Soo ot Rs Harper & Broruers will sena either of the above volumes by mail, postage pre- paid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price.CONTENTS. THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. BOOK. I. THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY Gusnaas CAMBRIDGE. Chap. Page I. An Account OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD ELA ET, ; . ‘ ‘ : : : ‘ ‘ 11 II. Retates How FRANCIS , Fourta VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLEWOOD . ‘: 7 ‘ . ; : 14 Ill. WuirHer IN THE TIME OF : THOMAS, Tuirp Viscount, I HAD PRECEDED HIM AS PAGE TO ISABELLA . : cs ea IV. I AM PLACED UNDER A PopisH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT RELIGION. — VISCOUNTESS CASTLEWOOD . 20 V. My SuperRiors ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORA- TION OF Kina JAMES IL j P 29 VI. Tue Issue oF THE PLOTS. —Tue Deati oF " THomas, Turrp Viscount OF CASTLEWOOD; AND THE ImpRIs- ONMENT OF HIS VISCOUNTESS . 36 VII. I am LEFT AT CASTLEWOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND Most Kinp PROTECTORS THERE ‘ : ; ‘ « 5S VIII. Arter Goop ForTUNE COMES EVIL. : : : 50 IX. I wave THE SMALL-Pox, AND PREPARE TO LEAVE CASTLE- woop ; : . ; : ‘ ; : : “ 55 X. I Go Tro CAMBRIDGE, AND DO BUT LITTLE GOOD THERE 67 XI. I come Home For A HOoLipay TO oo AND FIND A SKELETON IN THE HOUSE . : ey XII. My Lorp MoOHUN COMES AMONG US FOR NO Goon. : 79 XIII. My Lorp LEAVES US AND HIS EVIL BEHIND HIM ; ea 85 XIV. WE RIDE AFTER HIM TO LONDON ; ‘ ‘ ; ; 93 BOOK II. CONTAINS MR. ESMOND’S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS APPER- TAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY. I. I am IN PRISON, AND VISITED, BUT NOT CONSOLED THERE 102 Il. I come To THE Enp oF MY CAPTIVITY, BUT NOT OF MY TROUBLE : ; ; . 108 Ill. I TAKE THE QUEEN’S Par IN Quin’s 3 REGIMENT - « BeTv VI. aL. NLT, EX. A, ML: XAT. ALY. KY. " CONTENTS. RECAPITULATIONS : ; ; ; . I Go oN THE V1IGo-BAy EXPepitI0n, TASTE SALT WATER, AND SMELL PoWDER : : ; ; ; , ; THE 29TH DECEMBER . ; ; ; ‘ : 2 J AM MADE WELCOME AT WALcoTE : ; ; : : FamiLty Talk : : : ; : ‘ : : I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN oF 1704 . ‘ ‘ ‘ AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A Ww OMAN . ‘ Tue FAMOUS Mr. JOSEPH ADDISON : : : 2 I Get A COMPANY IN THE CAMPAIGN OF 1706 ; ; I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN FLANDERS, AND FIND mY Moruer’s GRAVE AND MY OWN CRADLE THERE . THE CAMPAIGN OF 1707, 1708 . : : es WEBB WINS THE BATTLE OF Ww YNENDAEL . ‘ BOD K LiL. CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND’S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND. I. HT, ii, Ty. N VI. VAT, VIII. IX. Le x. RET. aI. Il. LU. IV VI. I coME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES AND BRUISES. j J co Homz, AND HARP ON THE OLD STRING : : : A PAPER OUT OF THE SPECTATOR . . ‘ : ‘ BEATRIX’S NEW SUITOR ; ; : ; : : ; MoHUN APPEARS FOR THE LAstT TIME IN THIS HISTORY Poor BEATRIX : ‘ ; : : ‘ : . : I visit CASTLEWOOD ONCE MORE : ‘ I TRAVEL TO FRANCE, AND BRING HoME a PortTRAIT | OF RIGA : ‘ ‘ ‘ : ‘ ‘ j : THe ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT COMES TO ENGLAND WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTINGUISHED GUEST AT KEN- SINGTON . ‘ ; ‘ ‘ ; ; : : Our GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH A GREAT SCHEME, AND WHO BALKED IT. : ‘ ‘ AvuGuST 18T, 1714 ‘ : : ‘ : . ; LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Tue BAcHELOR oF BEAK STREET : : ‘ ‘ In wuicn Miss Prior IS KEPT AT THE Door ‘ : In wuicu I pray THE Spy . . ‘ : ‘ ‘ ‘ A Brack SHEEP. ‘ : Z ; ‘ : ‘ ; In wuicu I am Srune sy A SERPENT. ‘ ; ‘ ; Crecitia’s SUCCESSOR . ‘ . ‘ ; ‘ ; - 194 202 211 222 229 237 241 291 304 316 328 343 354LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. HENRY E HARRY ESMOND FINDS FRIENDS ; PARTING . ; : : ‘ THE DUEL IN LEICESTER FIELD ? BEATRIX . : : : “ THE CHEVALIER DE ST. GEORGE ; RECONCILIATION : : : ; MonsIEuUR BAPTISTE . ; ; : THE LAST OF BEATRIX . . ; LOVEL THE I AM REFERRED TO CECILIA ‘ ‘ Bressy’s SPECTACLES : ; “WHERE THE SUGAR GOES” . ° BEssy’Ss REFLECTIONS . ; ° BEDFORD TO THE RESCUE . ° . LOVEL’s MOTHERS . . ° - SMOND. . . ° 2 € e e o e ° e e e . . ° 8 ~ > e e . * e e . * ° > ° © o ° e oO o e e ¢ a ’ ° o ® e Frontispiece. . Page 66 . » 20HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, Esa. @ COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAZEST ET QUEEN ANNE. WRITTEN BY OIMSELE. EDITED BY. W..M. THACKERAY. Servetur ad imum Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet.TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON. My pEeEAR Lorp, — The writer of a book which copies the manners and language of Queen Anne’s time must not omit the Dedication to the Patron; and I ask leave to inscribe this volume to your Lordship, for the sake of the great kindness and friendship which 1 owe to you and yours, My volume will reach you when the Author is on his voyage to a country where your name is as well known as here. Wherever J am, I shall grate- fully regard you; and shall not be the less welcomed in America because Tam / Your obliged friend and servant, W. M. THACKERAY. Lonpon, October 18, 1852.PREFACE. 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, lies in Westmoreland County, between the rivers Potomac and Rappahannock, 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, writ- ten by himself, is contained in the accompanying volume, came to Virginia in the year 1718, built his house of Castlewood, and here permanently set- tled. 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 cave the best example, the best advice, the most bounteous hospitality to his friends ; the tenderest care to his dependants ; 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 sons’ 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 the grief which that ca- lamity caused me, mainly to my dearest father’s tenderness, and then to the blessing vouchsafed 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 Re- public’s, I am sure that they love me and one another, and him above all, father and theirs, the dearest friend of their childhood, the ee ventle- € my o - n who bred them from their infancy in the practice and know dee of Wa Truth, and Love and Honor. Mv children will never forget the appearance and figure 01 their revered erandfather ; 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 ; 1.6 PREFACE. was so good and so respected. My father was of a dase oa a very great forehead and dark hazel eyes, overhung y ey ebrows — L : e- mained black long after his hair was white. His nose was aquiline, his smile extraordinary sweet. How well I remember it, and how little any de- scription I can write can recall his image ! He was of ees - 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 erace and majesty of de- portment, 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 pro- ficient 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 Hen- ry, and he was not the equal of my poor George, who had taken the King’s side in our lamentable but glorious war of independence. 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 freshness 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 recoy- ered her terror and anxiety of those days, which ended so fatally for me, then a bride scarce six months married, 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 de- light and consolation to remain with him as his comforter and companion ; 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 centred 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 his daughter; and in her last and most sacred moments, this dear and tender parent owned to me her repent- ance 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 beau- tiful 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 inexpressibly thankful, I think I can say that I fulfilled those dying commands, and that until his last hour my dearest father never had to com- plain 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 understand and pardon what, I own, used to anger me in my mother’s lifetime, her jealousy respecting her husband’s love. ’T was 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, ’t was extraordinary with how much awe his people regarded him; and the servants on our plan- tation, both those assigned from England and the purchased negroes, obeyed him with an eagerness such as the most severe taskmasters round about usPREFACE. 7 could never get from their px op le. He was never familiar, thoueh 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. eee “rer thoupi of takine a liberty with him (except once a tipsy gentle- man oo York, and I am bound to own that my papa never forgave him) ; he set » huml ble st people at once on their ease with him, and 1] 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 Sunda ay suit, and laid by when the company went ae it was always the same; as he was always dressed the same, whether for a dinner by ourselves or for a great entertain- ment. They say he liked to be the first in his company; but what company was there in which he would not be first? When ] went to Europe for my education, and we passed a winter at London with my hi aulf- 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 J 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. [ 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. Ihave no pride (as I showed by complying with my mother’s re- quest, and marrying a gentleman who was but the younger son of a Suffolk Baronet), yet L 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 } vurope, and was then too young to understand), how this person, having eft her family and fled to Paris, out See of the Pretender betrayed his secrets to my Lord Stair, King ee eld 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 ne orge the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a aan oad a a Bishop. F aid win aes os lady, who chose to remain at her palace all the time we were in London; but after visiting her, poor mamma said she had lost all her good looks, and warned me not by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. She grew exceedingly stout; and I remember my brother’s wife, Lady Cas- tlewood, 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 yvoune creature, could not understand what was the subject CO set too much store 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 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 future ys | l uit ) lewood and joined the Pretender at Paris, pur- | 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 arter, Castlewood was so enraged : ae him that he asked leave to serve as a vol- unteer, and join the Duke of Argyle’s army in Seotland, which the Pre- tender never had the courage to face; and thenceforth my ian was quitea 8 PREFACE. reconciled to the present reigning fami promotion. Mrs. Tusher was by tl relations could be, and usec brought back my Lord to the ly, from whom he hath even received lis time as angry against the Pretender as any of her 1 to boast, as I have heard, that she not only 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 3ishop 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. 3ut 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.HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. BeOEe f. THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. HE 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. the Tragic Muse required these ap- purtenances, and that she was not to move except to a measure and ¢a- dence. 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 Cho- rus standing by in a set attitude, and rhythmically and decorously bewailing the fates of those great crowned per- The Muse of History hath en- cumbered herself with ceremony as well as her Sister of the Theatre. 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 obse- quiously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of court ceremonies, and had nothing to do with the regis- tering of the attairs of the common people. Ihave seen in his very old age and decrepitude the old French King Louis the Fourteenth, the type and model of kinghood, — who never moved but to measure, who lived and died according to the laws of his Court- marshal, persisting inenacting 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 SOnS. "T was thought the dignity of 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? JI wonder shall History ever pull off her periwig and cease to be court-ridden? Shall we see some- thing of France and England besides Versailles and Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place tear- ing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driving her one- horse chaise,—a hot, red-faced wo- man, 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-hand basin. Why shall History go on kneeling to the end of time? I am for haying her rise up off her knees, and take a natural posture: not to be forever per- forming cringes and congees like a court-chamberlain, and shuffling back- wards out of doors in the presence of the sovereign. In a word, I would have History familiar rather than he- roic: and think that Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Fielding will give our chil- dren a much better idea of the man- ners of the present age in England, than the Court Gazette and the news: papers which we get thence10 There was a German officer of Webb’s, with whom we used to joke, and of whom a story (whereof I my- self was the author) was got to be be- lieved in the army, that he was eldest son of the hereditary Grand Bootjack of che 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 Ire came of quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served (and who as regards mere lin- eage are no better than a dozen Eng- lish and Scottish houses I could name), was prouder of his post about the Court than of his ancestral honors, THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. that of a great king in exile? Who is more worthy of respect than a brave man in misfortune? Mr. Ad- dison has painted such a figure in his noble piece of Cato. But suppose fugitive Cato fuddling himself at a tavern with a wench on each knee, a dozen faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord calling out for his bill; and the dignity of mis- fortune is straightway lost. The His- | torical Muse turns away shamefaced and valued his dignity (as Lord 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. 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 He | his brother Thomas capitulated (af- | terward making terms with the Com- monwealth, for which the elder broth- | er never forgave him), and where his ‘second. brother Edward, who had em- braced the ecclesiastical profession, was slain on Castlewood Tower, being engaged there both as preacher and artilleryman. | hairs. This resolute old loy- | alist, who was with the King whilst | ° . - | 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 fa- tal field Eustace Esmond was killed, and Castlewood fled from it once more into exile, and henceforward, 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 kine. | 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 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 hath always seemed to me blasphemy to claim Olympus for such a wine-drabbled divinity as that. About the King’s follower, the Viscount Castlewood, — orphan of his son, ruined by his fidelity, bear- ing many wounds and marks of bravery, old and in exile, —his kins- men 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 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 without 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 suc- cess 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 won- der, nor applaud too loudly. Is it the Lord Mayor going in state to mince-pies and the Mansion House 2 as What spectacle is more august than ‘Is it poor Jack of Newgate’s proces-THE HISTORY OF sion, with the sheriff and javelin-men, | conducting 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 Jack after very well, and sentence 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 de- servedly 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. | ject he ap CHAPTER: I. AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF | ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD HALL. Wuen Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, and | presently 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 Vis- countess 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 por- traits of the family used to hang, fine piece among others of Sir An- tonio 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 Diana’s court. huntress of | | black coat. that | | dazzling HENRY ESMOND 11 The new and fair lady of Castle- wood found the sad, lonely, little occupant 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 person must be, the lad stood up and bowed before her, pert orming a shy obeisance to the mistress of f his house. She stretched out her hand, —in- deed 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 kins- man,” she said; ‘and what is your name, kinsman 2 ” “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 certeé, and appeared the most charming ob- had ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of the sun; her complexion was of a bloom; her lps smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kind- ness which made Harry Esmond’s heart to beat with surprise. “His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my Lady,” says Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued more than he hated), and the old gentlewoman looked significantly to- wards 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 dur- ing 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 his12 Her heart melted, I suppose (in- deed she hath since owned as much), at the notion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal, great or small; for, when she re- turned, she had sent away the house- keeper 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, = 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 bloom- ing 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 gentleman 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 Vis- count who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, having once _ before seen him in the late lord’s life- time. “So this is the little priest!” says my Lord, looking down at the lad ; “Welcome, kinsman.” s Hei is Saying his prayers to mam- ma,” says the little girl, who came up to her papa’s knees ; and my Lord burst out into another ‘ereat laugh at this, and kinsman Henry looked - very silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in reply, but ’t was months afterwards when he thought of this THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. adventure: as it was, he had never a word in answer. “Le pauvre enfant, il n’a que nous,” says the lady, looking to her lord; and the boy, who understood her, though doubtless she thought other- wise, thanked her with all ‘his heart for her kind speech. “And he sha’ n’t want for friends here,” says my Lord, in a kind voice, ‘“‘ shall he, little Trix 2” 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, hap- piness, 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 | protection 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 wel- come my Lord Castlew ood, — for Henry Esmond was no servant, though a dependant; 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 a into the court-yard of the Hall), 1 one ever took any notice of young Henry Esmond, who sat unobserved and alone in the Book-room, until theafternoon 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. THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. ia I promise you I will grow older every dé uy: “You must n’t call papa Frank; | you must call papa my Lord now, > ‘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, leng since dismantled, and Queen LElizabeth’s 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 Cas tlewood vil- lage beyond, and purple hills beauti- ful 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 per- ceived his mother, and came to her. “Tf thou canst not be happy here,” 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 doul Nt, —as every one seemed to be there. How | those trivial incidents and words, the Rooms, in 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—TI have supper with Mrs. Worksop,” says he. “«D n it,’ says my Lord, “ thou says my Lord, looking round at the | scene, “thou art hard to please, Rachel.” “Tam happy where said, “ but we wer e happiest of all at Walcote Forest Then my Lord shalt sup with us, Harry, to- night ! | Sha’ n’t refuse a lady, sh: uli he, Trix 2” = 3 ” | you are,’ she began to describe what was before | them to his wife, little Harry knew better than he, — viz. the history by yonder gate the page ran away with the heiress of Castlewood, by which the estate came into the present family ; how the Roundheads attack- ed 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 any- thing to please you,” says she, ‘and and what indeed | | the house was in, of the house: how | | arrival. —and they all wondered at Harry’s performance as a_ trencher-man, in which character the poor boy acquit- ted himself very remarkably ; for the truth is he had had no dinner, nobody thinking of him in the bustle which during the prepara- tions antecedent to the new lord’s “No dinner! poor dear child!” says my Lady, heaping up his plate with meat, and my Baie filling a bumper for him, bade him call a health ; on which Master Harry, cry- ing “‘ The King,” tossed off the wine. My Lord was ready to drink that, and most other toasts: indeed only too ready. He would not hear of Doctor Tusher (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 com- pany for some hours over a pipe and a punch-bowl ; and went away home14 with rather a reeling gait, and declar- ing a dozen of times, that his Lord- ship’s affability surpassed every kind- ness he had ever had from his Lord- ship’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 fear- ful least their welcome of the past night should in any way be withdrawn or altered. But presently little Bea- trix 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 pro- tection. “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’s questions. — CHAPTER II. RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VIS- COUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLEWOOD. ’T 1s known that the name of Es- mond 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 Kliz., Henry Poyns, gent.; the said Henry being then a page in the house- hold of her father. Francis, son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. who took the maternal name whick the family hath 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 Sir Francis incurred both expense and danger, lending large sums of money to that unfor- tunate Prince; and receiving many wounds in the battles against the Im- perialists, in which Sir Francis en- gaged. 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 ofthe 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 in- firmities, 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 dig- nity, performed this office during al- most 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 gold- smith, who, taking the Parliamentary side in the troubles then commencing, disappointed Sir George of the prop- erty which he expected at the demise of his father-in-law, who devised his money to his second daughter, Bar- bara, 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 Ox- ford 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 ofthe family plate for his Majesty’s ser- | vice. For this, and other. sacrifices and merits, his Majesty, by pat- ent 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 Vis- count’s estate being much impover- ished 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 sueceeded by his | | after at Breda. THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 15 weak man, following her not long On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas Iismond, | nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling, became heir to the title. His father had taken the Par- liament 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 toa rascally Roundhead, that he would have married again, and indeed pro- posed to do so to a vintner’s daughter }at Bruges, to whom his Lordship eldest son, the before-named George ; | Thomas, a army, and left issue besides, colonel in the King’s that | afterwards joined the Usurper’s Goy- | ernment; and Francis, in holy orders, | , who was slain whilst defending the | House of Castlewood against the Par- | liament, anno 1647. George Lord Castlewood (the sec- ond 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 Castle- | wood men beside him, at Worcester fieht. were sold and apportioned to the Commonwealth men The lands about Castlewood | 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 him- self in its service. He had but one daughter, who was of no great com- fort to her father ; for misfortune had not taught those exiles sobriety of life; and it is said that the Duke of York and his brother the King both quarrelled about Isabel Esmond. She was maid of honor to the Queen Henrietta Maria; she early joined the Roman Church; her father, a 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; for she was in temper as impe- rious 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 Fran- cis 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 con- sider to be a fault in him) ; but having paid his court, and being admitted to the intimacy of the house, he sudden- ly flung up his suit, when it seemed to be pretty prosperous, without giv- ing 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-cuards, getting the company which Esmond vacated, when he left the Court and went to Tangier ina rage at discovering that his promo- tion depended on the complaisance of his elderly affianced bride. He and Churchill, who had been condis- cipuli at St. Paul’s School, had words about this matter; and Frank Es- mond said to him with an oath, “ Jack, your sister may be so-and-so,16 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. but by Jove my wife sha’ n’t!” and | thought him of a means of mending swords were drawn, and blood drawn | his fortune. too, until friends separated them on} His cousin was now of more than this quarrel. Few men were so jeal- | middle age, and had nobody’s word ous about the point of honor in| but her own for the beauty which she those days; and gentlemen of good|said she once possessed. She was birth and lineage thought a royal|lean, and yellow, and long in the blot was an ornament to their family | tooth; all the red and white in all coat. Frank Esmond retired in the | the toy-shops in London could not sulks, first to Tangier, whence he | make a beauty of her, —Mr. Killi- returned after two years’ service, | grew called her the Sybil, the death’s- settling on a small property he had | head put up at the King’s feast as a of his mother, near te Winchester, | memento mori, &c., — in fine, a woman and became a country gentleman, | who might be easy of conquest, but and kept a pack of beagles, and never | whom only a very bold man would came to Court again in King Charles’s | think of conquering. ‘This bold time. But his uncle Castlewood was | man was Thomas Esmond. He had never reconciled to him; nor, for} a fancy to my Lord Castlewood’s say- some time afterwards, his cousin | ings, the amount of which rumor had whom he had refused. very much exaggerated. Madam Isa- By places, pensions, bounties from | bel was said to have Royal jewels of France, and gifts from the King, | great value; whereas poor ‘om Ks- whilst his daughter was in favor, | mond’s last coat but one was in the Lord Castlewood, who had spent in | pawn. the Royal service his youth and for- | My Lord had at this time a fine tune, did not retrieve the latter quite, | house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, nigh to and never cared to visit Castlewood, | the Duke’s Theatre and the Portugal or repair it, since the death of his | ambassador’s chapel. Tom Esmond, son, but managed to keep a good| who had frequented the one as long house, and figure at Court, and to} as he had money to spend among the save a considerable sum of ready | actresses, now came to the church as money. assiduously. He looked so lean and And now, his heir and nephew, | shabby, that he passed without diffi- Thomas Esmond, began to bid for | culty for a repentant sinner; and so, his uncle’s favor. Thomas had served | becoming converted, you may be sure with the Emperor, and with the| took his uncle’s priest for a director. Dutch, when King Charles was com- This charitable father reconciled pelled to lend troops to the States ; | him with the old lord, his uncle, who and against them, when his Majesty | a short time before would not speak made an alliance with the French|to him, as Tom passed under my King. In these campaigns Thomas | Lord’s coach window, his Lordship Esmond was more remarked for duel- | going in state to his place at Court, ling, brawling, vice, and play, than | while his nephew slunk by with his for any conspicuous gallantry in the | battered hat and feather, and the point field, and came back to England, like | of his rapier sticking out of the scab- many another English gentleman who | bard, —to his twopenny ordinary in has travelled, with a character by no | Bell Yard. ‘ means improved by his foreign expe- Thomas Esmond, after this recon- rience. He had dissipated his small | ciliation with his uncle, very soon uc inheritance of a younger| began to grow sleek, and to show yrother’s portion, and, as truth must | signs of the benefits of good living be told, was no better than a hanger- | and clean linen. He fasted rigorous- on of ordinaries, and a brawler about | ly twice a week, to be sure; but he Alsatia and the Friars, when he be- | 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 end- less 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 af. ford to laugh. This marriage took place very shortly before King Charles died: whom the Viscount of Castle- wood 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. Symp- toms of evil broke out early on him; and, part from flattery, part supersti- tion, 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 hody with every conceivable nostrum), —but thouch there seemed, from some reason, a notable amelioration in the infant’s health after his Majes- ty touched him, in a few weeks after- ward the poor thing died, — causing the 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 corrup- tion. The mother’s natural pang at losing this poor little child must have been increased when she thought of her ri- val Frank Esmond’s wife, who was a favorite of the whole Court, where my poor Lady Castlewood was neglected, and who 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 ace when ladies are accustomed to | THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 17 | 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 amonest many others which the wags used to play upon. Indeed, to the last days of her life, my Lady Viscountess had the comfort of fancying herself beau- | tiful, 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 neces- sary that posterity should be enter- tained. 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, pur- sued and rather fatigued his Majesty with her rights and her wrongs. Some say that the cause of her leay- ing Court was jealousy of Frank Es- mond’s wife; others, that she was forced to retreat after a great battle which took place at Whitehall, be- tween her Ladyship and Lady Dor- chester, 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 quar- rel, and not her own, which occasioned the banishment of the two into the country ; and the cruel ingratitude 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 Cas- tlewood had held so honorably, and which was now conferred upon a fellow of yesterday, and a hanger-on of that18 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. odious Dorchester creature, my Lord Bergamot ;* “I never,’ said my Lady, “could have come to see his ship’s painted face and eyelids, as she bobbed her head out of the coach Majesty’s posset carried by any other | window, meaning, no doubt, to be hand than an Esmond. I should | very gracious ; and one old woman have dashed the salver out of Lord | said, “‘ Lady Isabel ! lord-a-mercy, it’s Bergamot’s hand, had I met him.” | Lady Jezebel!’ a name by which And those who knew her Ladyship | the enemies of the right honorable are aware that she was a person quite Viscountess were afterwards in the capable of performing this feat, had | habit of designating her. The coun- she not wisely kept out of the way. try was then in. a great No-Popery Holding the purse-strings in her | fervor ; her Ladyship’s known conver- own control, to which, indeed, she | sion, and her husband’s, the priest in liked to bring most persons who came | her train, and the service performed near her, Lady Castlewood could com- | at the chapel of Castlewood (though mand her husband’s obedience, and so | the chapel had been built for that broke up her establishment_at Lon-| worship before any other was heard don; she had removed from Lincoln’s | of in thes country, and though the Inn Fields to Chelsey, to a pretty | service was performed in the most new house she bought there; and | quiet manner), got her no favor at brought her establishment, her maids, first in the county or village. By lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her | far the greater part of the estate of priest, and his Lordship her husband, | Castlewood had been confiscated, and to Castlewood Hall, that she had never | been parcelled out to Commonwealth- seen since she quitted it as a child | men. One or two of these old with her father during the troubles of | Cromwellian soldiers were still alive King Charles the First’s reign. The| in the village, and looked grimly at walls were still open in the old house |first upon my Lady Viscountess, as they had been left by the shot of | when she came to dwell there. the Commonwealthmen. A partof| She appeared at the Hexton As- the mansion was restored and fur- sembly, bringing her lord after her, bished up with the plate, hangings, | scaring the country folks with the and furniture brought from the house | splendor of her diamonds, which she in London. My Lady meant to have 'always wore in public. They said a triumphal entry into Castlewood | she wore them in private, too, and village, and expected the people to slept with them round her neck ; cheer as she drove over the Green in | though the writer can pledge his word her great coach, my Lord beside her, | that this wasacalumny. If she were her gentlewomen, lap-dogs, and cock- | to take them off”? my Lady Sark atoos on the opposite seat, six horses | said, “ Tom Esmond, her husband, to her carriage, and servants armed would run away with them and and mounted following it and preced- | pawn them.” ’T was another calum- ing it. But ’twas in the height of} ny. My Lady Sark was also an exile the No-Popery ery; the folks in the | from Court, and there had been war village and the neighboring town between the two ladies before. The village people began to be rec- * Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, | onciled presently to their lady, who ann. 1686, Gentleman Usher of the Back | was generous and kind, though fan- Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of —— oe * , 5 : the Butteries and Groom of the King’s Posset | tastic and haughty, in her ways ; and (on the decease of George, second Viscount | whose praises Dr. Tusher, the Vicar, Castlewood), accompanied his Majesty to St. | sounded loudly amongst his flock. As Germain’s, where he died without issue. No | for my Lord he wave ney dranea -ouble Groom of the Posset was appointed by the dete »he gave no great trouble, Prince of Orange, nor hath there been such an officer in any succeeding reign. | were scared by the sight of her Lady- | | | | being considered scarce more than an |appendage to my Lady, who, asTHE HISTORY OF daughter of the old lords of Castle- wood, and possessor of vast wealth, as the country folks said (though in- deed nine tenths of it existed but in rumor), was looked upon as the real queen of the Castle, and mistress of all it contained. ees CHAPTER III. WHITHER IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD PRECED- ED HIM AS PAGE TO ISABELLA. Comin@ up to London again some short time after this retreat, the Lord Castlewood despatched 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 an- other place a short time before, near to London, too, amongst 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. 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. Pas- | toureau, Bon Papa Pastoureau’s new wife, who came to live with him after aunt went away. And there, at Spit- tlefields, 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 I . . , . . was embroidering beautiful silk flow- ers, and say, “ Angel! she belongs s . »? to the Babylonish scarlet woman. ) 'tleman dressed in HENRY ESMOND. 19 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 preaching ; | he liked better the fine stories which }aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa’s wife never told him pretty stories ; she quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went away. : After this Harry’s Bon Papa and | his wife and two children of her own | that she had brought with her, came |to live at Ealing. The new wite gave her children the best of every- | thing, and Harry many a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows, he cot 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 accom- pany him, no doubt, to the end of his days: as those tender twigs are bent the trees grow afterwards ; 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 lit- tle children. Harry was very glad when a gen- : black, on horse- back, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch him away from Ealing. The noverca, or unjust step-mother, who hadneglected him for her own two children, gave him sup- per enough the night before 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 eould easily have beat, but he always | eried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like la 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 gen- tleman in black came for the boy ; |and old Mr. Pastoureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over his shoulder at the strange gentle- man, and grumbled out something 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 chil- dren. She was a great big, hand- some young woman; but, though she pretended to cry, Harry thought ’t was only asham, and sprung quite delight- ed upon the horse upon which the lack- ey 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 learnt to speak English perfectly, and to forget some of his French ; chil- dren forget easily. Some earlier and fainter recollections the child had of a different country ; and a town with tall white houses; and aship. 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 in- formed the boy that the gentleman riding before him was my chaplain, Father Holt, — that he was now to be called Master Harry Es- mond, —that my Lord Viscount Castlewood was his parrain, — that he was to live at the great house of | o . . province of Castlewood, in the shire, where he would see Mad- am the Viscountess, who was a grand Jady. And so, seated on a cloth be- fore 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, a grand languid nobleman in a great cap and flowered morning- gown, sucking oranges. He patted 20 THE HISTORY OF | | Lord’s | HENRY ESMOND. Harry on the head and gave him an orange. “ ©’est: bien ca,’ he. said. to- the priest after eying the child, and the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders. Let Blaise take him out for a holi- day, and out for a holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping along ; he was glad enough to go. He will 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 hap- py 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 Mon- sieur Blaise. Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth forthe country, namely, my Lord Viscount and the other gentleman; Monsieur Blaise and Harry on a pillion behind them, and two or three men with pistols leading 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 d | great gloomy inn on the road where | they lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room with one of the ser- vants, and was compassionated by Mr. Holt, the gentleman who tray- elled 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 the next day Mr. Holt said Harry should ride behind him, and not with the French lack- ey ; 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,THE HISTORY and sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt found that Harry could read and write, and possessed the two lan- guages 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 Lu- ther, which set 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. preached at. “You must never sing that song any more: do you hear, little manni- kin ?”’ says my Lord Viscount, hold- ing up a finger. “But we will try and teach you a better, Harry,” Mr. Holt said; and the child answered, for he was a do- cile child, and of an affectionate na- ture, “That he loved pretty songs, and would try and learn anything the gentleman 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. “’'T is well, ’t is well!” said Blaise, that night (in his own laneuage) when they lay again at an inn. “We are a little lord here; we a little lord now; we shall see what OF HENRY ESMOND. 21 thought in his little 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 1G very pretty to look at; and the peo- ple there all took off their hats, and made courtesies to my Lord Viscount, Who bowed to them all Janguidly ; and there was one portly person that wore a cassock and a_broad-leafed | hat, who bowed lower than any one, Holt | —and with this one both my Lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. “This, Harry, is Castlewood church,” says Mr. Holt, “and this is the pil- lar 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 low 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; anda creat 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 Cas- tlewood too. They came to the house, and passed under an arch into a court-yard, with | a fountain in the centre, where many are we are when we come to Castlewood, | where my Lady is.’ “When shall we wood, Monsieur Blaise 2 ” ry. “ Parbleu ! my Lord does not press himself,” Blaise says, with a grin; and, indeed, it seemed as if his Lord- come to Castle- | says Har- | ship was not in a great hurry, for he | spent three days on that journey, | which Harry Esmond hath often since ridden in a dozen hours. For the last two of the days Harry rode with | 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 men came and held my Lord’s stirrup he descended, and paid great re- spect 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 godpapa, when the — as | 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 scarce a}j|as they were both descended from -22 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. and white d heels; and an odor out of her gar- l or quitted tortoise- their horses, Mr. Holt led him across | clocks to her stockings, the court, and under a low door to | pantofles with re rooms on a level with the eround ; one | of musk was shook of which Father Holt said was to be the | ments whenever she movet boy’s chamber, the other on the other | the room, leaning on her side of the passage being the Father’s | shell stick, little Fury barking at her own; and as soon as the little man’s | heels. face was washed, and the Father’sown| Mrs. Tusher, the parson’s wife, dress arranged, Harry’s guide took | was with my Lady. She had_ been him once more to the door by which waiting-woman to her Ladyship in my Lord had entered the hall, and up | the late lord’s time, and, having her a stair, and through an anteroom to | soul in that business, took naturally my Lady’s drawing-room, — an apart- | to it when the Viscountess of Castle- ment than which Harry thought he | wood returned to inhabit her father’s had never seen anything more orand, | house. —no, not in the Tower of London ‘““T present to your Ladyship your Indeed, | kinsman and little page 0! honor, Master Henry Esmond,” Mr. Holt in the manner of Queen Elizabeth’s | said, bowing lowly, with a sort of time, with great stained windows at| comical humility. ~ Make a pretty either end, and hangings of tapestry, bow to my Lady, Monsieur ; and then which the sun shining through the | another little bow, not so low, to colored glass painted of a thousand | Madam Tusher, — the fair priestess hues; and here in state, by the fire, of Castlewood.” sat a lady to whom the priest took, © Where I have lived and hope to up Harry, who was indeed amazed by | die, sir,” says Madam Tusher, giving her appearance. 1a hard glance at the brat, and then at My Lady Viscountess’s face was | my Lady. daubed with white and red up to the Upon her the boy’s w hole attention eyes, to which the paint gave an un-} was for a time directed. He could earthly glare: she had a tower of lace | not keep his great eyes off from her. on her head, under which was a bush Since the Empress of Ealing, he had of black curls, — borrowed curls, — so that no wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first pre- | little page -?? asked the lady. sented to her,—the kind priest act-| He would be very hard to please ing as master of the ceremonies at| if it did n’t,” eried Madam Tusher. that solemn introduction, — and he ‘“‘ Have done, you silly Maria,” said stared at her with eyes almost as Lady Castlewood. great as her own, as he had stared at| ‘Where I ’m attached, I ’m at- the player-woman who acted the| tached, Madam, —and I ’d die rather wicked tragedy-queen, when the play- | than not say so. ers came down to Ealing Fair. She “ Je meurs ou je m’attache,” Mr. sat in a great chair by the fire-cor- | Holt said with a polite erin. . oe ner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog | ivy says so in the picture, and clings that barked furiously ; on a little ta-| to the oak like a fond parasite as ble by her was her Ladyship’s snuff- | it i ee ie her ht sagan box. She} “Parricide, sir!” cries Mrs. ‘Tusher. rore a dress lack velvet, : c T petticoat oh a eS eae nea, Ri aiey m8 basil She had as many rings on her Gacers al - x oe ue —_ oa ey ee gers | my Lady. Come and kiss my hand as the old woman of Banbury Cross;| child”; and the oak held ‘a a and pretty small feet which she was | branch to little Harry "famond ad fond of showing, with great gold | took and dutifully ickeak thus foe old which he had just visited. the chamber was richly ornamented seen nothing so awful. “Does my appearance please you, ’)THE hand, upon the enarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred rings. ‘To kiss that hand would make many a pl retty fellow happy :?? eried Mrs. Tusher : on which my Lady cry- ing out, ‘ Go, you foolish Tusher 1 and tapping her with her great fan, ‘rusher 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 elances. The LW ¢ perhaps pleased the lady to whom this artless fl ittery was bestowed : for having gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and the mode then was) and performed his obeisance, she said, “ Page Es- mond, 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 in- struct you as becomes a gentleman of our nam You will pay him obe- dience in secivdiing: and I pray you may grow to be as learned and as eood as your tutor. The lady ina to have the great- est 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 rood 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 artless childish way. ‘ Who is that other woman?” he asked. ‘She is fat and round; she is more pretty than my Lady Castlewood.”’ ““ She is Madam Tusher, the par- son’s wife of Castlewood. She has ason of your age, but bi: over than you. - ‘“ Why does she like so to kiss my Lady’s hand. It is not good to kiss.” HISTORY OF exhibited by the little boy HENRY ESMOND. 25 “Tastes are different, little man. Madam Tusher is attached to my Lady, havine been her w: aiting-woman efor: she was married, in.the old lord’s time. She married Doctor usher the chaplain. The English household divines often marry the waiting r-women.”’ : ‘You will not marry the French- woman, will you? I saw _ her laughing with Blaise in the buttery.” “| belong to a church that is older and better than the English church,’ Mr. Holt said (making a sign where- of Esmond did not then understand the meaning, across his breast and forehead) ; “‘in our church the e lergy 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 a 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 arising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were rooks’ nests, where the birds at morning and returning home at evening made agcreat 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 villace 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 ereat ocean, —in a new Castlewood, | by another stream, that bears, like24 THE HISTORY OF the new country of wandering Zineas, 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 repair, 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 build- ings stretching from that to the main vate, 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 place was taken and stormed. ‘The be- siegers 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 Castle- wood 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 terrace-garden was a low wall with a wicket leading to the wooded height beyond, that is called Crom- well’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, waiting 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 | HENRY ESMOND. to her. introducing her company Catholic This was chiefly the gentry, of whom there were a pretty of | many in the country and neighboring ‘city: and who rode not seldom to | Castlewood to partake of the hospi talities there. In the second year of their residence, the company s¢ emed especially to increase. My Lord and 'mv Lady were seldom without visit- |ors, in whose society it was curious to contrast the difference of behavior between Father Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor ‘usher, the rector of the parish, ae DP, ROI moving amongst the very highest as quite their equal, and as command- ing them all; while poor Doctor Tusher, whose position was indeed a difficult one, having been chaplain once to the Hall, and still to the Pro- testant 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 persua- sion, whatever their (and they adopted all) might be. ‘These were closeted with the Father con- stantly, and often came and away without paying their devoirs to dresses r¢ de 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.

. ee | entirely innocent of the crime for | | wood had not come to England to 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 re- sist 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 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 My young Lord Viscount Castle 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 Hamil- ton died, my Lord was kept at Bru- xelles by his wife’s lying-in. The gen- tle Clotilda could not bear her hus- band out of her sight; perhaps she mistrusted the young scapegrace 'should he ever get loose from her | leading-strings ; and she kept him by hand of | and honester men, who had at heart | | Park, my mistress and her daughter the illustrious young exile’s cause, had no scheme of interest of their own | ‘it was expected, would soon join to prevent them from seeing the right done, and, provided only he came as an Englishman, were ready to venture | | could be got to come to Walcote but St. John and Harley both had kind | their all to welcome and defend him. words in plenty for the Prince’s adhe- rents, and gave him endless promises of future support; but hints and promises were all they could be got to give; and some of his friends were for measures much bolder, more effi- cacious, and more open. her side to nurse the baby and admin- ister 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 retired to Castlewood, where my Lord, them. But, to say truth, their quiet household was little to his taste: he once after his first campaign; and then the young rogue spent more than half his time in London, not appear- ing at Court or in public under his own name and title, but frequenting plays, bagnios, and the very worst | company, under the name of Captain With a/| party of these, some of whom are yet | alive, and some whose names Mr. Es- mond has no right to mention, he found himself engaged the year after that miserable death of Duke Hamil- ton, which deprived the Prince of his Ksmond (whereby his innocent kins- man 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 re- mained away from this country, andwas unknown, save amongst the gen- tlemen of the army, with whom he had served abroad. The of his mother was pained by this long absence. *T' was all that Henry Es- mond could do to soothe her natural mortification, and find excuses for his kinsman’s levity. In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought of return- ing home. His first child had been a daugchte gratifying his Lordship with a second, and the pious youth thought that, by bringing his wife to his ancestral home, by prayers to St. 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 Cas- tlewood’s reception, and was eagerly expecting 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. IXsmond 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 children 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 theirown. 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 lord used, the very flagon he drank from. Ksmond’s mistress knew he would like to sleep in the little room he used to occupy; ’t was made ready Li* r; Clotilda was in the way of Philip of late | THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 243 for him, and wallflowers and sweet | herbs set in the adjoining chamber, fond heart | 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 Cas- tlewood lying awake for many hours as the clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered), looking 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 mel- ancholy 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 boy- ish 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. roars Dick. “ L ook here, sir!” and out of one clenched fists he flings a paper down on the table. “What is it?” Il handwriting. I see lines on the paper. ‘It’s not to you, says Bedford. “Then how dare you read it, sir?”’ LT ask, all of a tremble “Tt’s to him. It’s to Sawbones,” hisses out 3edford. ‘“¢ Sawbones dropped it as he was getting into his and I read it. J ain’t going to make no bones about whether it’s me, — she 8 of It’s her neat trim ask. the nor yet to me,” yr y gig, wrote to me or not. She tells him how you asked her to marry you. (Ha!) That’s how I came to know it, And do you know w hat she calls you, ce what he calls you, — that | castor-hoil beast? And do you know | | what she says of you? had n’t pluck to stand by her to-day. There — it’s hand and seal. not, mandragora will medicine you sleep afterward J just recommend you | will you not, ‘hear it 2 | him 2 the | | enter the premis es of Edw ard Drench- WIDOWER That you all down under her You may read it or And if poppy or to if you like. to take it. JZ shall go and get a drop out of the Captain’s bottle,—I shall.” And he leaves me, and the fatal paper on the table. Now, suppose you had been in my case, — would you, or would you not, have read the paper? Suppose there is some news— bad news — about the woman you love, will you, or Was Othello o speak to It lay light, a rogue because he let Jago tis Chere was the paper. there glimmering under the with all the house quiet. — CHAPTER VL CECILIA’S SUCCESSOR. MonstgeuR ET HonNorRE LECTEUR ! — I see, as perfectly as if you were sitting opposite to me, the scorn depict- ed on your no ble eouriten: ince, when you re: ad my confession that I, Char les Batchelor, Esquire, did burglariously er, Esquire, M. R. C. 8.1. (phew! the odious pestle-grinder, 1 never could bear him! ) and bre ak open and read a certain letter, his property. J may have been wrong, but I am candid. I tell my misdeeds ; some fellows hold their tongues. Besides, my geood man, consider the temptation, ‘and the horrid insight into the paper which 3edford’s report had already given me. Would you like to be fold that ‘the girl of your heart was playing at ' fast and loose with it, had none of her own, or had given hers to another ? I don’t want to make a Mrs. Robin Gray of any woman, and merely be- | c ause ‘her mither presses her sair”’ to marry her against her will. ce if | Miss Prior,’ ’ thought I, “prefers thisLOVEL THE WIDOWER. 300 lint scraper to me, ought I to balk | which I Suppose was about the bit of her? He is younger and stronger, | the letter which I got, Was as it was, certainty, than myself. Some people | — what must pages one and two have may consider him handsome. (By! been? The dreadful document began, the way, what a remarkable thing it | then, thus: — is about many women, that, in affairs ‘— dear hair in the locket, which of the heart, they don’t seem to care/I shall ever wear for the sake or understand whether a man isagen-| of him who gave it”? —(dear hair! tleman or not!) It may be it is my | indeed, — disgusting carrots! She superior fortune and social station | should have been ashamed to call it which may induce Elizabeth to wa-| “dear hair ”) — “for the sake of him ver in her choice between me and my | who gave it, and whose bad temper I bleeding, bolusing, tooth-drawing ri- | shall pardon, because I think, in spite val. Ifso, and Il am only taken from | of his faults, he is a little fond of his mercenary considerations, what a/poor Lizzie! Ah, Edward! how pretty chance of subsequent happiness | cou/d you go on so the last time about do either of us stand! Take the vac- | poor Mr. B.! Can you imagine that cinator, girl, if thou preferrest him! | I can ever have more than a filial re- I know what it is to be crossed in love | gard for the kind old gentleman ? ”’ already. It’s hard, but I can bear | (// était question de moi, ma parole @hon- it! Lought to know, I must know, | new. JZ was the kind old gentleman !) I will know what is in that paper!” | “I have known him since my child- So saying, as [ pace round and round | hood. He was intimate in our family the table where the letter lies flicker- | in earlier and happier days ; made our ing white under the midnight taper, [| house his home; and, I must say, was stretch out my hand,—TI seize the | most kind to all of us children. If paper, —Il—well, I own it — there | he has vanities, you naughty boy, is — yes — I took it, and I read it. he the only one of his sex who is vain 2 Or, rather, I may say, I read that | Can you fancy that such an old crea- part of 1r which the bleeder and blis- | ture (an old muff, as you call him, you terer had flang down. It was but a/| wicked, satirical man !) eould ever fragment of aletter, —a fragment, — | make an impression on my heart 2? No, oh! how bitter to swallow! A lump |sir!” (Aha! SolI wasan old muff, of Kpsom salt could not have been | was I ‘) “Though I don’t wish to more disgusting. It appeared (from | make you vain too, or that other peo- Bedford’s statement) that Ausculapius, | ple should laugh at you, as you do at on getting into his gig, had allowed poor dear Mr. B., I think, sir, you this scrap of paper to whisk out of | need butlook in your giass to see you his pocket,—the rest he read, no/ need not be afraid of such a rival as doubt, under the eyes of the writer. | that. You fancy he is attentive to Very likely, during the perusal, he} me? If you looked only a little an- had taken and squeezed the false | grily at him, he would fly back to hand which wrote the lines. Very | London. To-day, when your horrid likely the first part of the precious doc- | little patient did presume to offer to ument contained compliments to him, | take my hand, when I boxed his —from the horrible context I judge | little wicked ears and sent him spin- », — compliments to that vender of ning to the end of the room, — poor leeches and bandages, into whose heart | Mr. Batch was so Srightened that he [dare si1y I wished ten thousand lan- | did not dare to come into the room, and cets might be stuck, as I perused the | Isaw him peeping behind a statue on arse One’s wheedling address to | the lawn, and he would not come in him! So ran the document. How | until the servants arrived. Poor man! well every word of it was engraven| We cannot all of us have courage on my anguished heart! If page three, | like a certain Edward, who I know is 16 5396 LOVEL THE as boldas alion Now, sir, you must | ‘ not he quarrelling with that wretched little Captain for being rude. I have shovn him that I can very well take care of myself. I knew the odious thing the first moment I set eyes on him, though he had forgotten me. Years avo L met him, and IL remember he was equally rude and tips — me | Here the letter was torn. Beyond “tins” it did not go. But that was | enouch, wasn’tit? To this woman | Lhad offered a gentle and manly, 1 | may say a kind and tender heart, —I1 had offered four hundred a year in funded property, besides my house in Devonshire Street, Bloomsbury, — and she preferred Edward, forsooth, at the sign of the Gallipot: and may ten thousand pestles smash my brains ! You may fancy what a night I had after reading that scrap. I promise you I did not sleep much. I heard the hours toll as I kept vigil. I lay amidst shattered capitals, broken shafts of the tumbled palace which I | had built in imagination — oh! how | bright and stately! I sat among | the ruins of my own happiness, sur- | rounded by the murdered corpses of innocent - visioned domestic Joys. | Tick —tock! Moment after mo-| ment I heard on the clock the clink- ing footsteps of wakeful grief. I fell into a doze toward morning, and dreamed that I was dancing with Glorvina, when I woke with a start, finding Bedford arrived with my shav- ing-water, and opening the shutters. When he saw my haggard face he wageed his head. “You have read it, I see, sir,” says he. “Yes, Dick,” groaned I, out of bed, “TJ have swallowed it.” And I laugh- | ed, [may say, afiendishlaugh. “And now I have taken it, not poppy nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy sirups in his shop (hang him), will be able to medicine me to sleep for some time to come !” “She has no heart, sir. I don’t think she cares for t’other chap much,” groans the gloomy butler. — | deviled chicken ?” WIDOWER. ‘She can’t, after having known us,” and my companion in grief, laying down my hot-water jug, retreats. I did not cut any part of myself with my razor. I shaved quite calmly. I went to My impression is I was sarcastic and witty. Prior could have seen from my outward be- family at breakfast. y the I smiled ‘most kindly at Miss when she came in. Nobody havior that anything was wrong with- in. Lwasanapple. Could you inspect the worm at my core ? No, no. Some- body —I think old Baker — compli- mented me on my good looks. I was a smiling lake. Could you see on my placid surface, among my sheeny water-lilies, that a corpse was lying under my cool depths? “A bit of “No, thank you, By the way, Lovel, I think I must go to town to-day.” “ You ’ll come back to dinner, of course?” ‘ Well—no.” “OQ, stuff! You promised me to-day and to-morrow. Robinson, Brown, and Jones are coming to-morrow, and you must be here to meet them.” Thus we prattle on. I answer, I smile, I say, ‘‘ Yes, if you please, another cup,” or ‘Beso good as to hand the muffin,” or what not. But I am dead. I feel as if I am under- ground and buried. Life, and tea, and clatter, and muffins are going on, of course; and daisies spring, and the sun shines on the grass while I am under it. Ah, dear me! it’s very cruel: it’s very, very lonely: it’s very odd! I don’t belong to the world any more. I have done with it. I am shelved away. But my spirit re- turns and flitters through the world, which it has no longer anything to do with: and my ghost, as it were, comes and smiles at my own tomb- stone. Here lies Charles Batchelor, the Unloved One. Oh! alone, alone, alone! Why, Fate! didst ordain that I should be companionless? ‘Tell me where the Wandering Jew is, that l |may go and sit with him. Is there any place at a lighthouse vacant ¢ ' Who knows where is the island of | Juan Fernandez? Engage me a ship,3 and take me there at once. Crusoe, I think. My dear Robinson, have the kindness to hand me over your goat-skin cap, breeches, and um- brella. Go home, and leave me here, Would you know who is the solita- riest man on earth? That man am I. Was that cutlet which I ate at breakfast anon,—was that lamb | which frisked on the mead last week (beyond yon wall where the uncon- scious cucumber lay basking which was to form his sauce),—I say, was that lamb made so tender that I might eat him? And my _ heart, | then? Poor heart! wert thou so | softly constituted only that women might stab thee? So I am a Muff, am 1? And she will always wear a lock of his ‘dear hair,’ will she 2 Ha! ha! The men on the omnibus | looked askance as they saw me laugh. They thought it was from Hanwel’, not Putney, Iwas escaping. Escape ? Who can escape? I went into Lon- don. Iwent to the Clubs. Jawkins, of course, was there; and my im- pression is that he talked as usual. I took another omnibus, and went back to Putney. “I will go back and revisit my grave,” I thought. It is said that ghosts loiter about their former haunts a good deal when they are first dead; flit wistfully among their old friends and companions, and, I dare say, expect to hear a plenty of conversation and friendly, tearful re- mark about themselves. But suppose they return, and find nobody talking of them at all? Or suppose Hamlet (Pere, and Royal Dane) comes back and finds Claudius and Gertrude very comfortable over a piece of cold meat, or whatnot? Is the late gentleman’s present position as a ghost a very pleasant one? Crow, Cocks! Quick, Sun-dawn! Open, Trap-door! Al- lons: it’s best to pop underground geain. Sol. am. acMufiam 1? een LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 307 Mr. R. | bloom, and the joke its sparkle, and the dish its savor? Why, bless my soul! what is Lizzy herself — only an ordinary woman, — freckled certainly, —incorrigibly dull, and without a scintillation of humor: and you mean to say, Charles Batchelor, that your heart once beat about that woman 2 Under the intercepted letter of that cold assassin my heart had fallen down dead, irretrievably dead. I remem- ber, apropos of the occasion of my first death, that perpetrated by Glor- vina, — on my second visit to Dublin, —with what a strange sensation I walked under some trees in the Phe- nix Park, beneath which it had been my custom to meet my False One Number 1. There were the trees, — there were the birds singing, — there was the bench on which we used to sit, — the same, but how different! The trees had a different foliage, exquisite amaranthine; the birds sang a song paradisiacal; the bench was a bank of roses and fresh flowers, which young Love twined in fragrant chap- lets around the statue of Glorvina! Roses and fresh flowers? Rheuma- tisms and flannel waistcoats, you sil- ly old man! Foliage and Song? O namby-pamby driveller! A statue 2 — adoll, thou twaddine old dullard! —a doll with carmine cheeks, and a heart stuffed with bran, —I say, on the night preceding that ride to and from Putney, I had undergone death, —in that omnibus I had been carried over to t’other side of the Stygian shore. I returned but as a passion- less ghost, remembering my life days, but not feeling any more. Love was dead, Elizabeth! Why, the Doctor came, and partook freely of lunch, and I was not angry. Yesterday I called him names, and hated him, and was jealous of him. rivalship; and no envy at his success ; and no desire to supplant him. No To-day I felt no What a curious thing that walk up | —I swear —not the slightest wish to the hill to the house was! What a different place Shrublands was yester- | day to what it is to-day! Has the| sun lost its light, and the flowers their | my good sir or madam. make Elizabeth mine if she would. I might have cared for her yesterday, —yesterday I had a heart. Pshaw ! You sit by398 LOVEL THE mie at dinner. Perhaps you are hand- some, and use youreyes. Ogle away Yon’t balk yourself, pray. But 1 | you fancy I care a threepenny-piece about you, — or for your eyes, — or for your bonny brown hair, — or for your sentimental remarks, sidelong warbled, —or for your praise to (not of )my face, —or for your satire behind my back, —ah me!— how mistaken you | are! Peine perdue, ma chere dame ! The digestive organs are still in good working order,—but the heart‘ Caret. — I was perfectly civil to Mr. Drench- er, and, indeed, wonder to think how, in my irritation, I had allowed my- self to apply (mentally) any sort of disagreeable phrases to a most excel- lent and deserving and good-looking young man, who is beloved by the poor, and has won the just confidence } of an extensive circle of patients. I made no sort of remark to Miss Prior, except about the weather and the flowers in the garden. easy, rather pleasant, not too high- spirited, you understand. — No: Ivow you could not have seen a wince, or the slightest alteration in my demeanor. I helped the two old dowagers; I listened to their twaddle ; I gayly wiped up with my napkin three quarters of a glass of sherry which Popham flung over my trou- sers. 1 would defy you to know that I had gone through the ticklish op- eration of an excision of the heart a few hours previous. Heart — pooh ! I saw Miss Prior’s lip quiver. With- out a word between us, she knew per- | fectly well that all was over as re- garded her late humble servant. She winced once or twice. While Drencher was busy with his plate, the gray eyes ‘ast toward me interjectional looks of | puzzled entreaty. She, I say, winced ; and I give you my word J did not eare a fig whether she was sorry, or pleased, or happy, or going to be hung. And I can’t give a_ better proof of my utter indifference about the matter than the fact that I wrote two or three copies of verses poets. I was bland, | nerve | WIDOWER. descriptive of my despair. ‘They ap: peared, you may perhaps remember, in one of the annuals of those days, and were generally attributed to one of the most sentimental of our young J remember the reviews said they were ‘“‘replete with emotion,” “full of passionate and earnest feel- ing,’ and so forth. Feeling, indeed ! ha! ha! ‘Passionate outbursts of a erief-stricken heart!’”? — Passionate scrapings of a fiddlestick, my good friend. ‘‘ Lonely,’ of course, rhymes with “only,’ and “gushes” with “blushes,” and “despair” with “hair,” and so on. Despair is per- fectly compatible with a good dinner, I promise you. Hair is false: hearts are false. Grapes may be sour, but claret is good, my masters. Do you suppose I am going to cry my eyes out because Chloe’s are turned upon Strephon? If you find any whim- pering in mine, may they never wink at a bee’s wing again ! When the Doctor rose presently, saying he would go and see the gar- dener’s child, who was ill, and casting longing looks at Miss Prior, I assure you I did not feel a tittle of jealousy, though Miss Bessy actually followed Mr. Drencher into the lawn under the pretext of calling back Miss Cissy, who had run thither without her bon- net. “Now, Lady Baker, which was right? you or I?” asks bonny Mrs. Bonnington, wagging her head toward the lawn where this couple of inno- cents were disporting. “You thought there was an affair between Miss Prior and the medical centleman ¢”’ I say, smiling. “It was no secret, Mrs. Bonnington.” “Yes, but there were others who were a little smitten in that quarter, | too,” says Lady Baker, and she in / turn wags her old head toward me. “You mean me?” I answer, as in- nocent as a new-born babe. “I am a burned child, Lady Baker; I have been at the fire, and am already thor- oughly done, thank you. One of your charming sex jilted me someyears ago; and once is quite enough, Iam much obliged to you.” This I said, not because it was true; in fact, it was the reverse of truth ; but if I choose to lie about my own affairs, pray, why not? And though a strictly truth-telling man generally, when I do lie I promise you I do it boldly and well. “Tf, as I gather from Mrs. Bon- nington, Mr. Drencher and Miss Prior like each other, I wish my old friend joy. I wish Mr. Drencher joy with all my heart. The match seems to me excellent. He is a deserving, a clever, and a handsome young fel- low; and I am sure, ladies, you can bear witness to her goodness, after all you have known of her.” ““My dear Batchelor,” Bonnington, still smiling and wink- ing. ‘I don’t believe one single word you say, — not one single word!” And she looks infinitely pleased as she speaks. “Oh!” eries Laly Baker, “my good Mrs. Bonnington, you are al- ways match-making, — don’t contra- dict me. You know you thought —” ‘““Qh, please don’t,” cries Mrs. B. “Twill. She thought, Mr. Batch- elor, she actually thought that our son, that my Cecilia’s husband, was smitten by the governess. I should like to have seen him dare!” and her flashing eyes turn toward the late Mrs. Lovel’s portrait, with its faded simper leering over the harp. “The says Mrs. ” that angel indeed ! “‘ Indeed, I don’t envy her,” I said. my Frederick would not make any woman happy?” cries the Bonning- ton. “He is only seven-and-thirty, very young for his age, and the most affectionate of creatures. I’m sur- prised, and it’s most cruel, and most unkind of you, to say that you don’t envy any woman that marries my boy!” “My dear good Mrs. Bonnington, you quite misapprehend me,” I re- mark. LOVEL THE WIDOWER. “You don’t mean, Batchelor, that | 359 “Why, when his late wife was alive,” goes on Mrs. B., sobbing, “you know with what admirable sweetness and gentleness he bore | | | her — her — bad temper, —~ excuse me, Lady Baker!” | | a pray, abuse my departed an- gel!” cries the Baker; “ say that | your son should marry and forget | her, — say that those darlings should | be made to forget their mother. She | Was a woman of birth, and a woman | of breeding, and a woman of family, | and the Bakers came in with the Con- queror, Mrs. Bonnington — ” “T think I heard of one in the court of Pharaoh,” I interposed. “And to say that a Baker is not worthy of a Lovel is pretty news in- deed! Do you hear that, Clarence 2 ” ‘Hear what, ma’am?” says Clar- ence, who enters at this juncture. “You’re speakin’ loud enough, though blesht if I hear two sh-shyl- lables.” “You wretched boy, you have been smoking !” ‘“Shmoking, — have n’t I2” says Clarence, with a laugh; “and I’ve been at the ‘ Five Bells,’ and I’ve been having a game of billiards with an old friend of mine,” and he lurched toward a decanter. “Ah! don’t drink any more, my child !” cries the mother. “I’m as sober as a judge, I tell You leave so precious little in | you. | the bottle at dinner that I must get it idea that any woman could succeed | when I can, must n’t I, Batchelor, old boy? We had a row yesterday, had n’t we? No, it was sugar-baker. I’m not angry, — you ’re not angry. Bear nomalish. Here ’s your health, old boy!” The unhappy gentleman drank his bumper of sherry, and, tossing his hair off his head, said, ‘‘ Where ’s the governess — Where ’s Bessy Bellen- den? Who’s that kickin’ me under the table, I say?” ‘““ Where is who ?” asks his mother. “ Bessy Bellenden — the governess —that ’s her realname. Known her these ten years. Used to dansh at360 Remember her in the corps de ballet. Ushed to go be- hind the shenes. Dooshid pretty girl !”” maunders out the tipsy youth ; and as the unconscious subject of his mischievous talk enters the room, again he cries out, ‘ Come and sit by me, Bessy Bellenden, I say!” The matrons rose with looks of hor- ror in their faces. “ A ballet dancer!” cries Mrs. Bonnington. “ A_ ballet dancer!”? echoes Lady Baker. “ Young woman, is this true ?” “The Bulbul and the Roshe — hay ?”’ laughs the Captain. “Don’t you remember you and Fosbery in Prinsh’s Theatre. blue and shpangles? Always_ all | right, though, Bellenden was. Fos- | bery wash n’t: but Bellenden was. Give you every credit for that, Bellen- den. Boxsh my earsh. Bear no malish — no —no —malish! Get some more sherry, you — whatsh your name— Bedford, butler — and I ’ll pay you the money I owe you” ; and he laughs his wild laugh, utterly unconscious of the effect he is pro- ducing. Bedford stands staring at him, as pale as death. Poor Prior is as white as marble. Wrath, terror, and wonder are in the counte- nances of the dowagers. It is an awful scene ! “Mr. Batchelor knows that it was to help my family I did it,” says the poor governess. “Yes, by George! and nobody can say a word against her,” bursts in Dick Bedford, with a sob; “ and she is as honest as any woman here!” “Pray, who told you to put your oar in?” cries the tipsy Captain. “ And you knew that this person was on the stage, and you introduced her into my son’s family? O Mr. Batchelor, Mr. Batchelor, I did n’t think it of you! Dont speak to me, Miss!” cried the flurried Bonning- ton. “You brought this woman to the children of my adored Cecilia?” calls out the other dowager. ‘‘ Serpent, leave the room! Pack your trunks, viper! and quit the house this instant. Miss | LOVEL THE WIDOWER. Don’t touch her, Cissy. Come to me, my blessing. Go away, you horrid wretch !” “She ain’t a horrid wretch; and when I was ill she was very good to us,” breaks in Pop, with a roar of tears: “and you sha’ n’t go, Miss Prior, —my dear, pretty Miss Prior. You sha’ n’t go!” and the child rushes up to the governess, and covers her neck with tears and kisses. “Leave her, Popham, my darling blessing ! — leave that woman! ”’ cries Lady Baker. “T won’t, you old beast ! — and she sha-a-an’t go. And I wish you was dead ; and my dear, you sha’ n’t go, and Pa sha’ n’t let you!” shouts the | boy. ‘“O Popham, if Miss Prior has been naughty, Miss Prior must go!” says Cecilia, tossing up her head. “Spoken like my daughter’s child!” cries Lady Baker: and little Cissy, haying flung her little stone, looks as if she had performed a very virtuous action. “God bless you, Master Pop, — you are a trump, you are!” says Mr. Bedford. “Yes, that I am, Bedford; and she sha’ n’t go, shall she?” cries the boy. 3ut Bessy stooped down sadly and kissed him. ‘“ Yes, I must, dear,” she said. “Don’t touch him! Come away, sir! Come away from her this mo- ment !”’ shrieked the two mothers. “T nursed him through the scarlet fever, when his own mother would not come near him,” says Elizabeth, gently. “T ’m blest if she did n’t,” sobs 3edford, — “and bub — bub — bless you, Master Pop! " ‘That child is wicked enough, and headstrong enough, and rude enough already !”’ exclaims Lady Baker. “I desire, young woman, you will not pol- lute him further!” “That ’s a hard word to say to an honest woman, ma’am,” says Bed- ford.“Pray, Miss, are you engaged to the butler, too?” hisses out the dow- ager. “There ’s very little the with Maxwell’s child —only teeth. What on earth has happened? My dear Lizzy, — my dear Miss Prior, — what is it?” cries the Doctor, who enters from the garden at this junc- ture. “ Nothing has happened, only this young woman has appeared in a new character,” says Lady Baker. ‘“‘ My son has just informed us that Miss Prior danced upon the stage, Mr. Drencher ; and if you think such a person is a fit companion for your mothers and sisters, who attend a place of Christian worship, I believe —I wish you joy.” “Ts this—is this—true?” asks the Doctor, with a look of bewilder- ment. “ Yes, it is true,” sighs the girl. “And you never told me, Eliza- beth ¢”’ groans the Doctor. “She ’s as honest as any woman here,” calls out Bedford. ‘“ She gave all the money to her family.” “Tt was n’t fair not to tell me. It was n’t fair,” sobs the Doctor. And he gives her a ghastly parting look, and turns his back. “Tsay, you— Hi! What-d’-you- eall’em? Sawbones!” shrieks out Captain Clarence. ‘ Come back, I say. She’s all right, I say. Upon my honor, now, she’s all right.” d) ““ Miss P. should n’t have kept this | from me. My mother and sisters are Dissenters, and very strict. I could n’t ask a party into my family who has been—who has been— I wish you good morning,” says the Doctor, and stalks away. ‘¢ And now, will you please to get your things ready and go, too ?’’con- tinues Lady Baker. ‘‘ My dear Mrs. 3onuington, you think —”’ ‘‘Certainly, certainly, she go!” cries Mrs. Bonnington. ‘‘Don’t go till Lovel comes home, Miss. These ain’t your mistresses. Lady Baker don’t pay your salary. must LOVEL THE matter | VIDOWER. | Ifyougo,I gotoo. There!” calls out | Bedford, and mumbles something in | her ear about the end of the world. “You go too; and a good rid- | dance, you insolent brute!”’ exclaims | the dowager. “OQ Captain Clarence! you have made a pretty morning’s work,” I say. ‘““T don’t know what the doose all the sherry, — all the shinty ’s about,” says the Captain, playing with the empty decanter. ‘“ Gal’s avery good | gal,— pretty gal. If she choosesh |dansh shport her family, why the 'doosh should n’t she dansh shport a family ?” “That is exactly what I recom- mend this person to do,” says Lady Baker, tossing up her head. “ And now I will thank you to leave the room. Do you hear?” As poor Elizabeth obeyed this or- der, Bedford darted after her; and I | know ere she had gone five steps he had offered her his savings and every- |thing he had. She might have had mine yesterday. But she had de- ceived me. She had played fast and loose with me. She had misled me about this doctor. I could trust her ;no more. My love of yesterday was dead, 1 say. That vase was broke, which never could be mended. She knew all was over between us. She did not once look at me as she left the room. The two dowagers — one of them, I think, a little alarmed at her victo- | ry—left the house, and for once went away in the same barouche. The young maniac who had been the cause of the mischief staggered away, I know not whither. About four o’clock, poor little Pin- horn, the child’s maid, came to me, wellnigh choking with tears, as she handed me a Ietter. ‘‘She’s goin’ away,—and she saved both them children’s lives, she did. And she’ve wrote to you, sir. And Bedford's a goin’. And I'll give warnin’, I will, too!” And the weeping hand- maiden retires, leaving me, perhaps362 somewhat frightened, with the letter | | coming from the city. | drove up at the same moment. “Dprar Sir,” she said, — ‘I may | in my band. write you a line of thanks and fare- well. I shall go to my mother. I shall soon find another place. Poor Bedford, who has a generous heart, told me that he had given you a let- ter of mine to Mr. D. I saw this morning that you knew everything. I can only say now that for all your long kindnesses and friendship to my family I am always your sincere and | grateful — EK. P.” Yes: that was all. I think was grateful. But she had not been candid with me, nor with the poor surgeon. it: a great deal of regard and good- will, nay, admiration, for the intrepid girl who had played a long, hard part | very cheerfully and bravely. But my foolish little flicker of love had blazed up and gone out in a day; I knew that she never could care for me. In that dismal, wakeful night, after reading the letter, I had thought her character and story over, and seen to what a life of artifice and dissimula- tion necessity had compelled her 21% In such circum- | did not blame her. stances, with such a family, how could she be frank and open? Poor thing! poor thing! Do we know anybody ? Ah! dear me, we are most of us very | lonely in the world. You who have any who love you, cling to them, and thank God. I went into the hall to- ward evening: her poor trunks and packages were there, and the little nursery-maid weeping over them. The sight unmanned me; and I be- lieve I cried myself. And with these small chests you re- commence your life’s lonely voyage ! I gave the girl a couple of sovereigns. She sobbed a God bless me! and burst out erying more desperately than ever. Thou hast a kind heart, little Pinhorn ! “© “Miss Prior — to be called for.’ LOVEL THE WIDOWER. she | | mother @ J had no anger: far from | Poor Elizabeth ! | spangles, in the Rose and the Bulbul, Whose trunks are these?” says Lovel, The dowagers “Did n’t you see us from the omni- bus, Frederick ¢’’ cries her Ladyship, coaxingly. ‘We followed behind you all the way.” “We were in the barouche, my dear,’ remarks Mrs. Bonnington, rather nervously. “Whose trunks are these? — what ’s the matter?—and what ’s the girl crying for?” asks Lovel. ‘‘Miss Prior is a going away,” sobs Pinhorn. “Miss Prior going? Is this your doing, my Lady Baker ?—or yours, * the master of the house says, sternly. “She is going, my love, because she cannot stay in this family,’’ says mamma. “'That woman is no fit companion for my angel’s children, Frederick !” cries Lady B. “That person has deceived us all, my love!”’ says mamma. “ Deceived 2 — how? Deceived whom?” continues Mr. Lovel, more and more hotly. ““ Clarence, love! come down, dear! Tell Mr. Lovel everything. Come down and tell him this moment,” cries Lady Baker to her son, who at this moment appears on the corridor which was round the hall. “What ’s the row now, pray? ne And Captain Clarence descends, breaking his shins over poor Eliza- beth’s trunks, and calling down on them his usual maledictions. “Tell Mr. Lovel where you saw that — that person, Clarence! Now, sir, listen to my Cecilia’s brother !” “Saw her — saw her, in blue and at the Prinece’s Theatre,—and a doosed nice-looking girl she was, too!” says the Captain. “There, gir!” “There, Frederick!” cry the matrons, in a breath. “ And what then 2 ” “Mercy! you ask, asks Lovel. What then,( \ A |||) SY : PN = ‘ t \ Ww | SSN As ‘ \ \ OY N KS = SS —— —— —s eS e. Mea \ ; , \ MA \ SBA | | i = URE ——=\ NY “ Lovel’s MothersLOVEL THE WIDOWER. 363 Frederick? Do you know what ajas his master spoke. By this time theatre is? Tell Frederick what a/| the loud voices and the aitercation in theatre is, Mr. Batchelor, and that! the hall had brought a half-dozen of my grandchildren must not be! servants from their quarters into the educated by —” hall. “Go away, all of you!” ““ My grandchildren — my Cecilia’s | shouts Lovel: andthe domestic posse children,” shrieks the other, “must retires, Bedford being the last to not be poll-luted by —”’ retreat, and nodding approval at his “Silence!” I say. ‘‘ Have you a| master as he backs out of the room. word against her, — have you, pray,| “ You are very good, and kind, and rear ed ‘ : J feed ee N}° Baker generous, sir,’ says the pale Eliza- “No. ’Gad! I never said a word | beth, putting a handkerchief to her against her,” says the Captain. ‘No, eyes. ‘But without the confidence hang me, you know, — but —” of these ladies I must rot stay, Mr. “ But suppose I knew the fact the | Lovel. God bless you for your good- whole time ?”’ asks Lovel, with rather | ness to me. I must, if you please, a blush on his cheek. ‘Suppose I! return to my mother.” knew that she danced to give her} The worthy gentleman looked family bread? Suppose I knew that | fiercely round at the rwo elder women, she toiled and labored to support her | and again seizing the governess’s parents, and brothers, and sisters 2 | hand, said, “ Elizabeth! dear Eliza- Suppose I know that out of her pit-| beth! I implore you not to go! If tance she has continued to support | you love the children — ” them? Suppose I know that she} “O sir!” (A cambric veil covers watched my own children through | Miss Prior’s emotion, and the expres- fever and danger? For these reasons | sion of her face, on this ejaculation.) I must turn her out of doors, must I? “Tf you love the children,” gasps No, by Heaven! — No! — Elizabeth! | out the widower, “stay with them. -— Miss Prior!—Come down!—/ If you have a regard for — for their Come here, I beg you!” father’? —(Timanthes, where is thy The governess, arrayed as for de- | pocket-handkerchief?) — “remain in parture, at this moment appeared on! this house, with such a title as none the corridor running round the hall. | can quéstion. Be the mistress of it.” As Loyel continued to speak very “His mistress, — and before me! ” loud and resolute, she came down! screams Lady Baker. “Mrs. Bon- looking deadly pale. nington, this depravity is mon- Still much excited, the widower | strous!” went up to her and took her hand. “Be my wife, dear Elizabeth “Dear Miss Prior!” he said, —J| the widower continues. ‘ Continue “dear Elizabeth! you have been the} to watch over the children, who shall best friend of me and mine. You! be motherless no more.” tended my wife in illness, you took “Frederick! Frederick! have n’t care of my children in fever and | they got us?” shrieks one of the old danger. You have been an admira- | ladies. 22 ble sister, daughter, in your own} “QO, my poor dear Lady Baker!” family, — and for this, and for these | says Mrs. Bonnington. benefits conferred upon us, my rela-| ‘‘O my poor dear Mrs. Bonning- tives — my mother-in-law — would | ton!’ says Lady Baker. drive you out of my doors! It} “Frederick, listen to your mother,” shall not be !— by Heavens, it shall | implores Mrs. Bonnington. not be!” ; “To your mothers!” sobs Lady You should have seen little Bedford, | Baker. sitting on the governess’s box, shak-| And they both go down on thei ing his fist, and crying “ Hurrah!” | knees, and I heard a boohoo of a guf 10”564 faw behind the green-baized servants’ door, where I have no doubt Mons. Bedford was posted. “ Ah! Batchelor, dear Batchelor, speak to him!” cries good Mrs. Bonny. “ Weare praying this child, Batchelor, — this child whom you used to know at College, and when he was a good, gentle, obedient boy. You have influence with my poor Frederick. Exert it for his heart- broken mother’s sake; and you shall have my bubble-uble-essings, — you shall.” ‘‘ My dear, good lady,” I exclaim, — not liking to see the kind soul in grief. ‘‘Send for Doctor Straightwaist! Order him to pause in his madness,” cries Baker; ‘‘or it is I, Cecilia’s mother, the mother of that murdered angel, that shall go mad.” “Angel! Allons, I say. Since his widowhood you have never given the poor fellow any peace. You have been forever quarrelling with him. You took possession of his house ; bul- lied his servants, spoiled his children, —you did, Lady Baker.” ‘¢ Sir,” cries her Ladyship, ‘‘ you are alow, presuming, vulgar man! Clar- ence, beat this rude man!” “Nay,” I say, “there must be no more quarrelling to-day. And I am sure Captain Baker will not molest me. Miss Prior, I am delighted that my old friend should have found a woman of good sense, good ccenduct, good temper,— a woman who has had many trials, and borne them with very great patience, to take charge of him, and make him happy. I con- eratulate you both. Miss Prior has borne poverty so well that I am cer- tain she will bear good fortune, — for it is good fortune to become the wife of such a loyal, honest, kindly gentle- man as Frederick Lovel.”’ After such a speech as that I think I may say, liberavi animam. Not one word of complaint, you see, not a hint | about “Edward,” not a single sar- | ‘asm, though I might have launched some terrific shots out of my quiver, LOVEL THE WIDOWER. and have made Lovel and his bride. elect writhe before me. But what is the need of spoiling sport? Shall I growl out of my sulky manger because my comrade gets the meat? Eat it, happy dog ! and be thankful. Would not that bone have choked me if [had tried it? Besides, I am accustomed to disappointment. Other fellows get the prizes which I try for. 1 am used to run second in the dreary race of love. Second? Pshaw! Third. Fourth. Que scais-je? There was the Bombay Captain in Bess’s early days. There was Edward. Here is Fred- erick. Go to, Charles Batchelor ; repine not at fortune, but be content to be Batchelor still. My sister has children. I will be an uncle, a par- ent to them. Isn't Edward of the scarlet whiskers distanced? Has not poor Dick Bedford lost the race, — poor Dick! who never had a chance, and is the best of us all? Besides, what fun it is to see Lady Baker de- posed: think of Mrs. Prior coming in and reigning over her! ‘The purple- faced old fury of a Baker, never will she bully, and rage, and trample more. She must pack up her traps, and be off. I knowshe must. I can congratulate Lovel sincerely, and that ’s the fact. And here, at this very moment, as if to add to the comicality of the scene, who should appear but mother- ana alu in-law No. 2, Mrs. Prior, with her | blue-coat boy and two or three cf her | children, who had been invited, or | had invited themselves, to drink | with Lovel’s young ones, as their | custom was whenever they could pro- cure an invitation. Master Prior had a fine “copy” under his arm, which he came to show to his patron | Lovel. His mamma, entirely igno- }rant of what had happened, came | fawning in with her old poke-bonnet, her old pocket, that vast depository of all sorts of stories, her old umbrel- la, and her usual dresry smirk. She made her obeisance to the matrons, — | she led up her blue-coat boy to Mr | Lovel, in whose office she hoped 10 or weLOVEL THE WIDOWER. 365 find a clerk’s place for her lad, on| “ Enough of this,” says Mr. Lovel, whose very coat and waistcoat she | | haughtily. “Mrs. Prior, your daugh- had designs while they were yet on/ ter is not going away. Elizabeth has his back: and she straightw ay be-| promised to stay with me, and never gan business with the dows agers, — to leave as governess no longer, “My Lady, I hope your ‘Ladyship | but as—” and here he takes Miss is quite well 0 (a courtesy.) Dear, | Prior’s hand. kind Mrs. Bonnington! JI came to “His wife! Is this —is this true, pay my duty to you, mum. This is Lizzy 2” gasped the mother. Louisa, my ‘Lady, the great girl for} “Yes, mamma,’ * meekly said Miss whom your Ladyship so kindly prom- Elizabeth Prior. ised the gown. And this is my lit- At this the old woman flung down tle girl, Mrs. Bonnington, mum, | her umbrella, and uttering a fine please ; and this is my big Blue. Go| scream, folds E lizabeth in her arms, and speak to dear, kind Mr. Lovel, | and then runs sup to Lovel : “ My Gus, our dear good friend and protec-| son! my son!’ says she (Lovel’s tor — the son and son-in-law of these | face was not bad, I promise you, at dear ladies. Look, sir, he has brought | this salutation and salute). ‘ Come his copy to show you: andit’s credit-| here, children ! — come, Augustus, able to a boy of his age, is n’t it, Mr. Fanny, Louisa, kiss your dear broth- Batchelor? You can say, who know | er, children! ‘And where are yours, so well what writing is, and my kind | Lizzy? Where are Pop and Cissy 2 services to you, sir — and — Eliza-| Go and look for your little nephew beth, Lizzy, my dear! where * s your | and niece, dears: Pop and Cissy in spect tacles ? Vou—= yon == the school-room, or in the garden, Here she stopped, and looking | dears. They will be your nephew alarmed at the group, at the boxes, at | and niece now. Go and fetch them, the blushing Lovel, at the pale coun- | I say.” tenance of the governess, ‘“‘ Gracious As the young Priors filed off, Mrs. goodness!” she said, “what has| Prior turned to the two other ma- happened? Tell me, Lizzy, what is/| trons, and spoke to them with much I) it 2 dignity: ‘Most hot weather, your “Ts this collusion, pray?” says Ladys ship, I’m sure! Mr. Bonning- ruffled Mrs. Bonnington. ton must find it very hot for preach- “Collusion, dear Mrs. Bonning-| ing, Mrs. Bonnington! Lor’! there’s ton? ”” that little wretch “beating my Joh “Or insolence?” bawls out my | on the stairs. Have done, Pop, sir! Lady Baker. | How ever shall we make those children “Insolence, your Ladyship ? What | agree, Elizabeth ? ” —what is it? What are these boxes! Quick, come to me, some skilful — Lizzy’s boxes? Ah!” the mother | delineator of the British dowager, and broke out with a scream, “you ’ve| draw me the countenances of Lady not sent the poor girl away? Oh!) Baker and Mrs. Bonnington ! my poor child —my poor children!” | “TI call this a jolly game, don’t you, ““The Prince’s Theatre has come] Batchelor, old boy?” remarks the out, Mrs. Prior,” here said I. Captain to me. “ Lady Baker, my The mother clasps her meagre | dear, I guess your Ladyship’s nose is hands. “It was n’t the darling’s | out of joint.” it fault. It was to help her poor ae “O Cecilia — Cecilia! don’t you : : ie) yes in poverty. It was I who forced her | shudder in your grave ?” cries Lady toit. O ladies! ladies! —don’t take | B. “Call my people, Clarence,— call the bread out of the mouth of these | Bulkeley,—call my maid! Let a poor orphans ! ” — and genuine tears | go, I say, from this house of horror! rained down her yellow cheeks. and the old lady dashed into the366 drawing-room, where she uttered, I know not what incoherent and appeals before that calm, glazed, simpering portrait of the departed Cecilia. Now this is a truth, for which I| call Lovel, his lady, Mrs. Bonnington, | and Captain Clarence 3aker as wit- nesses. Well, then, while Lady B. was adjuring the portrait, it is a fact that a string of Cecilia’s harp — which has always been standing in the cor- ner of the room under its shroud of | Cordovan leather—a string, I say, of Cecilia’s harp cracked, and went off with a loud bong, which struck | terror into all beholders. Lady Ba- ker’s agitation at the incident was awful; I do not like to describe it,— not having any wish to say anything tragic in this narrative,—though that I can write tragedy, plays of mine (of which envious managers never could be got to see the merit), I think, will | prove when they appear in my post- | humous works. Baker has always averred that at the moment when the harp-string | But as | she lived for many years, and may be alive now for what I know; and as she borrowed money repeatedly from | Lovel, —he must be acquitted of the charge which she constantly brings | against him of hastening her own death, and murdering his first wife “The harp that once in Tara’s Halls” used to make such a piteous feeble thrumming has been carted off I know not whither; and Cecilia’s portrait, though it has been removed from the post of honor | (where, you conceive, under present | circumstances it would hardly be apropos), occupies a very reputable position in the pink room up stairs, broke, her heart broke too. Cecilia. 1 which that poor young Clarence in- habited during my visit to Shrub-| lands. All sic very finely. As for my old room shrieks | the house has been altered. There ’s a fine organ in the hall, on which Elizabeth performs sacred mu- ) LOVEL THE WIDOWER. | under the present government. It is a library now, with many fine and authentic pictures of the Lovel fam- ily hanging up in it, the English branch of the house with the Wolf crest, and Gare a la louve for the mot- to, and a grand posthumous portrait of a Portuguese officer (Gandish), Elizabeth’s late father. As for dear old Mrs. Bonnington, she, you may be sure, would be easily reconciled to any live mortal who was kind to her, and any plan which | should make her son happy; and | Elizabeth has quite won her over. Mrs. Prior, on the deposition of the other dowagers, no doubt expected to reign at Shrublands, but in this ob- | ject Iam not very sorry to say was | disappointed. Indeed, I was not a | little amused, upon the very first day of her intended reign, —that event- ful one of which we have been de- scribing the incidents, — to see how calmly and gracefully Bessy pulled | the throne from under her, on which the old lady was clambering. Mrs. P. knew the house very well, and everything which it contained ; and when Lady Baker drove off with her son and her suite of domestics, Prior dashed through the vacant | apartments, eleaning what had been left in the flurry of departure, —a scarlet feather out of the dowager’s room, a shirt-stud and a bottle of hair-oil, the Captain’s property. “And now they are gone, and as you can’t be alone with him, my dear, I must be with you,” says she, coming down to her daughter. “ Of course, mamma, I must be with you,”’ obedient Eliza- beth. «And there is the pink room, and the blue room, and the yellow room for the boys, — and the chintz bou- doir for me,—I can put them all away, O, so comfortably !’ “T can come and share Louisa’s room, mamma,” says Bessy. “It will not be proper for me te stay here at all, — until afterward, you know. says it would trouble you to smoke there | Or I can go to my uncle at St. Bonkface, don’t you think best, eh, Frederick 2 ” ‘Whatever you wish, Lizzy !” says Lovel. “ And I dare say there will be some little alterations made in the house. You talked, you know, My. Lovel; and the children can go to their grandmamma Bonnington. And on our return, when the alterations are made, we shall always be delighted to see you, Mr. Batchelor,— our kind- est old friend. Shall we not, a— Frederick ? ” ““ Always, always,” said Frederick. “Come, children, come to your teas,” calls out Mrs. P., in a resolute voice. ‘“‘ Dear Pop, I’m not going away,— that is, only for a few days, dear,” says Bessy, kissing the boy; ‘and you will love me, won’t you?” “All right,” says the boy. Cissy said, when the same appeal was made to her: “Ishall love my dear mamma!” and makes her new mother- in-law a very polite courtesy. that will be my dear “TY think you had better put off those men you expect to dinner to- morrow, Fred?” I say to Lovel. “1 think I had, Batch,” says the gentleman. “Or you can dine with them at the club, you know ?”’ remarks Elizabeth. “Yes, Bessy.” LOVEL THE of painting, | WIDOWER. 367 “ Hang me, if I can stand this, Loy- el,” I said, as we sat mum over our third bottle. “TI will go back and sleep at my chambers. I was not a little soft upon her myself, that’s the truth. Here’s her health, and happi- ness to both of you, with all my heart.” And we drained a great bumper apiece, and I left him. He was very happy I should go. Bedford stood at the gate as the | little pony-carriage came for me in the But dusk. “God bless you, sir!” says he. “TI can’t stand it; I shall go too.” And he rubbed his hands over his eyes. te married Mary Pinhorn, and they have emigrated to Melbourne ; whence he sent me, three years ago, an affec- tionate letter and a smart gold pin from the diggings. A month afterward a cab might have been seen driving from the Tem- ple to Hanover Square; and a month | and a day after that drive an adver- | vertisement might have been read in | the Post and Times: ‘Married, on Thursday, 10th, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, by the Reverend the Master of St. Boniface College, Ox- bridge, uncle of the bride, Frederick | Lovel, Esquire, of Shrublands, Roe- | hampton, to Elizabeth, eldest daugh- | ter of the late Captain Montagu | Prior, Keke “And when the children have had their tea I willgo with mamma. My boxes are ready, you know,” says arch | | et plaudite, you good people, who have Bessy. “ And you will stay and dine with Mr. Lovel, won’t you, Mr. Batche- | lor?” asks the lady. It was the dreariest dinner I ever had in my life. No undertaker could be more gloomy than Bedford, as he served us. We ttied to talk poli- tices and literature. We drank much, purposely. | too | somewhat rueful countenances, Nothing would do. ! we” We may hear of Lover Marriep some other day; but here is an end of LovEL THE WIDOWER. Valete witnessed the little comedy. Down with the curtain ; cover up the boxes ; pop out the gaslights. Ho!cab. Take us home, and let us have some tea and go to bed. Good night, my little players. 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