that she has forgotten his name. He is a dark 
 man, and may be eight-and-twenty years old. His dress is sober, though 
 of rich materials. He has a mole on his forehead over his left eye ; has a 
 blue ribbon to his cane and sword, and wears his own hair. 
 
 "Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer (for that every- 
 body admires who sees her is a point which she never can for a moment 
 doubt) in the next pew to her at St. James's Church last Sunday; and the 
 manner in which he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon — though 
 from under his fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances of 
 respectful rapture towards Jocasta — deeply moved and interested her. 
 On coming out of church he found his way to her chair, and made her an 
 elegant bow as she stepped into it. She saw him at Court afterwards, 
 where he carried himself with a most distinguished air, though none of 
 her acquaintances knew his name ; and the next night he was at the play, 
 where her Ladyship was pleased to acknowledge him from the side-box. 
 
 "During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains so to remember 
 his name that she did not hear a word of the piece: and having the happi- 
 ness to meet him once more in the lobby of the playhouse, she went up 
 to him in a flutter, and bade him remember that she kept two nights in 
 the week, and that she longed to see him at Spring Garden. 
 
 "He appeared on Tuesday, in a rich suit, showing a very fine taste both 
 in the tailor and wearer ; and though a knot of us were gathered round 
 the charming Jocasta, fellows who pretended to know every face upon 
 the town, not one could tell the gentleman's name in reply to Jocasta's 
 eager inquiries, flung to the right and left of her as he advanced up the 
 room with a bow that would become a duke. 
 
 "Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles and curt- 
 seys of which that lady hath the secret. She curtseys with a languishing 
 air, as if to say, 'You are come at last. I have been pining for you' : and 
 then she finishes her victim with a killing look, which declares: 'O Phil- 
 ander ! I have no eyes but for you.' Camilla hath as good a curtsey perhaps, 
 and Thalestris much such another look; but the glance and the curtsey to- 
 gether belong to Jocasta of all the English beauties alone. 
 
 " 'Welcome to London, sir,' says she. 'One can see you are from the 
 country by your looks.' She would have said 'Epsom,' or 'Tunbridge,' 
 had she remembered rightly at which place she had met the stranger ; but, 
 alas ! she had forgotten. 
 
 "The gentleman said, 'He had been in town but three days; and one of 
 his reasons for coming hither was to have the honor of paying his court 
 to Jocasta.' 
 
 "She said, 'The waters had agreed with her but indifferently.' 
 
 " 'The waters were for the sick,' the gentleman said: 'the young and 
 beautiful came but to make them sparkle. And as the clergyman read the 
 
 308
 
 service on Sunday,' he added, 'your Ladyship reminded me of the angel 
 that visited the pool.' A murmur of approbation saluted this sally. Manilio, 
 who is a wit when he is not at cards, was in such a rage that he revoked 
 when he heard it. 
 
 "Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters; but at which of the Bethes- 
 das? She was puzzled more and more; and, as her way always is, looked 
 the more innocent and simple, the more artful her intentions were. 
 
 " "We were discoursing,' says she, 'about spelling of names and words 
 when you came. Why should we say goold and write gold, and call china 
 chayney, and Cavendish Candish, and Cholmondeley Chumley? If we 
 call Pulteney Poltney, why shouldn't we call poultry pultry — and ' 
 
 "" "Such an enchantress as your Ladyship,' says he, 'is mistress of all 
 sorts of spells.' But this was Dr. Swift's pun, and we all knew it. 
 
 " 'And — and how do you spell your name,' says she, coming to the 
 point at length; for this sprightly conversation had lasted much longer 
 than is here set down and been carried on through at least three dishes 
 of tea. 
 
 " 'Oh, madam,' says he, '/ spell my name with the y.' And laying down 
 his dish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone in a 
 moment. 
 
 "Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the stranger's 
 disappearance. If balked in anything she is sure to lose her health and 
 temper; and we, her servants, suffer, as usual, during the angry fits of our 
 Queen. Can you help us, Mr. Spectator, who know everything to read this 
 riddle for her, and set at rest all our minds. We find in her list, Mr. Berty, 
 Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler — who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. Smyth, 
 Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for what we know. She hath turned away the clerk 
 of her visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family of children. Read 
 me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your admirer — 
 
 "CEdipus." 
 
 "The Trumpet Coffee-House, Whitehall. 
 
 "Mr. Spectator, — I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the 
 town, though I have had a university education, and passed some years 
 serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the 
 coffee-houses and St. James's. 
 
 "Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the 
 county of Kent: and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my 
 mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some 
 young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish 
 house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great 
 deal more good than the best-intentioned man can) I was greatly fasci- 
 nated by a young lady of London, who was the toast of all the company at 
 
 309
 
 the Wells. Every one knows Saccharissa's beauty ; and I think, Mr. Spec- 
 tator, no one better than herself. 
 
 "My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and-twenty 
 sets with her at the assembly. I treated her to the fiddles twice. I was 
 admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a great 
 deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. It was only 
 when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, and from 
 narrowly watching one, who I once thought of asking the most sacred 
 question a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she 
 was to be a country gentleman's wife; and that this fair creature was but 
 a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to 
 return, and, indeed, incapable of returning them. 'Tis admiration such 
 women want, not love that touches them ; and I can conceive, in her old 
 age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beauty 
 hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither 
 friendship nor religion to console her. 
 
 "Business calling me to London, I went to St. James's Church last 
 Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells. Her behavior 
 during the whole service was so pert, languishing, and absurd ; she flirted 
 her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was 
 obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever I 
 opened them beheld hers (and very bright they are) still staring at me. 
 I fell in with her afterwards at Court, and at the playhouse; and here 
 nothing would satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowd and 
 speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she holds at her 
 house, not very far from Ch-r-ng Cr-ss. 
 
 "Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise; 
 and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card-tables, 
 and a crowd of wits and admirers. I made the best bow I could, and 
 advanced tov/ards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, 
 though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even 
 my name. 
 
 "Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed aright. 
 She turned the conversation most ridiculously upon the spelling of names 
 and words; and I replied with as ridiculous fulsome compliments as I 
 could pay her: indeed, one in which I compared her to an angel visiting 
 the sick wells, went a little too far; nor should I have employed it, but 
 that the allusion came from the Second Lesson last Sunday, which we both 
 had heard, and I was pressed to answer her. 
 
 "Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and 
 asked how I spelt my name? 'Madam,' says I, turning on my heel, 'I 
 spell it with a y.' And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness 
 
 310
 
 of the townpeople, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved 
 to look elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader. 
 
 "Cymon Wyldoats. 
 
 "You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such a 
 letter as hupsilon. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharissa, wonders 
 that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully informed 
 the reason J." 
 
 The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound the 
 meaning. Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, maid of honor to 
 Her Majesty. She had told Mr. Esmond this little story of having met 
 a gentleman somewhere, and forgetting his name, when the gentleman, 
 with no such malicious intentions as those of "Cymon" in the above 
 fable, made the answer simply as above; and we all laughed to think 
 how little Mistress Jocasta Beatrix had profited by her artifice and pre- 
 cautions. 
 
 As for Cymon, he was intended to represent yours and her very hum- 
 ble servant, the writer of the apologue and of this story, which we had 
 printed on a Spectator paper at Mr. Steele's office, exactly as those famous 
 journals were printed, and which was laid on the table at breakfast in 
 place of the real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had plenty of wit, 
 could not live without her Spectator to her tea ; and this sham Spectator 
 was intended to convey to the young woman that she herself was a flirt, 
 and that Cymon was a gentleman of honor and resolution, seeing all 
 her faults, and determined to break the chains once and forever. 
 
 For though enough has been said about this love-business already — ■ 
 enough, at least, to prove to the writer's heirs what a silly fond fool 
 their old grandfather was, who would like them to consider him as a 
 very wise old gentleman; yet not near all has been told concerning 
 this matter, v>h!ch, if it were allowed to take in Esmond's journal the 
 space it occupied in his time, would weary his kinsmen and women of 
 a hundred years' time beyond all endurance; and from such a diary of 
 folly and drivelling, raptures and rage, as no man of ordinary vanity 
 would like to leave behind him. 
 
 The truth, is that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged him; 
 whether she smiled or was cold, and turned her smiles on another; 
 worldly and ambitious as he knew her to be; hard and careless, as she 
 seemed to grow with her Court life, and a hundred admirers that came 
 to her and left her; Esmond, do what he would, could never get Beatrix 
 out of his mind ; thought of her constantly at home or away. If he read 
 
 311
 
 his name in a Gazette, or escaped the shot of a cannon-ball or a greater 
 danger in the campaign, as has happened to him more than once, the 
 instant thought after the honor achieved or the danger avoided, was, 
 "What will she say of it?" "Will this distinction or the idea of this 
 peril elate her or touch her, so as to be better inclined towards me?" He 
 could no more help this passionate fidelity of temper than he could help 
 the eyes he saw with — one or the other seemed a part of his nature ; and 
 knowing every one of her faults as well as the keenest of her detractors, 
 and the folly of an attachment to such a woman, of which the fruition 
 could never bring him happiness for above a week, there was yet a 
 charm about this Circe from which the poor deluded gentleman could 
 not free himself: and for a much longer period than Ulysses (another 
 middle-aged officer, who had traveled much, and been in the foreign 
 wars) , Esmond felt himself enthralled and besotted by the wiles of this 
 enchantress. Quit her! He could no more quit her, as the Cymon of 
 this story was made to quit his false one, than he could lose his con- 
 sciousness of yesterday. She had but to raise her finger, and he would 
 come back from ever so far ; she had but to say I have discarded such and 
 such an adorer, and the poor infatuated wretch would be sure to come 
 and roder about her mother's house, willing to be put on the ranks of 
 suitors, though he knew he might be cast off the next week. If he were 
 like Ulysses in his folly, at least she was in so far like Penelope that 
 she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day after day and night after 
 night the handiwork of fascination and the web of coquetry with which 
 she was wont to allure and entertain them. 
 
 Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about the Court, 
 where the beautiful maid of Honor was the light about which a thousand 
 beaux came and fluttered ; where she was sure to have a ring of admirers 
 round her, crowding to listen to her repartees as much as to admire her 
 beauty ; and where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such as one 
 never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castlewood's daugh- 
 ter would have uttered or heard. When in waiting at Windsor or Hamp- 
 ton, the Court ladies and gentlemen would be making riding parties 
 together; Mrs. Beatrix in a horseman's coat and hat, the foremost after 
 the staghounds and over the park fences, a crowd of young fellows at 
 her heels. If the English country ladies at this time were the most pure 
 and modest of any ladies in the world — the English town and Court 
 ladies permitted themselves words and behavior that were neither modest 
 nor pure; and claimed, some of them, a freedom which those who love 
 312
 
 that sex most would never wish to grant them. The gentlemen of my 
 family that follow after me (for I don't encourage the ladies to pursue 
 any such studies) may read in the works of Mr. Congreve, and Dr. Swift 
 and others, what was the conversation and what the habits of our time. 
 
 The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond re- 
 turned to this country, a lady of high birth, and though of no fortune 
 to be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit and manners, Beatrix 
 Esmond was now six-and-twenty years old, and Beatrix Esmond still. 
 Of her hundred adorers she had not chosen one for a husband; and 
 those who had asked had been jilted by her; and more still had left her. 
 A succession of near ten years' crops of beauties had come up since her 
 time, and had been reaped by proper husbandmen, if we may make an 
 agricultural simile, and had been housed comfortably long ago. Her 
 own contemporaries were sober mothers by this time; girls with not a 
 tithe of her charms, or her wit, having made good matches, and now 
 claiming precedence over the spinster who but lately had derided and 
 outshone them. The young beauties were beginning to look down on 
 Beatrix as an old maid, and sneer, and call her one of Charles the Sec- 
 ond's ladies, and ask whether her portrait was not in the Hampton 
 Court Gallery.'' But still she reigned, at least in one man's opinion, 
 superior over all the little misses that were the toasts of the young lads; 
 and in Esmond's eyes was ever perfectly lovely and young. 
 
 Who knows how many were nearly made happy by possessing her, 
 or, rather, how many were fortunate in escaping this siren ? 'Tis a mar- 
 vel to think that her mother was the purest and simplest woman in the 
 whole world, and that this girl should have been born from her. I am 
 inclined to fancy, my mistress, who never said a harsh word to her chil- 
 dren (and but twice or thrice only to one person), must have been too 
 fond and pressing with the maternal authority; for her son and her 
 daughter both revolted early; nor after their first flight from the nest 
 could they ever be brought back quite to the fond mother's bosom. 
 Lady Castlewood, and perhaps it was as well, knew little of her daugh- 
 ter's life and real thoughts. How was she to apprehend what passes in 
 queens' antechatnbers and at Court tables? Mrs. Beatrix asserted her 
 own authority so resolutely that her mother quickly gave in. The maid 
 of honor had her Own equipage; went from home and came back at her 
 own will: her mother was alike powerless to resist her or to lead her, 
 or to command or to persuade her. 
 
 She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married, Esmond be- 
 
 313
 
 lieved. When he quitted home, it had been said, she was promised to 
 my Lord Ashburnham, and now, on his return, behold his lordship was 
 just married to Lady Mary Butler, the Duke of Ormond's daughter, and 
 his fine houses, and twelve thousand a year of fortune, for which Miss 
 Beatrix had rather coveted him, was out of her power. To her Esmond 
 could say nothing in regard to the breaking of this match ; and, asking 
 his mistress about it, all Lady Castlewood answered was: "Do not speak 
 to me about it, Harry. I cannot tell you how or why they parted, and I 
 fear to inquire. I have told you before, that with all her kindness, and 
 wit, and generosity, and that sort of splendor of nature she has, I can 
 say but little good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at the marriage 
 she will form. Her mind is fixed on ambition only, and making a great 
 figure: and, this achieved, she will tire of it as she does of everything. 
 Heaven help her husband, whoever he shall be ! My Lord Ashburnham 
 was a most excellent young man, gentle and yet manly, of very good 
 parts, so they told me, and as my little conversation would enable me 
 to judge: and a kind temper — kind and enduring I'm sure he must have 
 been, from all that he had to endure. But he quitted her at last, from 
 some crowning piece of caprice or tyranny of hers; and now he has 
 married a young woman that will make him a thousand times happier 
 than my poor girl ever could." 
 
 The rupture, whatever its cause was (I heard the scandal, but indeed 
 shall not take pains to repeat at length in this diary the trumpery coffee- 
 house story), caused a good deal of low talk; and Mr. Esmond was 
 present at my lord's appearance at the Birthday with his bride, over 
 whom the revenge that Beatrix took was to look so imperial and lovely 
 that the modest downcast young lady could not appear beside her, and 
 Lord Ashburnham, who had his reasons for wishing to avoid her, slunk 
 away quite shamefaced, and very early. This time his grace the Duke 
 of Hamilton, whom Esmond had seen about her before, was constant 
 at Miss Beatrix's side: he was one of the most splendid gentlemen of 
 Europe, accomplished by books, by travel, by long command of the 
 best company, distinguished as a statesman, having been ambassador 
 in King William's time, and a noble speaker in the Scots' Parliament, 
 where he had led the party that was against the Union, and though 
 now five or six-and-forty years of age, a gentleman so high in stature, 
 accomplished in wit, and favored in person, that he might pretend to 
 the hand of any princess in Europe. 
 
 "Should you like the duke for a cousin?" says Mr. Secretary St. John, 
 
 314
 
 whispering to Colonel Esmond in French; "it appears that the widower 
 consoles himself." 
 
 But to return to our little Spectator paper and the conversation which 
 grew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first was quite bit (as the phrase of that 
 day was) and did not "smoke" the authorship of the story; indeed 
 Esmond had tried to imitate as well as he could Mr. Steele's manner 
 (as for the other author of the Spectator, his prose style I think is alto- 
 gether inimitable) ; and Dick, who was the idlest and best-natured of 
 men, would have let the piece pass into his journal and go to posterity 
 as one of his own lucubrations, but that Esmond did not care to have a 
 lady's name whom he loved sent forth to the world in a light so un- 
 favorable. Beatrix pished and psha'd over the paper; Colonel Esmond 
 watching with no little interest her countenance as she read it. 
 
 "How stupid your friend Mr. Steele becomes!" cries Miss Beatrix. 
 "Epsom and Tunbridge! Will he never have done with Epsom and 
 Tunbridge, and with beaux at church, and Jocastas and Lindamiras? 
 Why does he not call women Nelly and Betty, as their godfathers and 
 godmothers did for them in their baptism?" 
 
 "Beatrix, Beatrix!" says her mother, "speak gravely of grave things." 
 
 "Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from heaven, I believe," 
 says Beatrix, with a laugh, "and was brought down by a bishop from 
 a mountain. Oh, how I used to break my heart over it ! Besides, I had a 
 Popish godmother, mamma; why did you give me one?" 
 
 "I gave you the Queen's name," says her mother, blushing. 
 
 "And a very pretty name it is," said somebody else. 
 
 Beatrix went on reading: "Spell my name with a y — why you wretch," 
 says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, "you have been telling my 
 story to Mr. Steele — or stop — you have written the paper yourself to 
 turn me into ridicule. For shame, sir!" 
 
 Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, which was 
 nevertheless an entire falsehood. "Upon my honor," says he, "I have 
 lOt even read the Spectator of this morning." Nor had he, for that was 
 lot the Spectator, but a sham newspaper put in its place. 
 
 She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she read. "No," she 
 says, "I think you couldn't have written it. I think it must have been 
 Mr. Steele when he was drunk — and afraid of his horrid vulgar wife. 
 Whenever I see an enormous compliment to a woman, and some out- 
 rageous panegyric about female virtue, I alvv'ays feel sure that the captain 
 
 315
 
 and his better half have fallen out overnight, and that he has been 
 brought home tipsy, or has been found out in " 
 
 "Beatrix!" cries the Lady Castlewood. 
 
 "Well, mamma! Do not cry out before you are hurt. I am not going 
 to say anything wrong. I won't give you more annoyance than I can help, 
 you pretty, kind mamma. Yes, and your little Trix is a naughty little 
 Trix, and she leaves undone those things which she ought to have done, 
 and does those things which she ought not to have done, and there's— 
 well now — I won't go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me." And with 
 this the young lady lays aside her paper, and runs up to her mother and 
 performs a variety of embraces with her ladyship, saying as plain as eyes 
 could speak to Mr. Esmond, "There, sir; would not you like to play the 
 very same pleasant game?" 
 
 "Indeed, madam, I would," says he. 
 
 "Would what?" asked Miss Beatrix. 
 
 "What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking way," 
 answers Esmond. 
 
 "What a confessor!" cries Beatrix, with a laugh. 
 
 "What is it Henry would like, my dear?" asks her mother, the kind 
 soul, who was always thinking what we would like, and how she could 
 please us. 
 
 The girl runs up to her. "Oh, you silly kind mamma," she says, kiss- 
 ing her again, "that's what Harry would like"; and she broke out into 
 a great joyful laugh; and Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid 
 of sixteen. 
 
 "Look at her, Harry," whispers Beatrix, running up and speaking in 
 her sweet low tones. "Doesn't the blush become her? Isn't she pretty? 
 She looks younger than I am, and I am sure she is a hundred million 
 thousand times better." 
 
 Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes away 
 with her. 
 
 "If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that," continues Beatrix, 
 with her laugh, "what wouldn't we do to preserve 'em? We'd clip their 
 stalks and put 'em in salt and water. But those flowers don't bloom at 
 Hampton Court and Windsor, Henry." She paused for a minute, and 
 the smile fading away from her April face, gave place to a menacing 
 shower of tears. 
 
 "Oh, how good she is, Harry!" Beatrix went on to say. "Oh, what 
 a saint she is! Her goodness frightens me. I'm not fit to live with her. 
 
 316
 
 I should be better I think if she were not so perfect. She has had a great 
 sorrow in her life and a great secret; and repented of it. It could not 
 have been my father's death. She talks freely about that; nor could she 
 have loved him very much — though who knows what we women do 
 love, and why.^" 
 
 "What, and why, indeed!" says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "No one knows," Beatrix went on, without noticing this interruption 
 except by a look, "what my mother's life is. She hath been at early prayer 
 this morning: she passes hours in her closet; if you were to follow her 
 thither, you would find her at prayers now. She tends the poor of the 
 place — the horrid dirty poor! She sits through the curate's sermons — 
 oh, those dreary sermons! And you see, on a heaii dire; but good as 
 they are, people like her are not fit to commune with us of the world. 
 There is always, as it were, a third person present, even when I and my 
 mother are alone. She can't be frank with me quite; who is always think- 
 ing of the next world, and of her guardian angel, perhaps that's in 
 company. Oh, Harry, I'm jealous of that guardian angel!" here broke 
 out Mistress Beatrix. "It's horrid, I know; but my mother's life is all 
 for heaven, and mine — all for earth. We can never be friends quite; 
 and then she cares more for Frank's little finger than she does for me 
 — I know she does : and she loves you, sir, a great deal too much ; and 
 I hate you for it. I would have had her all to myself; but she wouldn't. 
 In my childhood it was my father she loved — (oh, how could she? I 
 remember him kind and handsome, but so stupid, and not being able 
 to speak after drinking wine). And then it was Frank; and now, it is 
 heaven and the clergyman. How I would have loved her ! From a child 
 I used to be in a rage that she loved anybody but me; but she loved 
 you all better — all, I know she did. And now, she talks of the blessed 
 consolation of religion. Dear soul ! she thinks she is happier for believ- 
 ing, as she must, that we are all of us wicked and miserable sinners; and 
 this world is only a pied-a-terre for the good, where they stay for a night, 
 as we do, coming from Walcote, at that great, dreary, uncomfortable 
 Hounslow Inn, in those horrid beds — oh, do you remember those hor- 
 rid beds? — and the chariot comes and fetches them to heaven the next 
 morning." 
 
 "Hush, Beatrix!" says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "Hush, indeed. You are a hypocrite, too, Henrj', with your grave airs 
 and your glum face. We are all hypocrites. Oh dear me! We are all 
 
 317
 
 alone, alone, alone," says poor Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a 
 sigh. 
 
 "It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear," says Mr. Es- 
 mond. "You are not so worldly as you think yourself, Beatrix, and bet- 
 ter than we believe you. The good we have in us we doubt of; and the 
 happiness that's to our hand we throw away. You bend your ambition 
 on a great marriage and establishment — and why? You'll tire of them 
 when you win them ; and be no happier with a coronet on your coach " 
 
 "Than riding pillion with Lubin to market," says Beatrix. "Thank 
 you, Lubin." 
 
 "I'm a dismal shepherd, to be sure," answers Esmond, with a blush; 
 "and require a nymph that can tuck my bedclothes up, and make me 
 water-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood can do that. He took me out of the 
 fire upon his shoulders, and nursed me through my illness as love will 
 scarce ever do. Only good wages, and a hope of my clothes, and the con- 
 tents of my portmanteau. How long was it that Jacob served an appren- 
 ticeship for Rachel.''" 
 
 "For mamma?" says Beatrix. "It is a mamma your honor wants, and 
 that I should have the happiness of calling you papa?" 
 
 Esmond blushed again. "I spoke of a Rachel that a shepherd courted 
 five thousand years ago; when shepherds were longer lived than now. 
 And my meaning was, that since I saw you first after our separation — a 
 child you were then . . ." 
 
 "And I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I remember, 
 
 » » 
 
 sir . . . 
 
 "You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was; and such as 
 you were, I cared for no other woman. What little reputation I have 
 won, it was that you might be pleased with it: and indeed, it is not 
 much; and I think a hundred fools in the army have got and deserved 
 quite as much. Was there something in the air of that dismal old Castle- 
 wood that made us all gloomy, and dissatisfied, and lonely under its 
 ruined old roof? We were all so, even when together and united, as it 
 seemed, following our separate schemes, each as we sat round the table." 
 
 "Dear, dreary old place!" cries Beatrix. "Mamma hath never had the 
 heart to go back thither since we left it, when — never mind how many 
 years ago." And she flung back her curls, and looked over her fair 
 shoulder at the mirror superbly, as if she said, "Time, I defy you." 
 
 "Yes," says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of divining 
 many of her thoughts. "You can afford to look in the glass still; and 
 
 318
 
 only be pleased by the truth it tells you. As for me, do you know what 
 my scheme is? I think of asking Frank to give me the Virginian estate 
 King Charles gave our grandfather." (She gave a superb curtsey, as 
 much as to say, "Our grandfather, indeed! Thank you, Mr. Bastard.") 
 "Yes, I know you are thinking of my bar-sinister, and so am I. A man 
 cannot get over it in this country; unless, indeed, he wears it across a 
 king's arms, when 'tis a highly honorable coat; and I am thinking of 
 retiring into the plantations, and building myself a wigwam in the woods, 
 and perhaps, if I want company, suiting myself with a squaw. We will 
 send your ladyship furs over for the winter; and, when you are old, 
 we'll provide you with tobacco. I am not quite clever enough or not 
 rogue enough — I know not which — for the Old World. I may make a 
 place for myself in the New, which is not so full ; and found a family 
 there. When you are a mother yourself, and a great lady, perhaps I shall 
 send you over from the plantation some day a little barbarian that is half 
 Esmond half Mohawk, and you will be kind to him for his father's 
 sake, who was, after all, your kinsman; and whom you loved a little." 
 
 "What folly you are talking, Henry!" says Miss Beatrix, looking with 
 her great eyes. 
 
 " 'Tis sober earnest,' says Esmond. And, indeed, the scheme had been 
 dwelling a good deal in his mind for some time past, and especially since 
 his return home, when he found how hopeless, and even degrading 
 to himself, his passion was. "No," says he, then: "I have tried a half-a- 
 dozen times now. I can bear being away from you well enough; but 
 being with you is intolerable" (another low curtsey on Mistress Beatrix's 
 part), "and I will go. I have enough to buy axes and guns for my men, 
 and beads and blankets for the savages ; and I'll go and live among them." 
 
 "Mon ami," she says, quite kindly, and taking Esmond's hand, with 
 an air of great compassion, "you can't think that in our position anything 
 more than our present friendship is possible. You are our elder brother 
 — as such we view you, pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with 
 it. Why, you are old enough and grave enough to be our father. I always 
 thought you a hundred years old, Harry, with your solemn face and 
 grave air. I feel as a sister to you, and can no more. Isn't that enough, 
 sir?" And she put her face quite close to his — who knows with what 
 intention ? 
 
 "It's too much," says Esmond, turning away. "I can't bear this life, 
 and shall leave it. I shall stay, I think, to see you married, and then 
 freight a ship, and call it the Beatrix, and bid you all — " 
 
 319
 
 Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his grace the 
 Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back with something hke an 
 imprecation on his hps, as the nobleman entered, looking splendid in 
 his star and green riband. He gave Mr. Esmond just that gracious bow 
 which he would have given to a lackey who fetched him a chair or took 
 his hat, and seated himself by Miss Beatrix, as the poor colonel went out 
 of the room with a hang-dog look. 
 
 Esmond's mistress was in the lower room as he passed downstairs. 
 She often met him as he was coming away from Beatrix; and she beck- 
 oned him into the apartment. 
 
 "Has she told you, Harry?" Lady Castlewood said. 
 
 "She has been very frank — ^very," says Esmond. 
 
 "But — but about what is going to happen?" 
 
 "What is going to happen?" says he, his heart beating. 
 
 "His grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her," says my lady. 
 "He made his offer yesterday. They will marry as soon as his mourning 
 is over; and you have heard his grace is appointed ambassador to Paris; 
 and the ambassadress goes with him." 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Beatrix's New Suitor 
 
 The gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be sure, twenty 
 years older than the colonel, with whom she quarreled for being too old; 
 but this one was but a nameless adventurer, and the other the greatest 
 Duke of Scotland, with pretensions even to a still higher title. My Lord 
 Duke of Hamilton had, indeed, every merit belonging to a gentleman, 
 and he had had the time to mature his accomplishments fully, being 
 upwards of fifty years old when Madam Beatrix selected him for a 
 bridegroom. Duke Hamilton, then Earl of Arran, had been educated 
 at the famous Scottish university of Glasgow, and, coming to London, 
 became a great favorite of Charles the Second, who made him a lord 
 of his bedchamber, and afterwards appointed him ambassador to the 
 French King, under whom the earl served two campaigns as His Majesty's 
 aide-de-camp; and he was absent on this service when King Charles 
 died. 
 320
 
 King James continued my lord's promotion — ^made him master of 
 the wardrobe and colonel of the Royal Regiment of Horse; and his 
 lordship adhered firmly to King James, being of the small company 
 that never quitted that unfortunate monarch till his departure out of 
 England; and then it was, in 1688 namely, that he made the friendship 
 with Colonel Francis Esmond, that had always been, more or less, main- 
 tained in the two families. 
 
 The earl professed a great admiration for King William always, but 
 never could give him his allegiance; and was engaged in more than one 
 of the plots in the late great King's reign which always ended in the 
 plotters' discomfiture, and generally in their pardon, by the magna- 
 nimity of the King. Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the Tower during 
 this reign, undauntedly saying, when ofi^ered his release, upon parole 
 not to engage against King William, that he would not give his word, 
 because "he was sure he could not keep it"; but, nevertheless, he was 
 both times discharged without any trial; and the King bore this noble 
 enemy so little malice, that when his mother, the Duchess of Hamilton, 
 of her own right, resigned her claim on her husband's death, the earl 
 was, by patent signed at Loo, 1690, created Duke of Hamilton, Marquis 
 of Clydesdale, and Earl of Arran, with precedency from the original 
 creation. His grace took the oaths and his seat in the Scottish Parliament 
 in 1700: was famous there for his patriotism and eloquence, especially 
 in the debates about the Union Bill, which Duke Hamilton opposed 
 with all his strength, though he would not go the length of the Scottish 
 gentry, who were for resisting it by force of arms. 'Twas said he with- 
 drew his opposition all of a sudden, and in consequence of letters from 
 the King at St. Germains, who entreated him on his allegiance not to 
 thwart the Queen his sister in this measure ; and the duke, being always 
 bent upon effecting the King's return to his kingdom through a recon- 
 ciliation between His Majesty and Queen Anne, and quite averse to his 
 landing with arms and French troops, held aloof, and kept out of Scot- 
 land during the time when the Chevalier de St. George's descent from 
 Dunkirk was projected, passing his time in England in his gffeat estate 
 in Staffordshire. 
 
 When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the Queen began to 
 show his grace the very greatest marks of her favor. He was created 
 Duke of Brandon and Baron of Dutton in England; having the Thistle 
 already originally bestowed on him by King James the Second, his grace 
 was now promoted to the honor of the Garter— a distinction so great 
 
 321
 
 and illustrious, that no subject has ever borne them hitherto together. 
 When this objection was made to Her Majesty, she was pleased to say, 
 "Such a subject as the Duke of Hamilton has a pre-eminent claim to 
 every mark of distinction which a crowned head can confer. I v/ill hence- 
 forth wear both orders myself." 
 
 At the Chapter held at Windsor in October 171 2, the duke and other 
 knights, including lord-treasurer, the new-created Earl of Oxford and 
 Mortimer, were installed ; and a few days afterwards his grace was ap- 
 pointed ambassador-extraordinary to France, and his equipages, plate, 
 and liveries commanded, of the most sumptuous kind, not only for his 
 excellency the ambassador, but for her excellency the ambassadress, who 
 was to accompany him. Her arms were already quartered on the coach 
 panels, and her brother was to hasten over on the appointed day to give 
 her away. 
 
 His lordship was a widower, having married, in 1698, Elizabeth, 
 daughter of Digby Lord Gerard, by which marriage great estates came 
 into the Hamilton family; and out of these estates came, in part, that 
 tragic quarrel which ended the duke's career. 
 
 From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there's no pang that is 
 not bearable. The apprehension is much more cruel than the certainty; 
 and we make up our mind to the misfortune when 'tis irremediable, part 
 with the tormentor, and mumble our crust on t'other side of the jaws. 
 I think Colonel Esmond was relieved when a ducal coach and six came 
 and whisked his charmer away out of his reach, and placed her in a 
 higher sphere. As you have seen the nymph in the opera-machine go 
 up to the clouds at the end of the piece where Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, 
 and all the divine company of Olympians are seated, and quaver out her 
 last song as a goddess: so when this portentous elevation was accom- 
 plished in the Esmond family, I am not sure that every one of us did 
 not treat the divine Beatrix with special honors ; at least the saucy little 
 beauty carried her head with a toss of supreme authority, and assumed 
 a touch-me-not-air, which all her friends very good-humoredly bowed to. 
 
 An old army acquaintance of Colonel Esmond's, honest Tom Trett, 
 who had sold his company, married a wife, and turned merchant in the 
 city, was dreadfully gloomy for a long time, though living in a fine house 
 on the river, and carrying on a great trade to all appearance. At length 
 Esmond saw his friend's name in the Gazette as a bankrupt; and a week 
 after this circumstance my bankrupt walks into Mr. Esmond's lodging 
 with a face perfectly radiant with good-humor, and as jolly and care- 
 
 322
 
 less as when they had sailed from Southampton ten years before for 
 Vigo. "This bankruptcy," says Tom, "has been hanging over my head 
 these three years; the thought hath prevented my sleeping, and I have 
 looked at poor Polly's head on t'other pillow, and then towards my ra2or 
 on the table, and thought to put an end to myself, and so give my woes 
 the slip. But now we are bankrupts: Tom Trett pays as many shillings 
 in the pound as he can ; his wife has a little cottage at Fulham, and her 
 fortune secured to herself. I am afraid neither of bailiff nor of creditor: 
 and for the last six nights have slept easy." So it was that when Fortune 
 shook her wings and left him, honest Tom cuddled himself up in his 
 ragged virtue, and fell asleep. 
 
 Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story applied to Esmond 
 too ; but he laughed at it, and used it ; and having fairly struck his docket 
 in this love transaction, determined to put a cheerful face on his bank- 
 ruptcy. Perhaps Beatrix was a little offended at his gaiety. "Is this the 
 way, sir, that you receive the announcement of your misfortune?" says 
 she, "and do you come smiling before me as if you T'.'ere glad to be rid 
 of me?" 
 
 Esmond would not be put off from his good-humor, but told her the 
 story of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. "I have been hankering after 
 the grapes on the wall," says he, "and lost my temper because they were 
 beyond my reach: was there any wonder? They're gone now, and another 
 has them — a taller man than your humble servant has won them." And 
 the colonel made his cousin a low bow. 
 
 "A taller man. Cousin Esmond!" says she. "A man of spirit would 
 have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them! A man of courage would 
 have fought for 'em, not gaped for 'em." 
 
 "A duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth," says Esmond, 
 with another low bow. 
 
 "Yes, sir," says she, "a duke is a taller man than you. And why should 
 I not be grateful to one such as his grace, who gives me his heart and 
 his great name ? It is a great gift he honors me with ; I know 'tis a bargain 
 between us; and I accept it, and will do my utmost to perform my part 
 of it. 'Tis no question of sighing and philandering between a nobleman 
 of his grace's age and a girl who hath little of that softness in her nature. 
 Why should I not own that I am ambitious, Harry Esmond ; and if it be 
 no sin in a man to covet honor, why should a woman too not desire it? 
 Shall I be frank with you, Harry, and say that if you had not been down 
 on your knees, and so humble, you might have fared better with me? 
 
 323
 
 A woman of my spirit, cousin, is to be won by gallantry, and not by 
 sighs and rueful faces. All the time you are worshiping and singing 
 hymns to me, I know very well I am no goddess, and grow weary of 
 the incense. So would you have been weary of the goddess too — when 
 she was called Mrs. Esmond, and got out of humor because she had not 
 pin-money enough, and was forced to go about in an old gown. Eh! 
 Cousin, a goddess in a mob-cap, that has to make her husband's gruel, 
 ceases to be divine — I am sure of it. I should have been sulky and scolded ; 
 and of all the proud wretches in the world Mr. Esmond is the proudest, 
 let me tell him that. You never fall into a passion ; but you never forgive, 
 I think. Had you been a great man, you might have been good-humored ; 
 but being nobody, sir, you are too great a man for me; and I'm afraid 
 of you, cousin — there! and I won't worship you, and you'll never be 
 happy except with a woman who will. Why, after I belonged to you, 
 and after one of my tantrums, you would have put the pillow over my 
 head some night, and smothered me, as the black man does the woman 
 in the play that you are so fond of. What's the creature's name? — 
 Desdemona. You would, you little black-dyed Othello!" 
 
 "I think I should, Beatrix," says the colonel. 
 
 "And I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a hundred, and 
 to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and to play cards every night of 
 my life till the year eighteen hundred. And I like to be the first of my 
 company, sir; and I like flattery and compliments, and you give me 
 none; and I like to be made to laugh, sir, and who's to laugh at your 
 dismal face, I should like to know? and I like a coach-and-six or a coach- 
 and-eight; and I like diamonds, and a new gown every week; and people 
 to say, 'That's the duchess. How well her grace looks! Make way for 
 Madame I'Ambassadrice d'Angleterre. Call her Excellency's people' — 
 that's what I like. And as for you, you want a woman to bring your 
 slippers and cap, and to sit at your feet, and cry, 'O caro! O bravo!' 
 whilst you read your Shakespeares and Miltons and stuff. Mamma would 
 have been the wife for you, had you been a little older, though you look 
 ten years older than she does — you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded 
 little old man ! You might have sat, like Darby and Joan, and flattered 
 each other; and billed and cooed like a pair of old pigeons on a perch. 
 I want my wings, and to use them, sir." And she spread out her beautiful 
 arms, as if indeed she could fly off like the pretty "Gawrie," whom the 
 man in the story was enamored of. 
 
 "And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight?" says Esmond, 
 
 324
 
 who never admired this fair creature more than when she rebelled and 
 laughed at him. 
 
 "A duchess knows her place," says she with a laugh. "Why, I have 
 a son already made for me, and thirty years old (my Lord Arran), and 
 four daughters. How they will scold, and what a rage they will be in, 
 when I come to take the head of the table ! But I give them only a month 
 to be angry; at the end of that time they shall love me every one, and 
 so shall Lord Arran, and so shall all his grace's Scots vassals and fol- 
 lowers in the Highlands. I'm bent on it; and when I take a thing in my 
 head, 'tis done. His grace is the greatest gentleman in Europe, and I'll 
 try and make him happy; and, when the King comes back, you may 
 count on my protection. Cousin Esmond — for come back the King will 
 and shall; and I'll bring him back from Versailles, if he comes under 
 my hoop." 
 
 ""I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix," says Esmond, with 
 a sigh. "You'll be Beatrix till you are my lady duchess — will you not.-* 
 I shall then make your grace my very lowest bow." 
 
 "None of these sighs and this satire, cousin," she says. "I take his 
 grace's great bounty thankfully — yes, thankfully; and will wear his 
 honors becomingly. I do not say he hath touched my heart; but he has 
 my gratitude, obedience, admiration — I have told him that, and no more; 
 and with that his noble heart is content. I have told him all — even the 
 story of that poor creature that I was engaged to — and that I could not 
 love; and I gladly gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to get 
 back my own. I am twenty-five years old." 
 
 "Twenty-six, my dear," says Esmond. 
 
 "Twenty-five, sir — I choose to be twenty-five; and in eight years no 
 man hath ever touched my heart. Yes — you did once, for a little, Harry, 
 when you came back after Lille, and engaging with that murderer Mohun, 
 and saving Frank's life. I thought I could like you ; and mamma begged 
 me hard, on her knees, and I did — -for a day. But the old chill came over 
 me, Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was 
 glad when you went away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, 
 that I might hear no more of you, that's the truth. You are too good for 
 me, somehow. I could not make you happy, and should break my heart 
 in trying, and not being able to love you. But if you had asked me when 
 we gave you the sword, you might have had me, sir, and we both should 
 have been miserable by this time. I talked with that silly lord all night 
 just to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded, didn't I? How frankly 
 
 325
 
 we can talk of these things! It seems a thousand years ago: and, though 
 we are here sitting in the same room, there is a great wall between us. 
 My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin ! I can like now, and admire 
 you too, sir, and say that you are brave, and very kind, and very true, 
 and a fine gentleman for all — for all your little mishap at your birth," 
 says she, wagging her arch head. 
 
 "And now, sir," says she with a curtsey, "we must have no more talk 
 except when mamma is by, or his grace is with us ; for he does not half 
 like you, cousin, and is jealous as the black man in your favorite play." 
 
 Though the very kindness of the word stabbed Mr. Esmond with the 
 keenest pangs, he did not show his sense of the wound by any look of 
 his (as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned to him), but said, with a 
 perfect command of himself and an easy smile, "The interview must not 
 end yet, my dear, until I have had my last word. Stay, here comes your 
 mother" (indeed she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and 
 Esmond going up kissed her hand respectfully). "My dear lady may 
 hear, too, the last words, which are no secrets, and are only a parting 
 benediction accompanying a present for your marriage from an old 
 gentleman your guardian ; for I feel as if I was the guardian of all the 
 family, and an old fellow that is fit to be the grandfather of you all; 
 and in this character let me make my lady duchess her wedding present. 
 They are the diamonds my father's widow left me. I had thought Beatrix 
 might have had them a year ago ; but they are good enough for a duchess, 
 though not bright enough for the handsomest woman in the world." 
 And he took the case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and 
 presented them to his cousin. 
 
 She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very handsome, 
 and of great value; and the next minute the necklace was where Belinda's 
 cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem, and glittering on the whitest 
 and most perfectly-shaped neck in all England. 
 
 The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was so great, that after 
 rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect they produced upon 
 that fair neck which they surrounded, Beatrix was running back with 
 her arms extended, and was perhaps for paying her cousin with a price, 
 that he would have liked no doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy 
 lips of her, but at this moment the door opened, and his grace the bride- 
 groom elect was announced. 
 
 He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made a very 
 low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his most cere- 
 
 326
 
 monious manner. He had come in his chair from the palace hard by, 
 and wore his two stars of the Garter and the Thistle. 
 
 "Look, my lord duke," says Mistress Beatrix, advancing to him, and 
 showing the diamonds on her breast. 
 
 "Diamonds," says his grace. "Hm! they seem pretty." 
 
 "They are a present on my marriage," says Beatrix. 
 
 "From Her Majesty?" asks the duke. "The Queen is very good." 
 
 "From my cousin Henry — ^from our cousin Henry," cried both the 
 ladies in a breath. 
 
 "I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman. I thought that my 
 Lord Castlewood had no brother: and that on your ladyship's side there 
 were no nephews." 
 
 "From our cousin. Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord," says Beatrix, 
 taking the colonel's hand very bravely, "who was left guardian to us by 
 our father, and who has a hundred times shown his love and friendship 
 for our family." 
 
 "The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from her hus- 
 band, madam," says the duke; "may I pray you to restore these to Mr. 
 Esmond?" 
 
 "Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman and bene- 
 factor, my lord duke," says Lady Castlewood, with an air of great dignity. 
 "She is my daughter yet: and if her mother sanctions the gift — no one 
 else hath the right to question it." 
 
 "Kinsman and benefactor!" says the duke. "I know of no kinsman: 
 and I do not choose that my wife should have for a benefactor a " 
 
 "My lord!" says Colonel Esmond. 
 
 "I am not here to bandy words," says his grace; "frankly I tell you 
 that your visits to this house are too frequent, and that I choose no 
 presents for the duchess of Hamilton from gentlemen that bear a name 
 they have no right to." 
 
 "My lord!" breaks out Lady Castlewood, "Mr. Esmond hath the best 
 right to that name of any man in the world : and 'tis as old and as hon- 
 orable as your grace's." 
 
 My lord duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood was mad, that 
 was so talking to him. 
 
 "If I called him benefactor," said my mistress, "it is because he has 
 been so to us — yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest, the dearest of 
 benefactors. He would have saved my husband's life from Mohun's 
 
 327
 
 sword. He did save my boy's, and defended him from that villain. Are 
 those no benefits?" 
 
 "I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon," says his grace, if possible more 
 haughty than before. "I would say not a word that should give him 
 offense, and thank him for his kindness to your ladyship's family. My 
 Lord Mohun and I are connected, you know, by marriage — though 
 neither by blood nor friendship ; but I must repeat what I said, that my 
 wife can receive no presents from Colonel Esmond." 
 
 "My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our House; 
 my daughter may thankfully take kindness from her father's, her mother's, 
 her brother's dearest friend ; and be grateful for one more benefit besides 
 the thousand we owe him," cries Lady Castlewood. "What is a string 
 of diamond stones compared to that affection he hath given us — our 
 dearest preserver and benefactor? We owe him not only Frank's life, 
 but our all — yes, our all," says my mistress, with a heightened color and 
 a trembling voice. "The title we bear is his, if he would claim it. 'Tis 
 we who have no right to our name: not he that's too great for it. He 
 sacrificed his name at my dying lord's bedside — sacrificed it to my orphan 
 children; gave up rank and honor because he loved us so nobly. His 
 father was Viscount of Castlewood and Marquis of Esmond before him; 
 and he is his father's lawful son and true heir, and we are the recipients 
 of his bounty, and he the chief of a house that's as old as your own. And 
 if he is content to forego his name that my child may bear it, we love 
 him and honor him and bless him under whatever name he bears — " and 
 here the fond and affectionate creature would have knelt to Esmond again, 
 but that he prevented her; and Beatrix, running up to her with a pale 
 face and a cry of alarm, embraced her and said, "Mother, what is this?" 
 
 '"Tis a family secret, my lord duke," says Colonel Esmond: "poor 
 Beatrix knew nothing of it ; nor did my lady till a year ago. And I have 
 as good a right to resign my title as your grace's mother to abdicate hers 
 to you." 
 
 "I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton," said my 
 mistress, "had his grace applied to me for my daughter's hand, and 
 not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you this very day in private, 
 my lord, had not your words brought about this sudden explanation — 
 and now 'tis fit Beatrix should hear it; and know, as I would have all 
 the world know, what we owe to our kinsman and patron." 
 
 And then, in her touching way, and having hold of her daughter's 
 hand, and speaking to her rather than my lord duke, Lady Castlewood 
 
 328
 
 told the story which you know already — lauding up to the skies her 
 kinsman's behavior. On his side Mr. Esmond explained the reasons that 
 seemed quite sufficiently cogent with him, why the succession in the 
 family, as at present it stood, should not be disturbed; and he should 
 remain as he was, Colonel Esmond. 
 
 "And Marquis of Esmond, my lord," says his grace, with a low bow. 
 "Permit me to ask your lordship's pardon for words that were uttered 
 in ignorance; and to beg for the favor of your friendship. To be allied 
 to you, sir, must be an honor under whatever name you are known" (so 
 his grace was pleased to say) ; "and in return for the splendid present 
 you make my wife, your kinswoman, I hope you will please to command 
 any service that James Douglas can perform. I shall never be easy until 
 I repay you a part of my obligations at least; and ere very long, and with 
 the mission Her Majesty hath given me," says the duke, "that may per- 
 haps be in my power. I shall esteem it as a favor, my lord, if Colonel 
 Esmond will give away the bride." 
 
 "And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is welcome," 
 says Beatrix, stepping up to him ; and, as Esmond kissed her, she whis- 
 pered, "Oh, why didn't I know you before?" 
 
 My lord duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said never a 
 word : Beatrix made him a proud curtsey, and the two ladies quitted the 
 room together. 
 
 "When does your excellency go for Paris?" asks Colonel Esmond. 
 
 "As soon after the ceremony as may be," his grace answered. " 'Tis 
 fixed for the first of December: it cannot be sooner. The equipage will 
 not be ready till then. The Queen intends the embassy should be very 
 grand — and I have law business to settle. That ill-omened Mohun has 
 come, or is coming, to London again: we are in a lawsuit about my late 
 Lord Gerard's property; and he hath sent to me to meet him." 
 
 CHA PTE R V 
 
 Mohun Appears for the Last Time 
 
 Besides my Lord Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, who for family rea- 
 sons had kindly promised his protection and patronage to Colonel Es- 
 mond, he had other great friends in power now, both able and willing 
 
 329
 
 to assist him, and he might, with such alhes, look forward to as fortunate 
 advancement in civil hfe at home as he had got rapid promotion abroad. 
 His grace was magnanimous enough to offer to ta!:e Mr. Esmond as 
 secretary on his Paris embassy, but no doubt he intended that proposal 
 should be rejected; at any rate, Esmond could not bear the thoughts of 
 attending his mistress farther than the church-door after her marriage, 
 and so declined that offer which his generous rival made him. 
 
 Other gentlemen in power were liberal at least of compliments and 
 promises to Colonel Esmond. Mr. Harley, nov/ become my Lord Oxford 
 and Mortimer, and installed Knight of the Garter on the same day as 
 his Grace of Hamilton had received the same honor, sent to the colonel 
 to say that a seat in Parliament should be at his disposal presently, and 
 Mr. St. John held out many flattering hopes of advancement to the colonel 
 when he should enter the House. Esmond's friends were all successful, 
 and the most successful and triumphant of all was his dear old com- 
 mander. General Webb, who was now appointed lieutenant-general of 
 the land forces, and received with particular honor by the ministry, by 
 the Queen, and the people out of doors, who huzza'd the brave chief 
 when they used to see him in his chariot going to the House or to the 
 Drawing-room, or hobbling on foot to his coach from St. Stephen's 
 upon his glorious old crutch and stick, and cheered him as loud as they 
 had ever done Marlborough. 
 
 That great duke was utterly disgraced; and honest old Webb dated 
 all his grace's misfortunes from Wynendael, and vowed that Fate served 
 the traitor right. Duchess Sarah had also gone to ruin; she had been 
 forced to give up her keys, and her places, and her pensions: — "Ah, ah!" 
 says Webb, "she would have locked up three millions of French crowns 
 with her keys had I but been knocked on the head, but I stopped that 
 convoy at Wynendael." Our enemy Cardonnel was turned out of the 
 House of Commons (along with Mr. Walpole) for malversation of 
 public money. Cadogan lost his place of lieutenant of the Tower. Marl- 
 borough's daughters resigned their posts of ladies of the bedchamber; 
 and so complete was the duke's disgrace, that his son-in-law. Lord Bridge- 
 water, was absolutely obliged to give up his lodgings at St. James's, and 
 had his half-pension, as Master of the Horse, taken away. But I think 
 the lov/est depth of Marlborough's fall was when he humbly sent to 
 ask General Webb when he might wait upon him; he who had com- 
 manded the stout old general, who had injured him and sneered at him, 
 who had kept him dangling in his ante-chamber, who could not even 
 
 330
 
 after his great service condescend to write him a letter in his own hand ! 
 The nation was as eager for peace as ever it had been hot for war. The 
 Prince of Savoy came among us, had his audience of the Queen, and got 
 his famous Sword of Honor, and strove with all his force to form a 
 Whig party together, to bring over the young Prince of Hanover — to 
 do anything which might prolong the war, and consummate the ruin 
 of the old sovereign whom he hated so implacably. But the nation was 
 tired of the struggle: so completely wearied of it that not even our 
 defeat at Denain could rouse us into any anger, though such an action 
 so lost two years before would have set all England in a fury. 'Twas easy 
 to see that the great Marlborough was not with the army. Eugene was 
 obliged to fall back in a rage, and forego the dazzling revenge of his 
 life. 'Twas in vain the Duke's side asked, "Would we suffer our arms to 
 be insulted ? Would we not send back the only champion who could repair 
 our honor?" The nation had had its bellyful of fighting: nor could taunts 
 or outcries goad up our Britons any more. 
 
 For a statesman that was always prating of liberty, and had the grandest 
 philosophic maxims in his mouth, it must be owned that Mr. St. John 
 sometimes rather acted like a Turkish than a Greek philosopher, and 
 especially fell foul of one unfortunate set of men, the men of letters, 
 with a tyranny a little extraordinary in a man who professed to respect 
 their calling so much. The literary controversy at this time was very bitter, 
 the Government side was the winning one, the popular one, and I think 
 might have been the merciful one. 'Twas natural that the Opposition 
 should be peevish and cry out: some men did so from their hearts, admir- 
 ing the Duke of Marlborough's prodigious talents, and deploring the 
 disgrace of the greatest general the world ever knew: 'twas the stomach 
 that caused the other patriots to grumble, and such men cried out because 
 they were poor, and paid to do so. Against these my Lord Bolingbroke 
 never showed the slightest mercy, whipping a dozen into prison or into 
 the pillory without the least commiseration. 
 
 From having been a man of arms Mr. Esmond had now come to be 
 a man of letters, but on a safer side than that in which the above-cited 
 poor fellows ventured their liberties and ears. There was no danger on 
 ours, which was the winning side; besides, Mr. Esmond pleased him- 
 self by thinking that he writ like a gentleman if he did not always succeed 
 as a wit. 
 
 Of the famous wits of that age, who have rendered Queen Anne's 
 reign illustrious, and whose works will be in all Englishmen's hands in 
 
 331
 
 ages yet to come, Mr. Esmond saw many, but at public places chiefly; 
 never having a great intimacy with any of them, except with honest Dick 
 Steele, and Mr. Addison, who parted company with Esmond, however, 
 when that gentleman became a declared Tory, and lived on close terms 
 with the leading persons of that party. Addison kept himself to a few 
 friends, and very rarely opened himself except in their company. A man 
 more upright and conscientious than he it was not possible to find in 
 public life, and one whose conversation was so various, easy, and delight- 
 ful. Writing now in my mature years, I own that I think Addison's 
 policies were the right, and were my time to come over again, I would 
 be a Whig in England and not a Tory ; but with people that take a side 
 in politics, 'tis men rather than principles that commonly bind them. A 
 kindness or a slight puts a man under one flag or the other, and he 
 marches with it to the end of the campaign. Esmond's master in war was 
 injured by Marlborough, and hated him; and the lieutenant fought the 
 quarrels of his leader. Webb coming to London was used as a weapon 
 by Marlborough's enemies (and true steel he was, that honest chief) ; 
 nor was his aide-de-camp, Mr. Esmond, an unfaithful or unworthy par- 
 tisan. 'Tis strange here, and on a foreign soil, and in a land that is inde- 
 pendent in all but the name (for that the North American colonies shall 
 remain dependants on yonder little island for twenty years more, I never 
 can think) , to remember how the nation at home seemed to give itself 
 up to the domination of one or other aristocratic party, and took a 
 Hanoverian king, or a French one, according as either prevailed. And 
 while the Tories, the October Club gentlemen, the High Church parsons 
 that held by the Church of England, were for having a Papist King, for 
 whom many of their Scottish and English leaders, firm Churchmen all, 
 laid down their lives with admirable loyalty and devotion; they were 
 governed by men who had notoriously no religion at all, but used it as 
 they would use any opinion for the purpose of forwarding their own 
 ambition. The Whigs, on the other hand, who professed attachment to 
 religion and liberty too, were compelled to send to Holland or Hanover 
 for a monarch around whom they could rally. A strange series of com- 
 promises is that English history: compromise of principle, compromise 
 of party, compromise of worship! The lovers of English freedom and 
 independence submitted their religious consciences to an Act of Parlia- 
 ment; could not consolidate their liberty without sending to Zell or 
 the Hague for a king to live under ; and could not find among the proudest 
 people in the world a man speaking their own language, and understand- 
 332
 
 ing their laws, so govern them. The Tory and High Church patriots were 
 ready to die in defense of a Papist family that had sold us to France; 
 the great Whig nobles, the sturdy republican recusants who had cut off 
 Charles Stuart's head for treason, were fain to accept a king whose title 
 came to him through a royal grandmother, whose own royal grand- 
 mother's head had fallen under Queen Bess's hatchet. And our proud 
 English nobles sent to a petty German town for a monarch to come and 
 reign in London ; and our prelates kissed the ugly hands of his Dutch 
 mistresses, and thought it no dishonor. In England you can not belong 
 to one party or t'other, and you take the house you live in with all its 
 encumbrances, its retainers, its antique discomforts, and ruins even ; you 
 patch up, but you never build up anew. Will we of the New World 
 submit much longer, even nominally, to this ancient British superstition ? 
 There are signs of the times which make me think that ere long we shall 
 care as little about King George here, and peers temporal and peers spir- 
 itual, as we do for King Canute or the Druids. 
 
 This chapter began about the wits, my grandson may say, and has 
 wandered very far from their company. The pleasantest of the wits I 
 knew were the Doctors Garth and Arbuthnot, and Mr. Gay, the author 
 of Trivia, the most charming kind soul that ever laughed at a joke or 
 cracked a bottle. Mr. Prior I saw, and he was the earthen pot swimming 
 with the pots of brass down the stream, and always and justly frightened 
 lest he should break in the voyage. I met him both at London and Paris, 
 where he was performing piteous congees to the Duke of Shrewsbury, 
 not having courage to support the dignity which his undeniable genius 
 and talent had won him, and writing coaxing letters to Secretary St. 
 John, and thinking about his plate and his place, and what on earth 
 should become of him should his party go out. The famous Mr. Congreve 
 I saw a dozen of times at Button's, a splendid wreck of a man, magnifi- 
 cently attired, and though gouty, and almost blind, bearing a brave face 
 against fortune. 
 
 The great Mr. Pope (of whose prodigious genius I have no words 
 to express my admiration) was quite a puny lad at this time, appearing 
 seldom in public places. There were hundreds of men, wits, and pretty 
 fellows frequenting the theaters and coffee-houses of that day — whom 
 "mtnc perscribere longum est." Indeed I think the most brilliant of that 
 sort I ever saw was not till fifteen years afterwards, when I paid my last 
 visit in England, and met young Harry Fielding, son of the Fielding 
 that served in Spain and afterwards in Flanders with us, and who for 
 
 333
 
 fun and humor seemed to top them all. As for the famous Doctor Swift, 
 I can say of him, "Vidi tayitum." He was in London all these years up to 
 the death of the Queen: and in a hundred public places where I saw 
 him, but no more; he never missed Court of a Sunday, where once or 
 twice he was pointed out to your grandfather. He would have sought 
 me out eagerly enough had I been a great man with a title to my name, 
 or a star on my coat. At Court the doctor had no eyes but for the very 
 greatest. Lord Treasurer and St. John used to call him Jonathan, and 
 they paid him with this cheap coin for the service they took of him. He 
 writ their lampoons, fought their enemies, flogged and bullied in their 
 service, and it must be owned with a consummate skill and fierceness. 
 'Tis said he has lost his intellect now, and forgotten his wrongs and his 
 rage against mankind. I have always thought of him and of Marlborough 
 as the two greatest men of that age. I have read his books (who does 
 not know them.'*) here in our calm woods, and imagine a giant to myself 
 as I think of him, a lonely fallen Prometheus, groaning as the vulture 
 tears him. Prometheus I saw, but when first I ever had any words with 
 him, the giant stepped out of a sedan chair in the Poultry, whither he 
 had come with a tipsy Irish servant parading before him, who announced 
 him, bawling out his reverence's name, while his master below was as 
 yet haggling with the chairman. I disliked this Mr. Swift, and heard 
 many a story about him, of his conduct to men, and his words to women. 
 He could flatter the great as much as he could bully the weak ; and Mr. 
 Esmond, being younger and hotter in that day than now, was determined, 
 should he ever meet this dragon, not to run away from his teeth and 
 his fire. 
 
 Men have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards in life, and 
 are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be of distinction, from a 
 hundred different causes. There was one comrade of Esmond's, an honest 
 little Irish lieutenant of Handyside's, who owed so much money to a 
 camp sutler, that he began to make love to the man's daughter, intend- 
 ing to pay his debt that way; and at the battle of Malplaquet, flying away 
 from the debt and lady too, he rushed so desperately on the French lines, 
 that he got his company: and came a captain out of the action, and had 
 to marry the sutler's daughter after all, who brought him his canceled 
 debt to her father as poor Roger's fortune. To run out of the reach of 
 bill and marriage, he ran on the enemy's pikes ; and as these did not kill 
 him he was thrown back upon t'other horn of his dilemma. Our great 
 duke at the same battle was fighting, not the French, but the Tories in 
 
 334
 
 England : and risking his life and the army's, not for his country but for 
 his pay and places ; and for fear of his wife at home, that only being in 
 life whom he dreaded. I have asked about men in my own company 
 (new drafts of poor country boys were perpetually coming over to us 
 during the wars, and brought from the ploughshare to tlie sword), and 
 found that a half of them under the flags were driven thither on account 
 of a woman: one fellow was jilted by his mistress and took the shilling 
 in despair; another jilted the girl, and fled from her and the parish to 
 the tents where the law could not disturb him. Why go on particularizing ? 
 What can the sons of Adam and Eve expect, but to continue in that course 
 of love and trouble their father and mother set out on ? Oh, my grandson ! 
 I am drawing nigh to the end of that period of my history, when I was 
 acquainted with the great world of England and Europe; my years are 
 past the Hebrew poet's limit, and I say unto thee, all my troubles and 
 joys too, for that matter, have come from a woman: as thine will when 
 thy destined course begins. 'Twas a woman that made a soldier of me, 
 that set me intriguing afterwards; I believe I would have spun smocks 
 for her had she so bidden me ; what strength I had in my head I would 
 have given her; has not every man in his degree had his Omphale and 
 Delilah? Mine befooled me on the banks of the Thames, and in dear 
 Old England; thou mayest find thine own by Rappahannoc. 
 
 To please that woman then I tried to distinguish myself as a soldier, 
 and afterwards as a wit and a politician ; as to please another I would have 
 put on a black cassock and a pair of bands, and had done so but that a 
 superior fate intervened to defeat that project. And I say, I think the 
 world is like Captain Esmond's company I spoke of anon; and could 
 you see every man's career in life, you would find a woman clogging 
 him; or clinging round his march and stopping him; or cheering him 
 and goading him; or beckoning him out of her chariot, so that he goes 
 up to her, and leaves the race to be run without him; or bringing him 
 the apple, and saying "Eat" ; or fetching him the daggers and whispering 
 "Kill ! yonder lies Duncan, and a crown, and an opportunity." 
 
 Your grandfather fought with more eflfect as a politician than as a 
 wit; and having private animosities and grievances of his own and his 
 general's against the great duke in command of the army, and more 
 information on military matters than most writers, who had never seen 
 beyond the fire of a tobacco-pipe at "Wills's," he was enabled to do good 
 service for that cause which he embarked in, and for Mr. St. John and 
 his party. But he disdained the abuse in which some of the Tory writers 
 
 335
 
 indulged; for instance, Doctor Swift, who actually chose to doubt the 
 Duke of Marlborough's courage, and was pleased to hint that his grace's 
 military capacity was doubtful: nor were Esmond's performances worse 
 for the effect they were intended to produce (though no doubt they 
 could not injure the Duke of Marlborough nearly so much in the public 
 eyes as the malignant attacks of Swift did, which were carefully directed 
 so as to blacken and degrade him) , because they were writ openly and 
 fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made no disguise of them, who was now 
 out of the army, and who never attacked the prodigious courage and 
 talents, only the selfishness and rapacity, of the chief. 
 
 The colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory journals, 
 called the Post -Boy (a letter upon Bouchain, that the town talked about 
 for two whole days, when the appearance of an Italian singer supplied 
 a fresh subject for conversation), and having business at the Exchange, 
 where Mistress Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely, 
 Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting at the printer's, when 
 the famous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that used 
 to walk before his chair, and bawled out his master's name with great 
 dignity. 
 
 Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had gone 
 to the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in drawing a 
 picture of a soldier on horseback for a dirty little pretty boy of the 
 printer's wife, whom she had left behind her. 
 
 "I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?" says the doctor 
 in a grating voice that had an Irish twang; and he looked at the colonel 
 from under his two bushy eyebrows with a pair of very clear blue eyes. 
 His complexion was muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double. He 
 wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat over his black wig, and he 
 pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks very fierce. 
 
 "I am but a contributor. Doctor Swift," says Esmond, with the little 
 boy still on his knee. He was sitting with his back in the window, so 
 that the doctor could not see him. 
 
 "Who told you I was Doctor Swift?" says the doctor, eyeing the other 
 very haughtily. 
 
 "Your reverence's valet bawled out your name," says the colonel. "I 
 should judge you brought him from Ireland?" 
 
 "And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant came 
 from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your employer, Mr. Leach. I'll 
 thank ye go fetch him." 
 
 336
 
 "Where's your papa, Tommy?" asks the colonel of the child, a smutty 
 little wretch in a frock. 
 
 Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the doctor's appearance 
 had no doubt frightened the poor little imp. 
 
 "Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid 
 ye, sir," says the doctor. 
 
 "I must finish the picture first for Tommy," says the colonel, laughing- 
 "Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or without?" 
 
 "Whisters," says Tommy, quite intent on the picture. 
 
 "Who the devil are ye, sir?" cries the doctor; "are ye a printer's man, 
 or are ye not?" he pronounced it like naught. 
 
 "Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am," says Colonel 
 Esmond. "Did you ever hear of Doctor Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar 
 Bacon who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?" 
 
 Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. "I did not intend any 
 offense, sir," says he. 
 
 "I dare say, sir, you offended without meaning," says the other drily. 
 
 "Who are ye, sir? Do you know who I am, sir? You are one of the 
 pack of Grub Street scribblers that my friend Mr. Secretary hath laid 
 by the heels. How dare ye, sir, speak to me in this tone?" cries the doctor, 
 in a great fume. 
 
 "I beg your honor's humble pardon if I have offended your honor," 
 says Esmond, in a tone of great humility. "Rather than be sent to the 
 Comptor, or be put in the pillory, there's nothing I wouldn't do. But 
 Mrs. Leach, the printer's lady, told me to mind Tommy while she went 
 for her husband to the tavern, and I daren't leave the child lest he should 
 fall into the fire; but if your reverence will hold him " 
 
 "I take the little beast!" says the doctor, starting back. "I am engaged 
 to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that when he makes an appoint- 
 ment with Doctor Swift he had best keep it, do you hear? And keep a 
 respectful tongue in your head, sir, when you address a person like me." 
 
 "Fm but a poor broken-down soldier," says the colonel, "and Fve 
 seen better days, though I am forced now to turn my hand to writing. 
 We can't help our fate, sir." 
 
 "You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, I presume. 
 Have the goodness to speak civilly when you are spoken to — and tell 
 Leach to call at my lodgings in Bury Street, and bring the paper with 
 him tonight at ten o'clock. And the next time you see me, you'll know 
 me, and be civil, Mr. Kemp." 
 
 337
 
 Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of the war, 
 and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post-Boy, and now 
 took honest Mr. Leach's pay in place of Her Majesty's. Esmond had seen 
 this gentleman, and a very ingenious, hard-working, honest fellow he 
 was, toiling to give bread to a great family, and watching up many a 
 long winter night to keep the wolf from his door. And Mr. St. John, 
 who had liberty always on his tongue, had just sent a dozen of the 
 Opposition writers into prison, and one actually into the pillory, for 
 what he called libels, but libels not half so violent as those writ on our 
 side. With regard to this very piece of tyranny, Esmond had remon- 
 strated strongly with the secretary, who laughed, and said the rascals 
 were served quite right; and told Esmond a joke of Swift's regarding 
 the matter. Nay, more, this Irishman, when St. John was about to pardon 
 a poor wretch condemned to death for rape, absolutely prevented the 
 secretary from exercising this act of good-nature, and boasted that he 
 had had the man hanged ; and great as the doctor's genius might be, and 
 splendid his ability, Esmond for one would affect no love for him, and 
 never desired to make his acquaintance. The doctor was at Court every 
 Sunday assiduously enough, a place the colonel frequented but rarely, 
 though he had a great inducement to go there in the person of a fair 
 maid of honor of Her Majesty's; and the airs and patronage Mr. Swift 
 gave himself, forgetting gentlemen of his country whom he knew per- 
 fectly, his loud talk, at once insolent and servile, nay, perhaps his very 
 intimacy with lord treasurer and the secretary, who indulged all his freaks 
 and called him Jonathan, you may be sure, were remarked by many a 
 person of whom the proud priest himself took no note, during that time 
 of his vanity and triumph. 
 
 'Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 171 2 (Esmond 
 minds him well of the date) , that he went by invitation to dine with his 
 general, the foot of whose table he used to take on these festive occasions, 
 as he had done at many a board, hard and plentiful, during the cam- 
 paign. This was a great feast, and of the latter sort ; the honest old gentle- 
 man loved to treat his friends splendidly: his Grace of Ormond, before 
 he joined his army as generalissimo; my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, 
 one of Her Majesty's secretaries of state; my Lord Orkney, that had 
 served with us abroad, being of the party. His Grace of Hamilton, master 
 of the ordnance, and in whose honor the feast had been given, upon his 
 approaching departure as ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to 
 General Webb at two o'clock, but an hour before the dinner: nothing 
 
 338
 
 but the most immediate business, his grace said, should have prevented 
 him having the pleasure of drinking a parting glass to the health of 
 General Webb. His absence disappointed Esmond's old chief, who suf- 
 fered much from his wounds besides: and though the company was 
 grand, it was rather gloomy. St. John came last, and brought a friend 
 with him: "I'm sure," says my general, bowing very politely, "my table 
 hath always a place for Doctor Swift." 
 
 Mr. Esmond went up to the doctor with a bow and a smile: "I gave 
 Doctor Swift's message," says he, "to the printer: I hope he brought 
 your pamphlet to your lodgings in time." Indeed poor Leach had come 
 to his house very soon after the doctor left it, being brought away rather 
 tipsy from the tavern by his thrifty wife ; and he talked of Cousin Swift 
 in a maudlin way, though of course Mr. Esmond did not allude to this 
 relationship. The doctor scowled, blushed, and was much confused, and 
 said scarce a word during the whole of dinner. A very little stone will 
 sometimes knock down these Goliaths of wit; and this one was often 
 discomfited when met by a man of any spirit; he took his place sulkily, 
 put water in his wine that the others drank plentifully, and scarce said 
 a word. 
 
 The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about persons than 
 affairs: my Lady Marlborough's fury, her daughters in old clothes and 
 mob-caps looking out from their windows and seeing the company pass 
 to the drawing-room; the gentleman-usher's horror when the Prince of 
 Savoy was introduced to Her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man out of a full- 
 bottomed periwig ever having kissed the royal hand before; about the 
 Mohawks and the damage they were doing, rushing through the town, 
 killing and murdering. Someone said the ill-omened face of Mohun 
 had been seen at the theater the night before, and Macartney and Meredith 
 with him. Meant to be a feast, the meeting, in spite of drink and talk, 
 was as dismal as a funeral. Every topic started subsided into gloom. His 
 Grace of Ormond went away because the conversation got upon Denain, 
 where he had been defeated in the last campaign. Esmond's general was 
 affected at the allusion to this action too, for his comrade of Wynendael, 
 the Count of Nassau Woudenbourg, had been slain there. Mr. Swift, 
 when Esmond pledged him, said he drank no wine, and took his hat 
 from the peg and went away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke to follow 
 him; but the other bade him take his chariot and save his coach-hire — 
 he had to speak with Colonel Esmond ; and when the rest of the com- 
 pany withdrew to cards, these two remained behind in the darL 
 
 339
 
 Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk freely. His 
 enemies could get any secret out of him in that condition ; women were 
 even employed to ply him and take his words down. I have heard that 
 my Lord Stair, three years after, when the secretary fled to France and 
 became the Pretender's minister, got all the information he wanted by 
 putting female spies over St. John in his cups. He spoke freely now: 
 "Jonathan knows nothing of this for certain, though he suspects it, and 
 by George, Webb will take an archbishopric, and Jonathan a — no, — ■ 
 damme — Jonathan will take an archbishopric from James, I warrant me, 
 gladly enough. Your duke hath the string of the whole matter in his 
 hand," the secretary went on. "We have that which will force Marl- 
 borough to keep his distance, and he goes out of London in a fortnight. 
 Prior hath his business; he left me this morning, and mark me, Harry, 
 should fate carry off our august, our beloved, our most gouty and plethoric 
 Queen, and Defender of the Faith, la honne cause triomphera. A la sante 
 de la honne cause! Everything good comes from France. Wine comes 
 from France; give us another bumper to the bonne cause." We drank 
 it together. 
 
 "Will the bonne cause turn Protestant?" asked Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "No, hang it," says the other, "he'll defend our Faith, as in duty 
 bound, but he'll stick by his own. The Hind and the Panther shall run in 
 the same car, by Jove! Righteousness and peace shall kiss each other: 
 and we'll have Father Massillon to walk down the aisle of St. Paul's 
 cheek by jowl with Dr. Sacheverel. Give us more wine: here's a health to 
 the bonne cause, kneeling — damme, let's drink it kneeling!" He was 
 quite flushed and wild with wine as he was talking. 
 
 "And suppose," says Esmond, who always had this gloomy appre- 
 hension, "the bonne cause should give us up to the French, as his father 
 and uncle did before him?" 
 
 "Give us up to the French!" starts up Bolingbroke: "is there any 
 English gentleman that fears that? You who have seen Blenheim and 
 Ramillies, afraid of the French! Your ancestors and mine, and brave 
 old Webb's yonder, have met them in a hundred fields, and our children 
 will be ready to do the like. Who's he that wishes for more men from 
 England ? My cousin Westmoreland ? Give us up to the French, pshaw !" 
 
 "His uncle did," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "And what happened to his grandfather?" broke out St. John, filling 
 out another bumper. "Here's to the greatest monarch England ever saw; 
 here's to the Englishman that made a kingdom of her. Our great King 
 
 340
 
 came from Huntingdon, not Hanover; our fathers didn't look for a 
 Dutchman to rule us. Let him come and we'll keep him, and we'll show 
 him Whitehall. If he's a traitor, let us have him here to deal with him; 
 and then there are spirits here as great as any that have gone before. 
 There are men here that can look at danger in the face and not be 
 frightened at it. Traitor! treason! what names are these to scare you 
 and me? Are all Oliver's men dead, or his glorious name forgotten in 
 fifty years ? Are there no men equal to him, think you, as good — ay, as 
 good ? God save the King ! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save the 
 British republic!" 
 
 He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained it wildly, 
 just as the noise of rapid carriage wheels approaching was stopped at 
 our door, and after a hurried knock and a moment's interval, Mr. Swift 
 came into the hall, ran upstairs to the room we were dining in, and 
 entered it with a perturbed face. St. John, excited with drink, was mak- 
 ing some wild quotation out of Macbeth, but Swift stopped him. 
 
 "Drink no more, my lord, for God's sake!" says he. "I come with the 
 most dreadful news." 
 
 "Is the Queen dead ?" cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass. 
 
 "No, Duke Hamilton is dead ; he was murdered an hour ago by Mohun 
 and Macartney; they had a quarrel this morning; they gave him not so 
 much time as to write a letter. He went for a couple of his friends, and 
 he is dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody villain, who was set on him. 
 They fought in Hyde Park just before sunset; the duke killed Mohun, 
 and Macartney came up and stabbed him, and the dog is fled. I have 
 your chariot below; send to every part of the country and apprehend 
 that villain; come to the duke's house and see if any life be left in him." 
 
 "Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix," thought Esmond, "and here ends my poor 
 girl's ambition!" 
 
 CHAP TER VI 
 
 Poor Beatrix! 
 
 There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity of a separa- 
 tion between him and Beatrix: Fate had done that completely; and I 
 think from the very moment poor Beatrix had accepted the Duke's offer, 
 she began to assume the majestic air of a duchess, nay, Queen Elect, and 
 
 341
 
 to carry herself as one sacred and removed from us common people. 
 Her mother and kinsman both fell into her ways, the latter scornfully 
 perhaps, and uttering his usual gibes at her vanity and his own. There 
 was a certain charm about this girl of which neither Colonel Esmond 
 nor his fond mistress could forego the fascination ; in spite of her faults 
 and her pride and wilfulness, they were forced to love her; and, indeed, 
 might be set down as the two chief flatterers of the brilliant creature's 
 court. 
 
 Who, in the course of his life, has not been so bewitched, and wor- 
 shiped some idol or another? Years after this passion has been dead 
 and buried, along with a thousand other worldly cares and ambitions, he 
 who felt it can recall it out of its grave, and admire, almost as fondly 
 as he did in his youth, that lovely queenly creature. I invoke that beautiful 
 spirit from the shades and love her still ; or rather I should say such a 
 past is always present to a man ; such a passion once felt forms a part of 
 his whole being, and cannot be separated from it ; it becomes a portion 
 of the man of today, just as any great faith or conviction, the discovery of 
 poetry, the awakening of religion, ever afterwards influence him; just 
 as the wound I had at Blenheim, and of which I wear the scar, has be- 
 come part of my frame and influenced my whole body, nay, spirit subse- 
 quently, though 'twas got and healed forty years ago. Parting and for- 
 getting.? What faithful heart can do these? Our great thoughts, our great 
 aflFections, the Truths of our life, never leave us. Surely, they cannot 
 separate from our consciousness ; shall follow it whithersoever that shall 
 go; and are of their nature divine and immortal. 
 
 With the horrible news of this catastrophe, which was confirmed by 
 the weeping domestics at the duke's own door, Esmond rode homewards 
 as quick as his lazy coach would carry him, devising all the time how 
 he should break the intelligence to the person most concerned in it; and 
 if a satire upon human vanity could be needed, that poor soul aflForded 
 it in the altered company and occupations in which Esmond found her. 
 For days before, her chariot had been rolling the street from mercer to 
 toyshop — from goldsmith to lace-man; her taste was perfect, or at 
 least the fond bridegroom had thought so, and had given her entire 
 authority over all tradesmen, and for all the plate, furniture, and equi- 
 pages, with which his grace the ambassador wished to adorn his splendid 
 mission. She must have her picture by Kneller, a duchess not being com- 
 plete without a portrait, and a noble one he made, and actually sketched 
 in, on a cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear. She vowed she 
 
 342
 
 would wear it at King James the Third's coronation, and never a princess 
 in the land would have become ermine better. Esmond found the ante- 
 chamber crowded with milliners and toyshop women, obsequious gold- 
 smiths with jewels, salvers, and tankards; and mercers' men with 
 hangings, and velvets, and brocades. My lady duchess elect was giving 
 audience to one famous silversmith from Exeter Change, who brought 
 with him a great chased salver, of which he was pointing out the beauties 
 as Colonel Esmond entered. "Come," says she, "cousin, and admire the 
 taste of this pretty thing." I think Mars and Venus were lying in the 
 golden bower, that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god's casque — 
 another his sword — another his great buckler, upon which my Lord 
 Duke Hamilton's arms with ours were to be engraved — and a fourth 
 was kneeling down to the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet in 
 her hands, God help us! The next time Mr. Esmond saw that piece of 
 plate, the arms were changed: the ducal coronet had been replaced by 
 a viscount's: it formed part of the fortune of the thrifty goldsmith's own 
 daughter, when she married my Lord Viscount Squanderfield two years 
 after. 
 
 "Isn't this a beautiful piece?" says Beatrix, examining it, and she 
 pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine carving of the 
 languid prostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as he thought of the warrior 
 dead in his chamber, his servants and children weeping around him; and 
 of this smiling creature attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial 
 deathbed. " 'Tis a pretty piece of vanity," says he, looking gloomily at 
 the beautiful creature: there were flambeaux in the room lighting up 
 the brilliant mistress of it. She lifted up the great gold salver with her 
 fair arms. 
 
 "Vanity!" says she haughtily. "What is vanity in you, sir, is propriety 
 in me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. Graves ; but have it I will, if 
 only to spite Mr. Esmond." 
 
 "Oh, Beatrix, lay it down!" says Mr. Esmond. "Herodias! you know 
 not what you carry in the charger." 
 
 She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running to seize 
 his fallen ware. The lady's face caught the fright from Esmond's pale 
 countenance, and her eyes shone out like beacons of alarm: "What is it, 
 Henry?" says she, running to him, and seizing both his hands. "What 
 do you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?" 
 
 "Come away, come away!" says Esmond, leading her: she clung fright- 
 ened to him, and he supported her upon his heart, bidding the scared 
 
 343
 
 goldsmith leave them. The man went into the next apartment, staring 
 with surprise, and hugging his precious charger. 
 
 "Oh, my Beatrix, my sister!" says Esmond, still holding in his arms 
 the pallid and affrighted creature, "you have the greatest courage of any 
 woman in the world ; prepare to show it now, for you have a dreadful 
 trial to bear." 
 
 She sprang away from the friend who would have protected her: 
 "Hath he left me.^" says she. "We had words this morning: he was very 
 gloomy, and I angered him: but he dared not, he dared not!" As she 
 spoke a burning blush flushed over her whole face and bosom. Esmond 
 saw it reflected in the glass by which she stood, with clenched hands, press- 
 ing her swelling heart. 
 
 "He has left you," says Esmond, wondering that rage rather than sor- 
 row was in her looks. 
 
 "And he is alive," cries Beatrix, "and you bring me this commission! 
 He has left me, and you haven't dared to avenge me ! You, that pretend 
 to be the champion of our house, have let me suffer this insult ! Where 
 is Castlewood? I will go to my brother." 
 
 "The duke is not alive, Beatrix," said Esmond. 
 
 She locked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as though 
 shot in the breast: "And you come here, and — and — you killed him?" 
 
 "No, thank Heaven!" her kinsman said. "The blood of that noble 
 heart does not stain my sword! In its last hour it was faithful to thee, 
 Beatrix Esmond. Vain and cruel woman! kneel and thank the awful 
 Heaven which awards life and death, and chastises pride, that the noble 
 Hamilton died true to you ; at least that 'twas not your quarrel, or your 
 pride, or your wicked vanity, that drove him to his fate. He died by the 
 bloody sword which already had drunk your own father's blood. O 
 woman, O sister ! to that sad field where two corpses are lying — for the 
 murderer died too by the hand of the man he slew — can you bring no 
 mourners but your revenge and your vanity? God help and pardon thee, 
 Beatrix, as He brings this awful punisliment to your hard and rebellious 
 heart." 
 
 Esmond had scarce done speaking when his mistress came in. The 
 colloquy betv/een him and Beatrix had lasted but a few minutes, during 
 which time Esmond's servant had carried the disastrous news through 
 the household. The army of Vanity Fair, waiting without, gathered up 
 all their fripperies and fled aghast. Tender Lady Castlewood had been in 
 talk above with Dean Atterbury, the pious creature's almoner and di- 
 
 344
 
 rector; and the dean had entered with her as a physician whose place 
 was at a sick-bed. Beatrix's mother looked at Esmond and ran towards 
 her daughter, with a pale face and open heart and hands, all kindness 
 and pity. But Beatrix passed her by, nor would she have any of the 
 medicaments of the spiritual physician. "I am best in my own room and 
 by myself," she said. Her eyes were quite dry; nor did Esmond ever see 
 them otherwise, save once, in respect to that grief. She gave him a cold 
 hand as she went out: "Thank you, brother," she said, in a low voice, 
 and with a simplicity more touching than tears; "all you have said is 
 true and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon." The three others 
 remained behind, and talked over the dreadful story. It affected Doctor 
 Atterbury more even than us, as it seemed. The death of Mohun, her 
 husband's murderer, was more awful to my mistress than even the duke's 
 unhappy end. Esmond gave at length what particulars he knew of their 
 quarrel, and the cause of it. The two noblemen had long been at war 
 with respect to the Lord Gerard's property, whose two daughters my 
 lord duke and Mohun had married. They had met by appointment that 
 day at the lawyer's in Lincoln's Inn Fields; had words which, though 
 they appeared very trifling to those who heard them, were not so to men 
 exasperated by long and previous enmity. Mohun asked my lord duke 
 where he could see his grace's friends, and within an hour had sent two 
 of his own to arrange this deadly duel. It was pursued with such fierce- 
 ness, and sprang from so trifling a cause, that all men agreed at the time 
 that there was a party, of which these three notorious brawlers were but 
 agents, who desired to take Duke Hamilton's life away. They fought 
 three on a side, as in that tragic meeting twelve years back, which has 
 been recounted already, and in which Mohun performed his second 
 murder. They rushed in, and closed upon each other at once without 
 any feints or crossing of swords even, and stabbed one at the other desper- 
 ately, each receiving many wounds; and Mohun having his death-wound, 
 and my lord duke lying by him. Macartney came up and stabbed his grace 
 as he lay on the ground, and gave him the blow of which he died. Colonel 
 Macartney denied this, of which the horror and indignation of the 
 whole kingdom would nevertheless have him guilty, and fled the country, 
 whither he never returned. 
 
 What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton's death ? — a paltry quar- 
 rel that might easily have been made up, and with a ruflian so low, base, 
 profligate, and degraded with former crimes and repeated murders, that 
 a man of such renown and princely rank as my lord duke might have 
 
 345
 
 disdained to sully his sword with the blood of such a villain. But his 
 spirit was so high that those who wished his death knew that his courage 
 was like his charity, and never turned any man away; and he died by 
 the hands of Mohun, and the other two cut-throats that were set on him. 
 The Queen's ambassador to Paris died, the loyal and devoted servant of 
 the House of Stuart, and a royal prince of Scotland himself, and carrying 
 the confidence, the repentance of Queen Anne along with his own open 
 devotion and the goodwill of millions in the country more, to the Queen's 
 exiled brother and sovereign. 
 
 That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the benefit of his 
 service and now were well rid of such a ruffian. He, and Meredith, and 
 Macartney, were the Duke of Marlborough's men ; and the two colonels 
 had been broke but the year before for drinking perdition to the Tories. 
 His grace was a Whig now and a Hanoverian, and as eager for war as 
 Prince Eugene himself. I say not that he was privy to Duke Hamilton's 
 death: I say that his party profited by it; and that three desperate and 
 bloody instruments were found to effect that murder. 
 
 As Esmond and the dean walked away from Kensington discoursing 
 of this tragedy, and how fatal it was to the cause which they both had 
 at heart, the street-criers were already out with their broadsides, shouting 
 through the town the full, true, and horrible account of the death of 
 Lord Mohun and Duke Hamilton in a duel. A fellow had got to Ken- 
 sington and was crying it in the square there at very early morning, when 
 Mr. Esmond happened to pass by. He drove the man from under Beatrix's 
 very window, whereof the casement had been set open. The sun was 
 shining though 'twas November: he had seen the market-carts rolling 
 into London, the guard relieved at the palace, the laborers trudging to 
 their work in the gardens between Kensington and the City — the wander- 
 ing merchants and hawkers filling the air with their cries. The world was 
 going to its business again, although dukes lay dead and ladies mourned 
 for them; and kings, very likely, lost their chances. So night and day pass 
 away, and tomorrow comes, and our place knows us not. Esmond thought 
 of the courier, now galloping on the North road to inform him, who 
 was Earl of Arran yesterday, that he was Duke of Hamilton today, and 
 of a thousand great schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the 
 gallant heart, beating a few hours since, and now in a little dust quiescent. 
 
 346
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 / Visit Castlewood Once More 
 
 Thus, for a third time, Beatrix's ambitious hopes were circumvented, 
 and she might well believe that a special malignant fate watched and 
 pursued her, tearing her prize out of her hand just as she seemed to 
 grasp it, and leaving her with only rage and grief for her portion. What- 
 ever her feelings might have been of anger or of sorrow (and I fear 
 me that the former emotion was that which most tore her heart), she 
 would take no confidant, as people of softer natures would have done 
 under such a calamity; her mother and her kinsman knew that she would 
 disdain their pity, and that to offer it would be but to infuriate the cruel 
 wound which fortune had inflicted. We knew that her pride was awfully 
 humbled and punished by this sudden and terrible blow ; she wanted no 
 teaching of ours to point out the sad moral of her story. Her fond mother 
 could give but her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful friendship and 
 patience to the unhappy, stricken creature; and it was only by hints, and 
 a word or two uttered months afterwards, that Beatrix showed she under- 
 stood their silent commiseration, and on her part was secretly thankful 
 for their forbearance. The people about the Court said there was that 
 in her manner which frightened away scoffing and condolence: she was 
 above their triumph and their pity, and acted her part in that dreadful 
 tragedy greatly and courageously ; so that those who liked her least were 
 yet forced to admire her. We, who watched her after her disaster, could 
 not but respect the indomitable courage and majestic calm with which 
 she bore it. "I would rather see her tears than her pride," her mother 
 said, who was accustomed to bear her sorrows in a very different way, 
 and to receive them as the stroke of God, with an awful submission 
 and meekness. But Beatrix's nature was different to that tender parent's; 
 she seemed to accept her grief, and to defy it; nor would she allow it 
 (I believe not even in private and in her own chamber) to extort from 
 her the confession of even a tear of humiliation or a cry of pain. Friends 
 and children of our race, who come after me, in which way will you 
 bear your trials? I know one that prays God will give you love rather 
 than pride, and that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble place. 
 Not that we should judge proud spirits otherwise than charitably. "V^ 
 nature has fashioned some for ambition and dominion, as it has formed 
 
 347
 
 others for obedience and gentle submission. The leopard follows his 
 nature as the lamb does, and acts after leopard law ; she can neither help 
 her beauty, nor her courage, nor her cruelty; nor a single spot on her 
 shining coat; nor the conquering spirit which impels her; nor the shot 
 which brings her down. 
 
 During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the Queen should 
 forsake their Hanoverian prince, bound by oaths and treaties as she was 
 to him, and recall her brother, who was allied to her by yet stronger 
 ties of nature and duty, — the Prince of Savoy, and the boldest of that 
 party of the Whigs, were for bringing the young Duke of Cambridge 
 over, in spite of the Queen, and the outcry of her Tory servants, arguing 
 that the Electoral Prince, a Peer and Prince of the blood-royal of this 
 realm too, and in the line of succession to the crown, had a right to sit 
 in the Parliament whereof he was a member, and to dwell in the country 
 which he one day was to govern. Nothing but the strongest ill-will ex- 
 pressed by the Queen, and the people about her, and menaces of the 
 royal resentment, should this scheme be persisted in, prevented it from 
 being carried into effect. 
 
 The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having our Prince 
 into the country. The undoubted inheritor of the right divine ; the feel- 
 ings of more than half the nation, of almost all the clergy, of the gentry 
 of England and Scotland with him; entirely innocent of the crime for 
 which his father suffered — brave, young, handsome, unfortunate — who 
 in England would dare to molest the Prince should he come among us, 
 and fling himself upon British generosity, hospitality, and honor? An 
 invader with an army of Frenchmen behind him, Englishmen of spirit 
 would resist to the death, and drive back to the shores whence he 
 came; but a prince, alone, armed with his right only, and relying on the 
 loyalty of his people, was sure, many of his friends argued, of welcome, 
 at least of safety, among us. The hand of his sister the Queen, of the 
 people his subjects, never could be raised to do him a wrong. But the 
 Queen was timid by nature, and the successive ministers she had, had 
 private causes for their irresolution. The bolder and honester men, who 
 had at heart the illustrious young exile's cause, had no scheme of interest 
 of their own to prevent them from seeing the right done, and, provided 
 only he c. me as an Englishman, were ready to venture their all to 
 welcome and defend him. 
 
 St. John and Harley both had kind words in plenty for the Prince's 
 adherents, and gave him endless promises of future support; but hints 
 
 348
 
 and promises were all they could be got to give ; and some of his friends 
 were for measures much bolder, more efficacious, and more open. With 
 a party of these, some of whom are yet alive, and some whose names 
 Mr. Esmond has no right to mention, he found himself engaged the year 
 after that miserable death of Duke Hamilton, which deprived the Prince 
 of his most courageous ally in this country. Dean Atterbury was one of 
 the friends whom Esmond may mention, as the brave bishop is now 
 beyond exile and persecution, and to him, and one or two more, the 
 colonel opened himself of a scheme of his own, that, backed by a little 
 resolution on the Prince's part, could not fail of bringing about the 
 accomplishment of their dearest wishes. 
 
 My young Lord Viscount Castlewood had not come to England to 
 keep his majority, and had now been absent from the country for several 
 years. The year when his sister was to be married and Duke Hamilton 
 died, my lord was kept at Bruxelles by his wife's lying-in. The gentle 
 Clotilda could not bear her husband out of her sight; perhaps she mis- 
 trusted the young scapegrace should he ever get loose from her leading- 
 strings ; and she kept him by her side to nurse the baby and administer 
 posset to the gossips. Many a laugh poor Beatrix had had about Frank's 
 uxoriousness ; his mother would have gone to Clotilda when her time 
 was coming, but that the mother-in-law was already in possession, and 
 the negotiations for poor Beatrix's marriage were begun. A few months 
 after the horrid catastrophe in Hyde Park, my mistress and her daughter 
 retired to Castlewood, where my lord, it was expected, would soon join 
 them. But, to say truth, their quiet household was little to his taste; he 
 could be got to come to Walcote but once after his first campaign ; and 
 then the young rogue spent more than half his time in London, not ap- 
 pearing at Court or in public under his own name and title, but fre- 
 quenting plays, bagnios, and the very worst company, under the name 
 of Captain Esmond (whereby his innocent kinsman got more than once 
 into trouble) ; and so under various pretexts, and in pursuit of all sorts 
 of pleasures, until he plunged into the lawful one of marriage, Frank 
 Castlewood had remained away from his country and was unknown, save 
 among the gentlemen of the army, with whom he had served abroad. 
 The fond heart of his mother was pained by this long absence. 'Twas 
 all that Henry Esmond could do to soothe her natural mortification, and ' 
 find excuses for his kinsman's levity. 
 
 In the autumn of the year 171 3, Lord Castlewood thought of returning 
 home. His first child had been a daughter; Clotilda was in the way of 
 
 349
 
 gratifying his lordship with a second and the pious youth thought that, 
 by bringing his wife to his ancestral home, by prayers to St. Philip of 
 Castlewood, and what not. Heaven might be induced to bless him with 
 a son this time, for whose coming the expectant mamma was very 
 anxious. 
 
 The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at the end of 
 March ; and France was open to us. Just as Frank's poor mother had made 
 all things ready for Lord Castlewood's reception, and was eagerly ex- 
 pecting her son, it was by Colonel Esmond's means that the kind lady 
 was disappointed of her longing, and obliged to defer once more the 
 darling hope of her heart. 
 
 Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its ancient gray 
 towers and well-remembered woods for nearly fourteen years, and since 
 he rode thence with my lord, to whom his mistress with her young chil- 
 dren by her side waved an adieu. What ages seemed to have passed since 
 then, what years of action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster ! The 
 children were grown up now, and had stories of their own. As for Es- 
 mond, he felt to be a hundred years old ; his dear mistress only seemed 
 unchanged; she looked and welcomed him quite as of old. There was 
 the fountain in the court babbling its familiar music, the old hall and 
 its furniture, the carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank 
 from. Esmond's mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room 
 he used to occupy; 'twas made ready for him, and wallflowers and 
 sweet herbs set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain's room. 
 
 In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission to the 
 awful Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil fortune, Mr. Esmond 
 passed a part of that first night at Castlewood, lying awake for many 
 hours as the clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered), look- 
 ing back, as all men will, that revisit their home of childhood, over the 
 great gulf of time, and surveying himself on the distant bank yonder, a 
 sad little melancholy boy with his lord still alive — his dear mistress, a 
 girl yet, her children sporting around her. Years ago, a boy on that 
 very bed, when she had blessed him and called him her knight, he had 
 made a vow to be faithful and never desert her dear service. Had he 
 kept that fond boyish promise? Yes, before Heaven; yes, praise be to 
 God! His life had been hers; his blood, his fortune, his name, his 
 whole heart ever since had been hers and her children's. All night long 
 he was dreaming his boyhood over again, and waking fitfully; he half 
 
 350
 
 fancied he heard Father Holt calling to him from the next chamber, 
 and that he was coming in and out from the mysterious window. 
 
 Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, where 
 the air was heavy with the odor of the wallflowers; looked into the 
 brazier where the papers had been burned, into the old presses where 
 Holt's books and papers had been kept, and tried the spring and whether 
 the window worked still. The spring had not been touched for years, but 
 yielded at length, and the whole fabric of the window sank down. He 
 lifted it and it relapsed into its frame; no one had ever passed thence 
 since Holt used it sixteen years ago. 
 
 Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day of his life, 
 that Holt used to come in and out of the house like a ghost, and knew 
 that the Father liked these mysteries, and practiced such secret disguises, 
 entrances and exits: this was the way the ghost came and went, his pupil 
 had always conjectured. Esmond closed the casement up again as the 
 dawn was rising over Castlewood village: he could hear the clinking at 
 the blacksmith's forge yonder among the trees, across the green, and 
 past the river, on which a mist still lay sleeping. 
 
 Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork of the 
 mantelpiece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. Holt used 
 to keep sundry secret properties of his. The two swords he remembered 
 so well as a boy, lay actually there still, and Esmond took them out and 
 wiped them, with a strange curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle 
 of papers here, too, which, no doubt, had been left at Holt's last visit 
 to the place, in my lord viscount's life, that very day when the priest 
 had been arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free 
 with these papers, and found treasonable matter of King William's 
 reign, the names of Charnock and Perkins, Sir John Fenwick and Sir 
 John Friend, Rookwood and Lodwick, Lords Montgomery and Ailes- 
 bury. Clarendon and Yarmouth, that had all been engaged in plots 
 against the usurper; a letter from the Duke of Berwick too, and one 
 from the King at St. Germains, offering to confer upon his trusty and 
 well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood the titles of Earl and Marquis 
 of Esmond, bestowed by patent roll, and in the fourth year of his reign 
 upon Thomas Viscount Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body in 
 default of which issue the ranks and dignities were to pass to Francis 
 aforesaid. 
 
 This was the paper whereof my lord had spoken, which Holt showed 
 him the very day he was arrested, and for an answer to which he would
 
 come back in a week's time. I put these papers hastily into the crypt 
 whence I had taken them, being interrupted by a tapping of a hght 
 finger at the ring of the chamber-door: 'twas my kind mistress with her 
 face full of love and welcome. She, too, had passed the night wakefully 
 no doubt: but neither asked the other how the hours had been spent. 
 There are things we divine without speaking, ind know though they 
 happen out of our sight. This fond lady has told me that she knew both 
 days when I was wounded abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy 
 reaches, and how truly love can prophesy? "I looked into your room," 
 was all she said ; "the bed was vacant, the little old bed: I knew I should 
 find you here." And tender and blushing faintly, with a benediction in 
 her eyes, the gentle creature kissed him. 
 
 They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court, and to the 
 terrace-walk, where the grass was glistening with dew, and the birds in 
 the green woods above were singing their delicious choruses under the 
 blushing morning sky. How well all things were remembered! The 
 ancient towers and gables of the Hall darkling against the east, the purple 
 shadows on the green slopes, the quaint devices and carvings of the dial, 
 the forest-crowned heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with crops 
 and corn, the shining river rolling through it towards the pearly hills 
 beyond; all these were before us, along with a thousand beautiful 
 memories of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real and vivid in our 
 minds as that fair and always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once 
 more. We forget nothing. The memory sleeps, but wakens again ; I often 
 think how it shall be when, after the last sleep of death, the reve'illee shall 
 arouse us forever, and the past in one flash of self-consciousness rush 
 back, like the soul revivified. 
 
 The house would not be up for some hours yet (it was July, and the 
 dawn was only just awake), and here Esmond opened himself to his 
 mistress of the business he had in hand, and what part Frank was to play 
 in it. He knew he could confide anything to her, and that the fond soul 
 would die rather than reveal it; and bidding her keep the secret from 
 all, he laid it entirely before his mistress (always as staunch a little 
 loyalist as any in the kingdom), and indeed was quite sure that any 
 plan of his was secure of her applause and sympathy. Never was such 
 a glorious scheme to her partial mind, never such a devoted knight to 
 execute it. An hour or two may have passed while they were having their 
 colloquy. Beatrix came out to them just as their talk was over; her tall 
 beautiful form robed in sable (which she wore without ostentation 
 
 352
 
 ever since last year's catastrophe) , sweeping over the green terrace, and 
 casting its shadows before her across the grass. 
 
 She made us one of her grand curtseys smiHng, and called us "the 
 young people." She was older, paler, and more majestic than in the year 
 before ; her mother seemed the younger of the two. She never once spoke 
 of her grief, Lady Castlewood told Esmond, or alluded, save by a quiet 
 word or two, to the death of her hopes. 
 
 When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to visiting all the 
 cottages and all the sick. She set up a school of children, and taught sing- 
 ing to some of them. We had a pair of beautiful old organs in Castle- 
 wood Church, on which she played admirably, so that the music there 
 became to be known in the country for many miles round, and no doubt 
 people came to see the fair organist as well as to hear her. Parson Tusher 
 and his wife were established at the vicarage, but his wife had brought 
 him no children wherewith Tom might meet his enemies at the gate. 
 Honest Tom took care not to have many such, his great shovel-hat was in 
 his hand for everybody. He was profuse of bows and compliments. He 
 behaved to Esmond as if the colonel had been a commander-in-chief ; he 
 dined at the Hall that day, being Sunday, and would not partake of 
 pudding except under extreme pressure. He deplored my lord's per- 
 version, but drank his lordship's health very devoutly; and an hour 
 before at church sent the colonel to sleep, with a long, learned, and 
 refreshing sermon. 
 
 Esmond's visit home was but for two days; the business he had in 
 hand calling him away and out of the country. Ere he went, he saw 
 Beatrix but once alone, and then she summoned him out of the long 
 tapestry room, where he and his mistress were sitting, quite as in old 
 times, into the adjoining chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel's 
 sleeping apartment, and where Esmond perfectly well remembered seeing 
 the old lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning when 
 the troop of guard came to fetch her. The most beautiful woman in 
 England lay in that bed now, whereof the great damask hangings were 
 scarce faded since Esmond saw them last. 
 
 Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in her hand; 
 'twas that which Esmond had given her before her marriage, stamped 
 with a coronet which the disappointed girl was never to wear; and con- 
 taining his aunt's legacy of diamonds. 
 
 "You had best take these with you, Harry," says she; "I have no 
 need of diamonds any more." There was not the least token of emotion 
 
 353
 
 in her quiet low voice. She held out the black shagreen-case with her fair 
 arm, that did not shake in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black 
 velvet bracelet on it, with my lord duke's picture in enamel; he had 
 given it her but three days before he fell. 
 
 Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to turn off 
 that proffered restoration with a laugh: "Of what good," says he, "are 
 they to me? The diamond loop to his hat did not set off Prince Eugene, 
 and will not make my yellow face look any handsomer." 
 
 "You will give them to your wife, cousin," says she. "My cousin, your 
 wife has a lovely complexion and shape." 
 
 "Beatrix," Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it would at 
 times, "will you wear those trinkets at your marriage? You whispered 
 once you did not know me: you know me better now: how I fought, 
 what I have sighed for, for ten years, what foregone!" 
 
 "A price for your constancy, my lord!" says she; "such a preux 
 chevalier wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!" 
 
 "Again," Esmond spoke out, "if I do something you have at heart; 
 something worthy of me and you ; something that shall make me a name 
 with which to endow you; will you take it? There was a chance for me 
 once, you said ; is it impossible to recall it ? Never shake your head, but 
 hear me ; say you will hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and 
 bring you fame, will that please you? If I do what you desire most — 
 what he who is dead desired most — will that soften you?" 
 
 "What is it, Henry?" says she, her face lighting up; "what mean 
 you? 
 
 "Ask no questions," he said; "wait, and give me but time; if I bring 
 back that you long for, that I have a thousand times heard you pray for, 
 will you have no reward for him who has done you that service? Put 
 away those trinkets, keep them: it shall not be at my marriage, it shall 
 not be at yours ; but if man can do it, I swear a day shall come when there 
 shall be a feast in your house, and you shall be proud to wear them. I say 
 no more now; put aside these words, and lock away yonder box until the 
 day when I shall remind you of both. All I pray of you now is, to wait 
 and to remember." 
 
 "You are going out of the country?" says Beatrix, in some agitation. 
 
 "Yes, tomorrow," says Esmond. 
 
 "To Lorraine, cousin?" says Beatrix, laying her hand on his arm; 'twas 
 the hand on which she wore the duke's bracelet. "Stay, Harry!" con- 
 tinued she, with a tone that had more despondency in it than she was 
 
 354
 
 accustomed to show. ""Hear a last word. I do love you. I do admire you 
 — who would not, that has known such love as yours has been for us all ? 
 But I think I have no heart; at least, I have never seen the man that 
 could touch it; and, had I found him, I would have followed him in 
 rags had he been a private soldier, or to sea, like one of those buc- 
 caneers you used to read to us about when we were children. I would do 
 anything for such a man, bear anything for him: but I never found one. 
 You were ever too much of a slave to win my heart ; even my lord duke 
 could not command it: I had not been happy had I married him. I knew 
 that three months after our engagement — and was too vain to break it. 
 Oh, Harry! I cried once or twice, not for him, but with tears of rage 
 because I could not be sorry for him. I was frightened to find I was glad 
 of his death; and were I joined to you, I should have the same sense of 
 servitude, the same longing to escape. We should both be unhappy, and 
 you the most, who are as jealous as the duke was himself. I tried to love 
 him; I tried, indeed I did: affected gladness when he came; submitted to 
 hear when he was by me, and tried the wife's part I thought I was to play 
 for the rest of my days. But half an hour of that complaisance wearied 
 me, and what would a lifetime be? My thoughts were away when he 
 was speaking; and I was thinking, Oh that this man would drop my hand, 
 and rise up from before my feet ! I knew his great and noble qualities, 
 greater and nobler than mine a thousand times, as yours are, cousin, I tell 
 you, a million and a million times better. But 'twas not for these I took 
 him. I took him to have a great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, 
 and do not deplore him — and I often thought, as I listened to his fond 
 vows and ardent words, Oh, if I yield to this man and meet the other, 
 I shall hate him and leave him ! I am not good, Harry: my mother is gentle 
 and good like an angel. I wonder how she should have had such a child. 
 She is weak, but she would die rather than do a wrong ; I am stronger than 
 she, but I would do it out of defiance. I do not care for what the parsons 
 tell me with their droning sermons: I used to see them at Court as mean 
 and as worthless as the meanest woman there. Oh, I am sick and weary 
 of the world ! I wait but for one thing, and when 'tis done I will take 
 Frank's religion and your poor mother's and go into a nunnery, and end 
 like her. Shall I wear the diamonds then ? — they say the nuns wear their 
 best trinkets the day they take the veil. I will put them away as you bid 
 me. Farewell, cousin: mamma is pacing the next room, racking her little 
 head to know what we have been saying. She is jealous: all women are. I 
 sometimes think that is the only womanly quality I have." 
 
 355
 
 "Farewell. Farewell, brother." She gave him her cheek as a brotherly 
 privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble. 
 
 Esmond's mistress showed no signs of Jealousy when he returned to 
 the room where she was. She had schooled herself so as to look quite 
 inscrutably, when she had a mind. Among her other feminine qualities 
 she had that of being a perfect dissembler. 
 
 He rode away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was bound on, 
 and stand or fall by it; in truth his state of mind was such, that he was 
 eager for some outward excitement to counteract that gnawing malady 
 which he was inwardly enduring. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 / Travel to France, and Bring Home a Portrait 
 
 of Rigaud 
 
 Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to inform all the 
 world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that he was about to quit 
 England; and chose to depart in the most private manner possible. He 
 procured a pass as for a Frenchman, through Doctor Atterbury, who did 
 that business for him, getting the signature even from Lord Boling- 
 broke's office, without any personal application to the secretary. Lock- 
 wood, his faithful servant, he took with him to Castlewood, and left 
 behind there: giving out ere he left London that he himself was sick, 
 and gone to Hampshire for country air, and so departed as silently as 
 might be upon his business. 
 
 As Frank Castlewood's aid was indispensable for Mr. Esmond's 
 scheme, his first visit was to Bruxelles (passing by way of Antwerp, where 
 the Duke of Marlborough was in exile), and in the first-named place 
 Harry found his dear young Benedict, the married man, who appeared 
 to be rather out of humor with his matrimonial chain, and clogged with 
 the obstinate embraces which Clotilda kept around his neck. Colonel 
 Esmond was not presented to her; but Monsieur Simon was, a gentle- 
 man of the Royal Cravat (Esmond bethought him of the regiment of 
 his honest Irishman, whom he had seen that day after Malplaquet, when 
 he first set eyes on the young King) ; and Monsieur Simon was intro- 
 
 356
 
 duced to the Viscountess Castlewood, nee Comptesse Wertheim ; to the 
 numerous counts, the Lady Clotilda's tall brothers; to her father the 
 chamberlain ; and to the lady his wife, Frank's mother-in-law, a tall and 
 majestic person of large proportions, such as became the mother of such 
 a company of grenadiers as her warlike sons formed. The whole race 
 were at free quarters in the little castle nigh to Bruxelles which Frank 
 had taken; rode his horses; drank his wine; and lived easily at the poor 
 lad's charges. Mr. Esmond had always maintained a perfect fluency in 
 the French, which was his mother tongue; and if this family (that spoke 
 French with a twang which the Flemings use) discovered any inaccuracy 
 in Mr. Simon's pronunciation, 'twas to be attributed to the latter's long 
 residence in England, where he had married and remained ever since 
 he was taken prisoner at Blenheim. His story was perfectly pat ; there were 
 none to doubt it save honest Frank, and he was charmed with his kins- 
 man's scheme, when he became acquainted with it ; and, in truth, always 
 admired Colonel Esmond with an affectionate fidelity, and thought his 
 cousin the wisest and best of all cousins and men. Frank entered heart 
 and soul into the plan, and liked it the better as it was to take him to 
 Paris, out of reach of his brothers, his father, and his mother-in-law, 
 whose attentions rather fatigued him. 
 
 Castlewood, I have said, was born in the same year as the Prince of 
 Wales; had not a little of the Prince's air, height, and figure; and, espe- 
 cially since he had seen the Chevalier de St. George on the occasion before- 
 named, took no small pride in his resemblance to a person so illustrious ; 
 which likeness he increased by all means in his power, wearing fair brown 
 periwigs, such as the Prince wore, and ribbons, and so forth, of the 
 chevalier's color. 
 
 This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on which Mr. 
 Esmond's scheme was founded ; and having secured Frank's secrecy and 
 enthusiasm, he left him to continue his journey, and see the other person- 
 ages on whom its success depended. The place whither Mr. Simon next 
 traveled was Bar, in Lorraine, where that merchant arrived with a con- 
 signment of broadcloths, valuable laces from Malines, and letters for 
 his correspondent there. 
 
 Would you know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes, and de- 
 scended from a line of kings, whose race seemed to be doomed like the 
 Atridae of old— would you know how he was employed, when the envoy 
 who came to him through danger and difficulty beheld him for the first 
 time? The young King, in a flannel jacket, was at tennis with the gen- 
 
 357
 
 tiemen of his suite, crying out after the balls, and swearing hke the 
 meanest of his subjects. The next time Mr. Esmond saw him, 'twas when 
 Monsieur Simon took a packet of laces to Miss Oglethorpe: the Prince's 
 antechamber in those days, at which ignoble door men were forced to 
 knock for admission to His Majesty. The admission was given, the envoy 
 found the King and the mistress together: the pair were at cards, and His 
 Majesty was in liquor. He cared more for three honors than three king- 
 doms; and a half-dozen glasses of ratafia made him forget all his woes 
 and his losses, his father's crown, and his grandfather's head. 
 
 Mr. Esmond did not open himself to the Prince then. His Majesty 
 was scarce in a condition to hear him; and he doubted whether a king 
 who drank so much could keep a secret in his fuddled head ; or whether 
 a hand that shook so, was strong enough to grasp at a crown. However, 
 at last, and after taking counsel with the Prince's advisers, among whom 
 were many gentlemen, honest and faithful, Esmond's plan was laid be- 
 fore the King, and her actual Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council. 
 The Prince liked the scheme well enough: 'twas easy and daring, and 
 suited to his reckless gaiety and lively youthful spirit. In the morning 
 after he had slept his wine off he was very gay, likely, and agreeable. His 
 manner had an extreme charm of archness, and a kind simplicity; and, 
 to do her justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, resolute, 
 and of good counsel ; she gave the Prince much good advice that he was 
 too weak to follow, and loved him with a fidelity which he returned 
 with an ingratitude quite royal. 
 
 Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should it ever be 
 fulfilled, and his usual skeptic doubts as to the benefit which might accrue 
 to the country by bringing a tipsy young monarch back to it. Colonel 
 Esmond had his audience of leave, and quiet Monsieur Simon took his 
 departure. At any rate the youth at Bar was as good as the older Pre- 
 tender at Hanover; if the worst came to the worst, the Englishman could 
 be dealt with as easy as the German. Monsieur Simon trotted on that 
 long journey from Nancy to Paris, and saw that famous town, stealthily 
 and like a spy, as in truth he was ; and where, sure, more magnificence and 
 more misery is heaped together, more rage and lace, more filth and gild- 
 ing, than in any city in this world. Here he was put in communicatiori 
 with the King's best friend, his half-brother, the famous Duke of Ber- 
 wick; Esmond recognized him as the stranger who had visited Castle- 
 wood now near twenty years ago. His grace opened to him when he 
 found that Mr, Esmond was one of Webb's brave regiment, that had 
 358
 
 once been his grace's own. He was the sword and buckler indeed of the 
 Stuart cause; there was no stain on his shield except the bar across it, 
 which Marlborough's sister left him. Had Berwick been his father's heir, 
 James the Third had assuredly sat on the English throne. He could dare, 
 endure, strike, speak, be silent. The fire and genius, perhaps, he had not 
 (that were given to baser men) , but except these he had some of the best 
 qualities of a leader. His grace knew Esmond's father and history; and 
 hinted at the latter in such a way as made the colonel to think he was 
 aware of the particulars of that story. But Esmond did not choose to 
 enter on it, nor did the duke press him. Mr. Esmond said, "No doubt he 
 should come by his name if ever greater people came by theirs." 
 
 What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of Berwick knew 
 of his case was, that when the colonel went to pay his duty at St. 
 Germains, Her Majesty once addressed him by the title of marquis. He 
 took the Queen the dutiful remembrances of her goddaughter, and the 
 lady whom, in the days of her prosperity. Her Majesty had befriended. 
 The Queen remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had heard of my 
 Lord Castlewood's conversion, and was much edified by that act of 
 Heaven in his favor. She knew that others of that family had been 
 of the only true Church too: "Your father and your mother, M. le 
 Marquis," Her Majesty said (that was the only time she used the phrase) . 
 Monsieur Simon bowed very low, and said he had found other parents 
 than his own, who had taught him differently; but these had only one 
 King; on which Her Majesty was pleased to give him a medal blessed by 
 the Pope, which had been found very efficacious in cases similar to his 
 own, and to promise she would offer up prayers for his conversion and 
 that of the family: which no doubt this pious lady did, though up to the 
 present moment, and after twenty-seven years, Colonel Esmond is bound 
 to say that neither the medal nor the prayers have had the slightest known 
 effect upon his religious convictions. 
 
 As for the splendors of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the merchant, 
 only beheld them as a humble and distant spectator, seeing the old King 
 but once, when he went to feed his carps : and asking for no presentation 
 at His Majesty's Court. 
 
 By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to Paris, where, as 
 the London prints presently announced, her ladyship was brought to bed 
 of a son and heir. For a long while afterwards she was in a delicate state 
 of health, and ordered by the physicians not to travel ; otherwise 'twas 
 
 359
 
 well known that the Viscount Castlewood proposed returning to Eng- 
 land, and taking up his residence at his own seat. 
 
 While he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had his picture done 
 by the famous French painter, Monsieur Rigaud, a present for his mother 
 in London; and this piece Monsieur Simon took back with him when he 
 returned to that city, which he reached about May, in the year 17 14, very 
 soon after which time my Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and their 
 kinsman. Colonel Esmond, who had been at Castlewood all this time, 
 likewise returned to London; her ladyship occupying her house at Ken- 
 sington, Mr. Esmond returning to his lodgings at Knightsbridge, nearer 
 the town, and once more making his appearance at all public places, his 
 health greatly improved by his long stay in the country. 
 
 The portrait of my lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was hung up in 
 the place of honor in her ladyship's drawing-room. His lordship was 
 represented in his scarlet uniform of Captain of the Guard, with a light- 
 brown periwig, a aiirass under his coat, a blue ribbon, and a fall of 
 Bruxelles lace. Many of her ladyship's friends admired the piece beyond 
 measure, and flocked to see it; Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly, good old 
 Mr. Collier, and others among the clergy, were delighted with the per- 
 formance, and many among the first quality examined and p-aised it ; only 
 I must own that Doctor Tusher, happening to come up to London, and 
 seeing the picture (it was ordinarily covered by a curtain, but on this 
 day Miss Beatrix happened to be looking at it when the doctor arrived), 
 the Vicar of Castlewood vowed he could not see any resemblance in the 
 piece to his old pupil, except, perhaps, a little about the chin, and the 
 periwig; but we all of us convinced him that he had not seen Frank for 
 five years or more; that he knew no more about the Fine Arts than a plow- 
 boy, and that he must be mistaken ; and we sent him home assured that 
 the piece was an excellent likeness. As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who 
 honored her ladyship with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond 
 showed him the picture he burst out laughing, and asked what devilry 
 he was engaged on? Esmond owned simply that the portrait was not 
 that of Viscount Castlewood ; besought the secretary on his honor to keep 
 the secret ; said that the ladies of the house were enthusiastic Jacobites, 
 as was well known; and confessed that the picture was that of the 
 Chevalier St. George. 
 
 The truth is, that Mr. Simon, waiting upon Lord Castlewood one day 
 at Monsieur Rigaud's, while his Lordship was sitting for his picture, 
 affected to be much struck with a piece representing the chevalier, whereof 
 
 360
 
 the head only was finished, and purchased it of the painter for a hundred 
 crowns. It had been intended, the artist said, for Miss Oglethorpe, the 
 Prince's mistress, but that young lady quitting Paris, had left the work on 
 the artist's hands; and taking this piece home, when my lord's portrait 
 arrived. Colonel Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon, had copied the uniform 
 and other accessories from my lord's picture to fill up Rigaud's incom- 
 plete canvas: the colonel all his life having been a practitioner of paint- 
 ing, and especially followed it during his long residence in the cities of 
 Flanders, among the masterpieces of Vandyck and Rubens. My grandson 
 has the piece, such as it is, in Virginia now. 
 
 At the commencement of the month of June, Miss Beatrix Esmond, 
 and my lady viscountess, her mother, arrived from Castlewood; the 
 former to resume her services at Court, which had been interrupted by 
 the fatal catastrophe of Duke Hamilton's death. She once more took her 
 place, then, in Her Majesty's suite and at the Maids' table, being always 
 a favorite with Mrs. Masham, the Queen's chief woman, partly perhaps 
 on account of their bitterness against the Duchess of Marlborough, 
 whom Miss Beatrix loved no better than her rival did. The gentlemen 
 about the Court, my Lord Bolingbroke among others, owned that the 
 young lady had come back handsomer than ever, and that the serious 
 and tragic air which her face now involuntarily wore became her better 
 than her former smiles and archness. 
 
 All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington Square were 
 changed ; the old steward that had sers'ed the family any time these five- 
 and-twenty years, since the birth of the children of the house, was 
 despatched into the kingdom of Ireland to see my lord's estate there; 
 the housekeeper, who had been my lady's woman time out of mind, and 
 the attendant of the young children, was sent away grumbling to Walcote, 
 to see to the new painting and preparing of that house, which my lady 
 dowager intended to occupy for the future, giving up Castlewood to her 
 daughter-in-law that might be expected daily from France. Another 
 servant the viscountess had was dismissed too — with a gratuity — on the 
 pretext that her ladyship's train of domestics must be diminished; so, 
 finally, there was left in the household a single person who had belonged 
 to it during the time my young Lord Castlewood was yet at home. 
 
 For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the stroke he 
 intended, 'twas necessary that the very smallest number of persons should 
 be put in possession of his secret. It scarce was known, except to three 
 or four out of his family, and it was kept to a wonder, 
 
 361
 
 On the loth of June, 17 14, there came by Mr. Prior's messenger from 
 Paris a letter from my Lord Viscount Castlewood to his mother, saying 
 that he had been foohsh in regard of money matters, that he was ashamed 
 to own he had lost at play, and by other extravagances ; and that instead 
 of having great entertainments as he had hoped at Castlewood this year, 
 he must live as quiet as he could, and make every efifort to be saving. 
 So far every word of poor Frank's letter was true, nor was there a doubt 
 that he and his tall brothers-in-law had spent a great deal more than they 
 ought, and engaged the revenues of the Castlewood property, which the 
 fond mother had husbanded and improved so carefully during the time 
 of her guardianship. 
 
 "His Clotilda," Castlewood went on to say, "was still delicate, and the 
 physicians thought her lying-in had best take place at Paris. He should 
 come without her ladyship, and be at his mother's house about the 17th 
 or 1 8th day of June, proposing to take horse from Paris immediately, 
 and bringing but a single servant with him; and he requested that the 
 lawyers of Gray's Inn might be invited to meet him with their account, 
 and the land-steward come from Castlewood with his, so that he might 
 settle with them speedily, raise a sum of money whereof he stood in need, 
 and be back to his viscountess by the time of her lying-in." Then his lord- 
 ship gave some of the news of the town, sent his remembrance to kins- 
 folk, and so the letter ended. 'Twas put in the common post, and no 
 doubt the French police and the English there had a copy of it, to which 
 they were exceeding welcome. 
 
 Two days after another letter was despatched by the public post of 
 France, in the same open way, and this, after giving news of the fashion 
 at Court there, ended by the following sentences, in which, but for those 
 that had the key, 'twould be difficult for any man to find any secret 
 lurked at all : 
 
 " (The King will take) medicine on Thursday. His Majesty is better 
 than he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion from his 
 too great appetite. Madame Maintenon continues well. They have per- 
 formed a play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr. The Duke of Shrewsbury and 
 Mr. Prior, our envoy, and all the English nobility here, were present at 
 it. (The Viscount Castlewood's passports) were refused to him, 'twas 
 said; his Lordship being sued by a goldsmith for Vaisselle plate, and a 
 pearl necklace supplied to Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy. 
 'Tis a pity such news should get abroad (and travel to England) about 
 our young nobility here. Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort 
 
 362
 
 I'Evesque ; they say she has ordered not only plate, but furniture, and a 
 chariot and horses (under that lord's name), of which extravagance his 
 unfortunate Viscountess knows nothing. 
 
 "(His Majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next birthday. 
 The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast. Mr. Prior is in a 
 sad way about their refusing at home to send him his plate. All here ad- 
 mired my Lord Viscount's portrait, and said it was a masterpiece of 
 Rigaud. Have you seen it.-* It is (at the Lady Castlewood's house in Ken- 
 sington Square) . I think no English painter could produce such a piece. 
 
 "Our poor friend the Abbe hath been at the Bastile, but is now trans- 
 ported to the Conciergerie (where his friends may visit him. They are 
 to ask for) a remission of his sentence soon. Let us hope the poor rogue 
 will have repented in prison. 
 
 " (The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate made up, and 
 departs for England. 
 
 "Is not this a dull letter? I have a cursed headache with drinking with 
 Mat and some more over-night, and tipsy or sober am 
 
 "Thine ever ." 
 
 All this letter save some dozen of words which I have put above be- 
 tween brackets, was mere idle talk, though the substance of the letter was 
 as important as any letter well could be. It told those that had the key, 
 that The King will take the Viscou72t Castlewood's passports and travel 
 to England under that lord' s name. His Majesty will be at the Lady Castle- 
 wood's house in Kensington Square, ivhere his friends may visit him. 
 They are to ask for the Lord Castleivood. This note may have passed 
 under Mr. Prior's eyes, and those of our new allies the French, and taught 
 them nothing ; though it explained sufficiently to persons in London what 
 the event was which was about to happen, as 'twill show those who 
 read my Memoirs a hundred years hence, what was that errand on which 
 Colonel Esmond of late had been busy. Silently and swiftly to do that 
 about which others were conspiring, and thousands of Jacobites all over 
 the country clumsily caballing; alone to effect that which the leaders here 
 were only talking about; to bring the Prince of Wales into the country 
 openly in the face of all, under Bolingbroke's very eyes, the walls pla- 
 carded with the proclamation signed with the secretary's name, and 
 offering five hundred pounds' reward for his apprehension: this was a 
 stroke, the playing and winning of which might well give any adventurous 
 spirit pleasure: the loss of the stake might involve a heavy penalty, but 
 all our family were eager to risk that for the glorious chance of win- 
 ning the game. 
 
 363
 
 Nor should it be called a game, save perhaps with the chief player, 
 who was not more or less skeptical than most public men with whom 
 he had acquaintance in that age. (Is there ever a public man in England 
 that altogether believes in his party? Is there one, however doubtful, 
 that will not fight for it?) Young Frank was ready to fight without 
 much thinking; he was a Jacobite as his father before him was; all the 
 Esmonds were Royalists. Give him but the word, he would cry, "God 
 save King James!" before the palace guard, or at the Maypole in the 
 Strand ; and with respect to the women, as is usual with them, 'twas not 
 a question of party but of faith: their belief was a passion; either Es- 
 mond's mistress or her daughter would have died for it cheerfully. I 
 have laughed often, talking of King William's reign, and said I thought 
 Lady Castlewood was disappointed the King did not persecute the family 
 more: and those who know the nature of women may fancy for them- 
 selves, what needs not here be written down, the rapture with which 
 these neophytes received the mystery when made known to them; the 
 eagerness with which they looked forward to its completion ; the rever- 
 ence which they paid the minister who initiated them into that secret 
 Truth, now known only to a few, but presently to reign over the world. 
 Sure there is no bound to the trustingness of women. Look at Arria 
 worshiping the drunken clodpate of a husband who beats her; look at 
 Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her maternal heart the oaf her son. I 
 have known a woman preach Jesuit's bark, and afterwards Dr. Berkeley's 
 tar- water, as though to swallow them were a divine decree, and to refuse 
 them no better than blasphemy. 
 
 On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at the head 
 of this little knot of fond conspirators. No death or torture he knew 
 would frighten them out of their constancy. When he detailed his plan 
 for bringing the King back, his elder mistress thought that that Restora- 
 tion was to be attributed under Heaven to the Castlewood family and to 
 its chief and she worshiped and loved Esmond, if that could be, more 
 than ever she had done. She doubted not for one moment of the success 
 of his scheme, to mistrust which would have seemed impious in her eyes. 
 And as for Beatrix, when she became acquainted with the plan, and 
 joined it, as she did with all her heart, she gave Esmond one of her 
 searching bright looks. "Ah, Harry," says she, "why were you not the 
 head of our house? You are the only one fit to raise it; why do you give 
 that silly boy the name and the honor? But 'tis so in the world: those 
 get the prize that don't deserve or care for it. I wish I could give you your 
 
 364
 
 silly prize, cousin, but I can't; I have tried, and I can't." And she went 
 away, shaking her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to Esmond, 
 that her liking and respect for him was greatly increased, since she knew 
 what capability he had both to act and bear; to do and to forego. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Original of the Portrait Comes to Ejjgland 
 
 'TwAS announced in the family that my Lord Castlewood would arrive, 
 having a confidential French gentleman in his suite, who acted as secre- 
 tary to his lordship, and who, being a Papist, and a foreigner of a 
 good family, though now in rather a menial place, would have his meals 
 served in his chamber, and not with the domestics of the house. The 
 viscountess gave up her bedchamber contiguous to her daughter's, and 
 having a large convenient closet attached to it, in which a bed was put 
 up, ostensibly for Monsieur Baptiste, the Frenchman ; though, 'tis need- 
 less to say, when the doors of the apartment were locked, and the two 
 guests retired within it, the young viscount became the servant of the 
 illustrious Prince whom he entertained, and gave up gladly the more 
 convenient and airy chamber and bed to his master. Madam Beatrix also 
 retired to the upper region, her chamber being converted into a sitting- 
 room for my lord. The better to carry the deceit, Beatrix affected to 
 grumble before the servants, and to be jealous that she was turned out 
 of her chamber to make way for my lord. 
 
 No small preparations were made, you may be sure, and no slight 
 tremor of expectation caused the hearts of the gentle ladies of Castle- 
 wood to flutter, before the arrival of the personages who were about to 
 honor their house. The chamber was ornamented with flowers ; the bed 
 covered with the very finest of linen; the two ladies insisting on making 
 it themselves, and kneeling down at the bedside and kissing the sheets 
 out of respect for the web that was to hold the sacred person of a king. 
 The toilet was of silver and crystal; there was a copy of Eikon BasHike 
 laid on the writing-table; a portrait of the martyred King hung always 
 over the mantel, having a sword of my poor Lord Castlewood under- 
 neath it, and a little picture or emblem which the widow loved always 
 to have before her eyes on waking, and in which the hair of her lord and 
 
 365
 
 her two children was worked together. Her books of private devotions, 
 as they were all of the English Church, she carried away with her to the 
 upper apartment, which she destined for herself. The ladies showed 
 Mr. Esmond, when they were completed, the fond preparations they had 
 made. 'Twas then Beatrix knelt down and kissed the linen sheets. As for 
 her mother, Lady Castlewood made a curtsey at the door, as she would 
 have done to the altar on entering a church, and owned that she con- 
 sidered the chamber in a manner sacred. 
 
 The company in the servants' hall had never for a moment supposed 
 that these preparations were made for any other person than the young 
 viscount, the lord of the house, whom his fond mother had been for 
 so many years without seeing. Both ladies were perfect housewives, 
 having the greatest skill in the making of confections, scented waters, 
 etc., and keeping a notable superintendence over the kitchen. Calves 
 enough were killed to feed an army of prodigal sons, Esmond thought, 
 and laughed when he came to wait on the ladies, on the day when the 
 guests were to arrive, to find two pairs of the finest and roundest arms 
 to be seen in England (my Lady Castlewood was remarkable for this 
 beauty of her person), covered with flour up above the elbows, and 
 preparing paste, and turning rolling-pins in the housekeeper's closet. The 
 guests would not arrive till supper time, and my lord would prefer having 
 that meal in his own chamber. You may be sure the brightest plate of 
 the house was laid out there, and can understand why it was that the 
 ladies insisted that they alone would wait upon the young chief of 
 the family. 
 
 Taking horse. Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Rochester, and there 
 awaited the King in that very town where his father had last set his foot 
 on the English shore. A room had been provided at an inn there for my 
 Lord Castlewood and his servant; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride 
 so well that he had scarce been half an hour in the place, and was look- 
 ing over the balcony into the yard of the inn, when two travelers rode 
 in at the inn gate, and the colonel running down, the next moment 
 embraced his dear young lord. 
 
 My lord's companion acting the part of a domestic, dismounted, and 
 was for holding the viscount's stirrup; but Colonel Esmond, calling to 
 his own man, who was in the court, bade him take the horses and settle 
 with the lad who had ridden the post along with the two travelers, cry- 
 ing out in a cavalier tone in the French language to my lord's companion, 
 and affecting to grumble that my lord's fellow was a Frenchman, and did 
 
 366
 
 not know the money or habits of the country: — "My man will see to the. 
 horses, Baptiste," says Colonel Esmond: "do you understand English?" 
 "Very leetle." "So, follow my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his 
 own room." The landlord and his people came up presently bearing 
 the dishes ; 'twas well they made a noise and stir in the gallery, or they 
 might have found Colonel Esmond on his knee before Lord Castlewood's 
 servant, welcoming His Majesty to his kingdom, and kissing the hand of 
 the King. We told the landlord that the Frenchman would wait on his 
 master; and Esmond's man was ordered to keep sentry in the gallery 
 without the door. The Prince dined with a good appetite, laughing and 
 talking very gaily, and condescendingly bidding his two companions to 
 sit with him at table. He was in better spirits than poor Frank Castle- 
 wood, who Esmond thought might be woe-begone on account of parting 
 with his divine Clotilda; but the Prince wishing to take a short siesta 
 after dinner, and retiring to an inner chamber where there was a bed, 
 the cause of poor Frank's discomfiture came out; and bursting into tears, 
 with many expressions of fondness, friendship, and humiliation, the 
 faithful lad gave his kinsman to understand that he now knew all the 
 truth, and the sacrifices which Colonel Esmond had made for him. 
 
 Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that secret, Mr. 
 Esmond had entreated his mistress also not to reveal it to her son. The 
 Prince had told the poor lad all as they were riding from Dover: "I had 
 as lief he had shot me, cousin," Frank said. "I knew you were the 
 best, and the bravest, and the kindest of all men" (so the enthusiastic 
 young fellow went on) ; "but I never thought I owed you what I do, 
 and can scarce bear the weight of the obligation." 
 
 "I stand in the place of your father," says Mr. Esmond kindly, "and 
 sure a father may dispossess himself in favor of his son. I abdicate the 
 twopenny crown, and invest you with the kingdom of Brentford ; don't 
 be a fool and cry ; you make a much taller and handsomer viscount than 
 ever I could." But the fond boy, with oaths and protestations, laughter 
 and incoherent outbreaks of passionate emotion, could not be got, for 
 some little time, to put up with Esmond's raillery; wanted to kneel down 
 to him, and kissed his hand; asked him and implored him to order 
 something, to bid Castlewood give his own life or take somebody else's ; 
 anything so that he might show his gratitude for the generosity Esmond 
 showed him. 
 
 "The K , he laughed," Frank said, pointing to the door where the 
 
 sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone. "I don't think he should have 
 
 367
 
 laughed as he told me the story. As we rode along from Dover, talking 
 in French, he spoke about you, and your coming to him at Bar ; he called 
 you 'le grand serieux,' Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don't know what 
 names; mimicking your manner" (here Castlewood laughed himself) — 
 "and he did it very well. He seems to sneer at everything. He is not 
 like a king: somehow, Harry, I fancy you are like a king. He does not 
 seem to think what a stake we are all playing. He would have stopped 
 at Canterbury to run after a barmaid there, had I not implored him 
 to come on. He hath a house at Chaillot, where he used to go and bury 
 himself for weeks away from the Queen, and with all sorts of bad 
 company," says Frank, with a demure look. "You may smile, but I am 
 not the wild fellow I was; no, no, I have been taught better," says 
 Castlewood devoutly, making a sign on his breast. 
 
 "Thou art my dear brave boy," says Colonel Esmond, touched at the 
 young fellow's simplicity, "and there will be a noble gentleman at Castle- 
 wood so long as my Frank is there." The impetuous young lad was for 
 going down on his knees again, with another explosion of gratitude, 
 but that we heard the voice from the next chamber of the august sleeper, 
 just waking, calling out, "Eh, La Fleur, un verre d'eau!" His Majesty 
 came out yawning: — "A pest," says he, "upon your English ale, 'tis so 
 strong that, ma joi, it hath turned my head." 
 
 The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses, and we rode 
 very quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall. Mr. Esmond's 
 servant was left behind at Rochester, to take care of the tired horses, 
 while we had fresh beasts provided along the road. And galloping by 
 the Prince's side the colonel explained to the Prince of Wales what his 
 movements had been; who the friends were that knew of the expedition; 
 whom, as Esmond conceived, the Prince should trust; entreating him, 
 above all, to maintain the very closest secrecy until the time should come 
 when His Royal Highness should appear. The town swarmed with friends 
 of the Prince's cause; there were scores of correspondents with St. Ger- 
 mains ; Jacobites known and secret ; great in station and humble ; about 
 the Court and the Queen; in the Parliament, Church, and among the 
 merchants in the City. The Prince had friends numberless in the army, in 
 the Privy Council, and the officers of state. The great object, as it seemed, 
 to the small band of persons who had concerted that bold stroke, who 
 had brought the Queen's brother into his native country, was, that his 
 visit should remain unknown till the proper time came, when his pres- 
 ence should surprise friends and enemies alike; and the latter should 
 
 368
 
 be found so unprepared and disunited, that they should not find time 
 to attack him. We feared more from his friends than from his enemies. 
 The hes and tittle-tattle sent over to St. Germains by the Jacobite agents 
 about London, had done incalculable mischief to his cause, and woefully 
 misguided him, and it was from these especially, that the persons en- 
 gaged in the present venture were anxious to defend the chief actor 
 in it.i 
 
 The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their horses at the 
 Posting-House over against Westminster, and being ferried over the 
 water, where Lady Esmond's coach was already in waiting. In another 
 hour we were all landed at Kensington, and the mistress of the house 
 had that satisfaction which her heart had yearned after for many years, 
 once more to embrace her son, who, on his side, with all his waywardness, 
 ever retained a most tender affection for his parent. 
 
 She did not refrain from this expression of her feeling, though the 
 domestics were by, and my Lord Castlewood's attendant stood in the hall. 
 Esmond had to whisper to him in French to take his hat off. Monsieur 
 Baptiste was constantly neglecting his part with an inconceivable levity; 
 more than once on the ride to London, little observations of the stranger, 
 light remarks, and words betokening the»greatest ignorance of the country 
 the Prince came to govern, had hurt the susceptibility of the two gentle- 
 men forming his escort; nor could either help owning in his secret mind 
 that they would have had his behavior otherwise, and that the laughter 
 and the lightness, not to say license, which characterized his talk, scarce 
 befitted such a great Prince, and such a solemn occasion. Not but that 
 he could act at proper times with spirit and dignity. He had behaved, 
 as we all knew, in a very courageous manner on the field. Esmond had 
 seen a copy of the letter the Prince had writ with his own hand when 
 urged by his friends in England to abjure his religion, and admired that 
 manly and magnanimous reply by which he refused to yield to the 
 temptation. Monsieur Baptiste took off his hat, blushing at the hint 
 Colonel Esmond ventured to give him, and said, "Tenez, elle est jolie, la 
 petite mere. Foi de Chevalier! elle est charmante ; mais I'autre, qui est 
 cette nymphe, cet astre qui brille, cette Diane qui descetid sur nous?" 
 
 1 The managers were the bishop, who cannot be hurt by having his name men- 
 tioned, a very active and loyal Nonconformist divine, a lady in the highest favor at 
 Court, with whom Beatrix Esmond had communication, and two noblemen of the 
 greatest rank, and a member of the House of Commons, who was implicated in 
 more transactions than one in behalf of the Stuart family.
 
 And he started back, and pushed forward, as Beatrix was descending the 
 stair. She was in colors for the first time at her own house ; she wore the 
 diamonds Esmond gave her; it had been agreed between them, that 
 she should wear these brilhants on the day when the King should en- 
 ter the house, and a queen she looked, radiant in charms, and magnificent 
 and imperial in beauty. 
 
 Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and splendor; he 
 stepped back and gazed at his sister as though he had not been aware 
 before (nor was he very likely) how perfectly lovely she was, and I 
 thought blushed as he embraced her. The Prince could not keep his eyes 
 off her ; he quite forgot his menial part, though he had been schooled to 
 it, and a little light portmanteau prepared expressly that he should carry 
 it. He pressed forward before my lord viscount. 'Twas lucky the servants' 
 eyes were busy in other directions, or they must have seen that this was 
 no servant, or at least a very insolent and rude one. 
 
 Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, "Baptiste," in a loud 
 imperious voice, "have a care of the valise!" at which hint the wilful 
 young man ground his teeth together with something very like a curse 
 between them, and then gave a brief look of anything but pleasure to his 
 Mentor. Being reminded, however, he shouldered the little portmanteau, 
 and carried it up the stair, Esmond preceding him, and a servant with 
 lighted tapers. He flung down his burden sulkily in the bedchamber: — 
 "A Prince that will wear a crown must wear a mask," says Mr. Esmond 
 in French. 
 
 "Ah pestel I see how it is," says Monsieur Baptiste, continuing the 
 talk in French. "The Great Serious is seriously — " "Alarmed for Monsieur 
 Baptiste," broke in the colonel. Esmond neither liked the tone with which 
 the Prince spoke of the ladies, nor the eyes with which he regarded 
 them. 
 
 The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the closet and the 
 apartment which was to be called my lord's parlor, were already lighted 
 and awaiting their occupier; and the collation laid for my lord's supper. 
 Lord Castlewood and his mother and sister came up to the stair a minute 
 afterwards, and, as soon as the domestics had quitted the apartment, 
 Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the two ladies went down on 
 their knees before the Prince, who graciously gave a hand to each. He 
 looked his part of Prince much more naturally than that of servant, 
 which he had just been trying, and raised them both with a great deal 
 of nobility as well as kindness in his air. "Madam," says he, "my mother 
 
 370
 
 will thank your ladyship for your hospitality to her son ; for you, madam," 
 turning to Beatrix, "1 cannot bear to see so much beauty in such a posture. 
 You will betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to him ; sure 'tis his place 
 rather to kneel to you." 
 
 A light shone out of her eyes ; a gleam bright enough to kindle passion 
 in any breast. There were times when this creature was so handsome, that 
 she seemed, as it were, like Venus revealing herself a goddess in a flash 
 of brightness. She appeared so now ; radiant, and with eyes bright with 
 a wonderful luster. A pang, as of rage and jealousy, shot through Es- 
 mond's heart, as he caught the look she gave the Prince; and he clenched 
 his hand involuntarily, and looked across to Castlewood, whose eyes 
 answered his alarm-signal, and were also on the alert. The Prince gave 
 his subjects an audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies and 
 Colonel Esmond quitted the chamber. Lady Castlewood pressed his hand 
 as they descended the stair, and the three went down to the lower rooms, 
 where they waited awhile till the travelers above should be refreshed and 
 ready for their meal. 
 
 Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her beautiful 
 neck. "I have kept my word," says he. 
 
 "And I mine," says Beatrix, looking down on the diamonds. 
 
 "Were I the Mogul Emperor," says the colonel, "you should have all 
 that were dug out of Golconda." 
 
 "These are a great deal too good for me," says Beatrix, dropping her 
 head on her beautiful breast, — "so are you all, all !" And when she looked 
 up again, as she did in a moment, and after a sigh, her eyes, as she gazed 
 at her cousin, wore that melancholy and inscrutable look which 'twas 
 always impossible to sound. 
 
 When the time came for the supper, of which we were advertised by 
 a knocking overhead, Colonel Esmond and the two ladies went to the 
 upper apartment, where the Prince already was, and by his side the young 
 viscount, of exactly the same age, shape, and with features not dissimilar, 
 though Frank's were the handsomer of the two. The Prince sat down 
 and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen remained standing: there was, 
 indeed, but one more cover laid at the table: "Which of you will take 
 it?" says he. 
 
 "The head of our house," says Lady Castlewood, taking her son's 
 hand, and looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow and a great 
 tremor of the voice; "the Marquis of Esmond will have the honor of 
 serving the King." 
 
 371
 
 "I shall have the honor of waiting on His Royal Highness," says 
 Colonel Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion of that day 
 was, he presented it to the King on his knee. 
 
 "I drink to my hostess and her family," says the Prince, with no very 
 well-pleased air; but the cloud passed immediately off his face, and he 
 talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain, quite undisturbed by poor 
 Mr. Esmond's yellow countenance, that, I dare say, looked very glum. 
 
 When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched homewards to 
 his lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the road that night, walking to a 
 cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining on his handsome serene 
 face: — "What cheer, brother?" says Addison, laughing: "I thought it 
 was a footpad advancing in the dark, and behold 'tis an old friend. We 
 may shake hands, colonel, in the dark, 'tis better than fighting by daylight. 
 Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art a Tory ? Turn 
 thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where there is a nightingale still 
 singing in the garden, and a cool bottle in a cave I know of; you shall 
 drink to the Pretender if you like, and I will drink my liquor my own 
 way: I have had enough of good liquor? — no, never! There is no such 
 word as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt not come? Come 
 any day, come soon. You know I remember Simois and the Sigeia tellus, 
 and the praelia mixta mero, mixta viero," he repeated, with ever so slight 
 a touch of merum in his voice, and walked back a little way on the road 
 with Esmond, bidding the other remember he was always his friend, and 
 indebted to him for his aid in the "Campaign" poem. And very likely 
 Mr. Under-Secretary would have stepped in and taken t'other bottle at 
 the colonel's lodging, had the latter invited him, but Esmond's mood was 
 none of the gayest, and he bade his friend an inhospitable good-night 
 at the door. 
 
 "I have done the deed," thought he, sleepless, and looking out into 
 the night; "he is here, and I have brought him; he and Beatrix are 
 sleeping under the same roof now. Whom did I mean to serve in bring- 
 ing him? Was it the Prince? Was it Henry Esmond? Had I not best 
 have joined the manly creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the old doc- 
 trine of right divine, that boldly declares that Parliament and people 
 consecrate the sovereign, not bishops, nor genealogies, nor oils, nor 
 coronations." The eager gaze of the young Prince, watching every move- 
 ment of Beatrix, haunted Esmond and pursued him. The Prince'^ figure 
 appeared before him in his feverish dreams many times that night. He 
 wished the deed undone for which he had labored so. He was not the 
 
 372
 
 first that has regretted his own act, or brought about his own undoing. 
 Undoing? Should he write that word in his late years? No, on his knees 
 before Heaven, rather be thankful for what then he deemed his mis- 
 fortune, and which had caused the whole subsequent happiness of his life, 
 
 Esmond's man, honest John Lockwood, had served his master and the 
 family all his life, and the colonel knew that he could answer for John's 
 fidelity as for his own. John returned with the horses from Rochester 
 betimes the next morning, and the colonel gave him to understand that 
 on going to Kensington, where he was free of the servants' hall, and 
 indeed courting Miss Beatrix's maid, he was to ask no questions, and 
 betray no surprise, but to vouch stoutly that the young gentleman he 
 should see in a red coat there was my Lord Viscount Castlewood, and 
 that his attendant in gray was Monsieur Baptiste the Frenchman. He was 
 to tell his friends in the kitchen such stories as he remembered of my 
 lord viscount's youth at Castlewood; what a wild boy he was; how he 
 used to drill Jack and cane him, before ever he was a soldier; everything, 
 in fine, he knew respecting my lord viscount's early days. Jack's ideas of 
 painting had not been much cultivated during his residence in Flanders 
 with his master; and, before my young lord's return, he had been easily 
 got to believe that the picture brought over from Paris, and now hanging 
 in Lady Castlewood's drawing-room, was a perfect likeness of her son, 
 the young lord. And the domestics having all seen the picture many 
 times, and catching but a momentary imperfect glimpse of the two 
 strangers on the night of their arrival, never had a reason to doubt the 
 fidelity of the portrait ; and next day, when they saw the original of the 
 piece habited exactly as he was represented in the painting, with the same 
 periwig, ribands, and uniform of the Guard, quite naturally addressed the 
 gentleman as my Lord Castlewood, my lady viscountess' son. 
 
 The secretary of the night previous was now the viscount ; the viscount 
 wore the secretary's gray frock; and John Lockwood was instructed to 
 hint to the world below stairs that my lord being a Papist, and very 
 devout in that religion, his attendant might be no other than his chaplain 
 from Bruxelles; hence, if he took his meals in my lord's company there 
 was little reason for surprise. Frank was further cautioned to speak 
 English with a foreign accent, which task he performed indifferently 
 well, and this caution was the more necessary because the Prince him- 
 self scarce spoke our language like a native of the island: and John 
 Lockwood laughed with the folks below stairs at the manner in which my 
 lord, after five years abroad, sometimes forgot his own tongue and 
 
 373
 
 spoke it like a Frenchman. "I warrant," says he, "that with the English 
 beef and beer, his lordship will soon get back the proper use of his 
 mouth" ; and, to do his new lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very 
 kindly. 
 
 The Prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent in his 
 talk after his drink, that Esmond often trembled for him. His meals 
 were served as much as possible in his own chamber, though frequently 
 he made his appearance in Lady Castlewood's parlor and drawing-room, 
 calling Beatrix "sister," and her ladyship "mother," or "madam," be- 
 fore the servants. And, choosing to act entirely up to the part of brother 
 and son, the Prince sometimes saluted Mrs. Beatrix and Lady Castlewood 
 with a freedom which his secretary did not like, and which, for his part, 
 set Colonel Esmond tearing with rage. 
 
 The guests had not been three days in the house when poor Jack 
 Lockwood came with a rueful countenance to his master, and said: 
 "My lord — that is, the gentleman — has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy" 
 (Jack's sweetheart), "and given her guineas and a kiss." I fear that 
 Colonel Esmond's mind was rather relieved than otherwise when he 
 found that the ancillary beauty was the one whom the Prince had selected. 
 His royal tastes were known to lie that way, and continued so in after 
 life. The heir of one of the greatest names, of the greatest kingdoms, and 
 of the greatest misfortunes in Europe, was often content to lay the dignity 
 of his birth and grief at the wooden shoes of a French chambermaid, and 
 to repent afterwards (for he was very devout) in ashes taken from the 
 dust-pan. 'Tis for mortals such as these that nations suffer, that parties 
 struggle, that warriors fight and bleed. A year afterwards gallant heads 
 were falling, and Nithsdale in escape, and Derwentwater on the scaffold ; 
 while the heedless ingrate, for whom they risked and lost all, was tippling 
 with his seraglio of mistresses in his petite maison of Chaillot. 
 
 Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond had to go to the 
 Prince and warn him that the girl whom His Highness was bribing was 
 John Lockwood's sweetheart, an honest resolute man, who had served 
 in six campaigns, and feared nothing, and who knew that the person 
 calling himself Lord Castlewood was not his young master: and the 
 colonel besought the Prince to consider what the effect of a single man's 
 jealousy might be, and to think of other designs he had in hand, more 
 important than the seduction of a waiting-maid, and the humiliation of 
 a brave man. 
 
 Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr. Esmond had 
 
 374
 
 to warn the royal young adventurer of some imprudence or some free- 
 dom. He received these remonstrances very testily, save perhaps in this 
 affair of poor Lockwood's, when he deigned to burst out a-laughing, and 
 said, "What! the soubrette has peached to the amoiireux, and Crispin is 
 angry, and Crispin has served, and Crispin has been a corporal, has he? 
 Tell him we will reward his valor with a pair of colors, and recompense 
 his fidelity." 
 
 Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of entreaty, but 
 the Prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, "Assez, m/lord; je m'ennuje 
 a la preche; I am not come to London to go to the sermon." And he 
 complained afterwards to Castlewood, that "le petit jaune, le noir Colonel, 
 le Marquis Misanthrope" (by which facetious names His Royal High- 
 ness was pleased to designate Colonel Esmond) , "fatigued him with his 
 grand airs and virtuous homilies." 
 
 The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in the trans- 
 action which had brought the Prince over, waited upon His Royal High- 
 ness, constantly asking for my Lord Castlewood on their arrival at 
 Kensington, and being openly conducted to His Royal Highness in that 
 character, who received them either in my lady's drawing-room below, 
 or above in his own apartment; and all implored him to quit the house 
 as little as possible, and to wait there till the signal should be given for 
 him to appear. The ladies entertained him at cards, over which amuse- 
 ment he spent many hours in each day and night. He passed many hours 
 more in drinking, during which time he would rattle and talk very 
 agreeably, and especially if the colonel was absent, whose presence always 
 seemed to frighten him; and the poor "Colonel Noir" took that hint as 
 a command accordingly, and seldom intruded his black face upon the 
 convivial hours of this august young prisoner. Except for those fev/ per- 
 sons of whom the porter had the list, Lord Castlewood was denied to 
 all friends of the house who waited on his lordship. The wound he 
 had received had broke out again from his journey on horseback, so the 
 world and the domestics were informed. And Doctor A ,^ his phy- 
 sician (I shall not mention his name, but he was physician to the Queen, 
 of the Scots nation, and a man remarkable for his benevolence as well 
 as his wit) , gave orders that he should be kept perfectly quiet until the 
 wound should heal. With this gentleman, who was one of the most 
 
 1 There can be very little doubt that the doctor mentioned by my dear father was 
 the famous Doctor Arbuthnot. — ^R, E. W. 
 
 375
 
 active and influential of our party, and the others before spoken of, the 
 whole secret lay; and it was kept with so much faithfulness, and the story 
 we told so simple and natural, that there was no likelihood of a discovery 
 except from the imprudence of the Prince himself, and an adventurous 
 levity that we had the greatest difficulty to control. As for Lady Castle- 
 wood, although she scarce spoke a word, 'twas easy to gather from her 
 demeanor, and one or two hints she dropped, how deep her mortification 
 was at finding the hero whom she had chosen to worship all her life (and 
 whose restoration had formed almost the most sacred part of her prayers) , 
 no more than a man, and not a good one. She thought misfortune might 
 have chastened him; but that instructress had rather rendered him 
 callous than humble. His devotion, which was quite real, kept him from 
 no sin he had a mind to. His talk showed good-humor, gaiety, even wit 
 enough ; but there was a levity in his acts and words that he had brought 
 from among those libertine devotees with whom he had been bred, and 
 that shocked the simplicity and purity of the English lady, whose guest 
 he was. Esmond spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty freely about the Prince, 
 getting her brother to put in a word of warning. Beatrix was entirely 
 of their opinion ; she thought he was very light, very light and reckless ; 
 she could not even see the good looks Colonel Esmond had spoken of. 
 The Prince had bad teeth, and a decided squint. How could we say he 
 did not squint ? His eyes were fine, but there was certainly a cast in them. 
 She rallied him at table v/ith wonderful wit; she spoke of him invariably 
 as of a mere boy; she was more fond of Esmond than ever, praised him 
 to her brother, praised him to the Prince, when His Royal Highness 
 was pleased to sneer at the colonel, and warmly espoused his cause: 
 "And if Your Majesty does not give him the Garter his father had, when 
 the Marquis of Esmond comes to your Majesty's Court, I will hang 
 myself in my own garters, or will cry my eyes out." "Rather than lose 
 those," says the Prince "he shall be made archbishop and Colonel of 
 the Guard" (it was Frank Castlewood who told me of this conversation 
 over their supper). 
 
 "Yes," cries she, with one of her laughs — I fancy I hear it now. 
 Thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful music. "Yes, he shall be 
 Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury." 
 
 "And what will your ladyship be.^" says the Prince; "you have but 
 to choose your place." 
 
 "I," says Beatrix, "will be mother of the maids to the Queen of His 
 
 376
 
 Majesty King James the Third — Vive le Roy!" and she made him a great 
 curtsey, and drank a part of a glass of wine in his honor. 
 
 "The Prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last drop of it," 
 Castlewood said, "and my mother, looking very anxious, rose up and 
 asked leave to retire. But that Trix is my mother's daughter, Harry," 
 Frank continued, "I don't know what a horrid fear I should have of her. 
 I wish — I wish this business were over. You are older than I am, and 
 wiser, and better, and I owe you everything, and would die for you — 
 before George I would ; but I wish the end of this were come." 
 
 Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night ; horrible doubts and 
 torments racked Esmond's soul ; 'twas a scheme of personal ambition, a 
 daring stroke for a selfish end — he knew it. What cared he, in his heart, 
 who was king.^ Were not his very sympathies and secret convictions on 
 the other side — on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom? And here 
 was he, engaged for a Prince that had scarce heard the word liberty; that 
 priests and women, tyrants by nature, both made a tool of. The mis- 
 anthrope was in no better humor after hearing that story, and his grim 
 face more black and yellow than ever. 
 
 CH A PTER X 
 
 We Entertain a Very Distinguished Guest 
 
 at Kensington 
 
 Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter end of 
 Queen Anne's time, or any historian be inclined to follow it, 'twill be 
 discovered, I have little doubt, that not one of the great personages about 
 the Queen had a defined scheme of policy, independent of that private 
 and selfish interest which each was bent on pursuing: St. John was for 
 St. John, and Harley for Oxford, and Marlborough for John Churchill, 
 always; and according as they could get help from St. Germains or 
 Hanover, they sent over proffers of allegiance to the princes there, or 
 betrayed one to the other: one cause, or one sovereign, was as good as 
 another to them, so that they could hold the best place under him ; and, 
 like Lockit and Peachum, the Newgate chiefs in the "Rogues' Opera" 
 Mr. Gay wrote afterwards, had each in his hand documents and proofs 
 
 377
 
 of treason which would hang the other, only he did not dare to use the 
 weapon, for fear of that one which his neighbor also carried in his 
 pocket. Think of the great Marlborough, the greatest subject in all the 
 world, a conqueror of princes, that had marched victorious over Ger- 
 many, Flanders, and France, that had given the law to sovereigns abroad, 
 and been worshiped as a divinity at home, forced to sneak out of Eng- 
 land — his credit, honors, places, all taken from him ; his friends in the 
 army broke and ruined; and flying before Harley, as abject and power- 
 less as a poor debtor before a bailiff with a writ. A paper, of which 
 Hurley got possession, and showing beyond doubt that the duke was 
 engaged with the Stuart family, was the weapon with which the treasurer 
 drove Marlborough out of the kingdom. He fled to Antwerp, and began 
 intriguing instantly on the other side, and came back to England, as all 
 know, a Whig and a Hanoverian. 
 
 Though the treasurer turned out of the army and office every man, 
 military or civil, known to be the Duke's friend, and gave the vacant 
 posts among the Tory party; he, too, was playing the double game be- 
 tween Hanover and St. Germains, awaiting the expected catastrophe of 
 the Queen's death to be Master of the State, and offer it to either family 
 that should bribe him best, or that the nation should declare for. Which- 
 ever the King was, Harley's object was to reign over him: and to this 
 end he supplanted the former fame's favorite, decried the actions of the 
 war which had made Marlborough's name illustrious, and disdained no 
 more than the great fallen competitor of his, the meanest arts, flatteries, 
 intimidations, that would secure his power. If the greatest satirist the 
 world ever had seen had writ against Harley, and not for him, what ? 
 history had he left behind of the last years of Queen Anne's reign ! But 
 Swift, that scorned all mankind, and himself not the least of all, had 
 this merit of a faithful partisan, that he loved those chiefs who treated 
 him well, and stuck by Harley bravely in his fall, as he gallantly had 
 supported him in his better fortune. 
 
 Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accomplished 
 than his rival, the great St. John could be as selfish as Oxford was, and 
 could act the double part as skillfully as ambidextrous Churchill. He 
 whose talk was always of liberty, no more shrank from using persecution 
 and the pillory against his opponents than if he had been at Lisbon and 
 Grand Inquisitor. This lofty patriot was on his knees at Hanover and 
 St. Germains too; notoriously of no religion, he toasted Church and 
 Queen as boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and laugned at ; 
 
 378
 
 and to serve his turn, and to overthrow his enemy, he could intrigue, 
 coax, bully, wheedle, fawn on the Court favorite, and creep up the back- 
 stair as silently as Oxford, who supplanted Marlborough, and whom he 
 himself supplanted. The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this 
 very time whereat my history is now arrived. He was come to the very 
 last days of his power, and the agent whom he employed to overthrow 
 the conqueror of Blenheim, was now engaged to upset the conqueror's 
 conqueror, and hand over the staff of government to Bolingbroke, who 
 had been panting to hold it. 
 
 In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the Irish regi- 
 ments in the French service were all brought round about Boulogne in 
 Picardy, to pass over if need were with the Duke of Berwick; the soldiers 
 of France no longer, but subjects of James the Third of England and 
 Ireland King. The fidelity of the great mass of the Scots (though a most 
 active, resolute, and gallant Whig party, admirably and energetically 
 ordered and disciplined, was known to be in Scotland too) was no- 
 toriously unshaken in their King. A very great body of Tory clergy, 
 nobility, and gentry, were public partisans of the exiled Prince ; and the 
 indifferents might be counted on to cry King George or King James, 
 according as either should prevail. The Queen, especially in her latter 
 days, inclined towards her own family. The Prince was lying actually 
 in London, within a stone's-cast of his sister's palace; the first minister 
 toppling to his fall, and so tottering that the weakest push of a woman's 
 finger would send him down ; and as for Bolingbroke, his successor, we 
 know on whose side his power and his splendid eloquence would be on 
 the day when the Queen should appear openly before her Council and 
 say: — "This, my lords, is my brother; here is my father's heir, and mine 
 after me." 
 
 During the whole of the previous year the Queen had had many and 
 repeated fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, and her death had been 
 constantly looked for by all her attendants. The Elector of Hanover had 
 wished to send his son, the Duke of Cambridge — to pay his court to his 
 cousin the Queen, the Elector said; — in truth, to be on the spot when 
 death should close her career. Frightened perhaps to have such a memento 
 mori under her royal eyes. Her Majesty had angrily forbidden the young 
 Prince's coming into England. Either she desired to keep the chances for 
 her brother open yet ; or the people about her did not wish to close with 
 the Whig candidate till they could make terms with her. The quarrels 
 of her ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks of con- 
 
 379
 
 science very likely, the importunities of her ministers, and constant tur- 
 moil and agitation round about her, had weakened and irritated the 
 Princess extremely; her strength was giving way under these continual 
 trials of her temper, and from day to day it was expected she must come 
 to a speedy end of them. Just before Viscount Castlewood and his com- 
 panion came from France, Her Majesty was taken ill. The St. Anthony's 
 fire broke out on the royal legs ; there was no hurry for the presentation 
 of the young lord at Court, or that person who should appear under 
 his name; and my lord viscount's wound breaking out opportunely, he 
 was kept conveniently in his chamber until such time as his physician 
 would allow him to bend his knee before the Queen. At the commence- 
 ment of July that influential lady, with whom it has been mentioned that 
 our party had relations, came frequently to visit her young friend, the 
 maid of honor, at Kensington, and my lord viscount (the real or supposi- 
 titious) , who was an invalid at Lady Castlewood's house. 
 
 On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held the most 
 intimate post about the Queen, came in her chair from the palace hard 
 by, bringing to the little party in Kensington Square intelligence of the 
 very highest importance. The final blow had been struck, and my Lord 
 of Oxford and Mortimer was no longer treasurer. The staff was as yet 
 given to no successor, though my Lord Boiingbroke would undoubtedly 
 be the man. And now the time was come, the Queen's Abigail said: and 
 now my Lord Castlewood ought to be presented to the sovereign. 
 
 After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and described to 
 his cousin, who passed such a miserable night of mortification and 
 jealousy as he thought over the transaction, no doubt the three persons 
 who were set by nature as protectors over Beatrix came to the same con- 
 clusion, that she must be removed from the presence of a man whose 
 desires towards her were expressed only too clearly: and who was no 
 more scrupulous in seeking to gratify them than his father had been 
 before him. I suppose Esmond's mistress, her son, and the colonel him- 
 self, had been all secretly debating this matter in their minds, for when 
 Frank broke out, in his blunt way, with: "I think Beatrix had best be 
 anywhere but here," — Lady Castlewood said: "I thank you, Frank, I 
 have thought so, too"; and Mr. Esmond, though he only remarked that 
 it was not for him to speak, showed plainly, by the delight on his coun- 
 tenance, how very agreeable that proposal was to him. 
 
 "One sees that you think with us, Henry," says the viscountess, with 
 ever so little of sarcasm in her tone: "Beatrix is best out of this house 
 
 380
 
 while we have our guest in it, and as soon as this morning's business is 
 done, she ought to quit London." 
 
 "What morning's business?" asked Colonel Esmond, not knowing 
 what had been arranged, though in fact the stroke next in importance 
 to that of bringing the Prince, and of having him acknowledged by the 
 Queen, was now being performed at the very moment we three were 
 conversing together. 
 
 The Court lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who was a 
 chief agent in it, the Court physician, and the Bishop of Rochester, who 
 were the other two most active participators in our plan, had held many 
 councils, in our house at Kensington and elsewhere, as to the means best 
 to be adopted for presenting our young adventurer to his sister the Queen. 
 The simple and easy plan proposed by Colonel Esmond had been agreed 
 to by all parties, which was that on some rather private day, when there 
 were not many persons about the Court, the Prince should appear there 
 as my Lord Castlewood, should be greeted by his sister-in-waiting, and 
 led by that other lady into the closet of the Queen. And according to 
 Her Majesty's health or humor, and the circumstances that might arise 
 during the interview, it was to be left to the discretion of those present 
 at it, and to the Prince himself, whether he should declare that it was 
 the Queen's own brother, or the brother of Beatrix Esmond, who kissed 
 her royal hand. And this plan being determined on, we were all waiting 
 in very much anxiety for the day and signal of execution. 
 
 Two mornings after that supper, it being the 2-jth day of July, the 
 Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castlewood and her family, 
 and the meal scarce over. Doctor A.'s coach drove up to our house at 
 Kensington, and the doctor appeared among the party there, enlivening 
 a rather gloomy company ; for the mother and daughter had had words 
 in the morning in respect to the transactions of that supper, and other 
 adventures perhaps, and on the day succeeding. Beatrix's haughty spirit 
 brooked remonstrances from no superior, much less from her mother, 
 the gentlest of creatures, whom the girl commanded rather than obeyed. 
 And feeling she was wrong, and that by a thousand coquetries (which 
 she could no more help exercising on every man that came near her, than 
 the sun can help shining on great and small) she had provoked the 
 Prince's dangerous admiration, and allured him to the expression of it, 
 she was only the more wilful and imperious the more she felt her error. 
 
 To this party, the Prince being served with chocolate in his bed- 
 chamber, where he lay late sleeping away the fumes of his wine, the 
 
 381
 
 doctor came, and by the urgent and startling nature of his news, dissi- 
 pated instantly that private and minor unpleasantry under which the 
 family of Castlewood was laboring. 
 
 He asked for the guest; the guest was above in his own apartment: 
 he bade Mo)isieur Baptiste go up to his master instantly, and requested 
 that my Lord Viscoutit Castlewood would straightway put his uniform 
 on, and come away in the doctor's coach now at the door. 
 
 He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy was 
 to be: "In half an hour," says he, "Her Majesty and her favorite lady 
 will take the air in the cedar walk behind the new banqueting house. 
 Her Majesty will be drawn in a garden chair, Madam Beatrix Esmond 
 and her brother, my Lord Viscount Castlewood, will be walking in the 
 private garden (here is Lady Masham's key), and will come unawares 
 upon the royal party. The man that draws the chair will retire, and leave 
 the Queen, the favorite, and the maid of honor, and her brother to- 
 gether; Mistress Beatrix will present her brother, and then! — and then, 
 my Lord Bishop will pray for the result of the interview, and his Scots 
 clerk will say Amen! Quick, put on your hood. Madam Beatrix: why 
 doth not His Majesty come down? Such another chance may not present 
 itself for months again." 
 
 The Prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost that chance 
 through his indolence. The Queen was actually about to leave the garden 
 just when the party reached it ; the doctor, the bishop, the maid of honor, 
 and her brother, went off together in the physician's coach, and had been 
 gone half an hour when Colonel Esmond came to Kensington Square. 
 
 The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of course for a 
 moment put all thoughts of private jealousy out of Colonel Esmond's 
 head. In half an hour more the coach returned; the bishop descended 
 from it first, and gave his arm to Beatrix, who now came out. His Lord- 
 ship went back into the carriage again, and the maid of honor entered 
 the house alone. We were all gazing at her from the upper window, try- 
 ing to read from her countenance the result of the interview from which 
 she had just come. 
 
 She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very pale ; she 
 asked for a glass of water as her mother went to meet her, and after 
 drinking that and putting off her hood, she began to speak: "We may 
 all hope for the best," says she; "it has cost the Queen a fit. Her Majesty 
 
 was in her chair in the cedar walk, accompanied only by Lady , 
 
 when we entered by the private wicket from the west side of the garden, 
 
 382
 
 and turned towards her, the doctor following us. They waited in a side 
 walk hidden by the shrubs, as we advanced towards the chair. My heart 
 throbbed so I scarce could speak; but my Prince whispered, 'Courage, 
 Beatrix,' and marched on with a steady step. His face was a little flushed, 
 but he was not afraid of the danger. He who fought so bravely at Mal- 
 plaquet fears nothing." Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other 
 at this compliment, neither liking the sound of it. 
 
 "The Prince uncovered," Beatrix continued, "and I saw the Queen 
 turning round to Lady Masham, as if asking who these two were. Her 
 Majesty looked very pale and ill, and then flushed up; the favorite made 
 us a signal to advance, and I went up, leading my Prince by the hand, 
 quite close to the chair: "Your Majesty will give my lord viscount your 
 hand to kiss,' says her lady, and the Queen put out her hand, which the 
 Prince kissed, kneeling on his knee, he who should kneel to no mortal 
 man or woman. 
 
 " "You have been long from England, my lord,' says the Queen: "why 
 were you not here to give a home to your mother and sister?' 
 
 " 'I am come, madam, to stay now, if the Queen desires me,' says the 
 Prince, with another low bow. 
 
 " 'You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign religion; 
 was not that of England good enough for you ?' 
 
 " 'In returning to my father's Church,' says the Prince, "I do not love 
 my mother the less, nor am I the less faithful servant of Your Majesty.' 
 
 "Here," says Beatrix, "the favorite gave me a little signal with her 
 hand to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear what should pass; 
 and whispered something to the Queen, which made Her Majesty start 
 and utter one or two words in a hurried manner, looking towards the 
 Prince, and catching hold with her hand of the arm of her chair. He 
 advanced still nearer towards it; he began to speak very rapidly; I caught 
 the words, "Father, blessing, forgiveness,' and then presently the Prince 
 fell on his knees ; took from his breast a paper he had there, handed it 
 to the Queen, who, as soon as she saw it, flung up both her arms with 
 a scream, and took away that hand nearest the Prince, and which he 
 endeavored to kiss. He went on speaking with great animation of gesture, 
 now clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening them as 
 though to say: 'I am here, your brother, in your power.' Lady Masham 
 ran round on the other side of the chair, kneeling too, and speaking 
 with great energy. She clasped the Queen's hand on her side, and picked 
 up the paper Her Majesty had let fall. The Prince rose and made a further 
 
 383
 
 speech as though he would go ; the favorite on the other hand urging 
 her mistress, and then, running back to the Prince, brought him back 
 once more close to the chair. Again he knelt down and took the Queen's 
 hand, which she did not withdraw, kissing it a hundred times; my lady 
 all the time, with sobs and supplications, speaking over the chair. This 
 while the Queen sat with a stupefied look, crumpling the paper with one 
 hand, as my Prince embraced the other; then of a sudden she uttered 
 several piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit of hysteric tears and 
 laughter. "Enough, enough, sir, for this time,' I heard Lady Masham 
 say: and the chairman, who had withdrawn round the banqueting room, 
 came back, alarmed by the cries. 'Quick,' says Lady Masham, 'get some 
 help,' and I ran towards the doctor, who, with the Bishop of Rochester, 
 came up instantly. Lady Masham whispered the Prince he might hope 
 for the very best and to be ready tomorrow ; and he hath gone away to 
 the Bishop of Rochester's house to meet several of his friends there. 
 And so the great stroke is struck," says Beatrix, going down on her 
 knees, and clasping her hands. "God save the King! God save the King!" 
 
 Beatrix's tale told, and the young lady herself calmed somewhat of 
 her agitation, we asked with regard to the Prince, who was absent with 
 Bishop Atterbury, and were informed that 'twas likely he might remain 
 abroad the whole day. Beatrix's three kinsfolk looked at one another at 
 this intelligence: 'twas clear the same thought was passing through the 
 minds of all. 
 
 But who should begin to break the news? Monsieur Baptiste, that is, 
 Frank Castlewood, turned very red, and looked towards Esmond; the 
 colonel bit his lips, and fairly beat a retreat into the window: it was 
 Lady Castlewood that opened upon Beatrix with the news which we 
 knew would do anything but please her. 
 
 "We are glad," says she, taking her daughter's hand, and speaking 
 in a gentle voice, "that the guest is away." 
 
 Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us three, and 
 as if divining a danger. "Why glad?" says she, her breast beginning to 
 heave; "are you so soon tired of him?" 
 
 "We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him," cries out Frank 
 Castlewood. 
 
 "And which is it — you, my lord, or is it mamma, who is jealous because 
 he drinks my health? or is it the head of the family" (here she turned 
 with an imperious look towards Colonel Esmond), "who has taken of 
 late to preach the King sermons?" 
 
 384
 
 "We do not say you are too free with His Majesty." 
 
 "I thank you, madam," says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a 
 curtsey. 
 
 But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity: "At 
 least we have not said so, though we might, were it possible for a mother 
 to say such words to her own daughter, your father's daughter." 
 
 "Eh? mon pere," breaks out Beatrix, "was no better than other persons' 
 fathers." And again she looked towards the colonel. 
 
 We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French words; 
 her manner was exactly imitated from that of our foreign guest. 
 
 "You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix," says 
 her mother sadly, "nor to speak ill of your father." 
 
 Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she 
 blushed crimson: "I have learnt to honor the King," says she, drawing 
 up, "and 'twere as well that others suspected neither His Majesty nor 
 me." 
 
 "If you respected your mother a little more," Frank said, "Trix, you 
 would do yourself no hurt." 
 
 "I am no child," says she, turning round on him; "we have lived 
 very well these five years without the benefit of your advice or example, 
 and I intend to take neither now. Why does not the head of the house 
 speak?" she went on; "he rules everything here. When his chaplain 
 has done singing the psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I 
 am tired of the psalms." The Prince had used almost the very same words 
 in regard to Colonel Esmond that the imprudent girl repeated in her 
 wrath. 
 
 "You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam," says the colonel ; and, 
 turning to his mistress, "Did your guest use these words in your lady- 
 ship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he was pleased to 
 impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?" 
 
 "Have you seen him alone?" cries my lord, starting up with an oath: 
 "By God, have you seen him alone?" 
 
 "Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me ; no, you would not 
 dare": cries Frank's sister. "Keep your oaths, my lord, for your wife; 
 we are not used here to such language. Till you came, there used to be 
 kindness between me and mamma, and I cared for her when you never 
 did, when you were away for years with your horses and your mistress, 
 and your Popish wife." 
 
 385
 
 "^y /' says my lord, rapping out another oath, "Clotilda is an 
 
 angel; how dare you say a word against Clotilda?" 
 
 Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy 
 Frank's attack was drawn off by that feint. "I fancy Clotilda is not the 
 subject in hand," says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; "her ladyship is at 
 Pans, a hundred leagues off, preparing baby-linen. It is about my Lord 
 Castlewood's sister, and not his wife, the question is." 
 
 "He is not my Lord Castlewood," says Beatrix, "and he knows he 
 is not ; he is Colonel Francis Esmond's son, and no more, and he wears 
 a false title; and he lives on another man's land, and he knows it." Here 
 was another desperate sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an 
 alerte in another quarter. "Again, I beg your pardon," says Esmond. "If 
 there are no proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If my father acknowl- 
 edged no heir, yours was his lawful successor, and my Lord Castlewood 
 hath as good a right to his rank and small estate as any man in England. 
 But that again is not the question, as you know very well ; let us bring 
 our talk back to it, as you will have me meddle in it. And I will give 
 you frankly my opinion, that a house where a Prince lies all day, who 
 respects no woman, is no house for a young unmarried lady; that you 
 were better in the country than here: that he is here on a great end, from 
 which no folly should divert him; and that having nobly done your part 
 of this morning, Beatrix, you should retire off the scene awhile, and 
 leave it to the other actors of the play." 
 
 As the colonel spoke v/ith a perfect calmness and politeness, such 
 as 'tis to be hoped he hath always shown to women,i his mistress stood 
 by him on one side of the table, and Frank Castlewood on the other, 
 hemming in poor Beatrix, thai was behind it, and, as it were, surrounding 
 her with our approaches. 
 
 1 My dear father saith quite truly, that his manner towards our sex was uniformly 
 courteous. From my infancy upwards, he treated me with an extreme gentleness, 
 as though I was a Httle lady. I can scarce remember (though I tried him often) 
 ever hearing a rough word from him, nor was he less grave and kind in his manner 
 to the humblest negresses on his estate. He was familiar with no one except my 
 mother, and it was delightful to witness up to the very last days the confidence 
 between them. He was obeyed eagerly by all under him; and my mother and all 
 her household lived in a constant emulation to please him, and quite a terror lest 
 in any way they should offend him. He was the humbljst man, with all this; the 
 least exacting, the most easily contented ; and Mr. Benson, our minister at Castle- 
 wood, who attended liim at the last, ever said: "I know not what Colonel Esmond's 
 doctrine was, but his life and death were those of a devout Christian." — R, E. W. 
 
 386
 
 Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, as I expected, 
 tried the ultimo ratio of women, and had recourse to tears. Her beautiful 
 eyes filled with them ; I never could bear in her, nor in any woman, that 
 expression of pain: — "I am alone," sobbed she; "y^ii are three against 
 me — my brother, my mother, and you. What have I done, that you should 
 speak and look so unkindly at me? Is it my fault that the Prince should, 
 as you say, admire me.^ Did I bring him here? Did I do aught but what 
 you bade me, in making him welcome? Did you not tell me that our 
 duty was to die for him? Did you not teach me, mother, night and morn- 
 ing, to pray for the King, before even ourselves ? What would you have of 
 me, cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy against me; I know 
 you are, sir, and that my mother and brother are acting but as you bid 
 them: whither would you have me go?" 
 
 "I would but remove from the Prince," says Esmond gravely, "a dan- 
 gerous temptation. Heaven forbid I should say you would yield: I would 
 only have him free of it. Your honor needs no guardian, please God, 
 but his imprudence doth. He is so far removed from all women by his 
 rank, that his pursuit of them cannot but be unlawful. We would remove 
 the dearest and fairest of our family from the chance of that insult, and 
 that is why we would have you go, dear Beatrix." 
 
 "Harry speaks like a book," says Frank, with one of his oaths, "and 
 
 by , every word he saith is true. You can't help being handsome, 
 
 Trix; no more can the Prince help following you. My counsel is that 
 you go out of harm's way; for, by the Lord, were the Prince to play any 
 tricks with you. King, as he is, or is to be, Harry Esmond and I would 
 have justice of him." 
 
 "Are not two such champions enough to guard me?" says Beatrix, 
 something sorrowfully; "sure with you two watching, no evil could 
 happen to me." 
 
 "In faith, I think not, Beatrix," says Colonel Esmond; "nor if the 
 Prince knew us would he try." 
 
 "But does he know you?" interposed Lady Castlewood, very quiet; 
 "he comes of a country where the pursuit of kings is thought no dishonor 
 to a woman. Let us go, dearest Beatrix! Shall ye go to Walcote or to 
 Castlewood? We are best away from the city; and when the Prince is 
 acknowledged, and our champions have restored him, and he hath his 
 own house at St. James's or Windsor, we can come back to ours here. 
 Do you not think so, Harry and Frank?" 
 
 Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure. 
 
 387
 
 "We will go, then," says Beatrix, turning a little pale; "Lady Masham 
 is to give me warning tonight how Her Majesty is, and tomorrow " 
 
 "I think we had best go today, my dear," says my Lady Castlewood; 
 "we might have the coach and sleep at Hounslow, and reach home to- 
 morrow. 'Tis twelve o'clock; bid the coach, cousin, be ready at one." 
 
 "For shame!" burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and mortifica- 
 tion. "You disgrace me by your cruel precautions; my own mother is the 
 first to suspect me, and would take me away as my gaoler. I will not go 
 with you, mother; I will go as no one's prisoner. If I wanted to deceive, 
 do you think I could find no means of evading you 7 My family suspects 
 me. As those mistrust me that ought to love me most, let me leave them ; 
 I will go, but I will go alone: to Castlewood, be it. I have been unhappy 
 there and lonely enough ; let me go back, but spare me at least the humilia- 
 tion of setting a watch over my misery, which is a trial I can't bear. Let 
 me go when you will, but alone, or not at all. You three can stay and 
 triumph over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I have borne it before. 
 Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the coach that is to take me away. I thank 
 you, Henry Esmond, for your share in the conspiracy. All my life long 
 I'll thank you, and remember you, and you, brother, and you, mother, 
 how shall I show my gratitude to you for your careful defense of my 
 honor?" 
 
 She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, flinging glances 
 of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of the field, but scared, 
 and almost ashamed of our victory. It did indeed seem hard and cruel 
 that we three should have conspired the banishment and humiliation of 
 that fair creature. We looked at each other in silence; 'twas not the first 
 stroke by many of our actions in that unlucky time, which, being done, 
 we wished undone. We agreed it was best she should go alone, speaking 
 stealthily to one another, and under our breaths, like persons engaged 
 in an act they felt ashamed of doing. 
 
 In a half hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, her coun- 
 tenance wearing the same defiant air which it had borne when she left 
 us. She held a shagreen case in her hand ; Esmond knew it as containing 
 his diamonds which he had given to her for her marriage with Duke 
 Hamilton, and which she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious 
 night of the Prince's arrival. "I have brought back," says she, "to the 
 Marquis of Esmond the present he deigned to make me in days when 
 he trusted me better than now. I will never accept a benefit or a kindness 
 
 388
 
 from Henry Esmond more, and I give back these family diamonds, which 
 belonged to one King's mistress, to the gentleman that suspected I would 
 be another. Have ycu been upon your message of coach-caller, my Lord 
 Marquis? Will you send your valet to see that I do not run away?" We 
 were right, yet, by her manner, she had put us all in the wrong ; we were 
 conquerors, yet the honors of the day seemed to be with the poor op- 
 pressed girl. 
 
 That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented with 
 a baron's coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young gentleman 
 from whom she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured 
 on the cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady 
 Castlewood opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she 
 did; and, behold, besides the diamonds, Esmond's present, there lay in 
 the box the enamelled miniature of the late duke, which Beatrix had laid 
 aside with her mourning when the King came into the house ; and which 
 the poor heedless thing very likely had forgotten. 
 
 "Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?" says her mother, taking the minia- 
 ture out, and with a cruelty she did not very often show ; but there are 
 some moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs 
 which angels can't forego.^ 
 
 Having delivered this stab, Lady Castlewood was frightened at the 
 eflfect of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix's heart: she flushed up and 
 passed a handkerchief across her eyes, and kissed the miniature, and 
 put it into her bosom: "I had forgot it," says she; "my injury made me 
 forget my grief; my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother; 
 I think I never can forgive you; something hath broke between us that 
 no tears nor years can repair. I always said I was alone: you never loved 
 me, never — and were jealous of me from the time I sat on my father's 
 knee. Let me go away, the sooner the better: I can bear to be with you 
 no more." 
 
 "Go, child," says her mother, still very stern; "go and bend your proud 
 knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in solitude for humility and re- 
 pentance. 'Tis not your reproaches that make me unhappy, 'tis your hard 
 heart, my poor Beatrix: may God soften it, and teach you one day to 
 feel for your mother." 
 
 1 This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuously even the best of men will 
 sometimes judge of our sex. Lady Castlewood had no intention of triumphing over 
 her daughter ; but from a sense of duty alone pointed out her deplorable wrong. — 
 R. E. W. 
 
 389
 
 If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to own as 
 much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix's; and, if the girl had 
 a proud spirit, I very much fear it came to her by inheritance. 
 
 CH APT E R XI 
 
 Our Guest Quits Us as Not Being Hospitable 
 
 Enough 
 
 Beatrix's departure took place within an hour, her maid going with 
 her in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the coach-box to prevent any 
 danger of the road. Esmond and Frank thought of escorting the carriage, 
 but she indignantly refused their company, and another man was sent 
 to follow the coach, and not to leave it till it had passed over Hounslow 
 Heath on the next day. And these two forming the whole of Lady Castle- 
 wood's male domestics, Mr. Esmond's faithful John Lockwood came to 
 wait on his mistress during their absence, though he would have pre- 
 ferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his sweetheart, on her journey into the 
 country. 
 
 We had a gloomy and silent meal ; it seemed as if a darkness was over 
 the house, since the bright face of Beatrix had been withdrawn from 
 it. In the afternoon came a m.essage from the favorite to relieve us some- 
 what fi-om this despondency. ""The Queen hath been much shaken," the 
 note said ; "she is better now, and all things will go well. Let my Lord 
 Castleu'ood be ready against we send for him." 
 
 At night there came a second billet: "There hath been a great battle 
 in Council; Lord Treasurer hath broke his staff, and hath fallen never to 
 
 rise again ; no successor is appointed. Lord B receives a great Whig 
 
 company tonight at Golden Square. If he is trimming, others are true; 
 the Queen hath no more fits, but is a-bed now, and more quiet. Be ready 
 against morning, when I still hope all will be well." 
 
 The Prince came home shortly after the messenger who bore this billet 
 had left the house. His Royal Highness was so much the better for the 
 bishop's liquor, that to talk affairs to him now was of little service. He 
 was helped to the royal bed; he called Castlewood familiarly by his own 
 name; he quite forgot the part upon the acting of which his crown, his 
 
 390
 
 safety depended. 'Twas lucky that my Lady Castlewood's servants were 
 out of the way, and only those heard him who would not betray him. 
 He inquired after the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his voice; 
 he was easily got to bed, and in a minute or two plunged in that deep 
 slumber and forgetfulness with which Bacchus rewards the votaries of 
 that god. We wished Beatrix had been there to see him in his cups. We 
 regretted, perhaps, that she was gone. 
 
 One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to ride to 
 Hounslow that night, coram latronibus, and to the inn which the family 
 used ordinarily in their journeys out of London. Esmond desired my 
 landlord not to acquaint Madam Beatrix with his coming, and had the 
 grim satisfaction of passing by the door of the chamber where she lay 
 with her maid, and of watching her chariot set forth in the early morning. 
 He saw her smile and slip money into the man's hand who was ordered 
 to ride behind the coach as far as Bagshot. The road being open, and the 
 other servant armed, it appeared she dispensed with the escort of a second 
 domestic; and this fellow, bidding his young mistress adieu with many 
 bows, went and took a pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in com- 
 pany with his brother servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back to 
 London. 
 
 They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two worthies stopped 
 for more drink, and here they were scared by seeing Colonel Esmond gal- 
 lop by them. The man said in reply to Colonel Esmond's stern question, 
 that his young mistress had sent her duty; only that, no other message: 
 she had had a very good night, and would reach Castlewood by nightfall. 
 The colonel had no time for further colloquy, and galloped on swiftly to 
 London, having business of great importance there, as my reader very 
 well knows. The thought of Beatrix riding away from the danger soothed 
 his mind not a little. His horse was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple 
 knew the way thither well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night 
 was awake and sober. 
 
 The account of the previous evening was known all over the town 
 early next day. A violent altercation had taken place before the Queen 
 in the Council -chamber; and all the coffee-houses had their version of 
 the quarrel. The news brought my lord bishop early to Kensington Square, 
 where he awaited the waking of his royal master above stairs, and spoke 
 confidently of having him proclaimed as Prince of Wales and heir to the 
 throne before the day was over. The bishop had entertained on the 
 previous afternoon certain of the most influential gentlemen of the true 
 
 391
 
 British party. His Royal Highness had charmed all, both Scots and 
 English, Papists and Churchmen: "Even Quakers," says he, "were at our 
 meeting; and, if the stranger took a little too much British punch and 
 ale, he will soon grow more accustomed to those liquors; and my Lord 
 Castlewood," says the bishop with a laugh, "must bear the cruel charge 
 of having been for once in his life a little tipsy. He toasted your lovely 
 sister a dozen times, at which we all laughed," says the Bishop, "admiring 
 so much fraternal affection. — ^Where is that charming nymph, and why 
 doth she not adorn your Ladyship's tea-table with her bright eyes?" 
 
 Her ladyship said, dryly, that Beatrix was not at home that morning; 
 my lord bishop was too busy with great affairs to trouble himself much 
 about the presence or absence of any lady, however beautiful. 
 
 We were yet at table when Dr. A came from the palace with a 
 
 look of great alarm ; the shocks the Queen had had the day before had 
 acted on her severely; he had been sent for, and had ordered her to be 
 blooded. The surgeon of Long Acre had come to cup the Queen, and 
 Her Majesty was now more easy and breathed more freely. What made 
 us start at the name of Mr. Ayme? "ll jaut etre aimable pour etre aime," 
 says the merry doctor; Esmond pulled his sleeve, and bade him hush. It 
 was to Ayme's house, after his fatal duel, that my dear Lord Castlewood, 
 Frank's father, had been carried to die. 
 
 No second visit could be paid to the Queen on that day at any rate; 
 and when our guest above gave his signal that he was awake, the doctor, 
 the bishop, and Colonel Esmond waited upon the Prince's levee, and 
 brought him their news, cheerful or dubious. The doctor had to go away 
 presently, but promised to keep the Prince constantly acquainted with 
 what was taking place at the palace near by. His counsel was, and the 
 bishop's, that as soon as ever the Queen's malady took a favorable turn, 
 the Prince should be introduced to her bedside; the Council summoned; 
 the guard at Kensington and St. James's, of which two regiments were 
 to be entirely relied on, and one known not to be hostile, would declare 
 for the Prince, as the Queen would before the Lords of her Council, 
 designating him as the heir to her throne. 
 
 With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, the 
 Prince and his Lordship of Rochester passed many hours of this day, 
 composing Proclamations and Addresses to the Country, to the Scots, 
 to the Clergy, to the People of London and England; announcing the 
 arrival of the exile descendant of three sovereigns, and his acknowledg- 
 ment by his sister as heir to the throne. Every safeguard for their liberties, 
 
 392
 
 the Church and People could ask, was promised to them. The bishop 
 could answer for the adhesion of very many prelates, who besought of 
 their flocks and brother ecclesiastics to recognize the sacred right of the 
 future sovereign and to purge the country of the sin of rebellion. 
 
 During the composition of these papers, more messengers than one 
 came from the Palace regarding the state of the august patient there 
 lying. At midday she was somewhat better; at evening the torpor again 
 
 seized her and she wandered in her mind. At night Dr. A was with 
 
 us again, with a report rather more favorable; no instant danger at any 
 rate was apprehended. In the course of the last two years Her Majesty 
 had had many attacks similar, but more severe. 
 
 By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations (the word- 
 ing of them so as to offend no parties, and not to give umbrage to Whigs 
 or Dissenters, required very great caution), and the young Prince, who 
 had indeed shown, during a long day's labor, both alacrity at seizing the 
 information given him, and ingenuity and skill in turning the phrases 
 which were to go out signed by his name, here exhibited a good-humor 
 and thoughtfulness that ought to be set down to his credit. 
 
 "Were these papers to be mislaid," says he, "or our scheme to come 
 to mishap, my Lord Esmond's writing would bring him to a place where 
 I heartily hope never to see him; and so, by your leave, I will copy the 
 papers myself, though I am not very strong in spelling; and if they are 
 found they will implicate none but the person they most concern"; and 
 so, having carefully copied the Proclamations out, the Prince burned 
 those in Colonel Esmond's handwriting: "And now, and now, gentle- 
 men," says he, "let us go to supper, and drink a glass with the ladies. 
 My Lord Esmond, you will sup with us tonight; you have given us of 
 late too little of your company." 
 
 The Prince's meals were commonly served in the chamber which had 
 been Beatrix's bedroom, adjoining that in which he slept. And the dutiful 
 practice of his entertainers was to wait until their royal guest bade them 
 take their places at table before they sat down to partake of the meal. 
 On this night, as you may suppose, only Frank Castlewood and his mother 
 were in waiting when the supper was announced to receive the Prince ; 
 who had passed the whole of the day in his own apartment, with the 
 bishop as his Minister of State, and Colonel Esmond officiating as Secre- 
 tary of his Council. 
 
 The Prince's countenance wore an expression by no means pleasant, 
 when looking towards the little company assembled, and waiting for 
 
 393
 
 him, he did not see Beatrix's bright face there as usual to greet him. He 
 asked Lady Esmond for his fair introducer of yesterday: her ladyship 
 only cast her eyes down, and said quietly, Beatrix could not be of the 
 supper that night; nor did she show the least sign of confusion, whereas 
 Castlewood turned red, and Esmond was no less embarrassed. I think 
 women have an instinct of dissimulation ; they know by nature how to 
 disguise their emotions far better than the most consummate male cour- 
 tiers can do. Is not the better part of the life of many of them spent in 
 hiding their feelings, in cajoling their tyrants, in masking over with 
 fond smiles and artful gaiety their doubt, or their grief, or their terror? 
 
 Our guest swallowed his supper very sulkily; it was not till the second 
 bottle His Highness began to rally. When Lady Castlewood asked leave 
 to depart, he sent a message to Beatrix, hoping she would be present at 
 the next day's dinner, and applied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards, 
 for which there was subject in plenty. 
 
 The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington that the 
 Queen was somewhat better, and had been up for an hour, though she 
 was not well enough yet to receive any visitor. 
 
 At dinner a single cover was laid for his Royal Highness: and the 
 two gentlemen alone waited on him. We had had a consultation in the 
 morning with Lady Castlewood, in which it had been determined that, 
 should His Highness ask further questions about Beatrix, he should be 
 answered by the gentlemen of the house. 
 
 He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards the door 
 constantly, as if expecting someone. There came, however, nobody, ex- 
 cept honest John Lockwood, when he knocked, with a dish, which those 
 within took from him ; so the meals were always arranged, and I believe 
 the council in the kitchen were of opinion that my young lord had 
 brought over a priest, who had converted us all into Papists, and that 
 Papists were like Jews, eating together, and not choosing to take their 
 meals in the sight of Christians. 
 
 The Prince tried to cover his displeasure: he was but a clumsy dis- 
 sembler at that time, and when out of humor could with difficulty keep 
 a serene countenance ; and having made some foolish attempts at trivial 
 talk, he came to his point presently, and in as easy a manner as he could, 
 saying to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his lordship's mother 
 and sister would be of the supper that night. As the time hung heavy 
 on him, and he must not go abroad, would not Miss Beatrix hold him 
 company at a game of cards ? 
 394
 
 At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal from him. Lord 
 Castlewood informed His Royal Highness ^ that his sister Beatrix was not 
 at Kensington ; and that her family had thought it best she should quit 
 the town. 
 
 "Not at Kensington!" says he. "Is she ill? she was well yesterday; 
 wherefore should she quit the town? Is it at your orders, my lord, or 
 Colonel Esmond's, who seems the master of this house?" 
 
 "Not of this, sir," says Frank very nobly, "only of our house in the 
 country, which he hath given to us. This is my mother's house, and 
 Walcote is my father's, and the Marquis of Esmond knows he hath but 
 to give his word, and I return his to him." 
 
 "The Marquis of Esmond ! — the Marquis of Esmond," says the Prince, 
 tossing off a glass, "meddles too much with my affairs, and presumes 
 on the service he hath done me. If you want to carry your suit with 
 Beatrix, my lord, by locking her up in gaol, let me tell you that is not 
 the way to win a woman." 
 
 "I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix 
 to your Royal Highness." 
 
 "Bah, bah, Monsieur! we need not be a conjuror to see that. It makes 
 itself seen at all moments. You are jealous, my lord, and the maid of 
 honor cannot look at another face without yours beginning to scowl. That 
 which you do is unworthy. Monsieur; is inhospitable — is, is lache, yes 
 lache" (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with 
 each phrase) : "I come to your house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; 
 I repose myself on your fidelity ; I have no company but your lordship's 
 sermons or the conversations of that adorable young lady, and you take 
 her from me, and you, you rest ! Merc'i, Monsieur! I shall thank you when 
 I have the means; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little im- 
 portunate, my Lord — a little importunate. For a month past your airs 
 of protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You deign to offer me 
 the crown, and bid me take it on my knees like King John — eh ! I know 
 my history, Monsieur, and mock myself of frowning barons. I admire 
 your mistress, and you send her to a Bastille of the province; I enter 
 your house, and you mistrust me. I will leave it. Monsieur; from tonight 
 I will leave it. I have other friends whose loyalty will not be so ready to 
 question mine. If I have Garters to give away, 'tis to noblemen who are 
 
 1 In London we addressed the Prince as Royal Highness invariably; though the 
 women persisted in giving him the title of King. 
 
 395
 
 not so ready to think evil. Bring me a coach and let me quit this place, 
 or let the fair Beatrix return to it. I will not have your hospitality at the 
 expense of the freedom of that fair creature." 
 
 This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulation such as the French 
 use, and in the language of that nation ; the Prince striding up and down 
 the room; his face flushed, and his hands trembling with anger. He 
 was very thin and frail from repeated illness and a life of pleasure. Either 
 Castlewood or Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in 
 half a minute's struggle put an end to him ; and here he was insulting us 
 both, and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose honor it most 
 concerned, the passion he felt for the young lady of our family. My Lord 
 Castlewood replied to the Prince's tirade very nobly and simply. 
 
 "Sir," says he, "your Royal Highness is pleased to forget that others 
 risk their lives, and for your cause. Very few Englishmen, please God, 
 would dare to lay hands on your sacred person, though none would ever 
 think of respecting ours. Our family's lives are at your service, and 
 everything we have, except our honor." 
 
 "Honor! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honor?" says 
 the Prince, with a peevish air. 
 
 "We implore your Royal Highness never to think of hurting it," says 
 Lord Castlewood, with a low bow. The night being warm, the windows 
 were open both towards the gardens and the square. Colonel Esmond 
 heard through the closed door the voice of the watchman calling the 
 hour, in the square on the other side. He opened the door communicating 
 with the Prince's room; Martin, the servant that had rode with Beatrix 
 to Hounslow, was just going out of the chamber as Esmond entered it, 
 and when the fellow was gone, and the watchman again sang his cry of 
 "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night," Esmond spoke to the Prince 
 in a low voice, and said, "Your Royal Highness hears that man?" 
 
 "Apres, Monsieur?" says the Prince. 
 
 "I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him fifty yards, 
 and he returns with a guard of men, and I deliver up to him the body of 
 the person calling himself James the Third, for whose capture Parlia- 
 ment hath offered a reward of £500, as your Royal Highness saw on our 
 ride from Rochester. I have but to say the word, and, by the Heaven 
 that made me, I would say it if I thought the Prince, for his honor's sake, 
 would not desist from insulting ours. But the first gentleman of Eng- 
 land knows his duty too well to forget himself with the humblest, or 
 peril his crown for a deed that were shameful if it were done." 
 
 396
 
 "Has your lordship anything to say," says the Prince, turning to Frank 
 Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; "any threat or any insult, with 
 which you would like to end this agreeable night's entertainment?" 
 
 "I follow the head of our house," says Castlewood, bowing gravely. 
 "At what time shall it please the Prince that we should wait upon him 
 in the morning?" 
 
 "You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will bid him 
 bring his coach hither; and prepare an apartment for me in his own 
 house, or in a place of safety. The King will reward you handsomely, 
 never fear, for all you have done in his behalf. I wish you a good night, 
 and shall go to bed, unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call his 
 colleague, the watchman, and that I should pass the night with the 
 Kensington guard. Fare you well, be sure I will remember you. My Lord 
 Castlewood, I can go to bed tonight without need of a chamberlain." 
 And the Prince dismissed us with a grim bow, locking one door as he 
 spoke, that into the supping-room, and the other through which we 
 passed, after us. It led into the small chamber which Frank Castlewood 
 or Monsieur Baptiste occupied, and by which Martin entered when 
 Colonel Esmond but now saw him in the chamber. 
 
 At an early hour next morning the Bishop arrived, and was closeted 
 for some time with his master in his own apartment, where the Prince 
 laid open to his counsellor the wrongs which, according to his version, 
 he had received from the gentlemen of the Esmond family. The worthy 
 prelate came out from the conference with an air of great satisfaction; 
 he was a man full of resources, and of a most assured fidelity, and pos- 
 sessed of genius, and a hundred good qualities; but captious and of a 
 most jealous temper, that could not help exulting at the downfall of any 
 favorite ; and he was pleased in spite of himself to hear that the Esmond 
 ministry was at an end. 
 
 "I have soothed your guest," says he, coming out to the two gentle- 
 men and the widow, who had been made acquainted with somewhat 
 of the dispute of the night before. (By the version we gave her, the 
 Prince was only made to exhibit anger because we doubted of his inten- 
 tions in respect to Beatrix; and to leave us, because we questioned his 
 honor.) "But I think, all things considered, 'tis as well he should leave 
 this house; and then, my Lady Castlewood," says the Bishop, "my pretty 
 Beatrix may come back to it." 
 
 "She is quite as well at home at Castlewood," Esmond's mistress said, 
 "till everything is over." 
 
 397
 
 "You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you," says the good 
 bishop, assuming the airs of a prime minister. "The Prince hath expressed 
 himself most nobly in regard to the little difference of last night, and I 
 promise you he hath listened to my sermon, as well as to that of other 
 folk," says the doctor archly; "he hath every great and generous quality, 
 with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs to his family, and 
 hath been known in scores of popular sovereigns from King David 
 downwards." 
 
 "My lord, my lord!" breaks out Lady Esmond, "the levity with which 
 you speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks me, and what you call 
 weakness I call deplorable sin." 
 
 "Sin it is, my dear creature," says the bishop, with a shrug, taking 
 snuff; "but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, and in spite of 
 a thousand of wives too." 
 
 "Enough of this, my lord," says Lady Castlewood, with a fine blush, 
 and walked out of the room very stately. 
 
 The Prince entered it presently with a smile on his face, and if he felt 
 any offense against us on the previous night, at present exhibited none. 
 He offered a hand to each gentleman with great courtesy. "If all your 
 bishops preach so well as Doctor Atterbury," says he, "I don't know, 
 gentlemen, what may happen to me. I spoke very hastily, my lords, last 
 night, and ask pardon of both of you. But I must not stay any longer," 
 says he, "giving umbrage to good friends, or keeping pretty girls away 
 from their homes. My lord bishop hath found a safe place for me, hard 
 by at a curate's house, whom the bishop can trust, and whose wife is so 
 ugly as to be beyond all danger; we will decamp into those new quarters, 
 and I leave you, thanking you for a hundred kindnesses here. Where 
 is my hostess, that I may bid her farewell ? to welcome her in a house of 
 my own, soon, I trust, where my friends shall have no cause to quarrel 
 with me." 
 
 Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great grace, and 
 tears filling her eyes as the Prince graciously saluted her. She looked 
 so charming and young, that the doctor, in his bantering way, could not 
 help speaking of her beauty to the Prince; whose compliment made her 
 blush, and look more charming still. 
 
 398
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 A Great Scheme, and Who Balked It 
 
 As CHARACTERS written with a secret ink come out with the application 
 of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper white, so soon as it is 
 cool; a hundred names of men, high in repute and favoring the Prince's 
 cause, that were written in our private hsts, would have been visible 
 enough on the great roll of the conspiracy, had it ever been laid open 
 under the sun. What crowds would have pressed forward, and sub- 
 scribed their names and protested their loyalty, when the danger was 
 over ! What a number of Whigs, now high in place and creatures of the 
 all-powerful minister, scorned Mr. Walpole then ! If ever a match was 
 gained by the manliness and decision of a few at a moment of danger ; if 
 ever one was lost by the treachery and imbecility of those that had the 
 cards in their hands and might have played them, it was in that momentous 
 game which was enacted in the next three days, and of which the noblest 
 crown in the world was the stake. 
 
 From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who were interested 
 in the scheme they had in hand saw pretty well that he was not to be 
 trusted. Should the Prince prevail, it was his lordship's gracious inten- 
 tion to declare for him: should the Hanoverian party bring in their 
 sovereign, who more ready to go on his knee, and cry "God save King 
 George"? And he betrayed the one Prince and the other; but exactly 
 at the wrong time. When he should have struck for King James, he 
 faltered and coquetted with the Whigs; and having committed him- 
 self by the most monstrous professions of devotion, which the Elector 
 rightly scorned, he proved the justice of their contempt for him by flying 
 and taking renegade service with St. Germains, just when he should 
 have kept aloof: and that Court despised him, as the manly and resolute 
 men who established the Elector in England had before done. He signed 
 his own name to every accusation of insincerity his enemies made against 
 him; and the King and the Pretender alike could show proofs of St. 
 John's treachery under his own hand and seal. 
 
 Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as on those 
 of the brave and hearty Whig party, that made little concealment of theirs. 
 They would have in the Elector, and used every means in their power to 
 effect their end. My Lord Marlborough was now with them. His expul- 
 
 399
 
 sion from power by the Tories had thrown that great captain at once on 
 the Whig side. We heard he was coming from Antwerp ; and, in fact, on 
 the day of the Queen's death, he once more landed on Enghsh shore. A 
 great part of the army was always with their illustrious leader ; even the 
 Tories in it were indignant at the injustice of the persecution which the 
 Whig officers were made to undergo. The chiefs of these were in London, 
 and at the head of them one of the most intrepid men in the world, the 
 Scots Duke of Argyle, whose conduct on the second day after that to 
 which I have now brought down my history, ended, as such honesty and 
 bravery deserved to end, by establishing the present royal race on the 
 English throne. 
 
 Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion among the 
 councilors surrounding the Prince, as to the plan His Highness should 
 pursue. His female minister at Court, fancying she saw some amelioration 
 in the Queen, was for waiting a few days, or hours it might be, until 
 he could be brought to her bedside, and acknowledged as her heir. Mr. 
 Esmond was for having him march thither, escorted by a couple of troops 
 of Horse Guards, and openly presenting himself to the Council. During 
 the whole of the night of the 2 9th- 30th July, the colonel was engaged 
 with gentlemen of the military profession, whom 'tis needless here to 
 name ; suffice it to say that several of them had exceeding high rank in 
 the army, and one of them in especial was a general, who, when he heard 
 the Duke of Marlborough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch 
 over his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should march out and 
 engage him. Of the three Secretaries of State, we knew that one was 
 devoted to us. The Governor of the Tower was ours ; the two companies 
 on duty at Kensington barrack were safe ; and we had intelligence, very 
 speedy and accurate, of all that took place at the Palace within. 
 
 At noon, on the 30th of July, a message came to the Prince's friends 
 that the Committee of Council was sitting at Kensington Palace, their 
 Graces of Ormond and Shrewsbury, and Archbishop of Canterbury and 
 the three Secretaries of State, being there assembled. In an hour after- 
 wards, hurried news was brought that the two great Whig Dukes, Argyle 
 and Somerset, had broke into the Council Chamber without a summons, 
 and taken their seat at table. After holding a debate there, the whole 
 party proceeded to the chamber of the Queen, who was lying in great 
 weakness, but still sensible, and the lords recommended his Grace of 
 Shrewsbury as the fittest person to take the vacant place of Lord Treasur- 
 
 400
 
 er; Her Majesty gave him the staff, as all know. "And now," wrote my 
 messenger from Court, "now or never is the time." 
 
 Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the Whig Dukes, our 
 side had still the majority in the Council, and Esmond, to whom the 
 message had been brought (the personage at Court not being aware that 
 the Prince had quitted his lodging in Kensington Square) , and Esmond's 
 gallant young aide-de-camp, Frank Castlewood, putting on sword and 
 uniform, took a brief leave of their dear lady, who embraced and blessed 
 them both, and went to her chamber to pray for the issue of the great 
 event which was then pending. 
 
 Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the captain of the 
 Guard there; and then went to the "King's Arms" tavern at Kensington, 
 where our friends were assembled, having come by parties of twos and 
 threes, riding or in coaches, and were got together in the upper chamber, 
 fifty-three of them ; their servants, who had been instructed to bring arms 
 likewise, being below in the garden of the tavern, where they were 
 served with drink. Out of this garden is a little door that leads into 
 the road of the Palace, and through this it was arranged that masters and 
 servants were to march ; when that signal was given, and that Personage 
 appeared, for whom all were waiting. There was in our company the 
 famous officer next in command to the Captain-General of the Forces, 
 his Grace the Duke of Ormond, who was within at the Council. There 
 were with him two more lieutenant-generals, nine major-generals and 
 brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven Peers of Parliament, and twenty-one 
 members of the House of Commons. The Guard was with us within and 
 without the Palace; the Queen was with us; the Council (save the two 
 Whig Dukes, that must have succumbed) ; the day was our own, and with 
 a beating heart Esmond walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington, where 
 he had parted with the Prince on the night before. For three nights the 
 colonel had not been to bed; the last had been passed summoning the 
 Prince's friends together, of whom the great majority had no sort of 
 inkling of the transaction pending until they were told that he was actually 
 on the spot, and were summoned to strike the blow. The night before 
 and after the altercation with the Prince, my gentleman, having suspi- 
 cions of His Royal Highness, and fearing lest he should be minded to give 
 us the slip, and fly off after his fugitive beauty, had spent, if the truth 
 must be told, at the "Greyhound" tavern, over against my Lady Castle- 
 wood's house in Kensington Square, with an eye on the door, lest the 
 Prince should escape from it. The night before that he had passed in his 
 
 401
 
 boots at the "Crown" at Hounslow, where he must watch forsooth all 
 night, in order to get one moment's glimpse of Beatrix in the morning. 
 And fate had decreed that he was to have a fourth night's ride and wake- 
 fulness before his business was ended. 
 
 He ran to the curate's house in Kensington Mall, and asked for Mr. 
 Bates, the name the Prince went by. The curate's wife said Mr. Bates had 
 gone abroad very early in the morning in his boots, saying he was going 
 to the Bishop of Rochester's house at Chelsey. But the bishop had been 
 at Kensington himself two hours ago to seek for Mr. Bates, and had re- 
 turned in his coach to his own house, when he heard that the gentleman 
 was gone thither to seek him. 
 
 This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's delay might cost a 
 kingdom; Esmond had nothing for it but to hasten to the "King's Arms," 
 and tell the gentlemen there assembled that Mr. George (as we called the 
 Prince there) was not at home, but that Esmond would go fetch him ; and 
 taking a general's coach that happened to be there, Esmond drove across 
 the country to Chelsey, to the bishop's house there. 
 
 The porter said two gentlemen were with his Lordship, and Esmond 
 ran past this sentry up to the locked door of the bishop's study, at which 
 he rattled, and was admitted presently. Of the bishop's guests one was a 
 brother prelate, and the other the Abbe G . 
 
 "Where is Mr. George?" says Mr. Esmond; "now is the time." 
 
 The bishop looked scared. "I went to his lodging," he said, "and they 
 told me he was come hither. I returned as quick as coach would carry 
 me; and he hath not been here." 
 
 The colonel burst out with an oath ; that was all he could say to their rev- 
 erences: ran down the stairs again, and bidding the coachman, an old 
 friend and fellow-campaigner, drive as if he was charging the French with 
 his master at Wynendael — they were back at Kensington in half-an-hour. 
 
 Again Esmond went to the curate's house. Mr. Bates had not re- 
 turned. The colonel had to go with this blank errand to the gentlemen 
 at the "King's Arms," that were grown very impatient by this time. 
 
 Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the garden wall, 
 you can see the green before Kensington Palace, the palace gate (round 
 which the ministers' coaches were standing) , and the barrack building. 
 As we were looking out from this window in gloomy discourse, we heard 
 presently trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the window of the 
 front room, looking into the High Street of Kensington, and saw a regi- 
 ment of horse coming. 
 
 402
 
 "It's Ormond's Guards," says one. 
 
 "No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!" says my general, dapping 
 down his crutch. 
 
 It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from Westminster, 
 and that took the place of the regiment at Kensington on which we could 
 rely. 
 
 "Oh, Harry!" says one of the generals there present, "you were born 
 under an unlucky star; I begin to think that there's no Mr. George, nor 
 Mr. Dragon either. 'Tis not the peerage I care for, for our name is so 
 ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me 
 no good ; but 'tis the chance you promised me of fighting Marlborough." 
 
 As we are talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed air. 
 
 "What news, Frank?" says the colonel. "Is Mr. George coming at 
 last?" 
 
 "Damn him, look here!" says Castlewood, holding out a paper. "I 
 found it in the book — the what you call it, Eikum Basilikum, — that villain 
 Martin put it there — he said his young mistress bade him. It was directed 
 to me, but it was meant for him I know, and I broke the seal and read it." 
 
 The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away before Esmond's 
 eyes as he read the paper; all that was written on it was: "Beatrix Esmond 
 is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier 
 days." 
 
 "Can you guess where he is ?" says Castlewood. 
 
 "Yes," says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well; Frank knew full 
 well: our instinct told whither that traitor had fled. 
 
 He had courage to turn to the company and say: "Gentlemen, I fear 
 very much that Mr. George will not be here today : something hath hap- 
 pened — and — and — I very much fear some accident may befall him, 
 which must keep him out of the way. Having had your noon's draught, 
 you had best pay the reckoning and go home; there can be no game 
 where there is no one to play it." 
 
 Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others called to pay 
 their duty to Her Majesty, and ask for her health. The little army disap- 
 peared into the darkness out of which it had been called ; there had been 
 no writings, no paper to implicate any man. Some few officers and mem- 
 bers of Parliament had been invited over night to breakfast at the 
 "King's Arms" at Kensington; and they had called for their bill and 
 gone home. 
 
 403
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 August I St, lyi^ 
 
 "Does my mistress know of this?" Esmond asked of Frank, as they 
 walked along. 
 
 "My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table. She had 
 writ it ere she had left home," Frank said. "Mother met her on the 
 stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never left her 
 after that till she went away. He did not think of looking at it there, 
 nor had Martin the chance of telling him. I believe the poor devil meant 
 no harm, though I half killed him; he thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother 
 he was bringing the letter." 
 
 Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought the 
 villain among us. As we knocked at the door I said, "When will the 
 horses be ready?" Frank pointed with his cane, they were turning 
 the street that moment. 
 
 We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was in a dreadful 
 state of agitation by this time, and that Bishop was with her whose com- 
 pany she was so fond of. 
 
 "Did you tell him, my lord," says Esmond, "that Beatrix was at Castle- 
 wood?" The bishop blushed and stammered: "Well," says he, "I " 
 
 "You served the villain right," broke out Mr. Esmond, "and he has 
 lost a crown by what you told him." 
 
 My mistress turned quite white. "Henry, Henry," says she, "do not 
 kill him!" 
 
 "It may not be too late," says Esmond; "he may not have gone to 
 Castlewood; pray God it is not too late." The bishop was brealong out 
 with some banales phrases about loyalty, and the sacredness of the 
 sovereign's person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his tongue, burn 
 all papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood ; and in five minutes he and 
 Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards 
 Castlewood at a rapid pace. 
 
 We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old Lock- 
 wood, the porter from Castlewood, John's father, walking by the side 
 of the Hexton flying-coach, who slept the night at Olton. Lockwood said 
 his young mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday night, and this 
 
 404
 
 morning, Friday, had despatched him with a packet for my Lady at 
 Kensington, saying the letter was of great importance. 
 
 We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared with wonder, 
 and cried out his "Lord bless me's," and "Who'd a thought it's" at the 
 sight of his young lord, whom he had not seen these seven years. 
 
 The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance at all. It 
 was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make light of her captivity. 
 She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk 
 beyond the court and the garden wall. She gave news of the peacocks, 
 and a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns 
 and smocks by old Lockwood ; she sent her duty to a certain Person, if 
 certain other persons permitted her to take such a freedom ; how that, as 
 she was not able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read good 
 books, such as Doctor Atterbury's sermons and Eikon Basilike: she was 
 going to read good books ; she thought her pretty mamma would like to 
 know she was not crying her eyes out. 
 
 "Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?" says the colonel. 
 
 "There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid. Madam Beatrix's 
 maid, the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge 
 away from the maids," says old Lockwood. 
 
 Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the old 
 man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew why Beatrix had been 
 so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of Eikon Basilike. She wrote 
 this letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way. 
 
 "We have a fine moonlight night for riding on," says Esmond: "Frank, 
 we may reach Castlewood in time yet." All the way along they made 
 inquiries at the posthouses, when a tall young gentleman in a gray suit, 
 with a light-brown periwig, just the color of my Lord's, had been seen 
 to pass. He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the after- 
 noon. He rode almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours 
 ahead of us still when we reached the last stage. 
 
 We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn. We 
 passed the very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since, and 
 Mohun lay. The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we 
 rode through it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting, 
 and by the church, and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the 
 bridge and walked up to the gate. 
 
 "If she is safe," says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes filling with 
 tears, "a silver statue to Our Lady!" He was going to rattle at the great 
 
 405
 
 iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond stopped his kinsman's hand. 
 He had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs, too; 
 but he spoke not a word of these to his companion, or showed any signs 
 of emotion. 
 
 He went and tapped at the httle window at the porter's lodge, gently, 
 until the man came to the bars. 
 
 "Who's there.''" says he, looking out. It was the servant from Ken- 
 sington. 
 
 "My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond," we said, from below, 
 "Open the gate and let us in without any noise." 
 
 "My Lord Castlewood?" says the other; "my lord's here, and in bed." 
 
 "Open, d you," says Castlewood, with a curse. 
 
 "I shall open to no one," says the man, shutting the glass window as 
 Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired at the porter, but Esmond again 
 held his hand. 
 
 "There are more ways than one," says he, "of entering such a great 
 house as this." Frank grumbled that the west gate was half a mile round. 
 "But I know of a way that's not a hundred yards off," says Mr. Esmond; 
 and leading his kinsman close along the wall, and by the shrubs which 
 had now grown thick on what had been an old moat about the house, 
 they came to the buttress, at the side of which the little window was, 
 which was Father Holt's private door. Esmond climbed up to this easily, 
 broke a pane that had been mended, and touched the spring inside, and 
 the two gentlemen passed in that way, treading as lightly as they could ; 
 and so going through the passage into the court, over which the dawn 
 was now reddening, and where the fountain plashed in the silence. 
 
 They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the fellow had not 
 fastened his door that led into the court; and pistol in hand came upon 
 the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent. Then they asked him 
 (Esmond's head reeled, and he almost fell as he spoke) when Lord 
 Castlewood had arrived? He said on the previous evening, about eight 
 of the clock. — "And what then?" — His lordship supped with his sister. 
 — "Did the man wait?" — Yes, he and my lady's maid both waited: the 
 other servants made the supper; and there was no wine, and they could 
 give his lordship but milk, at which he grumbled; and — and Madam 
 Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the room with her. And there being 
 a bed across the court in the chaplain's room, she had arranged my lord 
 was to sleep there. Madam Beatrix had come downstairs laughing with 
 the maids, and had locked herself in, and my lord had stood for a while 
 
 406
 
 talking to her through the door, and she laughing at him. And then he 
 paced the court a while, and she came again to the upper window; and 
 my lord implored her to come down and walk in the room; but she 
 would not, and laughed at him again, and shut the window; and so my 
 lord, uttering what seemed curses, but in a foreign language, went to the 
 chaplain's room to bed. 
 
 "Was this all?" — "All," the man swore upon his honor; all, as he 
 hoped to be saved. — "Stop, there was one thing more. My lord, on arriv- 
 ing, and once or twice during supper, did kiss his sister, as was natural, 
 and she kissed him." At this Esmond ground his teeth with rage, and 
 well nigh throttled the amazed miscreant who was speaking, whereas 
 Castlewood, seizing hold of his cousin's hand, burst into a great fit of 
 laughter. 
 
 "If it amuses thee," says Esmond in French, "that your sister should 
 be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear poor Beatrix will give 
 thee plenty of sport." — Esmond darkly thought, how Hamilton, Ashburn- 
 ham, had before been masters of those roses that the young Prince's lips 
 were now feeding on. He sickened at that notion. Her cheek was dese- 
 crated, her beauty tarnished ; shame and honor stood between it and him. 
 The love was dead within him ; had she a crown to bring him with her 
 love, he felt that both would degrade him. 
 
 But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feelings of the 
 Colonel against the man who had been the occasion if not the cause of 
 the evil. Frank sat down on a stone bench in the courtyard, and fairly 
 fell asleep, while Esmond paced up and down the court, debating what 
 should ensue. What mattered how much or how little had passed between 
 the Prince and the poor faithless girl? They were arrived in time per- 
 haps to rescue her person, but not her mind : had she not instigated the 
 young Prince to come to her; suborned servants, dismissed others, so 
 that she might communicate with him? The treacherous heart within her 
 had surrendered, though the place was safe; and it was to win this that 
 he had given a life's struggle and devotion: this, that she was ready to 
 give away for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the Prince's eye. 
 
 When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor Frank from 
 his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been dreaming of Clotilda. 
 "You must back me," says Esmond, "in what I am going to do. I have 
 been thinking that yonder scoundrel may have been instructed to tell that 
 story, and that the whole of it may be a lie; if it be, we shall find it out 
 from the gentleman who is asleep yonder. See if the door leading to ray 
 
 407
 
 lady's rooms" (so we called the rooms at the north-west angle of the 
 house) , "see if the door is barred as he saith," We tried it; it was indeed 
 as the lackey had said, closed within. 
 
 "It may have been opened and shut afterwards," says poor Esmond; 
 "the foundress of our family let our ancestors in in that way." 
 
 "What will you do, Harry, if — if what that fellow saith should turn 
 out untrue?" The young man looked scared and frightened into his 
 kinsman's face; I dare say it wore no very pleasant expression. 
 
 "Let us first go see whether the two stories agree," says Esmond; and 
 went in at the passage and opened the door into what had been his own 
 chamber now for well nigh five-and-twenty years. A candle was still burn- 
 ing, and the Prince asleep dressed on the bed — Esmond did not care for 
 making a noise. The Prince started up in his bed, seeing two men in his 
 chamber: "Qui est la?" says he, and took a pistol from under his pillow. 
 
 "It is the Marquis of Esmond," says the colonel, "come to welcome His 
 Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and to report of what hath hap- 
 pened in London. Pursuant to the King's orders, I passed the night before 
 last, after leaving His Majesty, in waiting upon the friends of the King. 
 It is a pity that His Majesty's desire to see the country and to visit our 
 poor house should have caused the King to quit London without notice 
 yesterday, when the opportunity happened which in all human proba- 
 bility may not occur again ; and had the King not chosen to ride to Castle- 
 wood, the Prince of Wales might have slept at St. James's." 
 
 " 'Sdeath! gentlemen," says the Prince, starting off his bed, whereon 
 he was lying in his clothes, "the doctor was with me yesterday morning, 
 and after watching by my sister all night, told me I might not hope to 
 see the Queen." 
 
 "It would have been otherwise," says Esmond with another bow; "as, 
 by this time, the Queen may be dead in spite of the doctor. The Council 
 was met, a new Treasurer was appointed, the troops were devoted to the 
 King's cause; and fifty loyal gentlemen of the greatest names of this 
 kingdom were assembled to accompany the Prince of Wales, who might 
 have been the acknowledged heir of the throne, or the possessor of it by 
 this time, had your Majesty not chosen to take the air. We were ready: 
 there was only one person that failed us, your Majesty's gracious " 
 
 "Aiorbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty," said the Prince, 
 who had now risen up and seemed to be looking to one of us to help him 
 to his coat. But neither stirred. 
 
 408
 
 "We shall take care," says Esmond, "not much oftener to offend in 
 that particular." 
 
 "What mean you, my lord?" says the Prince, and muttered something 
 about a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up. 
 
 "The snare, sir," said he, "was not of our laying; it is not we that 
 invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, the dishonor of 
 our family." 
 
 "Dishonor! Aiorhleu, there has been no dishonor," says the Prince, 
 turning scarlet, "only a little harmless playing." 
 
 "That was meant to end seriously." 
 
 "I swear," the Prince broke out impetuously, "upon the honor of a 
 gentleman, my lords " 
 
 "That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, Frank," says 
 Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at 
 the door as the talk was going on. "See! here is a paper whereon His 
 Majesty hath deigned to commence some verses in honor, or dishonor, 
 of Beatrix. Here is 'Madame' and 'Flamme,' 'Cruclle' and 'Rebelle,' and 
 'Amour' and 'four/ in the royal writing and spelling. Had the gracious 
 lover been happy, he had not passed his time in sighing." In fact, and 
 actually as he was speaking, Esmond cast his eyes down towards the 
 table, and saw a paper on which my young Prince had been scrawling a 
 madrigal, that was to finish his charmer on the morrow. 
 
 "Sir," says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his royal 
 coat unassisted by this time), "did I come here to receive insults?" 
 
 "To confer them, may it please your Majesty," says the Colonel, with 
 a very low bow, "and the gentlemen of our family are come to thank 
 you." 
 
 "Maled/ct/on!" says the young man, tears starting into his eyes with 
 helpless rage and mortification. "What will you with me, gentlemen?" 
 
 "If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment," says Es- 
 mond, preserving his grave tone, "I have some papers there which I would 
 gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead the way"; and, 
 taking the taper up, and backing before the Prince with very great cere- 
 mony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little chaplain's room, through which 
 we had just entered into the house. "Please to set a chair for His 
 Majesty, Frank," says the colonel to his companion, who wondered al- 
 most as much at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as the other 
 actor in it. Then going to the crypt over the mantelpiece, the colonel 
 opened it, and drew out the papers which so long had lain there. 
 
 409
 
 "Here, may it please your Majesty," says he, "is the Patent of Marquis 
 sent over by your Royal Father at St. Germains to Viscount Castiewood, 
 my father: here is the witnessed certificate of my father's marriage to my 
 mother, and of my birth and christening; I was christened of that reHgion 
 of which your sainted sire gave all through life so shining an example. 
 These are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with them: here go 
 Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate and the August Sign- 
 Manual, with which your predecessor was pleased to honor our race." 
 And as Esmond spoke he set the papers burning in the brazier. "You 
 will please, sir, to remember," he continued, "that our family has ruined 
 itself by fidelity to yours: that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave 
 his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord's grand- 
 father (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too) died for the 
 same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father's second wife, after 
 giving away her honor to your wicked perjured race, sent all her wealth 
 to the King; and got in return that precious title that lies in ashes, and 
 this inestimable yard of blue riband. I lay this at your feet and stamp 
 upon it: I draw this sword, and break it and deny you ; and, had you com- 
 pleted the wrong you designed us, by Heaven I would have driven it 
 through your heart, and no more pardoned you than your father par- 
 doned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won't you, cousin?" 
 
 Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers as they 
 flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword and broke it, holding his 
 head down: — "I go with my cousin," says he, giving Esmond a grasp 
 
 of the hand. "Marquis or not, by , I stand by him any day. I beg 
 
 your Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is — that is — Em for the Elector 
 of Hanover. It's all your Majesty's own fault. The Queen's dead most 
 likely by this time. And you might have been King if you hadn't come 
 dangling after Trix." 
 
 "Thus to lose a crown," says the young Prince, starting up, and speak- 
 ing French in his eager way; "to lose the loveliest woman in the world; 
 to lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough of 
 humiliation? — Marquis, if I go on my knees, will you pardon me? — No, 
 I can't do that, but I can offer you reparation, that of honor, that of 
 gentlemen. Favor me by crossing the sword with mine: yours is broke — 
 see, yonder in the armoire are two"; and the Prince took them out as 
 eager as a boy, and held them towards Esmond: — "Ah ! you will? Merci! 
 \Monsieur, merci!" 
 
 Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and re- 
 
 410
 
 pentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as almost 
 to kiss the gracious young hand that conferred on him such an honor, 
 and took his guard in silence. The swords were no sooner met, than 
 Castlewood knocked up Esmond's with the blade of his own, which he 
 had broke off short at the shell; and the colonel falling back a step 
 dropped his point with another very low bow, and declared himself 
 perfectly satisfied. 
 
 "Eh hien, Vicomte!" says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a 
 French boy, "d ne nous reste qu'iine chose a jaire": he placed his sword 
 upon the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his breast: — "We 
 have one more thing to do," says he; "you do not divine it.''" He 
 stretched out his arms: "Embrassons nous!" 
 
 The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room. What came 
 she to seek there ? She started and turned pale at the sight of her brother 
 and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet 
 smoldering in the brazier, 
 
 "Charming Beatrix," says the Prince, with a blush which became him 
 very well, "these lords have come a-horseback from London, where my 
 sister lies in a despaired state, and where her successor makes himself 
 desired. Pardon me for my escapade of last evening. I had been so long 
 a prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade on horseback, and 
 my horse naturally bore me towards you. I found you a queen in your 
 little court, where you deigned to entertain me. Present my homages to 
 your maids of honor. I sighed as you slept, under the window of your 
 chamber, and then retired to seek rest in my own. It was there that these 
 gentlemen agreeably roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a happy day 
 that makes a Prince acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with such 
 a noble heart as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle, may we 
 take your coach to town ? I saw it in the hangar, and this poor Marquis 
 must be dropping with sleep." 
 
 "Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?" was all Beatrix 
 could say. The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; her eyes were 
 glaring; she looked quite old. She came up to Esmond and hissed out a 
 word or two: — "If I did rtot love you before, cousin," says she, "think 
 how I love you now." If words could stab, no doubt she would have 
 killed Esmond ; she looked at him as if she could. 
 
 But keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond ; his heart was too hard. 
 As he looked at her he wondered that he could ever have loved her. His 
 love of ten years was over; it fell down dead on the spot, at the Kensing- 
 
 411
 
 ton tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of Eikon Basil/ke. The 
 Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and quitted the 
 chamber. I have never seen her from that day. 
 
 Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My lord rode 
 outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he was no sooner in the 
 carriage than he fell asleep, and never woke till night, as the coach came 
 into Alton. 
 
 As we drove to the "Bell Inn" comes a mitred coach with our old friend 
 Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady Castlewood and the bishop were 
 inside ; she gave a little scream when she saw us. The two coaches entered 
 the inn almost together ; the landlord and people coming out with lights 
 to welcome the visitors. 
 
 We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw the dear 
 lady, and above all the doctor in his cassock. What was the news .'* Was 
 there yet time ? Was the Queen alive ? These questions were put hurriedly, 
 as Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests to bow them up the 
 stair. 
 
 "Is she safe!" was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to 
 Esmond. 
 
 "All's well, thank God," says he, as the fond lady took his hand and 
 kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. She wasn't thinking 
 of queens and crowns. 
 
 The bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was not lost; the Queen 
 yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, six hours since. ("It 
 was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming," the doctor said.) Argyle 
 had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more; 
 the Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them (I am not sure but the bishop 
 swore as he spoke) , and so too were our people. And all might be saved, 
 if only the Prince could be at London in time. We called for horses, 
 instantly to return to London. We never went up poor crestfallen Boni- 
 face's stairs, but into our coaches again. The Prince and his Prime 
 Minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a 
 companion. 
 
 Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the Prince's 
 friends and warn them of his coming. We traveled through the night — 
 Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the events of the last twenty-four 
 hours; of Castlewood's ride and his; of the Prince's generous behavior 
 and their reconciliation. The night seemed short enough; and the starlit 
 hours passed away serenely in that fond company. 
 
 412
 
 So we came along the road; the bishop's coach heading ours; and, 
 with some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about 
 four o'clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an hour 
 after, it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's house, 
 and so down the street of Kensington. 
 
 Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street, and many people 
 moving to and fro. Round the gate leading to the Palace, where the guard 
 is, there was especially a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us stopped, 
 and the bishop's man got down to know what the concourse meant. 
 
 There presently came from out of the gate — Horse Guards with their 
 trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards. The trumpets blew, 
 and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed George, by the 
 Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of 
 the Faith. And the people shouted, God save the King! 
 
 Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of 
 one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many 
 disguises. It was no other than poor Mr. Holt's, who had slipped over 
 to England to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now beheld 
 its enemies victorious, amidst the acclamations of the English people. 
 The poor fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his 
 neighbors in the crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for 
 a Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to cheer. 
 Sure he was the most unlucky of men, he never played a game but he 
 lost it ; or engaged in a conspiracy but 'twas certain to end in defeat. I 
 saw him in Flanders after this, whence he went to Rome to the head- 
 quarters of his Order; and actually reappeared among us in America, 
 very old, and busy, and hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume 
 the hatchet and moccasins there ; and, attired in a blanket and war paint, 
 skulk about a missionary among the Indians. He lies buried in our 
 neighboring province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a 
 mound of earth above him; under which that unquiet spirit is forever 
 at peace. 
 
 With the sound of King George's trumpets all the vain hopes of the 
 weak and foolish young Pretender were blown away; and with that 
 music, too, I may say, the drama of my own life was ended. That happi- 
 ness, which has subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in words; 
 'tis of its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, though the 
 heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and the One Ear 
 
 413
 
 alone — to one fond being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife ever 
 man was blessed with. As I think of the immense happiness which was 
 in store for me, and of the depth and intensity of that love which, for so 
 many years, has blessed me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude 
 for such a boon — nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart 
 capable of feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the gift 
 which God had bestowed upon me. Sure, love vincit omnia; is immeasur- 
 ably above all ambition, more precious than wealth, more noble than 
 name. He knows not life who knows not that : he has not felt the highest 
 faculty of the soul who has not enjoyed it. In the name of my wife I 
 write the completion of hope, and the summit of happiness. To have 
 such a love is the one blessing, in comparison of which all earthly joy 
 is of no value; and to think of her, is to praise God. 
 
 It was at Bruxelles, where we retreated after the failure of our plot — 
 our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way — that the great joy 
 of my life was bestowed upon me, and that my dear mistress became my 
 wife. We had been so accustomed to an extreme intimacy and confi- 
 dence, and had lived so long and tenderly together, that we might have 
 gone on to the end without thinking of a closer tie; but circumstances 
 brought about that event which so prodigiously multiplied my happiness 
 and hers (for which I humbly thank Heaven), although a calamity be- 
 fell us, which, I blush to think, had occurred more than once in our 
 house. I know not what infatuation of ambition urged the beautiful and 
 wayward woman, whose name has occupied so many of these pages, and 
 who was served by me with ten years of such constant fidelity and passion ; 
 but ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her, she persisted 
 in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us, and escaped to 
 France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was her son's house a home 
 for my dear mistress ; my poor Frank was weak, as perhaps all our race 
 had been, and led by women. Those around him were imperious, and in 
 a terror of his mother's influence over him, lest he should recant, and 
 deny the creed which he had adopted by their persuasion. The difference 
 of their religion separated the son and the mother: my dearest mistress 
 felt that she was severed from her children and alone in the world — 
 alone but for one constant servant on whose fidelity, praised be Heaven, 
 she could count. 'Twas after a scene of ignoble quarrel on the part of 
 Frank's wife and mother (for the poor lad had been made to marry the 
 whole of that German family with whom he had connected himself), 
 that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then besought her to con- 
 
 414
 
 fide herself to the care and devotion of one who, by God's help, would 
 never forsake her. And then the tender matron, as beautiful in her autumn, 
 and as pure as virgins in their spring, with blushes of love and "eyes 
 of meek surrender," yielded to my respectful importunity, and consented 
 to share my home. Let the last words I write thank her, and bless her 
 who has blessed it. 
 
 By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, and every 
 obstacle against our return to England, was removed ; and my son Frank's 
 gallantry in Scotland made his peace with the King's Government. But 
 we two cared no longer to live in England; and Frank formally and 
 joyfully yielded over to us the possession of that estate which we now 
 occupy, far away from Europe and its troubles, on the beautiful banks 
 of the Potomac, where we have built a new Castlewood, and think with 
 grateful hearts of our old home. In our Transatlantic country we have a 
 season, the calmest and most delightful of the year, which we call the 
 Indian summer: I often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy 
 and serene weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine. 
 Heaven has blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for her 
 resemblance to the other. Our diamonds are turned into ploughs and axes 
 for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and merriest, I think, 
 in all this country; and the only jewel by which my wife sets any store, 
 and from which she has never parted, is that gold button she took from 
 my arm on the day when she visited me in prison, and which she wore 
 ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in the world. 
 
 415
 
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