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 THE UBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 E^roOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROP 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 
 PR5612 
 .A 1 
 1888 
 
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 This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the 
 last date stamped under "Date Due." If not on hold it may be 
 renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/historyofhenryesOOthac_0 
 
Beatrix. 
 
THACKERArS COMPLETE WORKS. 
 
 THE STERLING EDITION. 
 
 With 325 Illustrations by the Author, Du Maurier, Cruikshank, 
 Leech, Millais, Barnard, and others. 
 
 THE HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY ESMOND, Esq, 
 
 A COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAJESTY 
 QUEEN ANNE 
 
 WRITTEN B Y HIMSELF pjf^ ^ U) 2^ 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM MAKE3eA€S^HACKERAY 
 
 nORTff 
 
 y! SlV^ ^f ^^ 
 
 ESTES AND LAURIAT 
 1888 
 
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE 
 
 WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON. 
 
 My dear Lord, 
 
 The writer of a book which copies the manners and lan- 
 guage of Queen Anne's time, must not omit the Dedication to 
 the Patron ; and I ask leave to inscribe this volume to j'our 
 Lordship, for the sake of the great kindness and friendship 
 which I 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 I am, I shall gratefully regard you ; and 
 shall not be the less welcomed in America because I am 
 Your obliged friend and servant, 
 
 W. M. THACKERAY. 
 
 London, October 18, 1852. 
 
I 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE ESMONDS OF VIRGINIA. 
 
 The estate of Castle wood, 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 them- 
 selves one after another, though ^ few scores of hogsheads of 
 tobacco were all the produce that, for long after the Restora- 
 tion, our family received from their Virginian estates. 
 
 My dear and honored father. Colonel Henry Esmond, whose 
 history, written by himself, is contained in the accompanying 
 volume, came to Virginia in the year 1718, built his house of 
 Castlewood, and here permanently settled. After a long 
 stormy life in England, he passed the remainder of his many 
 years in peace and honor in this country ; how beloved and 
 respected by all his fellow-citizens, how inexpressibly dear 
 to his famity, I need not say. His whole life was a benefit to 
 all who were connected with him. He gave the best example, 
 the best advice, the most bounteous hospitality to his friends ; 
 the tenderest care to his 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 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 established here in our Republic, or at home in the always 
 beloved mother country, from which our late quarrel hath sepa- 
 rated 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 happ}^ union, 
 to remove him from me, I owed my recover}^ from the grief 
 which that calamity 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 Republic's, I am sure ttiat they love me and one another, 
 and him above all, my father and theirs, the dearest friend of 
 their childhood, the noble gentleman who bred them from their 
 infancy in the practice and knowledge of Truth, and Love and 
 Honor. 
 
 My children will never forget the appearance and figure 
 of their revered grandfather ; and I wish I possessed the art 
 of drawing (which my papa had in perfection), so that I could 
 leave to our descendants a portrait of one who was so good 
 and so respected. My father was of a dark complexion, with 
 a very great forehead and dark hazel eyes, overhung by eye- 
 brows which remained black long after his hair was white. 
 His nose was aquiline, his smile extraordinary sweet. How 
 well I remember it, and how little any description I can write 
 can recall his image ! He was of rather low stature, not being 
 above five feet seven inches in height ; he used to laugh at mj^ 
 sons, whom he called his crutches, and say they were grown 
 too tall for him to lean upon. But small as he was, he had a 
 perfect grace and majest}^ of deportment, such as I have never 
 seen in this country, except perhaps in our friend Mr. Wash- 
 ington, and commanded respect wherever he appeared. 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraor- 
 dinary quickness and agility. Of fencing he was especially 
 fond, and made my two boys proficient in that art ; so much 
 so, that when the French came to this country with Monsieur 
 Rochambeau, not one of his officers was superior to my Henry, 
 and he was not the equal of my poor George, who had taken 
 the King's side in our lamentable but glorious war of in- 
 dependence. 
 
 Neither my father nor mj' mother ever wore powder in their 
 hair ; both their heads were as white as silver, as I can remem- 
 ber them. My dear mother possessed to the last an extraordi- 
 nary 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 recovered 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 delight and consolation to remain with him as his com- 
 forter 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 under- 
 stand 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 repentance that she had not loved me enough : her 
 jealousy even that my father should give his affection to any 
 but herself: and in the most fond and beautiful words of affec- 
 tion and admonition, she bade me never to leave him, and to 
 
vm PREFACE. 
 
 supply the place which she was quitting. With a clear con^ 
 science, 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 complain that his daugh- 
 ter'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 aflTection 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 respect- 
 ing her husband's love. 'Twas a gift so precious, that no 
 wonder she who had it was for keeping it all, and could part 
 with none of it, even to her daughter. 
 
 Though I never heard my father use a rough word, 'twas 
 extraordinary with how much awe his people regarded him ; 
 and the servants on our plantation, both those assigned from 
 England and the purchased negroes, obeyed him with an eager- 
 ness such as the most severe taskmasters round about us could 
 never get from their people. He was never familiar, though 
 perfectly simple and natural ; he was the same with the meanest 
 man as with the greatest, and as courteous to a black slave-girl 
 as to the Governor's wife. No one ever thought of taking a 
 liberty with him (except once a tipsy gentleman from York, 
 and I am bound to own that m}^ papa never forgave him) : he 
 set the humblest people at once on their ease with him, and 
 brought down the most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which 
 made persons exceedingly afraid of hira. His courtesy was not 
 put on like a Sunday suit, and laid by when the company went 
 away ; it was always the same ; as he was always dressed the 
 same, whether for a dinner by ourselves or for a great enter- 
 tainment. They say he liked to be the first in his company ; 
 but what company was there in which he would not be first ? 
 When I went to Europe for my education, and we passed a 
 winter at London with my half-brother, my Lord Castlewood 
 and his second ladj^, I saw at her Majesty's Court some of the 
 most famous gentlemen of those days ; and I thought to myself 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 none of these are better than my papa ; and the famous Lord 
 Bolingbroke, who came to us from Dawley, said as much, and 
 that the men of that time were not like those of his youth : — 
 *' Were your father, Madam," he said, " to go into the woods, 
 the Indians would elect him Sachem ; " and his lordship was 
 pleased to call me Pocahontas. 
 
 I did not see our other relative, Bishop Tusher's lady, of 
 whom so much is said in my papa's memoirs — although my 
 mamma went to visit her in the country. 1 have no pride (as 
 I showed by complying with my mother's request, and marry- 
 ing a gentleman who was but the younger son of a Suffolk 
 Baronet) , yet I own to a decent respect for my name, and won- 
 der 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 li^urope and was then too young 
 to understand), how this person, having left her family and fled 
 to Paris, out of jealousy of the Pretender betrayed his secrets 
 to my Lord Stair, King George's Ambassador, and nearly 
 caused the Prince's death there ; how she came to England and 
 married this Mr. Tusher, and became a great favorite of King 
 George the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a Dean, 
 and then a Bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to re- 
 main at her palace all the time we were in London ; but after 
 visiting her, my poor mamma said she had lost all her good 
 looks, and warned me not to set too much store by any such 
 gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. She grew exceed- 
 ingly stout ; and I remember my brother's wife, Lady Castle- 
 wood, saying — "No wonder she became a favorite, for the 
 King likes them old and ugly, as his father did before him." 
 On which papa said — " All women were alike ; that there was 
 never one so beautiful as that one ; and that we could forgive 
 her everything but her beauty." And hereupon my mamma 
 looked vexed, and my Lord Castlewood began to laugh ; and I, 
 of course, being a young creature, could not understand what 
 was the subject of their conversation. 
 
 After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 Memoirs, my father and mother both went abroad, being ad- 
 vised 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 
 Bishop's lady had quitted Castlewood and joined the Pretender 
 at Paris, pursued him, and would have killed him. Prince as he 
 was, had not the Prince managed to make his escape. On his 
 expedition to Scotland directly after, Castlewood was so en- 
 raged against him that he asked leave to serve as a volunteer, 
 and join the Duke of Arg3^1e's armj^ in Scotland, which the 
 Pretender never had the courage to face ; and thenceforth my 
 Lord was quite reconciled to the present reigning family, from 
 whom he hath even received promotion. 
 
 Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pre- 
 tender as any of her relations could be, and used to boast, as I 
 have heard, that she not only brought back my Lord to the 
 Church of England, but procured the English peerage for him, 
 which the junior branch of our family at present enjoys. She 
 was a great friend of Sir Kobert Walpole, and would not rest 
 until her husband slept at Lambeth, my papa used laughing to 
 say. However, the Bishop died of apoplexy suddenly, and his 
 wife erected a great monument over him ; and the pair sleep 
 under that stone, with a canopy of marble clouds and angels 
 above them — the first Mrs. Tusher lying sixty miles off at 
 Castlewood. 
 
 But my papa's genius and education are both greater than 
 any a woman can be expected to have, and his adventures in 
 Europe far more exciting than his life in this country, which 
 was passed in the tranquil offices of love and duty ; and I shall 
 say no more by way of introduction to his Memoirs, nor keep 
 my children from the perusal of a story which is much more 
 interesting than that of their affectionate old mother, 
 
 RACHEL ESMOND WARRINGTON. 
 Castlewood, Virginia, 
 November 3, 1778. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS 
 LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. An Account of the Family of Esmond of Castlewood 
 
 Hall 4 
 
 II. Relates how Francis, Fourth Viscount, arrives at Castle- 
 wood 9 
 
 III. Whither, in the time of Thomas, Third Viscount, I had 
 
 preceded him as Page to Isabella 16 
 
 IV. I am placed under a Popish Priest and bred to that 
 
 Religion. — Viscountess Castlewood 26 
 
 V. My Superiors are engaged in Plots for the Restoration of 
 
 King James II 32 
 
 VI. The Issue of the Plots. — The Death of Thomas, Third 
 Viscount of Castlewood ; and the Imprisonment of his 
 
 Viscountess 42 
 
 VII. I am left at Castlewood an Orphan, and find most kind 
 
 Protectors there 55 
 
 VIII. After Good Fortune comes Evil 62 
 
 IX. I have the Small-pox, and prepare to leave Castlewood . 70 
 
 X. I go to Cambridge, and do but little Good there ... 88 
 XI. I come Home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and find a 
 
 Skeleton in the House 94 
 
 XII. My Lord Mohun comes among us for no Good .... 106 
 
 XIII. My Lord leaves us and his Evil behind him 114 
 
 XIV. We ride after him to London 126 
 
xii CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK n. 
 
 CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS 
 APPERTAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY. 
 
 Chapteb Pagb 
 
 I. I am in Prison, and Visited, but not Consoled there . . 141 
 
 II. I come to the End of my Captivity, but not of my Trouble 150 
 
 III. I take the Queen's Pay in Quin's Regiment 158 
 
 IV. Recapitulations 166 
 
 V. I go on the Vigo Bay Expedition, taste Salt Water and 
 
 smell Powder 172 
 
 VI. The 29th December 182 
 
 VII. I am made Welcome at Walcote 188 
 
 VIII. Family Talk 197 
 
 IX. I make the Campaign of 1704 203 
 
 X. An Old Story about a Fool and a Woman 212 
 
 XI. The famous Mr. Joseph Addison 220 
 
 XII. I get a Company in the Campaign of 1706 230 
 
 XIII. I meet an Old Acquaintance in Flanders, and find my 
 
 Mother's Grave and my own Cradle there .... 235 
 
 XIV. The Campaign of 1707, 1708 246 
 
 XV. General Webb wins the Battle of Wynendael .... 253 
 
 BOOK IIL 
 
 CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND. 
 
 I. I come to an End of my Battles and Bruises .... 277 
 
 II. I go Home, and harp on the Old String 289 
 
 III. APaper out of the *' Spectator" 302 
 
 IV. Beatrix's New Suitor 318 
 
 V. Mohun appears for the Last Time in this History . . . 328 
 
 VI. Poor Beatrix 340 
 
 VII. I visit Castlewood once more 345 
 
 VIII. I travel to France and bring Home a Portrait of Rigaud 355 
 
 IX. The Original of the Portrait comes to England . . . 364 
 
 X. We entertain a very Distinguished Guest at Kensington 376 
 
 XI. Our Guest quits us as not being Hospitable enough . . 389 
 
 XII. A great Scheme, and who Balked it 398 
 
 Xm. August 1st, 1714 403 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Henry Esmond finds Friends 6 
 
 Parting 87 
 
 The Duel in Leicester Field 137 
 
 Beatrix 189 
 
 The Chevalier de St. George 289 
 
 Reconciliation 327 
 
 Monsieur Baptiste < 370 
 
 The Last of Beatrix 411 
 

THE HISTOEY OF 
 
 HENRY ESMOND 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OP 
 HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their 
 iambics to a tuDe, speaking from under a mask, and wearing 
 stilts and a great head-dress. 'Twas thought the dignity of 
 the Tragic Muse required these appurtenances, and that she 
 was not to move except to a measure and cadence. So Queen 
 Medea slew her children to a slow music : and King Agamem- 
 non perished in a dying fall (to use Mr. Dryden's words) : the 
 Chorus standing b^^ in a set attitude, and rhythmically and deco- 
 rousl}^ bewailing the fates of those great crowned persons. The 
 Muse of History hath encumbered herself with ceremon}' 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 obsequi- 
 ously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of court (cere- 
 monies, and had nothing to do with the registering of the aff'airs 
 of the common people. I have seen in his very old age and 
 decrepitude the old French King Lewis the Fourteenth, the 
 type and model of kinghood — who never moved but to meas- 
 ure, who lived and died according to the laws of his Court- 
 marshal, persisting in enacting through life the part of Hero ; 
 and, divested of poetiy, this was but a little wrinkled old man, 
 pock-marked, and with a great periwig and red heels to make 
 him look tall — a hero for a book if j'ou like, or for a brass 
 statue or a painted ceiling, a god in a Roman shape, but what 
 more than a man for Madame Maintenon, or the barber who 
 shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, his surgeon? I wonder shall 
 History ever pull off her periwig and cease to be court-ridden ? 
 
2 THE HISTORY OF HE:N^RY ESMOND. 
 
 Shall we see something of France and England besides Ver- 
 sailles and Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place 
 tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driv- 
 ing her one-horse chaise — a hot, red-faced woman, not in the 
 least resembling that statue of her which turns its stone back 
 upon St. Paul's, and faces the coaches struggling up Ludgate 
 Hill. She was neither better bred nor wiser than you and me, 
 though we knelt to hand her a letter or a wash-hand basin. 
 Why shall Historj^ go on kneeling to the end of time ? I am 
 for having her rise up off her knees, and take a natural posture : 
 not to be for ever performing cringes and congees like a court- 
 chamberlain, and shuffling backwards out of doors in the pres- 
 ence of the sovereign. In a word, I would have History famihar 
 rather than heroic : and think that Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Field- 
 ing will give our children a much better idea of the manners 
 of the present age in England, than the Court Gazette and the 
 newspapers which we get thence. 
 
 There was a German officer of Webb's, with whom we used 
 to joke, and of whom a story (whereof I m^'self was the author) 
 was got to be believed in the arm}', that he was eldest son of 
 the hereditary Grand Bootjack of the Empire, and the heir to 
 that honor of which his ancestors had been ver}' 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 Castle wood, of part of whose famih^ these present vol- 
 umes are a chronicle, though he came of quite as good blood as 
 the Stuarts whom he served (and who as regards mere lineage 
 are no better than a dozen English and Scottish houses I could 
 name), was prouder of his post about the Court than of his 
 ancestral honors, and valued his dignit}' (as Lord of the But- 
 teries and Groom of the King's Posset) so highly, that he 
 cheerfully ruined himself for the thankless and thriftless race 
 who bestowed it. He pawned his plate for King Charles the 
 First, mortgaged his property for the same cause, and lost the 
 greater part of it by fines and sequestration : stood a siege of 
 his castle by Ireton, where his brother Thomas capitulated 
 (afterward making terms with the Commonwealth, for which 
 the elder brother never forgave him), and where his second 
 brother Edward, who had embraced the ecclesiastical profes- 
 sion, was slain on Castle wood Tower, being engaged there 
 both as preacher and artilleryman. This resolute old loyalist, 
 who was with the King whilst his house was thus being bat- 
 tered down, escaped abroad with his only son, then a boy, to 
 return and take a part in Worcester fight. On that fatal field 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 3 
 
 Eustace Esmond was killed, and Castle wood fled from it once 
 more into exile, and henceforward, and after the Restoration, 
 never was awa}' from the Court of the monarch (for whose 
 return we offer thanks in the Praj'er-Book) who sold his coun- 
 try and who took bribes of the French king. 
 
 What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in 
 exile? Who is more worth}^ of respect than a brave man in 
 misfortune? Mr. Addison has painted such a figure in his 
 noble piece of Cato. But suppose fugitive Cato fuddhng him- 
 self 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 dignit}^ of misfortune is straightway lost. 
 The Historical Muse turns awa}^ shamefaced from the vulgar 
 scene, and closes the door — on which the exile's unpaid drink 
 is scored up — upon him and his pots and his pipes, and the 
 tavern-chorus which he and his friends are singing. Such a 
 man as Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris to paint 
 him. Your Knellers and Le Bruns onl}^ de-al in clumsy and 
 impossible allegories : and it hath always seemed to me blas- 
 phemy to claim Olympus for such a wine-drabbled divinity as 
 that. 
 
 About the King's follower, the Viscount Castlewood — or- 
 phan of his son, ruined b}^ his fidelit}^, bearing many wounds 
 and marks of braver}^, old and in exile — his kinsmen I sup- 
 pose should be silent ; nor if this patriarch fell down in his 
 cups, call fie upon him, and fetch passers-by to laugh at his 
 red face and white hairs. What ! does a stream rush out of a 
 mountain free and pure, to roll through fair pastures, to feed 
 and throw out bright tributaries, and to end in a village gutter? 
 Lives that have noble commencements have often no better 
 endings ; it is not 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 success in life to 
 take off my hat and huzzah to it as it passes in its gilt coach : 
 and would do m}' little part with my neighbors on foot, that 
 the}^ should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too 
 loudly. Is it the Lord Mayor going in state to mince-pies and 
 the Mansion House? Is it poor Jack of Newgate's procession, 
 with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting him on his last 
 journe}' to Tyburn ? I look into my heart and think that I am 
 as good as m}^ 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 pla}^ the part of Alderman ver}^ well, and sen- 
 tence Jack after dinner. Starve me, keep me from books and 
 
4 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOiN^D. 
 
 honest people, educate me to love dice, gin, and pleasure, and 
 put me on Hdunslow Heath, with a purse before me, and I will 
 take it. " And I shall be deservedly hanged," sa}^ you, wish- 
 ing to put an end to this prosing. I don't sa}^ No. I can't 
 but accept the world as I find it, including a rope's end, as long 
 as it is in fashion. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLE WOOD HALL. 
 
 When Francis, fourth Viscount Castle wood, came to his title, 
 and presently after to take possession of his house of Castle- 
 wood, county Hants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant 
 of the place besides the domestics was a lad of twelve j'ears of 
 age, of whom no one seemed to take any note until mj Lady 
 Viscountess lighted upon him, going over the house with the 
 housekeeper on the da}^ of her arrival. The boy was in the 
 room known as the Book-room, or Yellow Caller}^, where the por- 
 traits of the family used to hang, that fine piece among others 
 of Sir Antonio Van Dyck of George, second Viscount, and that 
 by Mr. Dobson of my lord the third Viscount, just deceased, 
 which it seems his lady and widow did not think fit to carry 
 away, when she sent for and carried ofl" to her house at Chelse}-, 
 near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely, in 
 which her lad3'ship was represented as a huntress of Diana's 
 court. 
 
 The new and fair lady of Castlewood 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, performing a shy obeisance to the mistress 
 of his house. 
 
 She stretched out her hand — indeed when was it that that 
 hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to pro- 
 tect grief and ill-fortune? "And this is our kinsman," she 
 said ; " and what is 3^our name, kinsman ? " 
 
 ''My name is Henr}^ Esmond," said the lad, looking up at 
 her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she had come upon him 
 as a Dea certe, and appeared the most charming object he had 
 ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold of 
 the sun ; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom ; her lips 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 5 
 
 smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness which made 
 Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise. 
 
 " His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady," saj's 
 Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry 
 Esmond plagued more than he hated) , and the old gentlewoman 
 looked signiiicantly towards 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 Em- 
 peror during the war on the Danube against the Turk. 
 
 Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this por- 
 trait and the lad, the new Viscountess, who had still hold of the 
 bo3''s hand as she looked at the picture, blushed and dropped 
 the hand quicklj^, and walked down the gallery, followed b3^ 
 Mrs, Worksop. 
 
 When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly 
 in the same spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when he 
 dropped it on his black coat. 
 
 Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned 
 as much) , at the notion that she should do anything unkind to 
 an}' mortal, great or small ; for, when she returned, she had 
 sent away the housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the 
 farther end of the gallerj' ; and, coming back to the lad, with a 
 look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his 
 hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and say- 
 ing 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 ver}' last hour of his 
 life, Esmond remembered the lady as she then spoke and looked, 
 the rings on her fair hands, the very scent of her robe, the 
 beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise and kindness, her 
 lips blooming in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round 
 her hair. 
 
 As the boy was yet in this attitude of humihty, enters be- 
 hind 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 lad}' blushed, and seemed to depre- 
 cate his ridicule b}' a look of appeal to her husband, for it was 
 m}' Lord Viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, 
 having once before seen him in the late lord's lifetime. 
 
 ' ' So this is the little priest ! " says my lord, looking down 
 at the lad ; '' welcome, kinsman." 
 
6 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 
 
 " He is saying his praj'ers to mamma," says the little girl, 
 who came up to her papa's knees ; and my lord burst out into 
 another great laugh at this, and kinsman Henr3^ looked very 
 silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in repl}', but 'twas 
 months afterwards when he thought of this 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 bo}^, who understood her, though doubtless 
 she thought otherwise, thanked her with all his heart for her 
 kind speech. 
 
 " And he shan't want for friends here," says my lord in a 
 kind voice, " shall he, little Trix?" 
 
 The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom her papa 
 called bj' this diminutive, looked at Henr}^ Esmond solemnly, 
 with a pair of large e3'es, and then a smile shone over her face, 
 which was as beautiful as that of a cherub, and she came up 
 and put out a little hand to him. A keen and delightful pang 
 of gratitude, happiness, affection, filled the orphan child's heart, 
 as he received from the protectors, whom Heaven had sent to 
 him, these touching words and tokens of friendliness and kind- 
 ness. 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 lad3^, it had rung onl}^ terror and anxiety to him, for he 
 knew not how the new owner would deal with him ; and those 
 to whom he formerl}^ 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 welcome mj^ Lord Castlewood — for 
 Henr}' Esmond was no servant, though a dependant ; no rela- 
 tive, 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 ma}' be sure, a feast 
 was got ready, and guns were fired, and tenants and domestics 
 huzzahed when his carriage approached and rolled into the 
 court-yard of the Hall) , no one ever took any notice of young 
 Henry Esmond, who sat unobserved and alone in the Book- 
 room, until the afternoon of that day, when his new friends 
 found him. 
 
 When my lord and lady were going away thence, the little 
 girl, still holding her kinsman b}' the hand, bade him to come 
 too. " Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, 
 Trix," says her father to her good-naturedl}' ; and went into 
 the gallerj^, giving an arm to his lady. They passed thence 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 7 
 
 through the music-gallery, long since dismantled, and Queen 
 Elizabeth's Rooms, in the clock-tower, and out into the terrace, 
 where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darkling 
 woods with a cloud of rooks returning ; and the plain and river 
 with Castle wood village beyond, and purple hills beautiful to 
 look at — and the little heir of Castlewood, a child of two 3'ears 
 old, was already here on the terrace in his nurse's arms, from 
 whom he ran across the grass instantl}' he perceived his mother, 
 and came to her. 
 
 "If thou canst not be happy here," says my lord, looking 
 round at the scene, " thou art hard to please, Rachel." 
 
 " I am happy where 3^ou are," she said, " but we were hap- 
 piest of all at Walcote Forest." Then my lord began to de- 
 scribe what was before them to his wife, and what indeed little 
 Harry knew better than he — viz. , the historj' of the house : 
 how b}^ yonder gate the page ran away with the heiress of Castle- 
 wood, by which the estate came into the present family; how 
 the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower, which my lord's 
 father was slain in defending. " I was but tw^o 3'ears 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 3'ou, Rachel," answers my lord, 
 looking fondl^^ down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, 
 and was at that time scarce twenty 3'ears old. 
 
 " You know, Frank, I will do an3'thing to please 3'ou," saj^s 
 she, " and I promise you I will grow older every da3'." 
 
 "You mustn't call papa, Frank; 3'ou must call papa my 
 lord now," sa3S Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head ; at 
 which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, 
 and the little trotting bo3' laughed, not knowing why — but 
 because he was happ3', no doubt — as ever3' one seemed to be 
 there. How those trivial incidents and words, the landscape 
 and sunshine, and the group of people smiling and talking, 
 remain fixed on the memor3' ! 
 
 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 3'Ou will come 
 too, kinsman, won't 3'ou?" she said. 
 
 Harr3' Esmond blushed: "I — I have supper with Mrs. 
 Worksop," says he. 
 
 " D — n it," sa3's my lord, " thou shalt sup with us, Harr3^, 
 to-night! Shan't refuse a lad3', shall he, Trix?" — and they 
 all wondered at Harry's performance as a trencher-man, in 
 
8 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 which character the poor boy acquitted himself ver}" remark- 
 ably ; for the truth is he had had no dinner, nobody thinking 
 of him in the bustle which the house was in, during the prepa- 
 rations antecedent to the new lord's arrival. 
 
 " No dinner ! poor dear child ! " says my lady, heaping up 
 Lis plate with meat, and my lord, filling a bumper for him, 
 bade him call a health ; on which Master Harry, crying " The 
 King," tossed off the wine. My lord was ready to drink that, 
 and most other toasts : indeed onl}' 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 company for some hours 
 over a pipe and a punch-bowl ; and went awa}^ home with 
 rather a reeling gait, and declaring a dozen of times, that his 
 lordship's affability surpassed everj^ kindness he had ever had 
 from his lordship's gracious famil3\ 
 
 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 da\' 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 pa- 
 tron ; and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night 
 should in an}' way be withdrawn or altered. But presently little 
 Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, 
 who greeted Hany as kindl}" 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 inter- 
 est ; and then he told her, with respect to the night before, 
 that he understood French, and thanked her for her protec- 
 tion. 
 
 " Do you?" says she, with a blush ; " then, sir, jon shall 
 teach me and Beatrix." And she asked him man^^ more ques- 
 tions 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. 
 
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLE- 
 WOOD. 
 
 'Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of 
 Castlewood, com. Hants, came into possession of the present 
 family through Dorothea, daughter and heiress of Edward, 
 Earl and Marquis Esmond, and Lord of Castlewood, wiiich 
 lady married, 23 Eliz., Henry Poyns, gent.; the said Henry 
 being then a page in the household of her father. Francis, 
 son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea, who took the 
 maternal name which the family 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 mone}' to that 
 unfortunate Prince ; and receiving man}^ wounds in the battles 
 against the Imperialists, in which Sir Francis engaged. 
 
 On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his ser- 
 vices and many sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the First, 
 who graciously conferred upon this tried servant the post of 
 Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, 
 which high and confidential office he filled in that king's and 
 his unhappy successor's reign. 
 
 His age, and many wounds and infirmities, obliged Sir 
 Francis to perform much of his duty by deputy ; and his son. 
 Sir George Esmond, knight and banneret, first as his father's 
 lieutenant, and afterwards as inheritor of his father's title and 
 dignity, performed this office during almost the whole of the 
 reign of King Charles the First, and his two sons who suc- 
 ceeded 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 property which 
 he expected at the demise of his father-in-law, who devised 
 his money to his second daughter, Barbara, a spinster. 
 
 Sir George Esmond, on his part, was conspicuous for his 
 attachment and loyalty to the Royal cause and person ; and 
 
10 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOXD. 
 
 the King being at Oxford in 1642, Sir George, with the consent 
 of his father, then very aged and infirm, and residing at his 
 house of Castle wood, melted the whole of the family plate for 
 his Majest3's service. 
 
 For this, and other sacrifices and merits, his Majesty, by 
 patent under the Priv}^ Seal, dated Oxford, Jan., 1643, was 
 pleased to advance Sir Francis Esmond to the dignity of Vis- 
 count Castlewood, of Shandon, in Ireland : and the Viscount's 
 estate being much impoverished by loans to the King, which in 
 those troublesome times his Majest}" could not repa}', a grant of 
 land in the plantations of Virginia was given to the Lord Vis- 
 count ; part of which land is in possession of descendants of his 
 family to the present day. 
 
 The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and within a 
 few months after he had been advanced to his honors. He was 
 succeeded by his eldest son, the before-named George ; and left 
 issue besides, Thomas, a colonel in the King's armj', who after- 
 wards joined the Usurper's Government ; and Francis, in holy 
 orders, who was slain whilst defending the House of Castlewood 
 against the Parliament, anno 1647. 
 
 George Lord Castlewood (the second Viscount), of King 
 Charles the First's time, had no male issue save his one son, 
 Eustace P^smond, who was killed, with half of the Castlewood 
 men beside him, at Worcester fight. The lands about Castle- 
 wood were sold and apportioned to the Commonwealth men ; 
 Castlewood being concerned in almost all of the plots against 
 the Protector, after the death of the King, and up to King 
 Charles the Second's restoration. My lord followed that king's 
 Court about in its exile, having ruined himself in its service. 
 He had but one daughter, who was of no great comfort to her 
 father ; for 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 earl}^ joined the Roman 
 Church ; her father, a weak man, following her not long after at 
 Breda. 
 
 On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas 
 Esmond, nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling, 
 became heir to the title. His father had taken the Parliament 
 side in the quarrels, and so had been estranged from the chief 
 of his house ; and m}" Lord Castlewood was at first so much en- 
 raged to think that his title (albeit little more than an emptj* 
 one now) should pass to a rascally Roundhead, that he would 
 have married again, and indeed proposed to do so to a A'intner's 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 11 
 
 daughter at Bruges, to whom his lordship owed a score for 
 lodging when the King was there, but for fear of the laughter 
 of the Court, and the anger of his daughter, of whom he stood 
 in awe ; for she was in temper as imperious 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 ajid her cousin, the son of that Francis Esmond 
 who was killed at Castlewood siege. And the lady, it was said, 
 took a fancy to the young man, who was her junior by several 
 years (which circumstance she did not consider to be a fault in 
 him) ; but having paid his court, and being admitted to the 
 intimac}' of the house, he suddenl}^ flung up his suit, when it 
 seemed to be pretty prosperous, without giving a pretext for 
 his behavior. His friends rallied him at what they iaughingl3^ 
 chose to call his infidelity ; Jack Churchill, Frank Esmond's 
 lieutenant in the Royal Regiment of Foot-guards, getting the 
 company which Esmond vacated, when he left the Court and 
 went to Tangier in a rage at discovering that his promotion 
 depended on the complaisance of his elderly affianced bride. 
 He and Churchill, who had been condiscipuli at St. Paul's 
 School, had words about this matter ; and Frank Esmond said 
 to him with an oath, " Jack, 3'our sister ma}' be so-and-so, but 
 by Jove m}' wife shan't ! " and swords were drawn, and blood 
 drawn too, until friends separated them on this quarrel. Few 
 men were so jealous about the point of honor in those days ; 
 and gentlemen of good birth and lineage thought a royal blot 
 was an ornament to their family coat. Frank Esmond retired 
 in the sulks, first to Tangier, whence he returned after two 
 years' service, settling on a small propert}' he had of his mother, 
 near to Winchester, and became a country gentleman, and kept 
 a pack of beagles, and never came to Court again in King 
 Charles's time. But his uncle Castlewood was never reconciled 
 to him ; nor, for some time afterwards, his cousin whom he 
 had refused. 
 
 By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts from 
 the King, whilst his daughter was in favor. Lord Castlewood, 
 who had spent in the Royal service his 3"Outh and fortune, did 
 not retrieve the latter quite, and never cared to visit Castle- 
 wood, or repair it, since the death of his son, but managed to 
 keep a good house, and figure at Court, and to save a consider- 
 able sum of read}" money. 
 
 , And now, his heir and nephew, Thomas Esmond, began to 
 bid for his uncle's favor. Thomas had served with the Emperor, 
 
12 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 and with the Dutch, when King Charles was compelled to lend 
 troops to the States ; and against them, when his Majesty made 
 an alliance with the French King. In these campaigns Thomas 
 Esmond was more remarked for duelling, brawling, vice, and 
 play, than for any conspicuous gallantry in the field, and came 
 back to England, like many another English gentleman who 
 has travelled, with a character by no means improved b}' his 
 foreign experience. He had dissipated his small paternal in- 
 heritance of a younger brother's portion, and, as truth must 
 be told, was no better than a hanger-on of ordinaries, and a 
 brawler about Alsatia and the Friars, when he bethought him 
 of a means of mending his fortune. 
 
 His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had 
 nobody's word but her own for the beauty which she said she 
 once possessed. She was lean, and j'ellow, and long in the 
 tooth ; all the red and white in all the toy-shops in London 
 could not make a beauty of her — Mr. Killigrew called her the 
 Sybil, the death's-head put up at the King's feast as a memento 
 mori^ &c. — in fine, a woman who might be easy of conquest, 
 but whom only a very bold man would think of conquering. 
 This bold man was Thomas Esmond. He had a fancy to my 
 Lord Castlewood's savings, the amount of which rumor had very 
 much exaggerated. Madame Isabel was said to have Royal 
 jewels of great value ; whereas poor Tom Esmond's last coat 
 but one was in pawn. 
 
 My lord had at this time a fine house in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, 
 nigh to the Duke's Theatre and the Portugal ambassador's 
 chapel. Tom Esmond, who had frequented the one as long 
 as he had money to spend among the actresses, now came to 
 the church as assiduously. He looked so lean and shabb}^ 
 that he passed without difficulty for a repentant sinner ; and so, 
 becoming converted, 3'ou may be sure took his uncle's priest 
 for a director. 
 
 This charitable father reconciled him with the old lord, his 
 uncle, who a short time before would not speak to him, as Tom 
 passed under my lord's coach window, his lordship going in 
 state to his place at Court, while his nephew slunk bj' with his 
 battered hat and feather, and the point of his rapier sticking 
 out of the scabbard — to his twopenny ordinary in Bell Yard. 
 
 Thomas Esmond, after this reconcihation with his uncle, 
 very soon began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the benefits 
 of good living and clean linen. He fasted rigorouslj^ twice a 
 week, to be sure ; but he made amends on the other daj^s : and, 
 to show how great his appetite was, Mr. Wycherley said, he 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEiN'RY ESMOND. 13 
 
 ended by swallowing that fly-blown rank old morsel his cousin. 
 There were endless jokes and lampoons about this marriage at 
 Court : but Tom rode thither in his uncle's coach now, called 
 him father, and having won could afford to laugh. This mar- 
 riage took place very shortl}' before King Charles died : whom 
 the Viscount of Castlewood speedilj' 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 ph3'sicians, had only a brief existence. His 
 tainted blood did not run very long in his poor feeble little 
 body. Symptoms of evil broke out early on him ; and, part 
 from flattery, part superstition, nothing would satisfy my lord 
 and lady, especially the latter, but having the poor little cripple 
 touched by his Majesty at his church. They were ready to cry 
 out miracle at first (the doctors and quack-salvers being con- 
 stantly in attendance on the child, and experimenting on his 
 poor little body with every conceivable nostrum) — but though 
 there seemed, from some reason, a notable amelioration in the 
 infant's health after his Majesty touched him, in a few weeks 
 afterward the poor thing died — causing the lampooners of the 
 Court to say, that the King, in expelling evil out of the infant 
 of Tom Esmond and Isabella his wife, expelled the life out of 
 it, which was nothing but corruption. 
 
 The mother's natural pang at losing this poor little child 
 must have been increased when she thought of her rival Frank 
 Esmond's wife, who was a favorite of the whole Court, where 
 my poor Lady Castlewood was neglected, and who had one 
 child, a daughter, flourishing and beautiful, and was about to 
 become a mother once more. 
 
 The Court, as I have heard, onl}' laughed the more because 
 the poor lady, who had pretty well passed the age when ladies 
 are accustomed to have children, nevertheless determined not 
 to give hope up, and even when she came to live at Castlewood, 
 was constantly sending over to Hexton for the doctor, and 
 announcing to her friends the arrival of an heir. This absurdity 
 of hers was one amongst many others which the wags used to 
 jjlay upon. Indeed, to the last days of her life, my Lady 
 Viscountess had the comfort of fancying herself beautiful, and 
 persisted in blooming up to the very midst of winter, painting 
 roses on her cheeks long after their natural season, and attiring 
 herself like summer though her head was covered with snow. 
 
 Gentlemen who were about the Court of King Charles, and 
 King James, have told the present writer a number of stories 
 abbut this queer old lady, with which it's not necessary that 
 
14 THE PIISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 posterity should be entertained. She is said to have had great 
 powers of invective ; and, if she fought with all her rivals in 
 King James's favor, 'tis certain she must have had a vast 
 number of quarrels on her hands. She was a woman of an 
 intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pursued and rather fatigued his 
 Majesty with her rights and her wrongs. Some say that the 
 cause of her leaving Court was jealousy of Frank Esmond's 
 wife : others, that she was forced to retreat after a great battle 
 which took place at Whitehall, between her ladyship and Lad}^ 
 Dorchester, Tom Killigrew's daughter, whom the King delighted 
 to honor, and in which that ill-favored Esther got the better 
 of our elderly- Vashti. But her ladyship, for her part, always 
 averred that it was her husband's quarrel, and not her own, 
 which occasioned the banishment of the two into the country ; 
 and the cruel ingratitude of the Sovereign in giving awa}^, out 
 of the family, that place of Warden of the Butteries and Groom 
 of the King's Posset, which the two last Lords Castlewood had 
 held so honorably, and which was now conferred upon a fellow 
 of 3'esterda_y, and a hanger-on of that udious Dorchester creature, 
 my Lord Bergamot ; * ''I never," said m}' lady, "could have 
 come to see his Majesty's posset carried by an}'^ other hand 
 than an Esmond. I should have dashed the salver out of Lord 
 Bergamot's hand, had I met him." And those who knew her 
 ladj'ship are aware that she was a person quite capable of per- 
 forming this feat, had she not wiseh' kept out of the way. 
 
 Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which, 
 indeed, she liked to bring most persons who came near her. 
 Lad}' Castlewood could command her husband's obedience, and 
 so broke up her establishment at London ; she had removed 
 from Lincoln's-Inn-Fields to Chelse^^, to a pretty new house 
 she bought there ; and brought her establishment, her maids, 
 lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her priest, and his lordship her 
 husband, to Castlewood Hall, that she had never seen since 
 she quitted it as a child with her father during the troubles of 
 King Charles the First's reign. The walls were still open in 
 the old house as they had been left b}' the shot of the Common- 
 wealthmen. A part of the mansion was restored and furbished 
 up with the plate, hangings, and furniture brought from the 
 
 * Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, ann. 1686, Gentleman Usher 
 of the Back Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of the Butteries and 
 Groom of the King's Posset (on the decease of George, second Viscount 
 Castlewood), accompanied his Majesty to St. Germain's, where he died 
 without issue. No Groom of the Posset was appointed by the Prince of 
 Orange, nor hath there been such an officer in any succeeding reign. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 15 
 
 house in London. My lad}^ meant to have a triumphal entry 
 into Castle wood village, and expected the people to cheer as 
 she drove over the Green in her great coach, my lord beside 
 her, her gentlewomen, lap-dogs, and cockatoos on the opposite 
 seat, six horses to her carriage, and servants armed and mounted 
 following it and preceding it. But 'twas in the height of the 
 No-Popery cr}" ; the folks in the village and the neighboring 
 town were scared by the sight of her ladj'ship's painted face 
 and eyelids, as she bobbed her head out of the coach window, 
 meaning, no doubt, to be very gracious ; and one old woman 
 said, " Lad}- Isabel ! lord-a-mercy, it's Lady Jezebel ! " a name 
 by which the enemies of the right honorable Viscountess were 
 afterwards in the habit of designating her. The countrj" was 
 then in a great No-Poper}^ fervor ; her ladj^ship's known con- 
 version, and her husband's, the priest in her train, and the 
 service performed at the chapel of Castlewood (though the 
 chapel had been built for that worship before any other was 
 heard of in the country, and though the service was performed 
 in the most quiet manner), got her no favor at first in the 
 county or village. By far the greater part of the estate of 
 Castlewood had been confiscated, and been parcelled out to 
 Commonwealthmen. One or two of these old Cromwellian 
 soldiers were still alive in the village, and looked griml}^ at first 
 upon my Lad}^ Viscountess, when she came to dwell there. 
 
 She appeared at the Hexton Assembly, bringing her lord 
 after her, scaring the country folks with the splendor of her 
 diamonds, which she always wore in public. They said she 
 wore them in private, too, and slept with them round her neck ; 
 though the writer can pledge his word that this was a calumu}'. 
 " If she were to take them off*," my Lady Sark said, "Tom 
 Esmond, her husband, would run away with them and pawn 
 them." 'Twas another calumny. My Lady Sark was also an 
 exile from Court, and there had been war between the two 
 ladies before. 
 
 The village people began to be reconciled presentl}^ to their 
 lady, who was generous and kind, though fantastic and haughtj-, 
 in her waj's ; and whose praises Dr. Tusher, the Vicar, sounded 
 loudly amongst his flock. As for my lord, he gave no great 
 trouble, being considered scarce more than an appendage to 
 my lad}^ who, as daughter of the old lords of Castlewood, and 
 possessor of vast wealth, as the country folks said (though 
 indeed nine-tenths of it existed but in rumor), was looked 
 upon as the real queen of the Castle, and mistress of all it 
 (Contained. 
 
16 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHITHER IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD 
 PRECEDED HIM AS PAGE TO ISABELLA. 
 
 Coming up to London again some short time after this re- 
 treat, 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 Hugue- 
 nots by the French king had brought over to this countr3\ 
 With this old man lived a Uttle lad, who went by the name of 
 Henry Thomas. He remembered to have lived in another 
 place a short time before, near to London too, amongst looms 
 and spinning-wheels, and a great deal of psalm-singing and 
 church-going, and a whole colon}^ 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 homeh', was a thousand times 
 dearer to him than that of Mrs. Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pastou- 
 reau's new wife, who came to live with him after aunt went 
 away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to be called, 
 lived Uncle George, who was a weaver too, but used to tell 
 Harry that he was a little gentleman, and that his father was a 
 captain, and his mother an angel. 
 
 When he said so, Bon Papa used to look up from the loom, 
 where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and say, 
 " Angel ! she belongs to the Babylonish scarlet woman." Bon 
 Papa was always talking of the scarlet woman. He had a 
 little room where he always used to preach and sing h^^mns 
 out of his great old nose. Little Harrj' did not like the preach- 
 ing ; he liked better the fine stories which aunt used to tell 
 him. Bon Papa's wife never told him pretty stories ; she quar- 
 relled with Uncle George, and he went away. 
 
 After this, Harry's Bon Papa and his wife and two children 
 of her own that she brought with her, came to live at Ealing. 
 The new wife gave her children the best of everything, and 
 Harrj- manj- a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows, he 
 got ill names from her, which need not be set down here, for 
 the sake of old Mr. Pastoureau, who was still kind sometimes. 
 The unhappiness of those days is long forgiven, though they 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 17 
 
 cast a shade of melanchol}^ over the child's youth, which will 
 accompan}^ him, no doubt, to the end of his days : as those 
 tender twigs are bent the trees grow afterward ; and he, at 
 least, who has suffered as a child, and is not quite perverted in 
 that early school of unhappiness, learns to be gentle and long- 
 suffering with little children. 
 
 Ilarr}' was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, 
 on horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to 
 fetch him awaj^ from Ealing. The noverca, or unjust step- 
 mother, who had neglected him for her own two children, gave 
 him supper enough the night before he went away, and plenty 
 in the morning. She did not beat him once, and told the chil- 
 dren to keep their hands off him. One was a girl, and Harry 
 never could bear to strike a girl ; and the other was a boy, 
 whom he could easily have beat, but he alwaj's cried out, when 
 Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a 
 flail. She onl}' washed Harry's face the day he went away ; 
 nor ever so much as once boxed his ears. She whimpered 
 rather when the gentleman in black came for the bo}- ; and old 
 Mr. Pastoureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over 
 his shoulder at the strange gentleman, and grumbled out some- 
 thing about Babylon and the scarlet lady. He was grown quite 
 old, like a child almost. Mrs. Pastoureau used to wipe his 
 nose as she did to the children. She was a great, big, hand- 
 some young woman ; but, though she pretended to cr}', Harry 
 thought 'twas only a sham, and sprung quite delighted upon 
 the horse upon which the lacke}- helped him. 
 
 He was a Frenchman ; his name was Blaise. The child 
 could talk to him in his own language perfectl}^ well : he knew 
 it better than English indeed, having lived hitherto chiefly 
 among French people : and being called the Little Frenchman 
 b}^ other boys on Ealing Green. He soon learnt to speak Eng- 
 lish perfectly, and to forget some of his French : children for- 
 get easil3\ Some earlier and fainter recollections the child 
 had of a different country ; and a town with tall white houses : 
 and a ship. But these were quite indistinct in the boy's mind, 
 as indeed the memor}^ of Ealing soon became, at least of much 
 that he suffered there. 
 
 The lackey before whom he rode was very lively and volu- 
 ble, and informed the bo}" that the gentleman riding before him 
 was my lord's chaplain. Father Holt — that he was now to be 
 called Master Harry Esmond — that my Lord Viscount Castle- 
 wood was his parrain — that he was to live at the great house 
 of Castlewood, in the province of shire, where he would see 
 
18 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Madame the Viscountess, who was a grand lady. And so, 
 seated on a cloth before Blaise's saddle, Harry Esmond was 
 brought to London, and to a fine square called Covent Garden, 
 near to which his patron lodged. 
 
 Mr. Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand, and brought 
 him to this nobleman, a grand languid nobleman in a great 
 cap and flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted 
 Harry on the head and gave him an orange. 
 
 " C'est bien 9a," he said to the priest after Gjing the child, 
 and the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Let Blaise take him out for a holiday," and out for a holi- 
 da}' 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 dehghts of those da3-s. 
 He was taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, in a house a 
 thousand times greater and finer than the booth at Ealing Fair 
 — and on the next happy day they took water on the river, 
 and Harry saw London Bridge, with the houses and booksellers' 
 shops thereon, looking like a street, and the Tower of London, 
 with the Armor, and the great lions and bears in the moat — 
 all under company of Monsieur Blaise. 
 
 Presently, of an early morning, all the part}^ set forth for 
 the countrj^, namely, my Lord Viscount and the other gentle- 
 man ; Monsieur Blaise arM 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 Hany stories 
 of brigands, which made the child's hair stand on end, and 
 terrified him ; so that at the great gloomy inn on the road 
 where the}' lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room 
 with one of the servants, and was compassionated by Mr. Holt, 
 the gentleman who travelled with my lord, and who gave the 
 child a little bed in his chamber. 
 
 His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentle- 
 man in the boy's favor, for next day Mr. Holt said Hany 
 should ride behind him, and not with the French lackj^ ; and 
 all along the journe}^ put a thousand questions to the child — 
 as to his foster-brother and relations at Ealing ; what his old 
 grandfather had taught him ; what languages he knew ; whether 
 he could read and write, and sing, and so forth. And Mr. 
 Holt found that Harr}' could read and write, and possessed the 
 two languages of French and English very well ; and when he 
 asked Harry about singing, the lad broke out with a hymn to 
 the tune of Dr. Martin Luther, which set Mr. Holt a-laughing ; 
 and even caused his grand par rain in the laced hat and periwig 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOJ^D. 19 
 
 to langh too when Holt told him what the child was singing. 
 For it appeared that Dr. Martin Luther's hymns were not sung 
 in the churches Mr. Holt preached at. 
 
 "You must never sing that song an}^ more: do 3'ou 
 hear, little mannikin ? " sa^'s my Lord Viscount, holding up a 
 finger. 
 
 "But we will try and teach you a better, Harry," Mr. Holt 
 said ; and the child answered, for he was a docile child, and of 
 an affectionate nature, " That he loved pretty songs, and would 
 tr}^ and learn an3'thing 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. 
 
 "'Tis well, 'tis well!" said Blaise, that night (in his own 
 language) when the}- la}- again at an inn. " We are a little 
 lord here ; we are a little lord now : we shall see what we are 
 when we come to Castlewood, where my lady is." 
 
 "When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise?" 
 says Harry. 
 
 ^^ Par bleu ! my lord does not press himself," Blaise says, 
 with a grin; and, indeed, it seemed as if his lordship was not 
 in a great hurry, 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 tlie journey's end, and had scarce a 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 standing on a green with elms round it, very pretty to 
 look at ; and the people there all took off their hats, and made 
 curtsies to my Lord Viscount, who bowed to them all lan- 
 guidly ; and there was one portly person that wore a cassock 
 and a broad-leafed hat, who bowled lower than any one — 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 pillar thereof, learned Doctor Tusher. Take off 
 your hat, sirrah, and salute Dr. 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 ; and 
 a great army of rooks, wheeling over their heads, made for the 
 
20 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOXD. 
 
 woods behind the house, as Harr}^ saw ; and Mr. Holt told him 
 that they lived at Castlewood too. 
 
 The}" came to the house, and passed under an arch into a 
 court-yard, with a fountain in the centre, where many men came 
 and held my lord's stirrup as he descended, and paid great 
 respect to Mr. Holt likewise. And the child thought that the 
 servants looked at him curiously, and smiled to one another — 
 and he recalled what Blaise had said to him when the}' were in 
 London, and Harry had spoken about his godpapa, when the 
 Frenchman said, '^ Parhleu^ one sees well that my lord is 
 3'our godfather ; " words wliereof 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 feehng of shame. 
 
 Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both de- 
 scended from their horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, 
 and under a low door to rooms on a level with the ground ; one 
 of which Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, the 
 other on the other side of the passage being the Father's own ; 
 and as soon as the little man's face was washed, and the 
 Father's own dress arranged, Harr3''s guide took him once more 
 to the door b}' which m}' lord had entered the hall, and up a 
 stair, and through an ante-room to my ladj^'s drawing-room — 
 an apartment than which Harr}^ thought he had never seen 
 anj'thing more grand — no, not in the Tower of London which 
 he had just visited. Indeed, the chamber was richl}^ orna- 
 mented in the manner of Queen Elizabeth's time, with great 
 stained windows at either end, and hangings of tapestry, which 
 the sun shining through the colored glass painted of a thousand 
 hues ; and here in state, by the fire, sat a lad}' to whom the 
 priest took up Harrj', who was indeed amazed by her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 M}^ Lad}' Viscountess's face was daubed with white and red 
 up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly glare : she 
 had a tower of lace on her head, under which was a bush of 
 black curls — borrowed curls — so that no wonder little Harry 
 Esmond was scared when he was first presented to her — the 
 kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn 
 introduction — and he stared at her with eyes almost as great 
 as her own, as he had stared at the player woman who acted 
 the wicked tragedy-queen, when the players came down to 
 Ealing Fair. She sat in a great chair by the fire-corner; in 
 her lap was a spaniel-dog that barked furiously ; on a little 
 table by her was her ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 21 
 
 box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of 
 flame-colored brocade. She had as man}'- rings on her fingers 
 as the old woman of Banbury Cross ; and prett}^ small feet 
 which she was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to her 
 stockings, and white pantofles with red heels ; and an odor of 
 musk was shook out of her garments whenever she moved or 
 quitted the room, leaning on her tortoise-shell stick, little Fury 
 barking at her heels. 
 
 Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my lady. She had 
 been waiting-woman to her ladyship in the late lord's time, and, 
 having her soul in that business, took naturally to it when the 
 Viscountess of Castlewood returned to inhabit her father's house. 
 
 '' I present to 3'our ladyship your kinsman and little page of 
 honor. Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, 
 with a sort of comical humility. '^ Make a pretty bow to my 
 lady, Monsieur ; and then another little bow, not so low, to 
 Madame Tusher — the fair priestess of Castlewood." 
 
 "Where I have lived and hope to die, sir," says Madame 
 Tusher, giving a hard glance at the brat, and then at my lady. 
 
 Upon her the boy's whole attention was for a time directed. 
 He could not keep his great eyes off from her. Since the Em- 
 press of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful. 
 
 "Does m}' appearance please you, little page?" asked the 
 lady. 
 
 " He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame 
 Tusher. 
 
 " Have done, you sill}^ Maria," said Lad}- Castlewood. 
 
 "Where Em attached, Em attached, Madame — and Ed die 
 rather than not say so." 
 
 " Je meurs oil je m' attache," Mr. Holt said with a polite grin. 
 "The ivy says so in the picture, and clings to the oak like a 
 fond parasite as it is." 
 
 " Parricide, sir ! " cries Mrs. Tusher. 
 
 "Hush, Tusher — you are alwa3's bickering with Father 
 Holt," cried my lady. " Come and kiss my hand, child ; " and 
 the oak held out a branch to little Harry Esmond, who took and 
 dutifully kissed the lean old hand, upon the gnarled knuckles 
 of which there glittered a hundred rings. 
 
 " To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happj' ! " 
 cried Mrs. Tusher: on which my lady crying out, "Go, you 
 foolish Tusher ! " and tapping her with her great fan, Tusher 
 ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury arose and 
 barked furiously at Tusher ; and Father Holt looked on at this 
 queer scene, with arch, grave glances. 
 
22 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady 
 to whom this artless flattery was bestowed : for having gone 
 down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and the 
 mode then was) and performed his obeisance, she said, "Page 
 Esmond, my groom of the chamber will inform you what your 
 duties are, when you wait upon my lord and me ; and good 
 Father Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of our 
 name. You will pa}^ him obedience in everything, and I pray 
 3-0U may grow to be as learned and as good as your tutor." 
 
 The lad}' seemed to have the greatest reverence for Mr. Holt, 
 and to be more afraid of him than of anything else in the world. 
 If she was ever so angry, a word or look from Father Holt made 
 her calm : indeed he had a vast power of subjecting those who 
 came near him ; and, among the rest, his new pupil gave him- 
 self up with an entire confidence and attachment to the good 
 Father, and became his willing slave almost from the first 
 moment he saw him. 
 
 He put his small hand into the Father's as he walked away 
 from his first presentation to his mistress, and asked many ques- 
 tions in his artless childish way. " Who is that other woman ? " 
 he asked. " She is fat and round ; she is more pretty than my 
 Lad}" Castlewood." 
 
 " She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood. 
 She has a son of 3"0ur age, but bigger than 3"ou." 
 
 " Why does she like so to kiss my lad^^'s hand. It is not 
 good to kiss." 
 
 "Tastes are diflferent, little man. Madame Tusher is at- 
 tached to my lady, having been her waiting-woman before she 
 was married, in the old lord's time. She married Doctor Tusher 
 the chaplain. The English household divines often marry the 
 waiting-women." 
 
 " You will not marry the French woman, will you? I saw 
 her laughing with Blaise in the buttery." 
 
 ' ' I belong to a church that is older and better than the 
 English church," Mr. Holt said (making a sign whereof Es- 
 mond did not then understand the meaning, across his breast 
 and forehead) ; " in our church the clergy do not marry. You 
 will understand these things better soon." 
 
 " Was not Saint Peter the head of your church? — Dr. Rab- 
 bits of Ealing told us so." 
 
 The Father said, " Yes, he was." 
 
 " But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sun- 
 day that his wife's mother lay sick of a fever." On which the 
 Father again laughed, and said he would understand this too 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 23 
 
 better soon, and talked of other things, and took away Harry 
 Esmond, and showed him the great old house which he had 
 come to inhabit. 
 
 It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in 
 which were rooks' nests, where the birds at morning and return- 
 ing home at evening made a great cawing. At the foot of the 
 hill was a river, with a steep ancient bridge crossing it ; and 
 beyond that a large pleasant green flat, where the village of 
 Castlewood stood, and stands, with the church in tlie midst, 
 the parsonage hard b}' 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 swelUng hills and peaks, behind which many 
 a time Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting, that he now 
 looks on thousands of miles away across the great ocean — in 
 a new Castlewood, by another stream, that bears, like the new 
 country of wandering ^Eneas, the fond names of the land of 
 his youth. 
 
 The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof 
 one onl}', the fountain-court, was now inhabited, the other hav- 
 ing beeu battered down in the CromwelUan wars. In the foun- 
 tain-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 east- 
 wards and the buildings stretching from that to the main gate, 
 and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the court now 
 dismantled. This court had been the most magnificent of the 
 two, until the Protector's cannon tore down one side of it be- 
 fore the place was taken and stormed. The besiegers entered 
 at the terrace under the clock-tower, slaying every man of the 
 garrison, and at their head my lord's brother, Francis Esmond. 
 
 The Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord 
 Castlewood to restore this ruined part of his house ; where were 
 the morning parlors, above them the long music-galler}', 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 Cromwell's Battery to this 
 day. 
 
 Young Harry Esmond learned the domestic part of his duty, 
 which was easy enough, from the groom of her ladyship's cham- 
 
24 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 ber : 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 car- 
 riage-step on state occasions, or on public days introducing her 
 company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholic gentr}-, 
 of whom there were a pretty many in the countr}^ and neigh- 
 boring city ; and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to par- 
 take of the hospitalities there. In the second year of their 
 residence, the company seemed especially to increase. My 
 lord and my lady were seldom without visitors, in whose society 
 it was curious to contrast the difference of behavior between 
 Father Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor Tusher, the 
 rector of the parish — Mr. Holt moving amongst the very high- 
 est as quite their equal, and as commanding them all ; while 
 poor Doctor Tusher, whose position was indeed a difficult one, 
 having been chaplain once to the Hall, and still to the Protes- 
 tant servants there, seemed more like an usher than an equal, 
 and alwa3's rose to go away after the first course. 
 
 Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private 
 visitors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had little difficulty 
 in recognizing as ecclesiastics of the Father's persuasion, what- 
 ever their dresses (and they adopted all) might be. These were 
 closeted with the Father constantly, and often came and rode 
 away without paying their devoirs to my lord and lad}' — to the 
 (ady and lord rather — his lordship being little more than a 
 <iipher in the house, and entirelj^ under his domineering partner. 
 A little fowling, a little hunting, a great deal of sleep, and a long 
 time at cards and table, carried through one da}' after another 
 with his lordship. When meetings took place in this second 
 year, which often would happen with closed doors, the page 
 found my lord's sheet of paper scribbled over with dogs and 
 horses, and 'twas said he had much ado to keep himself awake 
 at these councils : the Countess ruling over them, and he act- 
 ing as little more than her secretary. 
 
 Father Holt began speedil}' to be so much occupied with 
 these meetings as rather to neglect the education of the little 
 lad who so gladly put himself under the kind priest's orders. 
 At first the}' read much and regularly, both in Latin and 
 French ; the Father not neglecting in anything to impress his 
 faith upon his pupil, but not forcing him violently, and treat- 
 ing him with a delicacy and kindness which surprised and at- 
 tached the child, always more easily won by these methods 
 than by any severe exercise of authority. And his delight in 
 their walks was to tell Harry of the glories of his order, of its 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 25 
 
 mart3TS and heroes, of its Brethren converting the heathen 
 by mjTiads, traversing the desert, facing the stake, ruUng the 
 courts and councils, or braving the tortures of kings ; so that 
 Harry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was the 
 greatest prize of life and bravest end of ambition ; the greatest 
 career here, and in heaven the surest reward ; and began to 
 long for the da}', not onl}' when he should enter into the one 
 church and receive his lirst communion, but when he might join 
 that wonderful brotherhood, which w^as present throughout all 
 the world, and which numbered the wisest, the bravest, the 
 highest born, the most eloquent of men among its members. 
 Father Holt bade him keep his views secret, and to hide them 
 as a great treasure which would escape him if it was revealed ; 
 and, proud of this confidence and secret vested in him, the lad 
 became fondly attached to the master who initiated him into a 
 mystery so wonderful and awful. And when little Tom Tusher, 
 his neighbor, came from school for his holiday, and said how he, 
 too, was to be bred up for an Enghsh priest, and would get 
 what he called an exhi!3ition from his school, and then a college 
 scholarship and fellowship, and then a good living — it tasked 
 young Harry Esmond's powers of reticence not to say to his 
 young companion, " Church ! priesthood ! fat living ! My dear 
 Tommy, do you call yours a church and a priesthood ? What 
 is a fat living compared to converting a hundred thousand 
 heathens by a single sermon? What is a scholarship at Trin- 
 it}^ by the side of a crown of martyrdom, with angels awaiting 
 3'ou as your head is taken off? Could your master at school 
 sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you statues in 3'our 
 church that can bleed, speak, w^alk, and cry? My good 
 Tommy, in dear Father Holt's church these things take place 
 every day. You know Saint Philip of the Willows appeared to 
 Lord Castlewood, and caused him to turn to the one true church. 
 No saints ever come to you." And Harry Esmond, because 
 of his promise to Father Holt, hiding awa}^ these treasures 
 of faith from T. Tusher, delivered himself of them nevertheless 
 simpl}^ to Father Holt ; who stroked his head, smiled at him 
 with his inscrutable look, and told him that he did w^ell to 
 meditate on these great things, and not to talk of them except 
 under direction. 
 
26 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER ly. 
 
 1 AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT 
 RELIGION. — VISCOUNTESS CASTLEWOOD. 
 
 Had time enough been given, and his childish incHnations 
 been properly nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a Jesuit priest 
 ere he was a dozen years older, and might have finished his 
 days a martyr in China or a victim on Tower Hill: for, in the 
 few months they spent together at Castlewood, Mr. Holt ob- 
 tained an entire mastery over the boy's intellect and affections ; 
 and had brought him to think, as indeed Father Holt thought 
 with all his heart too, that no life was so noble, no death so 
 desirable, as that which many brethren of his famous order 
 were read3' to undergo. B}^ love, b}' a brightness of wit and 
 good-humor that charmed all, by an authority which he knew 
 how to assume, by a mystery and silence about him which in- 
 creased the child's reverence for him, he won Harry's absolute, 
 fealty, and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes greater 
 and more important than a poor little boy's admission into 
 orders had not called him awa}^ 
 
 After being at home for a few months in tranquillity (if theirs 
 might be called tranquil lit}", which was, in truth, a constant 
 bickering), m}' lord and lad}^ left the country for London, tak- 
 ing their director with them : and his little pupil scarce ever 
 shed more bitter tears in his life than he did for nights after 
 the first parting with his dear friend, as he la}" in the lonely 
 chamber next to that which the Father used to occupy. He 
 and a few domestics were left as the only tenants of the great 
 house : and, though Harry sedulously did all the tasks which 
 the Father set him, he had many hours unoccupied, and read 
 in the library, and bewildered his little brains with the great 
 books he found there. 
 
 After a while, the little lad grew accustomed to the loneliness 
 of the place ; and in after days remembered this part of his life 
 as a period not unhappy. When the family was at London the 
 whole of the establishment travelled thither with the exception 
 of the porter — who was, moreover, brewer, gardener, and wood- 
 man — and his wife and children. These had their lodging in 
 »fie gate-house hard by, with a door into the court ; and a win- 
 tsow looking out on the green was the Chaplain's room ; and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 27 
 
 next to this a small chamber where Father Holt had his books, 
 and Harry Esmond his sleeping closet. The side of the house 
 facing the east had escaped the guns of the CromvvelUans, whose 
 battery was on the height facing the western court ; so that this 
 eastern end bore few marks of demolition, save in the chapel, 
 where the painted windows surviving Edward the Sixth had 
 been broke by the Commonwealthmen. In Father Holt's time 
 little Harr}^ Esmond acted as his familiar and faithful little 
 servitor ; beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching 
 his water from the well long before daylight, ready to run any- 
 where for the service of his beloved priest. When the Father 
 was away, he locked his private chamber ; but the room where 
 the books were was left to little Harry, who, but for the society 
 of this gentleman, was little less solitary wben Lord Castlewood 
 was at home. 
 
 The French wit saith that a hero is none to his valet-de- 
 chambre, and it required less quick e3'es than my lady's little 
 page was naturally endowed with, to see that she had many 
 qualities by no means heroic, however much Mrs. Tusher might 
 flatter and coax her. When Father Holt was not b}', who ex- 
 ercised an entire authority over the pair, my lord and my lady 
 (quarrelled and abused each other so as to make the servants 
 laugh, and to frighten the little page on dutv. The poor boy 
 trembled before his mistress, who called him by a hundred ugly 
 names, who made nothing of boxing his ears, and tilting the 
 silver basin in his face which it was his business to present to 
 her after dinner. She hath repaired, by subsequent kindness 
 to him, these severities, which it must be owned made his child- 
 hood very unhappy. She was but unhappy herself at this time, 
 poor soul ! and I suppose made her dependants lead her own 
 sad life. I think my lord was as much afraid of her as her 
 page was, and the only person of the household who mastered 
 her was Mr. Holt. Harry was oyAj too glad when the Father 
 dined at table, and to slink away and prattle with him after- 
 wards, or read with him, or walk with him. Luckily my Lady 
 Viscountess did not rise till noon. Heaven help the poor wait- 
 ing-woman who had charge of her toilet ! I have often seen 
 the poor wretch come out with red eyes from the closet where 
 those long and mysterious rites of her ladyship's dress were 
 performed, and the backgammon-box locked up with a rap on 
 Mrs. Tusher's fingers when she played ill, or the game was 
 going the wrong way. 
 
 Blessed be the king who introduced cards, and the kind 
 inventors of piquet and cribbage, for they employed six hours 
 
28 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOJ^TD. 
 
 at least of her ladyship's day, during which her family was 
 pretty eas3\ Without this occupation my lad}^ frequently- 
 declared she should die. Her dependants one after another 
 relieved guard — 'twas rather a dangerous post to play with her 
 ladyship — and took the cards turn about. Mr. Holt would 
 sit with her at piquet during hours together, at which time she 
 behaved herself properly ; and as for Dr. Tusher, I believe he 
 would have left a parishioner's dying bed, if summoned to play 
 a rubber with his patroness at Castlewood. Sometimes, when 
 they were pretty comfortable together, ni}' lord took a hand. 
 Besides these my lady had her faithful poor Tusher, and one, 
 two, three gentlewomen whom Harry Esmond could recollect 
 in his time. They could not bear that genteel service ver}' long ; 
 one after another tried and failed at it. These and the house- 
 keeper, and little Harry Esmond, had a table of their own. 
 Poor ladies ! their life was far harder than the page's. He was 
 sound asleep, tucked up in his little bed, whilst they were sit- 
 ting by her ladyship reading her to sleep, with the "News 
 Letter" or the " Grand Cyrus." My lady used to have boxes 
 of new plays from London, and Harry was forbidden, under the 
 pain of a whipping, to look into them. I am afraid he deserved 
 the penalty pretty often, and got it sometimes. Father Holt 
 applied it twice or thrice, when he caught the young scapegrace 
 with a delightful wicked comedy of Mr. Shadwell's or Mr. 
 W^'cherley's under his pillow. 
 
 These, when he took any, were my lord's favorite reading. 
 But he was averse to much stud}', and, as his little page fancied, 
 to much occupation of an}" sort. 
 
 It always seemed to young Harry Esmond that m}' lord 
 treated him with more kindness when his lady was not present, 
 and Lord Castlewood would take the lad sometimes on his little 
 journeys a-hunting or a-birding ; he loved to play at cards and 
 tric-trac with him, which games the boy learned to pleasure his 
 lord : and was growing to like him better dailj', showing a spe- 
 cial pleasure if Father Holt gave a good report of him, patting 
 him on the head, and promising that he would provide for the 
 boy. However, in my lady's presence, my lord showed no such 
 marks of kindness, and affected to treat the lad roughly, and 
 rebuked him sharply for little faults, for which he in a manner 
 asked pardon of young Esmond when they were private, sa3'ing 
 if he did not speak roughly, she would, and his tongue was not 
 such a bad one as his lady's — a point whereof the boy, 3'oung 
 as he was, was verj' well assured. 
 
 Great public events were happening all this while, of which 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 29 
 
 the simple young page took little count. But one daj^ riding 
 into the neighboring town on the step of my lady's coach, his 
 lordship and she and Father Holt being inside, a great mob of 
 people came hooting and jeering round the coach, bawling out 
 ''The Bishops for ever!" "Down with tlie Pope!" "No 
 Popery ! no Popery ! Jezebel, Jezebel ! " so that my lord began 
 to laugh, m}^ lady's e3'es to roll with anger, for she was as bold 
 as a lioness, and feared nobody ; whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond 
 saw from his place on the step, sank back with rather an 
 alarmed face, crying out to her ladj'ship, "For God's sake, 
 madam, do not speak or look out of window ; sit still." But 
 she did not obey this prudent injunction of the Father ; she 
 thrust her head out of the coach window, and screamed out 
 to the coachman, " Flog your way through them, the brutes, 
 James, and use your whip ! " 
 
 The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and fresh 
 cries of " Jezebel ! Jezebel ! " My lord only laughed the more : 
 he was a languid gentleman : rtothing seemed to excite him 
 commonlj', though 1 have seen him cheer and halloo tlie hounds 
 ver}' briskly, and his face (which was generally very yellow and 
 calm) grow quite red and cheerful during a burst over the Downs 
 after a hare, and laugh, and swear, and huzzali at a cockfight, 
 of which sport he was ver}^ fond. And now, when the mob 
 began to hoot his lady, he laughed with something of a mis- 
 chievous look, as though he expected sport, and thought that 
 she and they were a match. 
 
 James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than 
 the mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was 
 bidden, and the post-bo}' that rode with the first pair (nw lady 
 always rode with her coach-and-six,) gave a cut of his thong 
 over the shoulders of one fellow who put his hand out towards 
 the leading horse's rein. 
 
 It was a market-da}', and the country-people were all as- 
 sembled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things ; 
 the postilion had no sooner lashed the man who would have 
 taken hold of his horse, but a great cabbage came whirling like 
 a bombshell into the carriage, at which my lord laughed more, 
 for it knocked my lady's fan out of her hand, and plumped into 
 Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of carrots and 
 potatoes. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake be still!" saj's Mr. Holt; " we are 
 not ten paces from the ' Bell ' archway, w^here they can shut 
 the gates on us, and keep out this canaille. ^^ 
 
 The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a 
 
30 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the 
 ej'e, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout ; the man 
 laughed, a great big saddler's apprentice of the town. " Ah ! 
 
 you d Uttle 3'elling Popish bastard," he said, and stooped 
 
 to pick up another ; the crowd had gathered quite between the 
 horses and the inn door by this time, and the coach was brought 
 to a dead stand-still. My lord jumped as briskly as a bo}' out 
 of the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry 
 behind it ; had hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, 
 and the next moment the brute's heels were in the air, and he 
 fell on the stones with a thump. 
 
 " You hulking coward ! " says he ; " you pack of screaming 
 blackguards ! how dare you attack children, and insult women? 
 Fling another shot at that carriage, yon sneaking pigskin cob- 
 bler, and by the Lord I'll send my rapier through you ! " 
 
 Some of the mob cried, '' Huzzah, my lord ! " for they knew 
 him, and the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice as 
 big as my lord Viscount. * 
 
 '^ Make way there,"* sa3^s he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, 
 but with a great air of authority). " Make way, and let her 
 ladyship's carriage i:)ass." The men that were between the 
 coach and the gate of the " Bell" actually did make wa^^, and 
 the horses went in, mj' lord walking after them with his hat on 
 his head. 
 
 As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach 
 had just rolled, another cry begins, of "No Popery — no 
 Papists ! " My lord turns round and faces them once more. 
 
 " God save the King ! " says he at the highest pitch of his 
 voice. "Who dares abuse the King's religion? You, you 
 d — d psalm-singing cobbler, as sure as I'm a magistrate of this 
 count}^ I'll commit you ! " The fellow shrank back, and my 
 lord retreated with all the honors of the day. But when the 
 little flurry caused by the scene was over, and the flush passed 
 off his face, he relapsed into his usual languor, trifled with his 
 little dog, and yawned when mj' lady spoke to him. 
 
 This mob was one of many thousands that were going about 
 the country at that time, huzzahing for the acquittal of the seven 
 bishops who had been tried just then, and about whom little 
 Harry Esmond at that time knew scarce anything. It was 
 Assizes at Hexton, and there was a great meeting of the gentry 
 at the " Bell ; " and my lord's people had their new liveries on, 
 and Harry a little suit of blue and silver, which he wore upon 
 occasions of state ; and the gentlefolks came round and talked 
 to my lord : and a judge in a red gown, who seemed a very 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 31 
 
 great personage, especially complimented him and my lady, 
 who was might}' grand. Harr}' remembers her train borne up 
 by her gentlewoman. There was ah assembly' and ball at the 
 great room at the ''Bell," and other young gentlemen of the 
 county famiUes looked on as he did. One of them jeered him 
 for his black eye, which was swelled by the potato, and another 
 called him a bastard, on which he and Harrj' fell to fisticuffs. 
 My lord's cousin. Colonel Esmond of Walcote, was there, and 
 separated the two lads — a great tall gentleman, with a hand- 
 some good-natured face. The bo}' did not know how neai-l}' in 
 after-life he should be allied to Colonel Esmond, and how much 
 kindness he should have to owe him. 
 
 There was little love between the two families. M}^ lady 
 used not to spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for reasons 
 which have been hinted already ; but about which, at his tender 
 age, Henry Esmond could be expected lo know nothing. 
 
 Very soon afterwards, my lord and lad}' went to London 
 with Mr. Holt, leaving, however-, the page behind them. The 
 little man had the great house of Castlewood to himself; or 
 between him and the housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old lady 
 who was a kinswoman of the family in some distant waj', and 
 a Protestant, but a staunch Tory and king's-man, as all the 
 Esmonds were. He used to go to school to Dr. Tusher when 
 he was at home, though the Doctor was much occupied too. 
 There was a great stir and commotion everywhere, even in the 
 little quiet village of Castlewood, whither a party of people 
 came from the town, who would have broken Castlewood Chapel 
 windows, but the village people turned out, and even old Sieve- 
 right, the republican blacksmith, along with them : for my lad}', 
 though she was a Papist, and had man}' odd ways, was kind to 
 the tenantry, and there was always a plenty of beef, and blan- 
 kets, and medicine for the poor at Castlewood Hall. 
 
 A kingdom was changing hands whilst my lord and lady 
 were away. King James was flying, the Dutchmen were com- 
 ing ; awful stories about them and the Prince of Orange used 
 old Mrs. Worksop to tell to the idle little page. 
 
 He liked the solitude of the great house very well ; he had 
 all the play-books to read, and no Father Holt to whip him, 
 and a hundred childish pursuits and pastimes, without doors 
 and within, which made this time very pleasant. 
 
32 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION 
 OF KING JAMES II. 
 
 Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines for 
 eels which he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in 
 his little bed, waiting for the hour when the gate would be open, 
 and he and his comrade, John Lockwood, the porter's son, 
 might go to the pond and see what fortune had brought them. 
 At daybreak John was to awaken him, but his own eagerness 
 for the sport had served as a reveillez long since — so long, that 
 it seemed to him as if the day never would come. 
 
 It might have been four o'clock when he heard the door of 
 the opposite chamber, the Chaplain's room, open, and the voice 
 of a man coughing in the passage. Harry jumped up, thinking 
 for certain it was a robber, or hoping perhaps for a ghost, and, 
 flinging open his own door, saw before him the Chaplain's door 
 open, and a light inside, and a figure standing in the doorway, 
 in the midst of a great smoke which issued from the room. 
 
 "Who's there?" cried out the boy, who was of a good 
 spirit. 
 
 " Silentiiim ! " whispered the other ; " 'tis I, my boy ! " and, 
 holding his hand out, Harry had no difficulty in recognizing 
 his master and friend. Father Holt. A curtain was over the 
 window of the Chaplain's room that looked to the court, and 
 Harry saw that the smoke came from a great flame of papers 
 which were burning in a brazier when he entered the Chaplain's 
 room. After giving a hastj^ greeting and blessing to the lad, 
 who was charmed to see his tutor, the Father continued the 
 burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over 
 the mantel-piece wall, which Harrj' had never seen before. 
 
 Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once 
 on this hole. " That is right, Harry," he said ; '' faithful little 
 famuli, see all and say nothing. You are faithful, I know." 
 
 " I know I would go to the stake for 3'ou," said Harry. 
 
 " I don't want 3'our head," said the Father, patting it kindly ; 
 " all you have to do is to hold j'our tongue. Let us burn these 
 papers, and say nothing to anybody. Should you like to read 
 them?" 
 
 HaiTy Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he had 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 33 
 
 looked as the fact was, and without thinking, at the paper 
 before him ; and though he had seen it, could not understand 
 a word of it, the letters being quite clear enough, but quite 
 without meaning. The}^ burned the papers, beating down the 
 ashes in a brazier, so that scarce any traces of them remained. 
 
 Hany had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more 
 dresses than one ; it not being safe, or worth the danger, for 
 Popish ecclesiastics to wear their proper dress ; and he was, 
 in consequence, in no wise astonished that the priest should 
 now appear before him in a riding-dress, with large buff leather 
 boots, and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen 
 wore. 
 
 "You know the secret of the cupboard," said he, laughing, 
 "and must be prepared for other mysteries;" and he opened 
 — but not a secret cupboard this time — only a wardrobe, 
 which he usually kept locked, and from which he now took 
 out two or three dresses and perruques of different colors, and 
 a couple of swords of a pretty make (Father Flolt was an ex- 
 pert practitioner with the small-sword, and every day, whilst 
 he was at home, he and his pupil practised this exercise, in 
 which the lad became a very great proficient) , a military coat 
 and cloak, and a farmer's smock, and placed them in the large 
 hole over the mantel-piece from which the papers had been 
 taken. 
 
 "If the}' miss the cupboard," he said, "they will not find 
 these ; if they find them, the3''ll tell no tales, except that Father 
 Holt wore more suits of clothes than one. All Jesuits do. 
 You know what deceivers we are, Harry." 
 
 Harr}' was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about 
 to leave him; but "No," the priest said, "I may very likely 
 come back with mj' lord in a few days. We are to be tolerated ; 
 we are not to be persecuted. But the}" ma}' take a fancy to 
 pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return ; and, as gentlemen 
 of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to examine my 
 papers, which concern nobody — at least not them." And to 
 this day, whether the papers in cipher related to politics, or to 
 the affairs of that mysterious society whereof Father Holt was 
 a member, his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains in entire igno- 
 rance. 
 
 The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, &c. Holt left 
 untouched on his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down — 
 with a laugh, however — and flinging into the brazier, where 
 he only half burned them, some theological treatises which he 
 had been writing against the English divines. "And now," 
 
 2 
 
34 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 said he, " Henrj^, my son, 3'ou ma}^ testif}', with a safe con 
 science, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the last time 
 I was here before I went away to London ; and it will be day- 
 break directlj^, and I must be away before Lockwood is stir- 
 ring." 
 
 "Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?" Esmond asked. 
 Holt laughed ; he was never more ga}^ or good-humored than 
 when in the midst of action or danger. 
 
 "Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind 3'ou," 
 he said; "nor would you, you little wretch! had 3'ou slept 
 better. l"ou must forget that I have been here ; and now fare- 
 well. Close the door, and go to j^our own room, and don't 
 come out till — -stay, wh}^ should 3'ou not know one secret 
 more? I know joii will never betray' me." 
 
 In the Chaplain's room were two windows ; the one looking 
 into the court facing westwards to the fountain ; the other, a 
 small casement strongly barred, and looking on to the green 
 in front of the Hall. This window was too high to reach from 
 the ground ; but, mounting on a buffet which stood beneath it, 
 Father Holt showed me how, b}" pressing on the base of the 
 window, the whole framework of lead, glass, and iron stanch- 
 ions descended into a cavit\' worked below, from which it could 
 be drawn and restored to its usual place from without ; a 
 broken pane being purposelj^ open to admit the hand which 
 was to work upon the spring of the machine. 
 
 "When I am gone," Father Holt said, " 3^ou may push 
 awa3' the buffet, so that no one ma3^ fanc3^ that an exit has been 
 made that wa3^ ; lock the door ; place the key — where shall 
 we put the ke3' ? — under ' Chrysostom ' on the book-shelf ; and 
 if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told 3'ou where to 
 find it, if you had need to go to m3^ room. The descent is eas3'" 
 down the wall into the ditch ; and so, once more farewell, until 
 I see thee again, m3' dear son." And with this the intrepid 
 Father mounted the buffet with great agilit3' and briskness, 
 stepped across the window, lifting up the bars and framework 
 again from the other side, and onl3^ leaving room for Harr3' 
 Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand before the case- 
 ment closed, the bars fixing as firml3' as ever, seemingly, in 
 the stone arch overhead. When Father Holt next arrived at 
 Castle wood, it was b3^ the public gate on horseback ; and he 
 never so much as alluded to the existence of the private issue 
 to Harr3^ except when he had need of a private messenger 
 from within, for which end, no doubt, he had instructed his 
 young pupil in the means of quitting the Hall. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 35 
 
 Esmond, 3'oiing as he was, would have died sooner than 
 betra}' his friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew ; for he 
 had tried the bo}' more than once, putting temptations in his 
 wa}', to see whether he would ^deld to them and confess after- 
 wards, or whether he would resist them, as he did sometimes, 
 or whether he would lie, which he never did. Holt instructing 
 the boy on this point, however, that if to keep silence is not 
 to lie, as it certainh' is not, 3'et silence is, after all, equivalent 
 to a negation — and therefore a downright No, in the interest 
 of justice or j'our friend, and in repl}' to a question that may 
 be prejudicial to either, is not criminal, but, on the contrary, 
 praiseworthy ; and as lawful a wa}^ as the other of eluding a 
 wrongful demand. For instance (saj^s he), suppose a good 
 citizen, who had seen his Majesty take refuge there, had been 
 asked, "Is King Charles up that oak-tree?" his dut\- would 
 have been not to say. Yes — so that the Cromwellians should 
 seize the king and murder him like his father — but No ; his 
 Majesty being private in the tree, and therefore not to be seen 
 there by loyal eyes : all which instruction, in religion and 
 morals, as well as in the rudiments of the tongues and sciences, 
 the bo}' took eagerl}' and with gratitude from his tutor. When, 
 then. Holt was gone, and told Hany not to see him, it was as 
 if he had never been. And he had this answer pat when he 
 came to be questioned a few da3-s after. 
 
 The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as 3'oung Es- 
 mond learned from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best cassock 
 (though the roads were mudd}', and he never was known to 
 wear his silk, only his stuff one, a-horseback), with a great 
 orange cockade in his broad-leafed hat, and Nahum, his clerk, 
 ornamented with a like decoration. The Doctor was walking 
 up and down in front of his parsonage, when little Esmond saw 
 him, and heard him sa^' he was going to pay his duty to his 
 Highness the Prince, as he mounted his pad and rode away 
 with Nahum behind. The village people had orange cockades 
 too, and his friend the blacksmith's laughing daughter pinned 
 one into Harry's old hat, which he tore out indignantl}' when 
 the}" bade him to cr}^ " God save the Prince of Orange and the 
 Protestant religion ! " but the people onl}' laughed, for the}' 
 liked the boj^ in the village, where his solitarj^ condition moved 
 the general pit}', and where he found friendly welcomes and 
 faces in many houses. Father Holt had many friends there 
 too, for he not only would light the blacksmith at theology, 
 never losing his temper, but laughing the whole time in his 
 pleasant way ; but he cured him of an ague with quinquina, 
 
36 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 and was always ready with a kind word for any man that asked 
 it, so that they said in the village 'twas a pity the two were 
 Papists. 
 
 The Director and the Vicar of Castlewood agreed very well ; 
 indeed, the former was a perfectly-bred gentleman, and it was 
 the latter's business to agree with everybody. Doctor Tusher 
 and the ladj^'s-maid, his spouse, had a bo}' who was about the 
 age of little Esmond ; and there was such a friendship between 
 the lads, as propinquity and tolerable kindness and good-humor 
 on either side would be prett}' sure to occasion. Tom Tusher 
 was sent off early, however, to a school in London, whither his 
 father took him and a volume of sermons, in the first year of 
 the reign of King James ; and Tom returned but once, a 3'ear 
 afterwards, to Castlewood for many years of his scholastic and 
 collegiate life. Thus there was less danger to Tom of a per- 
 version of his faith bj^ the Director, who scarce ever saw him, 
 than there was to Harry, who constantly was in the Vicar's 
 company ; but as long as Harry's religion was his Majest3''s, 
 and my lord's, and my lady's, the Doctor said gravel}', it should 
 not be for him to disturb or disquiet him : it was far from him 
 to say that his Majesty's Church was not a branch of the Cath- 
 olic Church ; upon which Father Holt used, according to his 
 custom, to laugh, and say that the Holy Church throughout all 
 the world, and the noble Army of Martyrs, were very much 
 obliged to the Doctor. 
 
 It was while Dr. Tusher was away at Salisbury that there 
 came a troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in 
 Castlewood, and some of them came up to the Hall, where 
 they took possession, robbing nothing however bej'ond the 
 hen-house and the beer-cellar: and only insisting upon going 
 through the house and looking for papers. The first room 
 they asked to look at was Father Holt's room, of which Harry 
 Esmond brought the key, and they opened the drawers and the 
 cupboards, and tossed over the papers and clothes — but found 
 nothing except his books and clothes, and the vestments in a 
 box by themselves, with which the dragoons made merrj', to 
 Harry Esmond's horror. And to the questions which the 
 gentleman put to Harry, he replied that Father Holt was a 
 ver}" kind man to him, and a very learned man, and Harry 
 supposed would tell him none of his secrets if he had any. 
 He was about eleven years old at this time, and looked as 
 innocent as bo3'S of his age. 
 
 The family were away more than six months, and when 
 they returned they were in the deepest state of dejection, for 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 37 
 
 King James had been banished, the Prince of Orange was on 
 the throne, and the direst persecutions of those of the Cath- 
 ohc faith were apprehended by my lad\', who said she did not 
 believe that there was a word of trutli in the promises of tol- 
 eration that Dutch monster made, or in a single word the per- 
 jured wretch said. My lord and lad}' were in a manner prisoners 
 in their own house ; so her ladyship gave the little page to 
 know, who was by this time growing of an age to understand 
 what was passing about him, and something of the characters 
 of the people he lived with. 
 
 " We are prisoners," sa^'s she ; " in everjlhing but chains, 
 we are prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to 
 dungeons, or strike off m}' head from this poor little throat" 
 (and she clasped it in her long fingers). '' The blood of the 
 Esmonds will always flow freely for their kings. We are not 
 like the Churchills — the Judases, who kiss their master and 
 betra}' him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in 
 the royal cause " (no doubt it was to that fatal business of 
 losing the place of Groom of the Posset to which her lady- 
 ship alluded, as she did half a dozen times in the day). "Let 
 the tj'rant of Orange bring his rack and his odious Dutch 
 tortures — the beast I the wretch ! I spit upon him and 
 defy him. Cheerfull}' will I lay this head upon the block ; 
 cheerfull}' will I accompany my lord to the scaffold : we will 
 cry ' God save King James I ' with our dying breath, and 
 smile in the face of the executioner." And she told her 
 page, a hundred times at least, of the particulars of the last 
 interview which she had with his Majesty. 
 
 " I flung myself before m}^ liege's feet," she said, " at Salis- 
 bur}'. I devoted m3'self — my husband — my house, to his 
 cause. Perhaps he remembered old times, when Isabella Es- 
 mond was 3'oung and fair ; perhaps he recalled the day when 
 'twas not 1 that knelt — at least he spoke to me with a voice 
 that reminded me of days gone by. ' Egad ! ' said his Majesty, 
 ' you should go to the Prince of Orange, if you want anything.' 
 ' No, sire,' I replied, ' I would not kneel to a Usurper ; the Es- 
 mond that would have served 3'our Majesty will nevei' be groom 
 to a traitor's posset.' The royal exile smiled, even in the midst 
 of his misfortune ; he deigned to raise me with words of conso- 
 lation. The Viscount, mj^ husband, himself, could not be 
 angry at the august salute with which he honored me ! " 
 
 The public misfortune had the effect of making my lord and 
 his lady better friends than the}^ ever had been since their 
 courtship. M}- lord Viscount had shown both loyalty and 
 
38 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 spirit, when these were rare qualities in the dispirited part}' 
 about the King ; and the praise he got elevated him not a 
 little in his wife's good opinion, and perhaps in his own. He 
 wakened up from the listless and supine life which he had been 
 leading; was always riding to and fro in consultation with 
 this friend or that of the King's ; the page of course knowing 
 httle of his doings, but remarking only his greater cheerfulness 
 and altered demeanor. 
 
 Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated no 
 longer openly as chaplain ; he was always fetching and cai-ry- 
 ing : strangers, military and ecclesiastic (Harry knew the lat- 
 ter, though they came in all sorts of disguises), were contin- 
 ually arriving and departing. My lord made long absences 
 and sudden reappearances, using sometimes the means of 
 exit which Father Holt had employed, though how often the 
 little window in the Chaplain's room let in or let out my 
 lord and his friends, Harry could not tell. He stoutly kept 
 his promise to the Father of not prying, and if at midnight 
 from his little room he heard noises of persons stirring in the 
 next chamber, he turned round to the wall, and hid his curi- 
 osity under his pillow until it fell asleep. Of course he could 
 not help remarking that the priest's journeys were constant, 
 and understanding by a hundred signs that some active though 
 secret business employed him : what this was may pretty well 
 be guessed b}- what soon happened to my lord. 
 
 No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my 
 lord came back, but a Guard was in the village ; and one or 
 other of them was always on the Green keeping a look-out on 
 our great gate, and those who went out and in. Lock wood 
 said that at night especially every person who came in or went 
 out was watched by the outlying sentries. ' Twas lucky that 
 we had a gate which their Worships knew nothing about. My 
 lord and P'ather Holt must have made constant journeys at 
 night : once or twice little Harrj' acted as their messenger and 
 discreet little aide-de-camp. He remembers he was bidden to 
 go into the village with his fishing-rod, enter certain houses, 
 ask for a drink of water, and tell the good man, " There would 
 be a horse-market at Newbury next Thursday," and so carry 
 the same message on to the next house on his list. 
 
 He did not know what the message meant at the time, nor 
 what was happening : which ma}" as well, however, for clear- 
 ness' sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange being 
 gone to Ireland, where the King was ready to meet him with a 
 great army, it was determined that a great rising of his Majes- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 39 
 
 ty's part}^ should take place in this country ; and m}^ lord was 
 to head the force in our count}'. Of late he had taken a greater 
 lead in affairs than before, having the indefatigable Mr. Holt at 
 his elbow, and my Lady Viscountess strongly urging him on ; 
 and my Lord Sark being in the Tower a prisoner, and 8ir Wil- 
 niot Crawley, of Queen's Crawley, having gone over to the Prince 
 of Orange's side — my lord became the most considerable per- 
 son in our part of the county for the affairs of the King. 
 
 It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Gra3S and Dra- 
 goons, then quartered at Newbury, should declare for the King 
 on a certain day, when likewise the gentry affected to his Maj- 
 esty's cause were to come in with their tenants and adherents 
 to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops at Reading under 
 Ginckel ; and, these overthrown, and their indomitable little 
 master awa}' in Ireland, 'twas thought that our side might 
 move on London itself, and a confident victory was predicted 
 for the King. 
 
 As these great matters were in agitation, m}' lord lost his 
 listless manner and seemed to gain health ; mj' lady did not 
 scold him, Mr. Holt came to and fro, bus}' always ; and little 
 Harry longed to have been a few inches taller, that he might 
 draw a sword in this good cause. 
 
 One day, it must have been about the month of Jul}', 1690, 
 my lord, in a great horseman's coat, under which Harry could 
 see the shining of a steel breastplate he had on, called little 
 Harry to him, put the hair off the child's forehead, and kissed 
 him, and bade God bless ^im in such an affectionate way as he 
 never had used before. Father Holt blessed him too, and then 
 the}' took leave of my Lady Viscountess, who came from her 
 apartment with a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes, and her gen- 
 tlewoman and Mrs. Tusher supporting her. " Y"ou are going 
 to — to ride," says she. "Oh, that I might come too! — but 
 in my situation I am forbidden horse exercise." 
 
 " We kiss my Lady Marchioness's hand," says Mr. Holt. 
 
 " My lord, God speed you ! " she said, stepping up and em- 
 bracing my lord in a grand manner. "Mr. Holt, I ask your 
 blessing : " and she knelt down for that, whilst Mrs. Tusher 
 tossed her head up. 
 
 Mr. Flolt gave the same benediction to the little page, who 
 went down and held my lord's stirrups for him to mount ; there 
 were two servants waiting there too — and they rode out of 
 Castlewood gate. 
 
 As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in 
 scarlet ride up touching his hat, and address my lord. 
 
40 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 The party stopped, and came to some parley or discussion, 
 which presently ended, my lord putting his horse into a canter 
 after taking off his hat and making a bow to the officer, who 
 rode alongside him step for step : the trooper accompanying 
 him falling back, and riding with my lord's two men. The}' 
 cantered over the Green, and behind the elms (m}' lord waving 
 his hand, Harry thought), and so they disappeared. That 
 evening we had a great panic, the cow-boy coming at milking- 
 time riding one of our horses, which he had found grazing at 
 the outer park-wall. 
 
 All night my Lady Viscountess was in a very quiet and sub- 
 dued mood. She scarce found fault with anybody ; she played 
 at cards for six hours ; little page Esmond went to sleep. He 
 prayed for ni}' lord and the good cause before closing his e3'es. 
 
 It was quite in the gray of the morning when the porter'6 
 bell rang, and old Lockwood, waking up, let in one of my 
 lord's servants, who had gone with him in the morning, ami 
 who returned with a melancholy story. The officer who rod* 
 up to my lord had, it appeared, said to him, that it was his 
 duty to inform his lordship that he was not under arrest, but 
 under surveillance, and to request him not to ride abroad that 
 day. 
 
 My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if 
 the Captain chose to accompany him he was welcome ; and 
 it was then that he made a bow, . and they cantered away 
 together. 
 
 When he came on to Wansey Down, m}^ lord all of a sudden 
 pulled up, and the party came to a halt at the cross- way. 
 
 "Sir," sa3's he to the officer, "we are four to two; will 
 you be so kind as to take that road, and leave me go mine?" 
 
 " Your road is mine, my lord," sa3's the officer. 
 
 " Then — " says m}^ lord ; but he had no time to sa}' more, 
 for the officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship ; 
 as at the same moment Father Holt, drawing a pistol, shot 
 the officer through the head. It was done, and the man 
 dead in an instant of time. The orderly, gazing at the 
 officer, looked scared for a moment, and galloped awa}" for 
 his life. 
 
 " Fire ! fire ! " cries out Father Holt, sending another shot 
 after the trooper, but the two servants were too much surprised 
 to use their pieces, and my lord calling to them to hold their 
 hands, the fellow got away. 
 
 "Mr. Holt, qui pensait a tout^^ saj's Blaise, "gets off his 
 horse, examines the pockets of the dead officer for papers, gives 
 
THE IIISTOllY OF HENRY ESMOND. 41 
 
 his money to us two, and sa3's, ' The whio is drawn, M. le Mar- 
 quis,' — why did he say Marquis to M. le Vicomte ? — 'we must 
 drinli it.' 
 
 '' The poor gentleman's horse was a better one than that I 
 rode," Blaise continues ; " Mr. Ilolt bids me get on him, and 
 so I gave a cut to AVhitefoot, and she trotted home. We rode 
 on towards Newbur}' ; we heard firing towards midda3' : at two 
 o'clock a horseman comes up to us as we were giving our cattle 
 water at an inn — and says, 'AH is done! The Ecossais de- 
 clared an hour too soon — General Ginckel was down upon 
 them.' The whole thing was at an end. 
 
 " 'And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly 
 escape,' says my lord. 
 
 "'Blaise,' says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table- 
 book, one for my ladj' and one for you. Master Harry: 'you 
 must go back to Castlewood, and deliver these,' and behold 
 me." 
 
 And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to himself, 
 which onl}' said, " Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn this. 
 You know nothing about anything." Hany read this, ran up 
 stairs to his mistress's apartment, where her gentlewoman slept 
 near to tlie door, made her bring a light and wake my lady, into 
 whose hands he gave the paper. She was a wonderful object 
 to look at in her night attire, nor had Harry ever seen the 
 like. 
 
 As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped 
 back to the Chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard over 
 the fireplace, burned all the papers in it, and, as he had seen 
 the priest do before, took down one of his reverence's manu- 
 script sermons, and half burnt that in the brazier. By the 
 time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight. Harry 
 ran back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman ushered him 
 again into her ladyship's chamber ; she told him (from behind 
 her nuptial curtains) to bid the coach be got ready, and that 
 she would ride away anon. 
 
 But the mysteries of her ladj'ship's toilet were as awfully 
 long on this day as on an}^ other, and, long after the coach was 
 ready, my lad}' was still attiring herself. And just as the Vis- 
 countess stepped forth from her room, ready for departure, 
 young John Lockwood comes running up from the village with 
 news that a lawyer, three officers, and twenty or four-and-twenty 
 soldiers, were marching thence upon the house. John had but 
 two minutes the start of them, and, ere he had well told his 
 stor}', the troop rode into our court-yard. 
 
42 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESM0:N^D. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ISSUE OF THE PLOTS. THE DEATH OF THOMAS, THIRD VIS- 
 COUNT OF CASTLEWOOD ; AND THE IMPRISONMENT OF HIS 
 VISCOUNTESS. 
 
 At first my lad}^ was for dying like Marj^, Queen of Scots 
 (to whom she fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, 
 stroking her scraggy neck, said, " The}^ will find Isabel of 
 Castiewood is equal to her fate." Her gentlewoman, Victoire, 
 persuaded her that her prudent course was, as she could not 
 fl}', to receive the troops as though she suspected nothing, and 
 that her chamber was the best place wherein to await them. 
 So her black Japan casket, which Harry was to carry to tha 
 coach, was taken back to her lad3^ship's chamber, whither the 
 maid and mistress retired. Victoire came out presently, bid- 
 dhig the page to say her ladj^ship was ill, confined to her bed 
 with the rheumatism. 
 
 By this time the soldiers had reached Castiewood. Harry 
 Esmond saw them from the window of the tapestry parlor ; a 
 couple of sentinels were posted at the gate — a half-dozen more 
 walked towards the stable ; and some others, preceded by their 
 commander, and a man in black, a lawyer probably, were con- 
 ducted b}^ one of the servants to the stair leading up to the 
 part of the house which mj^ lord and lady inhabited. 
 
 So the Captain, a handsome kind man, and the law3-er, 
 came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlor, and where 
 now was nobodj' but young Harry Esmond, the page. 
 
 " Tell your mistress, little man," says the Captain, kindly, 
 " that we must speak to her." 
 
 "• My mistress is ill a-bed," said the page. 
 
 " What complaint has she? " asked the Captain. 
 
 The boy said, " The rheumatism ! " 
 
 " Rheumatism ! that's a sad complaint," continues the good- 
 natured Captain ; " and the coach is in the yard to fetch the 
 Doctor, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I don't know," says the bo}'. 
 
 " And how long has her ladyship been ill? " 
 
 " I don't know," sa3's the boj'. 
 
 ' ' When did my lord go away ? " 
 
 " Yesterday night." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 43 
 
 ''With Father Holt?" 
 
 " With Mr. Holt." 
 
 " And which wa}" did they travel?" asks the lawj^er 
 
 " They travelled without me," says the page. 
 
 " We must see Lady Castle wood." 
 
 ''I have orders that nobod}- goes in to her lad3'ship — she 
 is sick," saj's the page ; but at this moment Victoire came out. 
 " Hush ! " says she ; and, as if not knowing that any one was 
 near, " What's this noise ? " says she. " Is this gentleman the 
 Doctor?" 
 
 '• Stuff! we must see Lad}- Castlewood," sa^^s the lawyer, 
 pushing by. 
 
 The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the 
 chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, 
 and propped up by her pillows, looking none the less ghastly 
 because of the red which was still on her cheeks, and which 
 she could not afford to forego. 
 
 " Is that the Doctor? " she said. 
 
 "There is no use with this deception, madam," Captain 
 Westbury said (for so he was named). " M3' duty is to arrest 
 the person of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring peer 
 — of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood — and Henrj' Holt, 
 known under various other names and designations, a Jesuit 
 priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late king's time, 
 and is now at the head of the conspiracy which was about to 
 break out in this country against the authoiity of their Majesties 
 King William and Queen Mary — and my orders are to search 
 the house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may be 
 found here. Your ladyship will please give me 3'our ke^'s, and 
 it will be as well for yourself that you should help us, in every 
 way, in our search." 
 
 "You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot 
 move," said the ladj^ looking uncommonl}- ghastl3^ as she sat 
 up in her bed, where, however, she had had her cheeks painted, 
 and a new cap put on, so that she might at least look her best 
 when the officers came. 
 
 " I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so 
 that 3'our ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, ma3^ have 
 an arm to lean on," Captain Westbur3^ said. " Your woman 
 will show me wiiere I am to look ; " and Madame Victoire, chat- 
 tering in her half French and half English jargon, opened while 
 the Captain examined one drawer after another ; but, as Harr3" 
 Esmond thought, rather carelessly, with a smile on his face, as 
 if he was onl3^ conducting the examination for form's sake. 
 
44 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Before one of the cupboards Vietoire flung herself down, 
 stretching out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried, 
 " Non, jamais, monsieur I'officier ! Jamais ! I will rather die 
 than let you see this wardrobe." 
 
 But Captain Westbur}^ would open it, still with a smile on 
 his face, which, v/hen the box was opened, turned into a fair 
 burst of laughter. It contained — not papers regarding the 
 conspirac}^ — but my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge-pots, and 
 Vietoire said men were monsters, as the Captain went on with 
 his perquisition. He tapped the back to see whether or no it 
 was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, my 
 lady from her bed called out, with a voice that did not sound 
 like that of a very sick woman, "Is it your commission to 
 insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen. Captain ? " 
 
 " These articles are only dangerous when worn by your 
 lad3'ship," the Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin 
 of politeness. '' I have found nothing which concerns the Gov- 
 ernment as yet — onl}' the weapons with which beaut^^ is author- 
 ized to kill," says he, pointing to a wig with his sword-tip. 
 " We must now proceed to search the rest of the house." 
 
 ' ' You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with 
 me," cried my ladj^, pointing to the soldier. 
 
 "What can I do, madam? Somebod\' 3'ou must have to 
 smooth your pillow and bring 3'our medicine — permit me — " 
 
 " Sir ! " screamed out m}- lad3\ 
 
 "Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed," the Captain 
 then said, rather sternl3', "I must have in four of my men to 
 lift you off in the sheet. I must examine this bed, in a word ; 
 papers may be hidden in a bed as elsewhere ; we know that 
 ver3^ well and * * * ." 
 
 Here it was her lad3^ship's turn to shriek, for the Captain, 
 with his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came to 
 "burn" as the3' sa3^ in the play of forfeits, and wrenching 
 awa3" one of the pillows, said, " Look ! did not I tell 3'ou so? 
 Here is a pillow stuffed with paper." 
 
 " Some villain has betrayed us," cried out my lady, sitting 
 up in the bed, showing herself full dressed under her night-rail. 
 
 " And now 3'our lad3'ship can move, I am sure ; permit me 
 to give 3'ou my hand to rise. You will have to travel for some 
 distance, as far as Hexton Castle to-night. Will you have 
 3'our coach? Your woman shall attend you if you like — and 
 the japan-box ? " 
 
 " Sir! you don't strike a man when he is down," said m3^ 
 ladj', with some dignity : " can you not spare a woman? " 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 45 
 
 "Your ladj'ship must please to rise, and let me search the 
 bed," said the Captain; "there is no more time to lose in 
 bandying talk." 
 
 And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. Harry 
 Esmond recollected to the end of his life that figure, with the 
 brocade dress and the white night-rail, and the gold-clocked 
 red stockings, and white red-heeled shoes, sitting up in the 
 bed, and stepping down from it. The trunks were ready 
 packed for departure in her ante-room, and the horses ready 
 harnessed in the stable : about all which the Captain seemed to 
 know, by information got from some quarter or other ; and 
 whence JEsmond could make a pretty shrewd guess in after- 
 times, when Dr. Tusher complained that King AYilliam's gov- 
 ernment had basely treated him for services done in that cause. 
 
 And here he may relate, though he was then too young to 
 know all that was happening, what the papers contained, of 
 which Captain Westbury had made a seizure, and which papers 
 had been transferred from the japan-box to the bed when the 
 officers arrived. 
 
 There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt's 
 handwriting — Mr. Freeman's (King James's) friends — a similar 
 paper being found among those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr. 
 Coplestone, who suffered death for this conspiracy. 
 
 There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of Es- 
 mond on my Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his body ; 
 his appointment as Lord-Lieutenant of the Count}', and Major- 
 GeneraL* 
 
 There were various letters from the nobility and gentr^^ 
 some ardent and some doubtful, in the King's service ; and 
 (very luckily for him) two letters concerning Colonel Francis 
 Esmond: one from Father Holt, which said, "I have been to 
 see this Colonel at his house at Walcote, near to Wells, where 
 he resides since the King's departure, and pressed him very 
 eagerly in Mr. Freeman's cause, showing him the great advan- 
 tage he would have by trading with that merchant, offering him 
 large premiums there as agreed between us. But he says no : 
 he considers Mr. Freeman the head of the firm, will never trade 
 
 * To have this rank of Marquis restored in the family had always been 
 my Lady Viscountess's ambition ; and her old maiden aunt, Barbara Top- 
 ham, the goldsmith's daughter, dying about this time, and leaving all her 
 property to Lady Castlewood, I have heard that her ladyship sent almost 
 the whole of the money to King James, a proceeding which so irritated my 
 Lord Castlewood that he actually went to the parish church, and was only 
 appeased by the Marquis's title which his exiled Majesty sent to him in 
 return for the 15,000/. his faithful subject lent him. 
 
46 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOXD. 
 
 against liim or embark with any other trading company, but 
 considers his dut}^ was done when Mr. Freeman left England. 
 This Colonel seems to care more for his wife and his beagles 
 than for affairs. He asked me much about 3'oung H. E., ^ that 
 bastard,' as he called him ; doubting my lord's intentions re- 
 specting him. I reassured him on this head, stating what I 
 knew of the lad, and our intentions respecting him, but with 
 regard to Freeman he was inflexible." 
 
 And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kinsman, 
 to sa}^ that one Captain Holton had been with him offering him 
 large bribes to join, yon know who^ and sajing that the head of 
 the house of Castlewood was deeply engaged in that quarter. 
 But for his part he had broke his sword when the K. left the 
 countr}^, and would never again fight in that quarrel. The P. 
 of O. was a man, at least, of a noble courage, and his duty, 
 and, as he thought, every Englishman's, was to keep the coun- 
 try' quiet, and the French out of it : and, in fine, that he would 
 have nothing to do with the scheme. 
 
 Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of the 
 pillow. Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount Castle- 
 wood, told Henry Esmond afterwards, when the letters were 
 shown to his lordship, who congratulated himself, as he had 
 good reason, that he had not joined in the scheme which proved 
 so fatal to manv concerned in it. But, naturally, the lad knew 
 little about these circumstances when they happened under his 
 e3'es : onl}^ being aware that his patron and his mistress were 
 in some trouble, which had caused the flight of the one and 
 the apprehension of the other by the oflScers of King William. 
 
 The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not 
 pursue their further search through Castlewood House very 
 rigorous^. Th^y examined Mr. Holt's room, being led thither 
 by his pupil, who showed, as the Father had bidden him, the 
 place where the key of his chamber la\', opened the door for 
 the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room. 
 
 When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the 
 brazier, they examined them eagerly enough, and their young 
 guide was a little amused at their perplexity. 
 
 " What are these? " says one. 
 
 " They're written in a foreign language," says the law3"er. 
 "What are 3'ou laughing at, little whelp?" adds he, turning 
 round as he saw the boy smile. 
 
 "Mr. Holt said thej^ were sermons," Harry said, "and 
 bade me to burn them ; " which indeed was true of those 
 papers. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 47 
 
 *' Sermons indeed — it's treason, I would lay a wager," 
 cries the law3'er. 
 
 " Egad ! it's Greek to me," saj's Captain Westbury. " Can 
 you read it, little bo}'?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, a little," Harry said. 
 
 " Then read, and read in EngUsh, sir, on 3'our peril," said 
 the lawyer. And Harry began to translate : — 
 
 " Hath not one of your own writers said, ' The children of 
 Adam are now laboring as much as he himself ever did, about 
 the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, shaking the boughs 
 thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the most part unmind- 
 ful of the tree of life.' Oh blind generation ! 'tis this tree of 
 knowledge to which the serpent has led 3'ou " — and here the 
 bo}' was obliged to stop, the rest of the page being charred by 
 the fire : and asked of the law3^er — " Shall I go on, sir?" 
 
 The lawyer said — " This boy is deeper than he seems : who 
 knows that he is not laughing at us ? " 
 
 " Let's hav^e in Dick the Scholar," cried Captain Westbury, 
 laughing : and he called to a trooper out of the window — 
 " Ho, Dick, come in here and construe." 
 
 A thick- set soldier, with a square good-humored face, came 
 In at the summons, saluting his officer. 
 
 " Tell us what is this, Dick," says the law^yer. 
 
 " My name is Steele, sir," says the soldier. " I may be 
 Dick for m}^ friends, but I don't name gentlemen of your cloth 
 amongst them." 
 
 "Well then, Steele." 
 
 " Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gen- 
 tleman of his Majesty's Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so 
 familiar." 
 
 " I didn't know, sir," said the lawj'er. 
 
 "How shoukl you? I take it you are not accustomed to 
 neet with gentlemen," sa^'s the trooper. 
 
 " Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper," saj^s West- 
 Dury. 
 
 " 'Tis Latin," says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting 
 his officer, " and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's," and he 
 translated the words pretty much as Henr}" Esmond had ren- 
 iered them. 
 
 " What a young scholar you are," says the Captain to the 
 boy. 
 
 "Depend on't, he knows more than he tells," says the 
 lawyer. " I think we will pack him off in the coach with old 
 Jezebel." 
 
48 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "For construing a bit of Latin?" said the Captain, very 
 good-naturedl\'. 
 
 " I would as lief go there as anj'where," Harry Esmond 
 said, simpl}^ " for there is nobodj' to care for me." 
 
 There must have been something touching in the child's 
 voice, or in this description of his solitude — for the Captain 
 looked at him very good-naturedlj^, and the trooper, called 
 Steele, put his hand kindly on the lad's head, and said some 
 words in the Latin tongue. 
 
 " What does he say?" says the lawyer. 
 
 "Faith, ask Dick himself," cried Captain Westbur}^ 
 
 "I said I was not ignorant of misfortune mj^self, and had 
 learned to succor the miserable, and that's not your trade, Mr. 
 Sheepskin," said the trooper. 
 
 " You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet," 
 the Captain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a 
 kind face and kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured 
 champion. 
 
 The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach ; and 
 the Countess and Victoire came down and were put into the 
 vehicle. This woman, who quarrelled with Harry Esmond all 
 da}', was melted at parting with hiin, and called him "dear 
 angel," and " poor infant," and a hundred other names. 
 
 The Viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade 
 him always be faithful to the house of Esmond. " If evil 
 should happen to m\" lord," says she, "his successor, 1 trust, 
 will be found, and give 3'ou protection. Situated as I am, they 
 will not dare wreak their vengeance on me now.'' And she 
 kissed a medal she wore with great fervor, and Henry Esmond 
 knew not in the least what her meaning was ; but hath since 
 learned that, old as she was, she was for ever expecting, by 
 the good offices of saints and relics, to have an heir to the title 
 of Esmond. 
 
 Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced into 
 the secrets of politics in which his patrons were implicated ; for 
 they put but few questions to the boy (who was little of stat- 
 ure, and looked much 3'ounger than his age), and such ques- 
 tions as the}^ put he answered cautiouslj' enough, and professing 
 even more ignorance than he had, for which his examiners 
 willingly enough gave him credit. He did not say a word about 
 the window or the cupboard over the fireplace ; and these se- 
 crets quite escaped the eyes of the searchers. 
 
 So then my lady was consigned to her coach, and sent off 
 to Hexton, with her woman and the man of law to bear her 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 49 
 
 compan}^ a couple of troopers riding on either side of the 
 coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging as 
 it were to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The captain 
 and a gaard of men remained in possession there ; and the sol- 
 diers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate my lord's 
 mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves comfortable, 
 as they well might do in such pleasant quarters. 
 
 The captains had their dinner served in my lord's tapestry 
 parlor, and poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait upon 
 Captain Westbury's chair, as his custom had been to serve his 
 lord when he sat there. 
 
 After the departure of the Countess, Dick the Scholar took 
 Harry Esmond under his special protection, and would examine 
 him in his humanities and talk to him both of French and Latin, 
 in which tongues the lad found, and his new friend was willing 
 enough to acknowledge, that he was even more proficient than 
 Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them from a Jesuit, 
 in the praise of whom and whose goodness Harry was never 
 tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy's surprise, who began 
 to have an early shrewdness, like man}' children bred up alone, 
 showed a great deal of theological science, and knowledge of 
 the points at issue between the two churches ; so that he and 
 Harry would have hours of controversy together, in which the 
 boy was certainly worsted by the arguments of this singular 
 trooper. " I am no common soldier," Dick would say, and in- 
 deed it was easy to see by his learning, breeding, and many 
 accomphshments, that he was not. " I am of one of the most 
 ancient famiUes in the empire ; I have had my education at a 
 famous school, and a famous universit}' ; I learned m}' first rudi- 
 ments of Latin near to Smithfield, in London, where the mar- 
 tyrs were roasted." 
 
 '^ You hanged as many of ours," interposed Harry ; " and, 
 for the matter of persecution, Father Holt told me that a^'oung 
 gentleman of Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, student at the 
 college there, was hanged for heres}' only last j^ear, though he 
 recanted, and solemnl}' asked pardon for his errors." 
 
 ' ' Faith ! there has been too much persecution on both sides : 
 but 'twas you taught us." 
 
 " Nay, 'twas the Pagans began it," cried the lad, and began 
 to instance a number of saints of the Church, from the proto- 
 martyr downwards — " this one's fire went out under him : that 
 one's oil cooled in the caldron : at a third hol}^ head the exe- 
 cutioner chopped three times and it would not come off. Show 
 
 4 
 
50 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 us martyrs in your church for whom such miracles have been 
 done." 
 
 " Na}'," sa^'s the trooper gravely, " the miracles of the first 
 three centuries belong to my Church as well as 3'ours, Master 
 Papist," and then added, with something of a smile upon his 
 countenance, and a queer look at Harry — " And yet, my little 
 catechiser, I have sometimes thought about those miracles, that 
 there was not much good in them, since the victim's head always 
 finished by coming off at the third or fourth chop, and the cal- 
 dron, if it did not boil one day, boiled the next. Howbeit, in 
 our times, the Church has lost that questionable advantage of 
 respites. There never was a shower to put out Ridle3''s fire, 
 nor an angel to turn the edge of Campion's axe. The rack tore 
 the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and S^'mpson the Protestant 
 alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes die willingly enough. 
 I have read in Monsieur Rycaut's ' Historj^ of the Turks,' of 
 thousands of Mahomet's followers rushing upon death in battle 
 as upon certain Paradise ; and in the great Mogul's dominions 
 people fling themselves by hundreds under the cars of the idols 
 annually, and the widows burn themselves on their husbands' 
 bodies, as 'tis well known. 'Tis not the dying for a faith that's 
 so hard, Master Harry — every man of every nation has done 
 that — 'tis the living up to it that is difficult, as I know to my 
 cost," he added with a sigh. " And ah ! " he added, " my poor 
 lad, I am not strong enough to convince thee b3' my life — 
 though to die for my religion would give me the greatest of joys 
 — but I had a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford ; I 
 wish Joe Addison were here to convince thee, as he quickly 
 could — for I think he's a match for the whole College of 
 Jesuits ; and what's more, in his life too. In that very sermon 
 of Dr. Cud worth's which j^our priest was quoting from, and 
 which suffered martydom in the brazier," — Dick added with a 
 smile, " I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but was 
 ashamed of my life, you see, and took to this sorry red one) ; 
 I have often thought of Joe Addison — Dr. Cudworth says, 
 * A good conscience is the best looking-glass of heaven ' — and 
 there's serenity in my friend's face which always reflects it — I 
 wish you could see him, Harry." 
 
 "Did he do you a great deal of good?" asked the lad, 
 simply. 
 
 " He might have done," said the other — "at least he taught 
 me to see and approve better things. 'Tis my own fault, dete- 
 riora aeqiii.'^ 
 
 "You seem very good," the boy said. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 51 
 
 *' I'm not what I seem, alas ! " answered the trooper — and 
 indeed, as it turned out, poor Dick told the truth — for that 
 verj^ night, at supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of the 
 troop took their repasts, and passed most part of their daj^s 
 dicing and smoking of tobacco, and singing and cursing, over 
 the Castlewood ale — Harry Esmond found Dick the Scholar in 
 a woful state of drunkenness. He hiccupped out a sermon ; 
 and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn, on which 
 Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel through the bod}^ 
 who insulted his religion, made for his sword, which was hang- 
 ing on the wall, and fell down flat on the floor under it, saying 
 to Harr}', who ran forward to help him, "Ah, little Papist, 1 
 wish Joseph Addison was here ! " 
 
 Though the troopers of the King's Life-Guards were all 
 gentlemen, 3'et the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and 
 vulgar boors to Harry Esmond, with the exception of this good- 
 natured Corporal Steele the Scholar, and Captain Westbury and 
 Lieutenant Trant, who were always kind to the lad. They re- 
 mained for some weeks or months encamped in Castlewood, and 
 Harry learned from them, from time to time, how the lady at 
 Hexton Castle was treated, and the particulars of her confine- 
 ment there. 'Tis known that King William was disposed to 
 deal very leniently with the gentr}^ who remained faithful to the 
 old King's cause ; and no prince usurping a crown, as his ene- 
 mies said he did, (righteously taking it, as I think now,) ever 
 caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators, he 
 kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the others. 
 Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton Castle, and the 
 gaoler's garden to walk in ; and though she repeatedly desired 
 to be led out to execution, hke Mary Queen of Scots, there 
 never was an}" thought of taking her painted old head off, or 
 any desire to do aught but keep her person in security. 
 
 And it appeared she found that some were friends in her 
 misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperit}^, considered as her 
 worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord's cousin 
 and her ladyship's, who had married the Dean of Winchester's 
 daughter, and, since King James's departure out of England, 
 had lived not very far awa}^ from Hexton town, hearing of his 
 kinswoman's strait, and being friends with Colonel Brice, com- 
 manding for King William in Hexton, and with the Church 
 dignitaries there, came to visit her ladyship in prison, offering 
 to his uncle's daughter any friendly services which lay in his 
 power. And he brought his lady and little daughter to see the 
 prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of great beauty and 
 
52 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 man}^ winning ways, the old Viscountess took not a little liking, 
 although between her ladyship and the child's mother there was 
 little more love than formerly. There are some injuries which 
 women never forgive one another ; and Madam Francis Esmond, 
 in marrying her cousin, had done one of those irretrievable 
 wrongs to Lady Castlewood. But as she was now humiliated, 
 and in misfortune, Madam Francis could allow a truce to her 
 enmity, and could be kind for a while, at least, to her hus- 
 band's discarded mistress. So the little Beatrix, her daughter, 
 was permitted often to go and visit the imprisoned Viscountess, 
 who, in so far as the child and its father were concerned, got 
 to abate in her anger towards that branch of the Castlewood 
 family. And the letters of Colonel Esmond coming to light, 
 as has been said, and his conduct being known to the King's 
 council, the Colonel was put in a better position with the ex- 
 isting government than he had ever before been ; any suspi- 
 cions regarding his lo3'alty were entirely done away ; and so he 
 was enabled to be of more service to his kinswoman than he 
 could otherwise have been. 
 
 And now there befell an event by which this lad}- recovered 
 her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, and 
 fatherless little Harry Esmond a new and most kind protector 
 and friend. Whatever that secret was which Harr}^ was to 
 hear from my lord, the bo}^ never heard it ; for that night when 
 Father Holt arrived, and carried my lord away with him, was 
 the last on which Harr}^ ever saw his patron. What happened 
 to my lord ma}' be briefly told here. Having found the horses 
 at the place where the}^ were l3'ing, my lord and Father Holt 
 rode together to Chatteris, where they had temporary refuge 
 with one of the Father's penitents in that city ; but the pursuit 
 being hot for them, and the reward for the apprehension of 
 one or the other considerable, it was deemed advisable that they 
 should separate ; and the priest betook himself to other places 
 of retreat known to him, whilst my lord passed over from Bris- 
 tol into Ireland, in which kingdom King James had a court 
 and an arm}'. My lord was but a small addition to this ; bring- 
 ing, indeed, onl}- his sword and the few pieces in his pocket ; 
 but the King received him with some kindness and distinction 
 in spite of his poor plight, confirmed him in his new title of 
 Marquis, gave him a regiment, and promised him farther pro- 
 motion. But titles or promotion were not to benefit him now. 
 My lord was wonnded at the fatal battle of the Boyne, flying 
 from which field (long after his master had set him an exam- 
 ple) he lay for a while concealed in the marshy country near to 
 
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 53 
 
 the town of Trim, and more from catarrh and fever caught in 
 the bogs than from the steel of the enemy in the battle, sank 
 and died. May the earth lie light upon Thomas of Castlewood ! 
 He who writes this must speak in charity, though this lord did 
 him and his two grievous wrongs : for one of these he would 
 have made amends, perhaps, had life been spared him ; but the 
 other lay beyond his power to repair, though 'tis to be hoped 
 that a greater Power than a priest has absolved him of it. He 
 got the comfort of this absolution, too, such as it was : a priest 
 of Trim writing a letter to my lady to inform her of this 
 calamit3^ 
 
 But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our 
 priest's took two months or more on its journey from Ireland to 
 England : where, wlien it did arrive, it did not find my lad}' at 
 her own house ; she was at the King's house of Hexton Castle 
 when the letter came to Castlewood, but it was opened for all 
 that by the officer in command there. 
 
 Harr}^ Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, 
 which Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieuten- 
 ant Trant were on the green playing at bowls, young Esmond 
 looking on at the sport, or reading his book in the arbor. 
 
 " Here's news for Frank Esmond," says Captain Westbur}' ; 
 "Harr}', did you ever see Colonel Esmond?" And Captain 
 Westbury looked verj^ hard at the boy as he spoke. 
 
 Harr}^ said he had seen him but once when he was at Hex- 
 ton, at the ball there. 
 
 " And did he say anything?" 
 
 " He said what I don't care to repeat," Harry answered. 
 For he was now twelve years of age : he knew what his birth 
 was, and the disgrace of it ; and he felt no love towards the 
 man who had most likely stained his mother's honor and his 
 own. 
 
 " Did you love m}^ Lord Castlewood? " 
 
 " I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say," the boy an- 
 swered, his eyes filling with tears. 
 
 " Something has happened to Lord Castlewood," Captain 
 Westbury said in a ver}' grave tone — " something which must 
 happen to us all. He is dead of a wound received at the Boj^ne, 
 fighting for King James." 
 
 "I am glad my lord fought for the right cause," the boy 
 said. 
 
 " It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than 
 face it on Tower-hill, as some of them ma}'," continued Mr. 
 Westbury. " I hope he has made some testament, or provided 
 
54 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 
 
 for thee somehow. This letter says he recommends unicum 
 filmm suum dilectlssimum to his lady. I hope he has left you 
 more than that." 
 
 Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of 
 Heaven and Fate ; but more lonely now, as it seemed to him, 
 than he had been all the rest of his life ; and that night, as he lay 
 in his little room which he still occupied, the boy thought with 
 many a pang of shame and grief of his strange and solitary 
 condition : — how he had a father and no father ; a nameless 
 mother that had been brought to ruin, perhaps, b}' that very 
 father whom Harry could only acknowledge in secret and with 
 a blush, and whom he could neither love nor revere. And he 
 sickened to think how Father Holt, a stranger, and two or 
 three soldiers, his acquaintances of the last six weeks, were the 
 only friends he had in the great wide world, where he was now 
 quite alone. The soul of the boy was full of love, and he 
 longed as he lay in the darkness there for some one upon whom 
 he could bestow it. He remembers, and must to his dying da}', 
 the thoughts and tears of that long night, the hours tolling 
 through it. Who was he, and what ? Wh}^ here rather than else- 
 where ? I have a mind, he thought, to go to that priest at Trim, 
 and find out what my father said to him on his death-bed con- 
 fession. Is there any child in the whole w^orld so unprotected 
 as I am? Shall I get up and quit this place, and run to Ireland? 
 With these thoughts and tears the lad passed that night away 
 until he wept himself to sleep. 
 
 The next da}^, the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard 
 •what had befallen him, were more than usually kind to the 
 child, especially his friend Scholar Dick, who told him about 
 his own father's death, which had happened when Dick was a 
 child at Dublin, not quite five years of age. "That was the 
 first sensation of grief," Dick said, " I ever knew. I remember 
 I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat 
 weeping beside it. I had mj battledore in my hand, and fell 
 a-beating the coffin, and calling Papa ; on which my mother 
 caught me in her arms, and told me in a flood of tears Papa 
 could not hear me, and would plaj^ with me no more, for they 
 were going to put him under ground, whence he could never 
 come to us again. And this," said Dick kindly, "has made 
 me pity all children ever since ; and caused me to love thee, my 
 poor fatherless, motherless lad. And, if ever thou wantest a 
 friend, thou shalt have one in Richard Steele." 
 
 Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful. But what 
 could Corporal Steele do for him? take him to ride a spare 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 55 
 
 horse, and be servant to the troop? Though there might be 
 a bar in Harry Esmond's shield, it was a noble one. The coun- 
 sel of the two friends was, that little Harr}^ should stay where 
 he was, and abide his fortune : so Esmond stayed on at Castle- 
 wood, awaiting with no small anxiet}' the fate, whatever it was, 
 which was over him. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I AM LEFT AT CASTLE WOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND MOST KIND 
 PROTECTORS THERE. 
 
 During the sta}^ of the soldiers in Castlewood, honest Dick 
 the Scholar was the constant companion of the loneh^ little 
 orphan lad Harry Esmond : and they read together, and they 
 played bowls together, and when the other troopers or their 
 officers, who were free-spoken over their cups, (as was the way 
 of that da}^ when neither men nor women were over-nice,) 
 t,alked unbecominglj^ of their amours and gallantries before the 
 <3hild, Dick, who veiy likel}" was setting the whole company 
 laughing, would stop their jokes with a maxima debetur pueris 
 revererdia^ and once offered to lug out against another trooper 
 called Hulking Tom, who wanted to ask Harry Esmond a 
 ribald question. 
 
 Also, Dick seeing that the child had, as he said, a sensi- 
 bilit}^ above his 3'ears, and a great and praiseworthy discretion, 
 confided to Harry his love for a vintner's daughter, near to the 
 Tollyard, Westminster, whom Dick addressed as Saccharissa in 
 many verses of his composition, and without whom he said it 
 would be impossible that he could continue to live. He vowed 
 this a thousand times in a day, though Harr}^ smiled to see the 
 love-lorn swain had his health and appetite as well as the most 
 heart-whole trooper in the regiment : and he swore Harry to 
 secrecy too, which vow the lad religiousl}' kept, until he found 
 that officers and privates were all taken into Dick's confidence, 
 and had the benefit of his verses. And it must be owned like- 
 wise that, while Dick was sighing after Saccharissa in London, 
 he had consolations in the country ; for there came a wench 
 out of Castlewood village who had washed his linen, and who 
 cried sadly when she heard he was gone : and without paying 
 her bill too, which Hany Esmond took upon himself to dis- 
 charge by giving the girl a silver pocket-piece, which Scholar 
 
56 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Dick had presented to him, when, with many embraces and 
 prayers for his prosperit}', Dick parted from him, the garrison 
 of Castlewood being ordered away. Dick the Scholar said he 
 would never forget his young friend, nor indeed did he : and 
 Harry was sorry when the kind soldiers vacated Castlewood, 
 looking forward with no small anxiet}' (for care and solitude had 
 made him thoughtful beyond his years) to his fate when the new 
 lord and lady of the house came to live there. He had lived to 
 be past twelve years old now ; and had never had a friend, save 
 this wild trooper, perhaps, and Father Holt ; and had a fond 
 and affectionate heart, tender to weakness, that would fain 
 attach itself to somebod}^ and did not seem at rest until it had 
 found a friend who would take charge of it. 
 
 The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love 
 the gracious person, the fair apparition of whose beauty and 
 kindness had so moved him when he first beheld her, became 
 soon a devoted affection and passion of gratitude, which entirely 
 filled his young heart, that as 3'et, except in the case of dear 
 Father Holt, had had very little kindness for which to be thank- 
 ful. Dea certe^ thought he, remembering the lines out of the 
 ^neas which Mr. Holt had taught him. There seemed, as 
 the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature, 
 an angelical softness and bright pity — in motion or repose she 
 seemed gracious alike ; the tone of her voice, though she uttered 
 words ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost 
 to anguish. It cannot be called love, that a lad of twelve years 
 of age, little more than a menial, felt for an exalted lady, his 
 mistress : but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine 
 her errand and run on it before she had spoken it ; to watch, 
 follow, adore lier ; became the business of his life. Meanwhile, 
 as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never 
 thought of or suspected the admiration of her httle pigmy 
 adorer. 
 
 My lad}^ had on her side her three idols : first and foremost, 
 Jove and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron, the good 
 Viscount of Castlewood. All wishes of his were laws with her. 
 If he had a headache, she was ill. If he frowned, she trembled. 
 If he joked, she smiled and was charmed. If he went a-hunt- 
 ing, she was always at the window to see him ride awaj*, her 
 little son crowing on her arm, or on the watch till his return. 
 She made dishes for his dinner : spiced wine for him : made 
 the toast for his tankard at breakfast : hushed the house when 
 he slept in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If 
 m3' lord was not a little proud of his beauty, mj' lad}' adored 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 57 
 
 it. She clung to his arm as he paced the terrace, her two fair 
 little hands clasped round his great one ; her eyes were never 
 tired of looking in his face and wondering at its perfection. 
 Her little son was his son, and had his father's look and curly > 
 brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had 
 his e3-es — were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world ? 
 All the house was arranged so as to bring him ease and give 
 him pleasure. She hked the small gentry round about to come 
 and pay him court, never caring for admiration for herself; 
 those who wanted to be well with the lady must admire him. 
 Not regarding her dress, she would wear a gown to rags, be- 
 cause he had once liked it : and, if he brought her a brooch or 
 a ribbon, would prefer it to all the most costly articles of her 
 wardrobe. 
 
 My lord went to London every year for six weeks, and the 
 family being too poor to appear at Court with any figure, he 
 went alone. It was not until he was out of sight that her 
 face showed an}^ sorrow : and what a joy when he came back ! 
 What preparation before his return ! The fond creature had 
 his arm-chair at the chimney-side — dehghting to put the chil- 
 dren in it, and look at them there. Nobody took his place at 
 the table ; but his silver tankard stood there as when my lord 
 was present. 
 
 A prett}^ sight it was to see, during my lord's absence, or on 
 those many mornings when sleep or headache kept him a-bed, 
 this fair young lad}^ of Castlewood, her little daughter at her 
 knee, and her domestics gathered round her, reading the Morn? 
 ing Prayer of the English Church. Esmond long remembered 
 how she looked and spoke, kneeling reverently before the sacred 
 book, the sun shining upon her golden hair until it made a halo 
 round about her. A dozen of the servants of the house kneeled 
 in a line opposite their mistress ; for a while Harr}^ Esmond 
 kept apart from these mysteries, but Doctor Tusher showing 
 him that the pra3'ers read were those of the Church of all ages, 
 and the boy's own inclination prompting him to be always as 
 near as he might to his mistress, and to think all things she did 
 right, from listening to the pra3'ers in the ante-chamber, he 
 came presentl}^ to kneel down with the rest of the household in 
 the parlor ; and before a couple of 3"ears m3^ lady had made a 
 thorough convert. Indeed, the bo3' loved his catechiser so much 
 that he would have subscribed to an3^thing she bade him, and 
 was never tired of listening to her fond discourse and simple 
 comments upon the book, which she read to him in a voice of 
 which it was difficult to resist the sweet persuasion and tender 
 
58 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 appealing kindness. This friendly controversy, and the inti- 
 macy which it occasioned, bound the lad more fondl}' than ever 
 to his mistress. The happiest period of all his life was this ; 
 and the 3"oung mother, with her daughter and son, and the 
 orphan lad whom she protected, read and worked and pla3^ed, 
 and were children together. If the lad}' looked forward — as 
 what fond woman does not? — towards tlie future, she had no 
 plans from which Harry Esmond was left out ; and a thousand 
 and a thousand times, in his passionate and impetuous way, he 
 vowed that no power should separate him from his mistress ; 
 and onh' asked for some chance to happen b}^ which he might 
 show his fidelit}' to her. Now, at the close of his life, as he 
 sits and recalls in tranquillity the happ}^ and busy scenes of it, 
 he can think, not ungratefully, that he has been faithful to that 
 early vow. Such a life is so simple that 3'ears may be chron- 
 icled in a few lines. But few men's life-vo3'ages are destined 
 to be all prosperous ; and this calm of which we are speaking 
 was soon to come to an end. 
 
 As P^smond grew, and observed for himself, he found of 
 necessity much to read and think of outside that fond circle 
 of kinsfolk who had admitted him to join hand with them. He 
 read more books than tlie}^ cared to stud}^ with him ; was alone 
 in the midst of them many a time, and passed nights over 
 labors, futile perhaps, but in which the}' could not join him. 
 His dear mistress divined his thoughts with her usual jealous 
 watchfulness of affection : began to forebode a time when he 
 would escape from his home-nest ; and, at his eager protesta- 
 tions to the contrar3^, would only sigh and shake her head. 
 Before those fatal decrees in life are executed, there are alwa3's 
 secret previsions and warning omens. When everything 3'et 
 seems calm, we are aware that the storm is coming. Ere the 
 happy days were over, two at least of that home-part}' felt that 
 they were drawing to a close ; and were uneasy, and on the 
 look-out for the cloud which was to obscure their calm. 
 
 'Twas easy for Harry to see, however much his lady per- 
 sisted in obedience and admiration for her husband, that my lord 
 tired of his quiet life, and grew weary, and then testy, at those 
 gentle bonds with which his wife would have held him. As they 
 say the Grand Lama of Thibet is ver}' much fatigued by his char- 
 acter of divinity, and yawns on his altar as his bonzes kneel and 
 worship him, man}- a home-god grows heartil3' sick of the rev- 
 erence with which his family-devotees pursue him, and sighs for 
 freedom and for his old life, and to be off the pedestal on which 
 his dependants would have him sit for ever, whilst they adore 
 
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 59 
 
 him, and pi}' him with flowers, and h3'mns, and incense, and 
 flattery ; — so, after a few years of his marriage my lionest Lord 
 Castlewood began to tire ; all the high-flown raptures and devo- 
 tional ceremonies with which his wife, his chief priestess, treat- 
 ed him, first sent him to sleep, and then drove him out of doors ; 
 for the truth must be told, that mj' lord was a jolh' gentleman, 
 with very little of the august or divine in his nature, though his 
 fond wife persisted in revering it — and, besides, he had to pay 
 a penalty for this love, which persons of his disposition seldom 
 like to defray : and, in a word, if he had a loving wife, had a 
 very jealous and exacting one. Then he wearied of this jeal- 
 ousy ; then he broke away from it ; then came, no doubt, 
 complaints and recriminations ; then, perhaps, promises of 
 amendment not fulfilled ; then upbraidings not the more pleas- 
 ant because they were silent, and only sad looks and tearful 
 eyes conveyed them. Then, perhaps, the pair reached that 
 other stage which is not uncommon in married life, when the 
 woman perceives that the god of the honeymoon is a god no 
 more ; onl}' a mortal like the rest of us — and so she looks into 
 her heart, and lo ! vocucb sedes et inania arcana. And now, sup- 
 posing our lad}' to have a fine genius and a brilliant wit of her 
 own, and the magic spell and infatuation removed from her 
 which had led her to worship as a god a very ordinary mortal — 
 and what follows ? They live together, and they dine together, 
 and they say ' ' my dear " and ' ' m}' love " as heretofore ; but 
 the man is himself, and the woman herself: that dream of love 
 is over as everything else is over in life ; as flowers and fury, 
 and griefs and pleasures, are over. 
 
 Very likely the Lady Castlewood had ceased to adore her 
 husband herself long before she got oflf her knees, or would 
 allow her household to discontinue worshipping him. To do 
 him justice, mj' lord never exacted this subservience : he laughed 
 and joked and drank his bottle, and swore when he was angry, 
 much too familiarl}' for any one pretending to sublimit}^ ; and 
 did his best to destroy the ceremonial with which his wdfe chose 
 to surround him. And it required no great conceit on voung Es- 
 mond's part to see that his own brains were better than his pa- 
 tron's, who, indeed, never assumed an}' airs of superiority over 
 the lad, or over any dependant of his, save when he was dis- 
 pleased, in which case he would express his mind in oaths very 
 freely; and who, on the contrary, perhaps, spoiled "Parson 
 Harry," as he called young Esmond, by constantly praising his 
 parts and admiring his boyish stock of learning. 
 
 It may seem ungracious in one who has received a hundred 
 
60 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 favors from his patron to speak in any but a reverential manner 
 of his elders ; but the present writer has had descendants of his 
 own, whom he has brought up witli as little as possible of the 
 servility" at present exacted b}^ parents from children (under 
 which mask of dut}' there often lurks indifference, contempt, or 
 rebellion) : and as he would have his grandsons believe or rep- 
 resent him to be not an inch taller than Nature has made him : 
 so, with regard to his past acquaintances, he would speak with- 
 out anger, but with truth, as far as he knows it, neither extenu- 
 ating nor setting down aught in malice. 
 
 80 long, then, as the world moved according to Lord Castle- 
 wood's wishes, he was good-humored enough ; of a temper 
 naturall}' sprightly and eas}', liking to joke, especially with his 
 inferiors, and charmed to receive the tribute of their laughter. 
 All exercises of the bod}^ he could perform to perfection — 
 shooting at a mark and flying, breaking horses, riding at the 
 ring, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with great skill. 
 And not only did he do these things well, but he thought he did 
 them to perfection ; hence he was often tricked about horses, 
 which he pretended to know better than any jocke}- ; was made 
 to play at ball and billiards b}^ sharpers who took his money, 
 and came back from London wofully poorer each time than he 
 went, as the state of his affairs testified when the sudden acci- 
 dent came b}^ which his career was brought to an end. 
 
 Pie was fond of the parade of dress, and passed as many 
 hours daily at his toilette as an elderly coquette. A tenth part 
 of his da}^ was spent in the brushing of his teeth and the oiling 
 of his hair, which was curling and brown, and which he did not 
 like to conceal under a periwig, such as almost everybody of 
 that time wore. (We have the liberty of our hair back now, 
 but powder and pomatum along with it. When, I wonder, will 
 these monstrous poll-taxes of our age be withdrawn, and men 
 allowed to cany their colors, black, red, or gray, as Nature 
 made them?) And as he liked her to be well dressed, his lad}' 
 spared no pains in that matter to please him ; indeed, she 
 would dress her head or cut it off if he had bidden her. 
 
 It was a wonder to young Esmond, serving as page to m}' 
 lord and ladj', to hear, day after da}', to such company as came, 
 the same boisterous stories told by my lord, at which his lad}- 
 never failed to smile or hold down her head, and Doctor Tusher 
 to burst out laughing at the proper point, or cr}', "Fie, m}^ 
 lord, remember m}' cloth ! " but with such a faint show of resist- 
 ance, that it onl}^ provoked m}^ lord further. Lord Castlewood's 
 stories rose by degrees, and became stronger after the ale at 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 61 
 
 dinner and the bottle afterwards ; my lad}' always taking flight 
 after the very first glass to Church and King, and leaving the 
 gentlemen to drink the rest of the toasts b}^ themselves. 
 
 And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called 
 from duty at this time. "My lord has lived in the arm}' and 
 with soldiers," she would say to the lad, "amongst whom 
 great license is allowed. You have had a different nurture, 
 and I trust these things will change as you grow older ; not 
 that an}' fault attaches to my lord, who is one of the best and 
 most religious men in this kingdom." And very likely she 
 believed so. 'Tis strange what a man may do, and a woman 
 yet think him an angel. 
 
 And as Esmond has taken truth for his motto, it must be 
 owned, even with regard to that other angel, his mistress, that 
 she had a fault of character wliich flawed her perfections. 
 With the other sex perfectly tolerant and kindly, of her own 
 she was invariably jealous ; and a proof that she had this vice 
 is, that though she would acknowledge a thousand faults that 
 she had not, to this which she had she could never be got to 
 own. But if there came a woman with even a semblance of 
 beauty to Castlewood, she was so sure to find out some wrong 
 in her, that my lord, laughing in his jolly way, would often 
 joke with her concerning her foible. Comely servant-maids 
 might come for hire, but none were taken at Castlewood. The 
 housekeeper was old ; my lady's own waiting-woman squinted, 
 and was marked with the small-pox ; the housemaids and scul- 
 lion were ordinary country wenches, to whom Lady Castlewood 
 was kind, as her nature made her to everybody almost; but as 
 soon as ever she had to do with a pretty woman, she was cold, 
 retiring, and haughty. The country ladies found this fault in 
 her ; and though the men all admired her, their wives and 
 daughters complained of her coldness and airs, and said that 
 Castlewood was pleasanter in Lady Jezebel's time (as the 
 dowager was called) than at present. Some few were of my 
 mistress's side. Old Lady Blenkinsop Jointure, who had been 
 at court in King James the First's time, always took her side ; 
 and so did old Mistress Crookshank, Bishop Crookshank's 
 daughter, of Hexton, who, with some more of their like, pro- 
 nounced my lady an angel : but the pretty women were not of 
 this mind ; and the opinion of the country was that my lord 
 was tied to his wife's apron-strings, and that she ruled over 
 him. 
 
 The second fight which Harry Esmond had, was at fourteen 
 years of age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw's 
 
62 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 son, of Bramblebrook, who, advancing this opinion, that my 
 lad}^ was jealous and henpecked my lord, put Harry in such a 
 fury, that Harrj^ fell on him and with such rage, that the other 
 boy, who was two j^ears older and by far bigger than he, had 
 by far the worst of the assault, until it was interrupted by 
 Doctor Tiisher walking out of the dinner-room. 
 
 Br3'an Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having, in- 
 deed, been surprised, as many a stronger man might have been, 
 by the fur}^ of the assault upon him. 
 
 " You little bastard beggar ! " he said, " I'll murder you for 
 this ! " 
 
 And indeed he was big enough. 
 
 "Bastard or not," said the other, grinding his teeth, "I 
 have a couple of swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, 
 on the terrace to-night — " 
 
 And here the Doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young 
 champions ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did 
 not care to continue a fight with such a ferocious opponent as 
 this had been. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES ETIL. 
 
 Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the 
 custom of inoculation from Turke}' (a perilous practice many 
 deem it, and only a useless rushing into the jaws of danger) , I 
 think the severity of the small-pox, that dreadful scourge of 
 the world, has somewhat been abated in our part of it ; and re- 
 member in my time hundreds of the young and beautiful who 
 have been carried to the grave, or have only risen from their 
 pillows frightfully scarred and disfigured by this malady. Many 
 a sweet face hath left its roses on the bed on which this dread- 
 ful and withering blight has laid them. In m}' early daj-s, this 
 pestilence would enter a village and destroy half its inhabitants : 
 at its approach, it may well be imagined, not onlj- the beautiful 
 but the strongest were alarmed, and those fled who could. One 
 day in the year 1694 (I have good reason to remember it), 
 Doctor Tusher ran into Castle wood House, with a face of con- 
 sternation, saying that the malad\^ had made its appearance at 
 the blacksmith's house in the village, and that one of the maids 
 there was down in the small-pox. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 63 
 
 The blacksmith, besides his forge and irons for horses, had 
 an ale-house for men, which his wife kept, and his company 
 sat on benches before the inn-door, looking at the smithy while 
 they drank their beer. Now, there was a pretty girl at this 
 irin, the landlord's men called Nancy Sievewright, a bouncing, 
 fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks 
 over the pales of the garden behind the inn. At this time 
 Harr}" Esmond was a lad of sixteen, and somehow in his walks 
 and rambles it often happened that he fell in with Nancy Sieve- 
 wright's bonny face ; if he did not want something done at the 
 blacksmith's he would go and drink ale at the '' Three Castles," 
 or find some pretext for seeing this poor Nancy. Poor thing, 
 Harry meant or imagined no harm ; and she, no doubt, as 
 little, but the truth is they were always meeting — in the lanes, 
 or by the brook, or at the garden-pahngs, or about Castlewood : 
 it was, " Lord, Mr. Henry ! " and " How do you do, Nancy?" 
 many and many a time in the week. 'Tis surprising the mag- 
 netic attraction which draws people together from ever so far. 
 I blush as I think of poor Nanc}" now, in a red bodice and 
 buxom purple cheeks and a canvas petticoat ; and that I de- 
 vised schemes, and set traps, and made speeches in my heart, 
 which I seldom had courage to say when in presence of that 
 humble enchantress, who knew nothing be3'ond milking a cow, 
 and opened her black eyes with wonder when I made one of 
 my fine speeches out of Waller or Ovid. Poor Nancy ! from 
 the midst of far-off years thine honest country face beams 
 out ; and I remember thy kind voice as if I had heard it 3'es- 
 terday. 
 
 When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox 
 was at the " Three Castles," whither a tramper, it was said, had 
 brought the malad}', Henry Esmond's first thought was of 
 alarm for poor Nanc}', and then of shame and disquiet for the 
 Castlewood famil}', lest he might have brought this infection ; 
 for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been sitting in a back room 
 for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright w^as with a 
 little brother who complained of headache, and was lying stupe- 
 fied and cr3ing, either in a chair by the corner of the fire, or in 
 Nancy's lap, or on mine. 
 
 Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news ; 
 and my lord cried out, "God bless me!" He was a brave 
 man, and not afraid of death in any shape but this. He was 
 very proud of his pink complexion and fair hair — but the idea 
 of death by small-pox scared him beyond all other ends. " We 
 will take the children and ride away to-morrow to Walcote : " 
 
64 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 this was mj lord's small house, inherited from his mother, near 
 to Winchester. 
 
 " That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads," said 
 Dr. Tusher. " 'Tis awful to think of it beginning at the ale- 
 house ; half the people of the village have visited that to-day, 
 or the blacksmith's, which is the same thing. M}^ clerk Nahum 
 lodges with them — I can never go into my reading-desk and 
 have that fellow so near me. I worCt have that man near me." 
 
 " If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you, would 
 you not go?" asked my lad}', looking up from her frame of 
 work, with her calm blue eyes. 
 
 " By the Lord, /wouldn't," said my lord. 
 
 ' ' We are not in a popish countrj^ ; and a sick man doth not 
 absolutel}' need absolution and confession," said the Doctor. 
 '''Tis true the\- are a comfort and a help to him when attain- 
 able, and to be administered with hope of good. But in a case 
 where the life of a parish priest in the midst of his flock is 
 higWy valuable to them, he is not called upon to risk it (and 
 therewith the lives, future prospects, and temporal, even spiritual 
 welfare of his own family) for the sake of a single person, who 
 is not very likelj' in a condition even to understand the religious 
 message whereof the priest is the bringer — being uneducated, 
 and likewise stupefied or delirious b}- disease. If your ladj'ship 
 or his lordship, m}^ excellent good friend and patron, were to 
 take it ... " 
 
 " God forbid ! " cried my lord. 
 
 "Amen," continued Dr. Tusher. "Amen to that pra3'er, 
 my very good lord ! for your sake I would lay m}^ life down " 
 — and, to judge from the alarmed look of the Doctor's purple 
 face, you would have thought that that sacrifice was about to be 
 called for instantly. 
 
 To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, 
 rather than a merit, in Henry Esmond ; so much so, that he 
 thought almost with a sort of shame of his liking for them, and 
 of the softness into which it betrayed him ; and on this da}^ the 
 poor fellow had not onl}^ had his young friend, the milkmaid's 
 brother, on his knee, but had been drawing pictures and telling 
 stories to the little Frank Castlewood, who had occupied the 
 same place for an hour after dinner, and was never tired of 
 Henry's tales, and his pictures of soldiers and horses. As luck 
 would have it, Beatrix had not on that evening taken her usual 
 place, which generally she was glad enough to have, upon her 
 tutor's lap. For Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of 
 every caress which was given to her little brother Frank. She 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 65 
 
 would fling away even from the maternal arms, if she saw Frank 
 had been there before her ; insomuch that Lad}^ Esmond was 
 obliged not to show her love for her son in the presence of the 
 little girl, and embraced one or the other alone. She would turn 
 pale and red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or 
 affection between Frank and his mother ; would sit apart, and 
 not speak for a whole night, if she thought the boy had a better 
 fruit or a larger cake than hers ; would fling away a ribbon if 
 he had one ; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her little 
 chair bj' the great fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady 
 Castle wood commonl}- sat at her embroidery, would utter in- 
 fantine sarcasms about the favor shown to her brother. These, 
 if spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickled and 
 amused his humor ; he would pretend to love Frank best, and 
 dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix's jeal- 
 ousy. But the truth is, m}' lord did not often witness these 
 scenes, nor ver}^ much trouble the quiet fireside at which his 
 lad^' passed man}^ long evenings. My lord was hunting all day 
 when the season admitted ; he frequented all the cock-fights and 
 fairs in the country, and would ride twenty miles to see a main 
 fought, or two clowns break their heads at a cudgelhng-match ; 
 and he liked better to sit in his parlor drinking ale and punch 
 with Jack and Tom, than in his wife's drawing-room : whither, 
 if he came, he brought only too often bloodshot eyes, a hic- 
 cup[)ing voice, and a reeling gait. The management of the 
 house, and the propert}', the care of the few tenants and the 
 village poor, and the accounts of the estate, were in the hands 
 of his lady and her .young secretar}^ Harry Esmond. My lord 
 took charge of the stables, the kennel, and the cellar — and he 
 filled this and emptied it too. 
 
 So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry 
 Esmond had had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son, alike 
 upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would come to her tutor 
 willing]}" enough with her book and her writing, had refused 
 him, seeing the place occupied b}' her brother, and, luckil}' for 
 her, had sat at the further end of the room, awa}' from him, 
 pla3ing with a spaniel dog which she had, (and for which, b}' 
 fits and starts, she would take a great affection,) and talking at 
 Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she pretended to caress the 
 dog, sa3ing that Fido would love her, and she would love Fido, 
 and nothing but Fido all her life. 
 
 When, then, the news was brought that the little bo}^ at the 
 ' ' Three Castles " was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry Es- 
 mond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for his 
 
66 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 mistress's son, whom he might have brought into peril. Beatrix, 
 who had pouted sufficiently^ (and who, whenever a stranger ap- 
 peared, began, from infanc}' almost, to play off little graces to 
 catch his attention,) her brother being now gone to bed, was for 
 taking her place upon Esmond's knee : for, though the Doctor 
 was very obsequious to her, she did not like him, because he 
 had thick boots and dirty hands (the pert young miss said), and 
 because she hated learning the catechism. 
 
 But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where 
 she had been sulking, he started back and placed the great chair 
 on which he was sitting between him and her — saying in the 
 French language to Lady Castlewood, with whom the young lad 
 had read much, and whom he had perfected in this tongue — 
 *• Madam, the child must not approach me ; I must tell 3'ou that 
 I was at the blacksmith's to-da}^, and had his little boy upon 
 my lap." 
 
 "Where 3'ou took my son afterwards," Lady Castlewood 
 said, very angry, and turning red. "I thank 3^ou, sir, for 
 giving him such company. Beatrix," she said in English, " I 
 forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come awa}^, child — come 
 to your room. Come to your room — I wish j'our Reverence 
 good-night — and you, sir, had you not better go back to your 
 friends at the ale-house?" Her e3^es, ordinarilj^ so kind, darted 
 flashes of anger as she spoke ; and she tossed up her head 
 (which hung down commonly) with the mien of a princess. 
 
 " He^'-da}^ " says mj- lord, who was standing by the fire- 
 place — indeed he was in the position to which he generally 
 came b}' that hour of the evening — " He^^-da}' ! Rachel, what 
 are 3'ou in a passion about? Ladies ought never to be in a pas- 
 sion. Ought thev. Doctor Tusher? though it does good to see 
 Rachel in a passion — Damme, Lady Castlewood, 3^ou look 
 dev'lish handsome in a passion." 
 
 " It is, m3' lord, because Mr. Henr3^ Esmond, having noth- 
 ing to do with his time here, and not having a taste for our 
 company, has been to the ale-house, where he has some friends.^' 
 
 M3' lord burst out, with a laugh and an oath — " You young 
 
 sl3"boots, you've been at Nanc3^ Sievewright. D the 3^oung 
 
 h3pocrite, who'd have thought it in him? I sa3^, Tusher, he's 
 been after — " 
 
 " Enough, my lord," said my lady, " don't insult me with 
 this talk." 
 
 " Upon my word," said poor Harry, read3^ to cr3^ with shame 
 and mortification, " the honor of that young person is perfectly 
 unstained for me." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 67 
 
 " Oh, of course, of course," says my lord, more and 
 more laughing and tipsy. " Upon his honor ^ Doctor — Nancy 
 Sieve — . . ." 
 
 '' Take Mistress Beatrix to bed," my lady cried at this mo- 
 ment to Mrs. Tucker her woman, who came in with her lady- 
 ship's tea. "Put her into my room — no, into yours," she 
 added quickly. " Go, my child : go, I sa}^ : not a word ! " And 
 Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority from 
 one wlio was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went out of 
 the room with a scared countenance, and waited even to burst 
 out a-crying until she got to the door with Mrs. Tucker. 
 
 For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and 
 continued to speak eagerh' — " My lord," she said, " this young 
 man — your dependant — told me just now in French — he was 
 ashamed to speak in his own language — that he had been at the 
 ale-house all day, where he has had that little wretch who is now 
 ill of the small-pox on his knee. And he comes home reeking 
 from that place — yes, reeking from it — and takes my boy into 
 his lap without shame, and sits down by me, yes, by me. He 
 may have killed Frank for what I know — killed our child. 
 Why was he brought in to disgrace our house ? Why is he here ? 
 Let him go — let him go, I saj^, to-night, and pollute the place 
 no more." 
 
 She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to 
 Harry Esmond ; and her cruel words smote the poor bo}", so 
 that he stood for some moments bewildered with grief and rage 
 at the injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He turned 
 quite white from red, which he had been. 
 
 " I cannot help my birth, madam," he said, " nor my other 
 misfortune. And as for 3^our boy, if — if my coming nigh to 
 him pollutes him now, it was not so always. Good-night, my 
 lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness to me. I 
 have tired her ladyship's kindness out, and I will go ; " and, 
 sinking down on his knee, Harrj^ Esmond took the rough hand 
 of his benefactor and kissed it. 
 
 " He wants to go to the ale-house — let him go," cried my 
 lady. 
 
 " I'm d — d if he shall," said my lord. " I didn't think you 
 could be so d — d ungrateful, Rachel." 
 
 Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to (juit the 
 room with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, — as my lord, not 
 heeding them, and still in great good-humor, raised up his 
 young client from his kneeling posture (for a thousand kind- 
 
68 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 nesses had caused the lad to revere my lord as a father), and 
 put his broad hand on Harry Esmond's shoulder. 
 
 " She was alwa3's so," m^^ lord said ; " the very notion of a 
 woman drives her mad. I took to liquor on that very account, 
 by Jove, for no other reason than that ; for she can't be jealous 
 
 of a beer-barrel or a bottle of rum, can she, Doctor? D it, 
 
 look at the maids — just look at the maids in the house " (my 
 lord pronounced all the words together — just-look-at-the-maze- 
 in-the-house : jever-see-such-maze?) "You wouldn't take a 
 wife out of Castlewood now, would you, Doctor?" and my lord 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 The Doctor, who had been looking at m}" Lord Castlewood 
 from under his eyelids, said, "But joking apart, and, my lord, 
 as a divnie, I cannot treat the subject in a jocular light, nor, as 
 a pastor of this congregation, look with anything but sorrow at 
 the idea of so very young a sheep going astray." 
 
 " Sir," said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, " she 
 told me that you yourself were a horrid old man, and had offijred 
 to kiss her in the dairy." 
 
 "For shame, Henry," cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red 
 as a turke3'-cock, while my lord continued to roar with laughter. 
 ' ' If you listen to the falsehoods of an abandoned girl — " 
 
 " She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure 
 for me," cried out Henry, " and as kind, and as good. For 
 shame on 3^ou to malign her ! " 
 
 " Far be it from me to do so," cried the Doctor. " Heaven 
 grant I may be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have 
 a truly precocious genius ; but that is not the point at issue at 
 present. It appears that the small-pox broke out in the little 
 boy at the ' Three Castles ; ' that it was on him when you 
 visited the ale-house, for your own reasons ; and that 3^ou sat 
 with the child for some time, and immediately afterwards with 
 ray young lord." The Doctor raised his voice as he spoke, and 
 looked towards my lady, who had now come back, looking very 
 pale, with a handkerchief in her hand. 
 
 " This is all very true, sir," said Lady Esmond, looking at 
 the young man. 
 
 " 'Tis to be feared that he may 'lave brought the infection 
 with him." 
 
 " From the ale-house — 3^es," said m3' lady. 
 
 "D " it, I forgot when I collared 3'ou, bo3'," cried my 
 
 lord, stepping back. "Keep off, Harry my boy; there's no 
 good in running into the wolf's jaws, you know." 
 
 My lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 69 
 
 advancing to Henry Esmond, took his hand. " I beg 3'our 
 pardon, Henr}^" she said; "1 spoke very unkindly. I have 
 no right to interfere with 3"0u — with 3^our — " 
 
 My lord broke out into an oath. " Can't you leave the boy 
 alone, my lady?" She looked a little red, and faintly pressed 
 the lad's hand as she dropped it. 
 
 " There is no use, my lord," she said ; " Frank was on his 
 knee as he was making pictures, and was running constantly 
 from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any." 
 
 " Not with me, damme," cried my lord. "Tve been smok- 
 ing," — and he lighted his pipe again with a coal — ''and it 
 keeps off infection ; and as the disease is in the village — plague 
 take it — I would have you leave it. We'll go to-morrow to 
 Walcote, my lady." 
 
 " I have no fear," said my lady ; " I may have had it as an 
 infant : it broke out in our house then ; and when four of my 
 sisters had it at home, two years before our marriage, I escaped 
 it, and two of my dear sisters died." 
 
 " 1 won't run the risk," said my lord ; " I'm as bold as any 
 man, but I'll not bear that." 
 
 "Take Beatrix with you and go," said my lady. " For us 
 the mischief is done ; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has 
 had the disease." 
 
 " You take care to choose 'em ugly enough," said my lord, 
 at which her ladyship hung down her head and looked foolish : 
 and m}' lord, calhng awa}^ Tusher, bade him come to the oak 
 parlor and have a pipe. The Doctor made a low bow to her 
 lad3'ship (of which salaams he was profuse), and walked off on 
 his creaking square-toes after his patron. 
 
 When the lad}' and the 3'oung man were alone, there was a 
 silence of some moments, during which he stood at the fire, 
 looking rather vacantly at the d^ing embers, whilst her ladyship 
 busied herself wdth the tambour-frame and needles. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice, 
 -T- " I repeat I am sorrj^ that I showed m3'self so ungrateful for 
 the safety of m}^ son. It was not at all my wish that 3'ou 
 should leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure else- 
 where. But 3'ou must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at 3'our age, 
 and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to 
 sta3^ upon the intimate footing in which 3'ou have been in this 
 famil3\ You have wished to go to the Universit3', and I think 
 'tis quite as well that 3'OU should be sent thither. I did not 
 press this matter, thinking 3'ou a child, as 3'ou are, indeed, in 
 years — quite a child ; and I should never have thought of 
 
70 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 treating 3^011 otherwise until — until these circumstances came to 
 light. And I shall beg m}^ lord to despatch 3'ou as quick as 
 possible : and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can, 
 (I owe m}" father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm 
 sure, for much that j^ou have taught me,) — and — and I wish 
 you a good-night, Mr. Esmond." 
 
 And with this she dropped a stately curts}^, and, taking 
 her candle, went awa^^ through the tapestr}^ door, which led 
 to her apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly 
 staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until she 
 was gone ; and then her image was impressed upon him, and 
 remained for ever fixed upon his memorj'. He saw her retreat- 
 ing, the taper lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quiver- 
 ing, and her shining golden hair. He went to his own room, 
 and to bed, where he tried to read, as his custom was ; but he 
 never knew what he was reading until afterwards he remembered 
 the appearance of the letters of the book (it was in Montaigne's 
 Essays), and the events of the day passed before him — that is, 
 of the last hour of the da}' ; for as for the morning, and the 
 poor milkmaid 3'onder, he never so much as once thought. 
 And he could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with a 
 violent headache, and quite unrefreshed. 
 
 He had brought the contagion with him from the "Three 
 Castles " sure enough, and was presentl}' laid up with the small- 
 pox, which spared the hall no more than it did the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I HAVE THE SMALL-POX, AND PREPARE TO LEAVE CASTLEVTOOD. 
 
 When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that 
 malad3', and returned to health again, he found that little Frank 
 Esmond had also suffered and rallied after the disease, and the 
 lad3' his mother was down with it, wdth a couple more of the 
 household. " It was a Providence, for which we all ought to be 
 thankful," Doctor Tusher said, " that m3' lad3^ and her son were 
 spared, while Death carried off" the poor domestics of the house ; " 
 and rebuked Harry for asking, in his simple wa3^. For which we 
 ought to be thankful — that the servants were killed, or the 
 gentlefolks were saved? Nor could 3'Oung Esmond agree in 
 the Doctor's vehement protestations to m}' lad3', when he visited 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 71 
 
 her during her convalescence, that the malady had not in the 
 least impaired her charms, and had not been charl enough to 
 injure the fair features of the Viscountess of Castlewood ; 
 whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her 
 ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the small-pox. 
 When the marks of the disease cleared away, tliey did not, it is 
 true, leave furrows or scars on her face (except one, perhaps, 
 on her forehead over her left eyebrow) ; but the delicacy of her 
 rosy color and complexion was gone : her eyes had lost their 
 brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face looked older. It was as 
 if a coarse hand had rubbed off the delicate tints of that sweet 
 picture, and brought it, as one has seen unskilful painting- 
 cleaners do, to the dead color. Also, it must be owned, that for 
 a year or two after the malady, her ladyship's nose was swollen 
 and redder. 
 
 There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but 
 that they actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the 
 world, where a gnat often plays a greater part than an ele- 
 phant, and a mole-hill, as we know in King William's case, 
 can upset an empire. When Tusher in his courth' way (at 
 which Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully) 
 vowed and protested that my lady's face was none the worse — 
 the lad broke out and said, " It ?> worse : and my mistress 
 is not near so handsome as she was ; " on which poor Lady 
 Castlewood gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little Venice 
 glass she had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the 
 stupid boy said was only too true, for she turned awa}^ from 
 the glass, and her e3^es filled with tears. 
 
 The sight of these in Esmond's heart always created a 
 sort of rage of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady 
 whom he loved best, the .young blunderer sank down on his 
 knees, and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was 
 a fool and an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a 
 speech, he who had caused her malady ; and Doctor Tusher 
 told him that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would 
 remain, at which speech poor young Esmond was so dumb- 
 stricken that he did not even growl. 
 
 " He is my bear, and I will not have him baited. Doctor," 
 ray lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy's head, as 
 he was still kneeling at her feet. " How 3'our hair has come 
 oflf! And mine, too," she added with another sigh. 
 
 " It is not for mj'self that I cared," my lady said to Harry, 
 when the parson had taken his leave; ''but am I ver}' much 
 changed? Alas! I fear 'tis too true." 
 
72 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "Madam, j^ou have the dearest, and kindest, and sweet- 
 est face in the world, I think," the lad said ; and indeed he 
 thought and thinks so. 
 
 "Will my lord think so when he comes back?" the lady 
 asked with a sigh, and another look at her Venice glass. 
 " Suppose he should think as you do, sir, that I am hid- 
 eous — 3'es, you said hideous — he will cease to care forme. 
 'Tis all men care for in women, our little beaut}'. Why did 
 he select me from among my sisters ? 'Twas only for that. 
 We reign but for a day or two : and be sure that Vashti knew 
 Esther was coming." 
 
 "Madam," said Mr. Esmond, " Ahasuerus was the Grand 
 Turk, and to change was the manner of his country, and 
 according to his law." 
 
 " You are all Grand Turks for that matter," said my lady, 
 " or would be if you could. Come, Frank, come, m}' child. 
 You are well, praised be Heaven. Tour locks are not thinned 
 by this dreadful small-pox : nor your poor face scarred — is it, 
 m}^ angel ? " 
 
 Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a 
 misfortune. From the very earliest time the young lord had 
 been taught to admire his beauty b}' his mother : and esteemed 
 it as highly as smy reigning toast valued hers. 
 
 One da}', as he himself was recovering from his fever and 
 illness, a pang of something like shame shot across young 
 Esmond's breast, as he remembered that he had never once 
 during his illness given a thought to the poor girl at the smithy, 
 whose red cheeks but a month ago he had been so eager to see. 
 Poor Nancy ! her cheeks had shared the fate of roses, and 
 were withered now. She had taken the illness on the same 
 day with Esmond — she and her brother were both dead of 
 the small-pox, and buried under the Castlewood 3'ew-trees. 
 There was no bright face looking now from the garden, or to 
 cheer the old smith at his lonely fireside. Esmond would have 
 liked to have kissed her in her shroud (like the lass in 
 Mr. Prior's pretty poem) ; but she rested many a foot below 
 the ground, when Esmond after his malady first trod on it. 
 
 Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity, about 
 which Harry Esmond longed to ask, but did not like. He 
 said almost the whole village had been stricken with the 
 pestilence ; seventeen persons were dead of it, among them 
 mentioning the names of poor Nanc}^ and her little brother. 
 He did not fail to say how thankful we survivors ought to be. 
 It being this man's business to flatter and make sermons, it 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 73 
 
 must be owned he was most industrious in it, and was doing 
 the one or the otlier all da}'. 
 
 And so Nancy was gone ; and Harry Esmond blushed that 
 he had not a single tear for her, and fell to composing an 
 eleg3' in Latin verses over the rustic little beauty. He bade 
 the dryads mourn and the river-nymphs deplore her. As her 
 father followed the calling of Vulcan, he said tiiat sureh' she 
 was like a daughter of Venus, though Sievewright's wife was 
 an ugly shrew, as he remembered to have heard afterwards. 
 He made a long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely more sorrow- 
 ful than a mute at a funeral. These first passions of men and 
 women are mostlj' abortive ; and are dead almost before the}' 
 are born. Esmond could repeat, to his last da}', some of 
 the doggerel lines in which his muse bewailed his pretty lass ; 
 not without shame to remember how bad the verses were, and 
 how good he thought them ; how false the grief, and yet how 
 he was rather proud of it. 'Tis an error, surely, to talk of 
 the simplicity of youth. I think no persons are more hypo- 
 critical, and have a more affected behavior to one another, 
 than the young. They deceive themselves and each other 
 with artifices that do not impose upon men of the world ; and 
 so we get to understand truth better, and grow simpler as we 
 grow older. 
 
 When my lady heard of the fate which had befallen poor 
 Nancy, she said nothing so long as Tusher was by, but when 
 he was gone, she took Harry Esmond's hand and said — 
 
 "Harry, I beg your pardon for those cruel words I used 
 on the night you were taken ill. I am shocked at the fate 
 of the poor creature, and am sure that nothing had hap- 
 pened of that with which, in my anger, 1 charged you. And 
 the very first day we go out, you must take me to the black- 
 smith, and we must see if there is anything I can do to console 
 the poor old man. Poor man ! to lose both his children ! What 
 should I do without mine ? " 
 
 And this was, indeed, the very first walk which my lady 
 took, leaning on Esmond's arm, after her illness. But her visit 
 brought no consolation to the old father ; and he showed no 
 softness, or desire to speak. " The Lord gave and took away," 
 he said ; and he knew what His servant's duty was. He wanted 
 for nothing — less now than ever before, as there were fewer 
 mouths to feed. He wished her ladyship and Master Esmond 
 good morning — he had grown tall in his illness, and was but 
 very little marked ; and with this, and a surly bow, he went in 
 from the smithy to the house, leaving my lady, somewhat silenced 
 
74 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 
 
 and shamefaced, at the door. He had a handsome stone put 
 up for his two children, which ma}^ be seen in Castlewood 
 churchyard to this ver}^ da}^ ; and before a year was out his 
 own name was upon the stone. In the presence of Death, that 
 sovereign ruler, a woman's coquetry is scared ; and her jealousy 
 will hardly pass the boundaries of that grim kingdom. 'Tis 
 entirely of the earth, that passion, and expires in the cold blue 
 air, beyond our sphere. 
 
 At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced 
 that my lord and his daughter would return. Esmond well 
 remembered the da}^ The lad}" his mistress was in a flurry of 
 fear : before my lord came, she went into her room, and returned 
 from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about to be 
 decided. Her beauty was gone — was her reign, too, over? 
 A minute would say. My lord came riding over the bridge — 
 he could be seen from the great window, clad in scarlet, and 
 mounted on his gray hackney — his little daughter ambled by 
 him in a bright riding-dress of blue, on a shining chestnut horse. 
 M}' lady leaned against the great mantel-piece, looking on, with 
 one hand on her heart — she seemed onl}" the more pale for 
 those red marks on either cheek. She put her handkerchief to 
 her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically — the cloth 
 was quite red with the rouge when she took it awa}- . She ran 
 to her room again, and came back with pale cheeks and red 
 eyes — her son in her hand — just as my lord entered, accom- 
 panied b}^ young Esmond, who had gone out to meet his 
 protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended from horse- 
 back. 
 
 "What, Harry, boy!" m}" lord said, good-naturedly, "you 
 look as gaunt as a greyhound. The small-pox hasn't improved 
 3'our beauty, and your side of the house hadn't never too much 
 of it— ho, 'ho!" 
 
 And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small 
 agility, looking handsome and red, with a jolly face and brown 
 hair, like a Beef-eater ; Esmond kneeling again, as soon as his 
 patron had descended," performed his homage, and then went 
 to greet the little Beatrix, and help her from her horse. 
 
 "Fie! how yellow 3-ou look," she said; "and there are 
 one, two, red holes in your face ; " which, indeed, was very true ; 
 Harrj' Esmond's harsh countenance bearing, as long as it con- 
 tinued to be a human face, the marks of the disease. 
 
 My lord laughed again, in high good-humor. 
 
 "D it!" said he, with one of his usual oaths, "the 
 
 little slut sees everything. She saw the Dowager's paint t'other 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 75 
 
 da}^ and asked her why she wore that red stuff — didn't you, 
 Trix ? and the Tower ; and St. James's ; and the play ; and 
 the Prince George, and the Princess Anne — didn't you, 
 Trix?" 
 
 " The}^ are both very fat, and smelt of brandy," the child 
 said. 
 
 Papa roared with laughing. 
 
 " BrandjM " he said. '^And how do you know, Miss 
 Pert?" 
 
 "Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when I 
 embrace you before you go to bed," said the young lady, who, 
 'xdeed, was as pert as her father said, and looked as beautiful 
 a ]ittle gii>sy as eyes ever gazed on. 
 
 " And now for my lad}'," said my lord, going up the stairs, 
 and passing under the tapestry curtain that hung before the 
 drawing-room door. Esmond remembered that noble figure, 
 handsomeh' arra3'ed in scarlet. Within the last few months he 
 himself had grown from a bo}' to be a man, and with his figure 
 his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly. 
 
 My lady's countenance, of which Harry Esmond was accus- 
 tomed to watch the changes, and with a solicitous affection to 
 note and interpret the signs of gladness or care, wore a sad 
 and depressed look for many weeks after her lord's return : 
 during which it seemed as if, b}' caresses and entreaties, she 
 strove to win him back from some ill humor he had, and which 
 he did not choose to throw off. In her eagerness to please him 
 she practised a hundred of those arts which had formerly 
 charmed him, but which seemed now to have lost their potency. 
 Her songs did not amuse him ; and she hushed them and the 
 children when in his presence. My lord sat silent at his 
 dinner, drinking greatly, his ladj^ opposite to him, looking 
 furtively at his face, though also speechless. Her silence 
 anno3'ed him as much as her speech ; and he would peevishly, 
 and with an oath, ask her wh}' she held her tongue and looked 
 so glum ; or he would rough!}' check her when speaking, and 
 bid her not talk nonsense. It seemed as if, since his return, 
 nothing she could do or sa}' could please him. 
 
 When a master and mistress are at strife in a house, the 
 subordinates in the family take the one side or the other. Harry 
 Esmond stood in so great fear of my lord, that he would run a 
 league barefoot to do a message for him ; but his attachment 
 for Lady Esmond was such a passion of grateful regard, that 
 to spare her a grief, or to do her a service, he would have given 
 his life daily : and it was by the very depth and intensity of 
 
76 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 this regard that he began to divine how unhappy his adored 
 lady's life was, and that a secret care (for she never spoke of 
 her anxieties) was weighing upon her. 
 
 Can an}' one, who has passed through the world and watched 
 the nature of men and women there, doubt what had befallen 
 her? I have seen, to be sure, some people carry down with 
 them into old age the actual bloom of their 3'outhfLil love, and 
 I know that Mr. Thomas Parr lived to be a hundred and sixty 
 3'ears old. But, for all that, threescore and ten is the age of 
 men, and few get be^'ond it ; and 'tis certain that a man who 
 marries for mere beaux yeux^ as m}^ lord did, considers this part 
 of the contract at an end when the woman ceases to fuhll hers, 
 and his love does not survive her beaut}'. I know 'tis often 
 otherwise, I sa}' ; and can think (as most men in their own 
 experience may) of many a house, where, lighted In earlj' years, 
 the sainted lamp of love hath never been extinguished ; but so 
 there is Mr. Parr, and so there is the great giant at the fair 
 that is eight feet high — exceptions to men — and that poor 
 lamp whereof I speak, that lights at first the nuptial chamber, 
 is extinguished by a hundred winds and draughts down the 
 chimney, or sputters out for want of feeding. And then — and 
 then it is Chloe, in the dark, stark awake, and Strephon snoring 
 unheeding ; or vice iwrsa, 'tis poor Strephon that has married a 
 heartless jilt, and awoke out of that absurd vision of conjugal 
 felicity, which was to last for ever, and is over like any other 
 dream. One and other has made his bed, and so must lie in 
 it, until that final day when life ends, and they sleep separate. 
 
 About this time voung Esmond, who had a knack of string- 
 ing verses, turned some of Ovid's Epistles into rhymes, and 
 brought them to his lad}' for her delectation. . Those which 
 treated of forsaken women touched her immensely, Harry re- 
 marked ; and when Gi^none called after Paris, and Medea bade 
 Jason come back again, the lad}' of Castlewood sighed, and 
 said she thought that part of the verses was the most pleasing. 
 Indeed, she would have chopped up the Dean, her old father, 
 in order to bring her husband back again. But her beautiful 
 Jason was gone, as beautiful Jasons will go, and the poor 
 enchantress had never a spell to keep him. 
 
 My lord was only sulky as long as his wife's anxious face or 
 behavior seemed to upbraid him. When she had got to master 
 these, and to show an outwardly cheerful countenance and 
 behavior, her husband's good-humor returned partially, and he 
 swore and stormed no longer at dinner, but laughed sometimes, 
 and yawned unrestrainedly ; absenting himself often from home, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 77 
 
 inviting more company thither, passing the greater part of his 
 days in the hunting- field, or over the bottle as before ; but witli 
 this difference, that the poor wife could no longer see now, as 
 she had done formerly, the light of love kindled in his eyes. 
 He was with her, but that flame was out : and that once welcome 
 beacon no more shone there. 
 
 What were this lady's feelings when forced to admit the 
 truth whereof her foreboding glass had given her only too true 
 warning, that with her beauty her reign had ended, and the da^'s 
 of her love were over? What does a seaman do in a storm if 
 mast and rudder are carried away? He ships a jurymast, and 
 steers as he best can with an oar. What happens if your roof 
 falls in a tempest? After the first stun of the calamity the 
 sufferer starts up, gropes around to see that the cliildren are 
 safe, and puts them under a shed out of the rain. If the palace 
 burns down, 3'ou take shelter in the barn. What man's life is 
 not overtaken b}' one or more of these tornadoes that send us 
 out of the course, and fling us on rocks to shelter as best we 
 may ? 
 
 When Lady Castlewood found that her great ship had gone 
 down, she began as best she might, after she had rallied from 
 the effects of the loss, to put out small ventures of happiness ; 
 and hope for little gains and returns, as a merchant on 'Change, 
 indocilis pauperiem pati^ having lost his thousands, embarks a 
 few guineas upon the next ship. She laid out her all upon her 
 children, indulging them beyond all measure, as was inevitable 
 with one of her kindness of disposition ; giving all her thoughts 
 to their welfare — learning, that she might teach them; and 
 improving her own man}^ natural gifts and feminine accomplish- 
 ments, that she might impart them to her young ones. To be 
 doing good for some one else, is the life of most good women. 
 They are exuberant of kindness, as it were, and must impart it 
 to some one. She made herself a good scholar of French, 
 Italian, and Latin, having been grounded in these b}- her father 
 in her youth ; hiding these gifts from her husband out of fear, 
 perhaps, that they should offend him, for m}' lord was no book- 
 man — pish'd and psha'd at the notion of learned ladies, and 
 would have been angry that his wife could construe out of a 
 Latin book of which he could scarce understand two words. 
 Young Esmond was usher, or house tutor, under her or over 
 her, as it might happen. During my lord's many absences, 
 these school-da3"s would go" on uninterruptedly^ : the mother and 
 daughter learning with surprising quickness ; the latter by fits 
 and starts only, and as suited her wayward humor. As for the 
 
78 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 little lord, it must be owned that he took after his father in 
 the roatter of learning — liked marbles and pla}', and the great 
 horse and the little one which his father brought him, and on 
 which he took him out a-hunting, a great deal better than Cor- 
 derius and Lil}' ; marshalled the village bo3^s, and had a little 
 court of them, already flogging them, and domineering over 
 them with a fine imperious spirit, that made his father laugh 
 when he beheld it, and his mother fondly warn him. The cook 
 had a son, the woodman had two, the big lad at the porter's 
 lodge took his cuffs and his orders. Doctor Tusher said he 
 was a young nobleman of gallant spirit ; and Harry Esmond, 
 who was his tutor, and eight j^ears his little lordship's senior, 
 had hard work sometimes to keep his own temper, and hold his 
 authority over his rebellious little chief and kinsman. 
 
 In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen which 
 had robbed Lad}^ Castlewood of a little — a verj' little — of her 
 beauty, and her careless husband's heart (if the truth must be 
 told, my lady had found not onl}' that her reign was over, but 
 that her successor was appointed, a Princess of a noble house 
 in Drury Lane somewhere, who was installed and visited by my 
 lord at the town eight miles off — pudet hmc opjwohria dicere 
 nobis) — a great change had taken place in her mind, which, by 
 struggles only known to herself, at least never mentioned to 
 any one, and unsuspected by the person who caused the pain 
 she endured — had been schooled into such a condition as she 
 could not A^ery likely have imagined possible a score of months 
 since, before her misfortunes had begun. 
 
 She had oldened in that time as people do who suffer silently 
 great mental pain ; and learned much that she had never 
 suspected before. She was taught by that bitter teacher Mis- 
 fortune. A child the mother of other children, but two years 
 back her lord was a god to her ; his words her law ; his smile 
 her sunshine ; his laz}^ commonplaces listened to eagerlj", as if 
 they were words of wisdom — all his wishes and freaks obe^'ed 
 with a servile devotion. She had been my lord's chief slave 
 and blind worshipper. Some women bear farther than this, 
 and submit not only to neglect but to unfaithfulness too — but 
 here this lady's allegiance had failed her. Her spirit rebelled, 
 and disowned an3' more obedience. First she had to bear in 
 secret the passion of losing the adored object ; then to get 
 further initiation, and to find this worshipped being was but a 
 clums}' idol : then to admit the silent truth, that it was she was 
 superior, and not the monarch her master : that she had thoughts 
 which his brains could never master, and was the better of the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 79 
 
 two ; quite separate from my lord although tied to him, and 
 bound, as almost all people (save a very happ}^ few), to work 
 all her life alone. My lord sat in his chair, laughing his laugh, 
 cracking his joke, his face flushing with wine — ray lady in her 
 place over against him — he never suspecting that his superior 
 was there, in the calm resigned ladj^ cold of manner, with down- 
 cast e^'es. When he was merry in his cups, he would make 
 
 jokes about her coldness, and, " D it, now my lady is gone, 
 
 we will have t'other bottle," he would say. He was frank 
 enough in telling his thoughts, such as they were. There was 
 little mystery about my lord's w^ords or actions. His Fair 
 Rosamond did not live in a LabjTinth, like the lady of Mr. 
 Addison's opera, but paraded with painted cheeks and a tipsy 
 retinue in the country town. Had she a mind to be revenged, 
 Lady Castlewood could have found the wa}^ to her rival's house 
 easily enough ; and, if she had come with bowl and dagger, 
 would have been routed off the ground by the en em}' with a 
 volley of Billingsgate, which the fair person always kept by 
 her. - 
 
 Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his 
 benefactress's sweet face had lost none of its charms. It had 
 alwa^'s the kindest of looks and smiles for him — smiles, not 
 so gay and ; rtless perhaps as those which Lady Castlewood 
 had formerly worn, when, a child herself, playing with her 
 children, her husband's pleasure and authority were all she 
 thought of; but out of her griefs and cares, as will happen I 
 think when these trials fall upon a kindly heart, and are not too 
 unbearable, grew up a number of thoughts and excellences 
 which had never come into existence, had not her sorrow and 
 misfortunes engendered them. Sure, occasion is the father of 
 most that is good in us. As you have seen the awkward 
 fingers and clums}^ tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most 
 delicate little pieces of carved work ; or achieve the most pro- 
 digious underground labors, and cut through walls of masonry, 
 and saw iron bars and fetters ; 'tis misfortune that awakens 
 ingenuit}', or fortitude, or endurance, in hearts where these 
 qualities had never come to life but for the circumstance which 
 gave them a being. 
 
 " 'Twas after Jason left her, no doubt," Lady Castlewood 
 once said with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who was 
 reading to her a version of certain lines out of Euripides), " that 
 Medea became a learned woman and a great enchantress." 
 
 *' And she could conjure the stars out of heaven," the 3'oung 
 tutor added, " but she could not bring Jason back again." 
 
80 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 " What do you mean?" asked my lady, ver}^ ^iigry. 
 
 " Indeed I mean nothing," said the other, " save what I've 
 read in books. What should I know about such matters? I 
 have seen no woman save you and little Beatrix, and the par- 
 son's wife and my late mistress, and your ladyship's woman 
 here." 
 
 " The men who wrote your books," says my lady, "your 
 Horaces, and Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them, all 
 thought ill of us, as all the heroes they wrote about used us 
 basely. We were bred to be slaves alwa3'S ; and even of our 
 own times, as you are still the only lawgivers, I think our ser- 
 mons seem to say that the best woman is she who bears her 
 master's chains most gracefully. 'Tis a pit\' there are no nun- 
 neries permitted by our church : Beatrix and I would fl\' to one, 
 and end our days in peace there away from you." 
 
 " And is there no slavery in a convent?" saj's Esmond. 
 
 "At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them," 
 answered the lad3\ " They don't work in street gangs with 
 the public to jeer them : and if they suffer, suffer in private. 
 Here comes my lord home from hunting. Take away the books. 
 My lord does not love to see them. Lessons are over for 
 to-day, Mr. Tutor." And with a curtsy and a smile she would 
 end this sort of colloquy. 
 
 Indeed " Mr. Tutor," as my lad}^ called Esmond, had now 
 business enough on his hands in Castlewood House. He had 
 three pupils, his lady and her two children, at whose lessons 
 she would always be present; besides writing my lord's letters, 
 and arranging his accompts for him — when these could be got 
 from Esmond's indolent patron. 
 
 Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, 
 and as my ladj^ would admit no discipline such as was then in 
 use, my lord's son only learned what he liked, which was but 
 little, and never to his life's end could be got to construe more 
 than six lines of Virgil. Mistress Beatrix chattered French 
 prettil}^ from a very early age ; and sang sweetly, but this was 
 from her mother's teaching — not Harry Esmond's, who could 
 scarce distinguish between "Green Sleeves" and " Lillibul- 
 lero ; " although he had no greater delight in life than to hear 
 the ladies sing. He sees them now (will he ever forget them ?) 
 as they used to sit together of the summer evenings — the two 
 golden heads over the page — the child's little hand, and the 
 mother's beating the time, with their voices rising and falling in 
 unison. 
 
 But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how eagerly 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 81 
 
 the mother learnt from her 3'oung tutor — and taught him too. 
 The happiest instinctive facult}^ was this lady's — a faculty for 
 discerning latent beauties and hidden graces of books, especially 
 books of poetry, as in a walk she would spy out field-flowers 
 and make posies of them, such as no other hand could. She 
 was a critic, not b}' reason but by feeling ; the sweetest com- 
 mentator of those books they read together ; and the happiest 
 hours of 3'oung Esmond's life, perhaps, were those passed in 
 the company of this kind mistress and her children. 
 
 These happy da3's were to end soon, however; and it was 
 by the Lady Castlewood's own decree that they were brought to 
 a conclusion. It happened' about Christmas-time, Harry Es- 
 mond being now past sixteen years of age, that his old comrade, 
 adversary, and friend, Tom Tusher, returned from his school in 
 London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad, who was about to 
 enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and a prospect 
 of after promotion in the church. Tom Tusher's talk was of 
 nothing but Cambridge now ; and the bo^'s, who were good 
 friends, examined each other eagerly about their progress in 
 books. Tom had learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides 
 Latin, in which he was pretty well skiUed, and also had given 
 himself to mathematical studies under his father's guidance, who 
 was a proficient in those sciences, of which Esmond knew noth- 
 ing ; nor could he WTite Latin so well as Tom, though he could 
 talk it better, having been taught by his dear friend the Jesuit 
 Father, for whose memory the lad ever retained the warmest 
 aff"ection, reading his books, keeping his sw^ords clean in the 
 little crypt where the Father had sliown them to Esmond on 
 the night of his visit ; and often of a night sitting in the chap- 
 lain's room, which he inhabited, over his books, his verses, and 
 rubbish, with which the lad occupied himself, he would look up 
 at the window, thinking he wished it might open and let in the 
 good Father. He had come and passed away like a dream ; 
 but for the swords and books Harry might almost think the 
 Father was an imagination of his mind — and for two letters 
 which had come to him, one from abroad, full of advice and 
 aflTection, another soon after he had been confirmed by the 
 Bishop of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored his falling 
 away. But Harry Esmond felt so confident now of his being in 
 the right, and of his own powers as a casuist, that he thought 
 he was able to face the Father himself in argument, and possibly 
 convert him. 
 
 To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond's kind 
 mistress sent to the library of her father the Dean, who had 
 
82 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 been distinguished in the disputes of the late king's reign ; and, 
 an old soldier now, had hung up his weapons of controversy. 
 These he took down from his shelves willingl}' for young Es- 
 mond, whom he benefited by his own personal advice and 
 instruction. It did not require much persuasion to induce the 
 boy to worship with his beloved mistress. And the good old 
 nonjuring Dean flattered himself with a conversion which, in 
 truth, was owing to a much gentler and fairer persuader. 
 
 Under her ladyship's kind eyes (my lord's being sealed in 
 sleep pretty generall}'), Esmond read many volumes of the 
 works of the famous British Divines of the last age, and was 
 familiar with Wake and Sherlock, with Stillingfleet and Patrick. 
 His mistress never tired to listen or to read, to pursue the texts 
 with fond comments, to urge those points which her fancj^ 
 dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. Since 
 the death of her father the Dean, this lady hath admitted a cer- 
 tain latitude of theological reading which her orthodox father 
 would never have allowed ; his favorite writers appealing more 
 to reason and antiquity than to the passions or imaginations 
 of their readers, so that the works of Bishop Taylor, nay, those 
 of Mr. Baxter and Mr. Law, have in reality found more favor 
 with my Lady Castlewood than the severer volumes of our great 
 English schoolmen. 
 
 In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the con- 
 troversy, and pursued it in a ver}^ different manner, when his 
 patrons had determined for him that he was to embrace the 
 ecclesiastical life. But though his mistress's heart was in this 
 calling, his own never was much. After that first fervor of 
 simple devotion, which his beloved Jesuit priest had inspired in 
 him, speculative theology took but little hold upon the young 
 man's mind. When his early credulit}' was disturbed, and his 
 saints and virgins taken out of his worship, to rank little higher 
 than the divinities of Olympus, his belief became acquiescence 
 rather than ardor ; and he made his mind up to assume the 
 cassock and bands, as another man does to wear a breastplate 
 and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant's desk, for a livelihood, 
 and from obedience and necessity, rather than from choice. 
 There were scores of such men in Mr. Esmond's time at the 
 universities, who were going to the church with no better calling 
 than his. 
 
 When Thomas Tusher* was gone, a feeling of no small de- 
 'pression and disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, though 
 he did not complain, his kind mistress must have divined the 
 cause : for soon after she showed not only that she understood 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 83 
 
 the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could provide a remedy 
 for it. Her habit was thus to watch, unobservedl}', those to 
 whom dut}' or affection bound her, and to prevent their designs, 
 or to fulfil them, when she had the power. It was this lady's 
 disposition to think kindnesses, and devise silent bounties and 
 to scheme benevolence, for those about her. We take such 
 goodness, for the most part, as if it was our due ; the Marys 
 who bring ointment for our feet get but little thanks. Some 
 of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved b}' it to grati- 
 tude or acknowledgment ; others only recall it years after, 
 when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses were 
 spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor 
 tardy payment of tears. Then forgotten tones of love recur to 
 us, and kind glances shine out of the past — oh so bright and 
 clear ! — oh so longed after ! — because the}' are out of reach ; 
 as holida}' music from withinside a prison wall - — or sunshine 
 seen through the bars ; more prized because unattainable — 
 more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and 
 solitude, whence there is no escape. 
 
 All the notice, then, which Lad}' Castlewood seemed to take 
 of Harry Esmond's melanchol}', upon Tom Tusher's departure, 
 was, by a gayet}' unusual to her, to attempt to dispel his gloom. 
 She made his three scholars (herself being the chief one) more 
 cheerful than ever the}' had been before, and more docile, too, 
 all of them learning and reading much more than they had been 
 accustomed to do. " For who knows," said the lady, " what 
 may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such a 
 learned tutor long ? " 
 
 Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn 
 any more, and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever 
 he liked, if he would come out a-fishing ; and little Beatrix de- 
 clared she would send for Tom Tusher, and he would be glad 
 enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose to go away. 
 
 At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer 
 of a letter, with a great black seal, from the Dean there, to say 
 that his sister was dead, and had left her fortune of 2,000/. 
 among her six nieces, the Dean's daughters ; and many a time 
 since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager 
 look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady regarded 
 him. She did not pretend to any grief about the deceased 
 relative, from whom she and her family had been many years 
 parted. 
 
 When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make any 
 very long face. ' ' The money will come very handy to furnish 
 
84 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy 
 your lad3'ship a coach and a couple of horses that will do 
 indifferent to ride or for the coach. And, Beatrix, you shall 
 have a spinnet : and, Frank, you shall have a little horse from 
 Hexton Fair ; and, Harrj^, j'ou shall have five pounds to buy 
 some books," said my lord, who was generous with his own, 
 and indeed with other folk's money. " I wish 3'our aunt 
 would die once a year, Rachel ; we could spend your money, 
 and all your sisters', too." 
 
 '^ I have but one aunt — and — and I have another use for 
 the monej^ my lord," ssljs my lady, turning ver}^ red. 
 
 "Another use, my dear; and what do you know about 
 monej'?" cries my lord. " And what the devil is there that I 
 don't give you which you want ! " 
 
 "I intend to give this money — can't you fancv how, my 
 lord?" 
 
 M}^ lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know 
 in the least what she meant. 
 
 "I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin 
 Harry," says my lady, "you mustn't sta}^ longer in this dull 
 place, but make a name to yourself, and for us too, Hany." 
 
 "D — n it, Harry's well enough here," says my lord, for a 
 moment looking rather sulky. 
 
 "Is Harrj^ going away? You don't mean to say you will 
 go away ? " cry out Frank and Beatrix at one breath. 
 
 " But he will come back : and this will always be his home," 
 cries m}^ lad}^, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness : 
 " and his scholars will alwa3^s love him ; won't they?" 
 
 " By G — d, Rachel, you're a good woman ! " says my lord, 
 seizing my lady's hand, at which she blushed very much, and 
 shrank back, putting her children before her. " I wish 3'ou 
 joy, my kinsman," he continued, giving Harry Esmond a 
 heart}' slap on the shoulder. "I won't balk your luck. Go 
 to Cambridge, boy, and when Tusher dies you shall have the 
 living here, if you are not better provided by that time. We'll 
 furnish the dining-room and bu}' the horses another 3'ear. I'll 
 give thee a nag out of the stable : take any one except my hack 
 and the bay gelding and the coach-horses ; and God speed thee, 
 my boy ! " 
 
 " Have the sorrel, Harr}' ; 'tis a good one. Father saj^s 'tis 
 the best in the stable," sa^'s little Frank, clapping his hands, 
 and jumping up. " Let's come and see him in the stable." 
 And the other, in his delight and eagerness, was for leaving 
 the room that instant to arrange about his journey. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 85 
 
 The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating 
 glances. "He wishes to be gone alread3", my lord," said she 
 to her husband. 
 
 The 3'oang man hung back abashed. " Indeed, I would 
 stay for ever, if your ladj'ship bade me," he said. 
 
 " And thou wouldst be a fool for thj' pains, kinsman," said 
 my lord. ""Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow thy 
 Iwild oats ; and take the best luck that Fate sends thee. I wish 
 'l were a boy again, that I might go to college, and taste the 
 Trumpington ale." 
 
 " Ours, indeed, is but a dull home," cries my lady, with a 
 little of sadness and, maybe, of satire, in her voice : "an old 
 glum house, half ruined, and the rest only half furnished ; a 
 woman and two children are but poor compan}^ for men that are 
 accustomed to better. We are only fit to be your worship's 
 handmaids, and your pleasures must of necessity lie elsewhere 
 than at home." 
 
 " Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art In 
 earnest or not," said my lord. 
 
 " In earnest, my lord ! " sa3's she, still clinging b}' one of 
 her children. " Is there much subject here for joke?" And 
 she made him a grand curts\^, and, giving a stately look to 
 Harry Esmond, which seemed to say, " Remember ; you under- 
 stand me, though he does not," she left the room with her 
 children. 
 
 " Since she found out that confounded Hexton business," my 
 lord said — • ' and be hanged to them that told her ! — she has 
 not been the same woman. She, who used to be as humble as 
 a milkmaid, is as proud as a princess," sa3^s m}- lord. " Take 
 my counsel, Harr}- Esmond, and keep clear of women. Since 
 I have had anything to do with the jades, they have given me 
 nothing but disgust. I had a wife at Tangier, with whom, as 
 she couldn't speak a word of mj^ language, you'd have thought 
 I might lead a quiet life. But she tried to poison me, because 
 she was jealous of a Jew girl. There was your aunt, for aunt 
 she is — aunt Jezebel, a pretty life 3'our father led with her ! 
 and here's m}' lady. When I saw her on a pillion, riding behind 
 the Dean her father, she looked and was such a baby, that 
 a sixpenny doll might have pleased her. And now you see 
 what she is — hands off, highty-tighty, high and might}^ an 
 empress couldn't be grander. Pass us the tankard, Harry my 
 boy. A mug of beer and a toast at morn, sa^'s my host. A 
 toast and a mug of beer at noon, says my dear. D — n it, Polly 
 loves a mug of ale, too, and laced with brandy, by Jove ! ** 
 
86 THE HISTORY OF HEKRY ESMOND. 
 
 Indeed, I suppose they drank it together ; for mj- lord was 
 often thick in his speech at mid-day dinner ; and at night at 
 supper, speechless altogether. 
 
 Harry Esmond's departure resolved upon, it seemed as if 
 the Lady Castlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him ; for more than 
 once, when the lad, ashamed perhaps at his own secret eager- 
 ness to go away (at an}^ rate stricken with sadness at the idea 
 of leaving those from whom he had received so many proofs of 
 love and kindness inestimable), tried to express to his mistress 
 his sense of gratitude to her, and his sorrow at quitting those 
 who had so sheltered and tended a nameless and houseless 
 orphan. Lady Castlewood cut short his protests of love and 
 his lamentations, and would hear of no grief, but only look 
 forward to Harry's fame and prospects in Hfe. "Our little 
 legacy will keep you for four 3'ears like a gentleman. Heaven's 
 Providence, your own genius, industry, honor, must do the rest 
 for you. Castlewood will always be a home for you ; and these 
 children, whom you have taught and loved, will not forget to 
 love 3'ou. And, Harry," said she (and this was the only time 
 when she spoke with a tear in her eye, or a tremor in her voice), 
 " it may happen in the course of nature that I shall be called 
 away from them : and their father — and — and thej^ will need 
 true friends and protectors. Promise me that 3'ou will be true 
 to them — as -^ as I think 1 have been to 3'ou — and a mother's 
 fond pra3"er and blessing go with 3'Ou." 
 
 "So help me God, madam, I will," said Harry Esmond, 
 falling on his knees, and kissing the hand of his dearest mis- 
 tress. " If you will have me sta3^ now, I will. What matters 
 whether or no I make m3^ wa3' in life, or whether a poor bastard 
 dies as unknown as he is now ? 'Tis enough that I have 3'our 
 love and kindness surel3^ ; and to make you happy is duty 
 enough for me." 
 
 " Happ3^ ! " sa3-s she ; " but indeed I ought to be, with my 
 children, and — " 
 
 "Not happ3'!" cried Esmond (for he knew what her life 
 was, though he and his mistress never spoke a word concerning 
 it). "If not happiness, it ma3^ be ease. Let me sta3^ and 
 work for 3^ou — let me stay and be 3'our servant." 
 
 " Indeed, you are best awav," said m3^ lad3', laughing, as 
 she put her hand on the boy's head for a moment. " You shall 
 sta3^ in no such dull place. You shall go to college and distin- 
 guish 3^ourself as becomes 3'Our name. That is how 3"0U shall 
 please me best ; and — and if m3" children want 3'ou, or I want 
 you, you shall come to us ; and I know we may count on you." 
 
Parting. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 87 
 
 "May heaven forsake me if you maj^ not!'' Harrj^ said, 
 getting up from hiis knee. 
 
 " And m3' knight longs for a dragon this instant that he may 
 fight," said m}^ lady, laughing; which speech made Harry Es- 
 mond start, and turn red ; for indeed the \ery thought was in 
 his mind, that he would like that some chance should immedi- 
 ately happen whereby he might show his devotion. And it 
 pleased him to think that his lady had called him " her knight," 
 and often and often he recalled this to his mind, and prayed 
 that he might be her true knight, too. 
 
 My lady's bed-chamber window looked out over the country, 
 and you could see from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood 
 village, the green common betwixt that and the Hall, and the 
 old bridge wliich crossed over the river. When Harry Esmond 
 went away for Cambridge, httle Frank ran alongside his horse 
 as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment, 
 and looked back at the house where the best part of his life 
 had been passed. It la}' before him with its gra}' familiar 
 towers, a pinnacle or two shining in the sun, the buttresses and 
 terrace walls casting great blue shades on the grass. And 
 Harr}' remembered, all his life after, how he saw his mistress 
 at the window looking out on him in a white robe, the little 
 Beatrix's chestnut curls resting at her mother's side. Both 
 waved a farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him. 
 Yes, he would be his lad^-'s true knight, he vowed in his heart ; 
 he waved her an adieu with his hat. The village people had 
 Good-by to sa}^ to him too. All knew that Master Harr}^ was 
 going to college, and most of them had a kind word and a look 
 of farewell. I do not stop to say what adventures he began to 
 imagine, or what career to devise for himself before he had 
 ridden three miles from home. He had not read Monsieur 
 Galland's ingenious Arabian tales as yet ; but be sure that 
 there are other folks who build castles in the air, and have fine 
 hopes, and kick them down too, besides honest Aluaschar. 
 
88 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 t GO TO CAMBRIDGE, AND DO BUT LITTLE GOOD THERE. 
 
 My lord, who said be should like to revisit the old haunts of 
 his youth, kindly accompanied Harry Esmond in his first jour- 
 ney to Cambridge. Their road lay through London, where m}^ 
 Lord Viscount would also have Harry stay a few da3^s to show 
 him the pleasures of the town before he entered upon his uni- 
 versity studies, and whilst here Harry's patron conducted the 
 3'oung man to my Lady Dowager's house at Chelsey near Lon- 
 don : the kind lady at Castlewood having speciall}^ ordered that 
 the young gentleman and the old should pay a respectful visit 
 in that quarter. 
 
 Her lad^'ship the Viscountess Dowager occupied a handsome 
 new house in Chelsey, with a garden behind it, and facing the 
 river, always a bright and animated sight with its swarms of 
 sailors, barges, and wherries. Harry laughed at recognizing 
 in the parlor the well-remembered old piece of Sir Peter Lely, 
 wherein his father's widow was represented as a virgin hun- 
 tress, armed with a gilt bow-and-arrow, and encumbered only 
 with that small quantity of drapery which it would seem the 
 virgins in King Charles's da}' were accustomed to wear. 
 
 My Lad}^ Dowager had left off this peculiar habit of huntress 
 when she married. But though she was now considerably past 
 sixty years of age, I believe she thought that airy nymph of the 
 picture could still be easily recognized in the venerable person- 
 age who gave an audience to Harry and his patron. 
 
 She received the .young man with even more favor than she 
 showed to the elder, for she chose to carr}" on the conversation 
 in French, in which my Lord Castlewood was no great pro- 
 ficient, and expressed her satisfaction at finding that Mr. Es- 
 mond could speak fluently in that language. " 'Twas the only 
 one fit for poUte conversation," she condescended to say, " and 
 suitable to persons of high breeding." 
 
 M}^ lord laughed afterwards, as the gentlemen went away, at 
 his kinswoman's behavior. He said he remembered the time 
 when she could speak English fast enough, and joked in his 
 J0II3' way at the loss he had had of such a lovel}" wife as that. 
 
 My Lady Viscountess deigned* to ask his lordship news of 
 his wife and children ; she had heard that Lady Castlewood 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 89 
 
 had had the small-pox ; she hoped she was not so very much 
 disfigured as people said. 
 
 At this remark about his wife's malady, my Lord Viscount 
 winced and turned red ; but the Dowager, in speaking of the 
 disfigurement of the young lady, turned to her looking-glass 
 and examined her old wrinkled countenance in it with such a 
 grin of satisfaction, that it was all her guests could do to refrain 
 from laughing in her ancient face. 
 
 She asked Harry what his profession was to be ; and my 
 lord, saying that the lad was to take orders, and have the 
 living of Castlewood when old Dr. Tusher vacated it, she did 
 not seem to show any particular anger at the notion of Harry's 
 becoming a Church of England clergyman, nay, was rather 
 glad than otherwise, that the youth should be so provided for. 
 She bade Mr. Esmond not to forget to pay her a visit whenever 
 he passed through London, and carried her graciousness so 
 far as to send a purse with twenty guineas for him, to the 
 tavern at which my lord put up (the " Greyhound," in Charing 
 Cross) ; and, along with this welcome gift for her kinsman, 
 she sent a little doll for a present to my lord's little daughter 
 Beatrix, who was growing beyond the age of dolls by this time, 
 and was as tall almost as her venerable relative. 
 
 After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord 
 Castlewood and Esmond rode together to Cambridge, spending 
 two pleasant daj'S upon the journey. Those rapid new coaches 
 were not established, as 3'et, that performed the whole journey 
 between London and the Universit}' in a single day ; however, 
 the road was pleasant and short enough to Hany Esmond, and 
 he alwa3'S gratefully remembered that happj' holiday which his 
 kind patron gave him. 
 
 Mr. Esmond was entered a pensioner of Trinity College in 
 Cambridge, to which famous college my lord had also in his 
 3'outh belonged. Dr. Montague was master at this time, and 
 received vny Lord Viscount with great politeness : so did Mr. 
 Bridge, who was appointed to be Harr^^'s tutor. Tom Tusher, 
 who was of Emanuel College, and was bj' this time a junior 
 soph, came to wait upon m}^ lord, and to take Harry under his 
 protection ; and comfortable rooms being provided for him in 
 the great court close by the gate, and near to the famous Mr. 
 Newton's lodgings, Harry's patron took leave of him with 
 many kind words and blessings, and an admonition to him to 
 behave better at the Universit}" than my lord himself had ever 
 done. 
 
 'Tis needless in these memoirs to go at an}' length into the 
 
90 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 particulars of Harry Esmond's college career. It was like that 
 of a hundred 3'oung gentlemen of that day. But he had the 
 ill fortune to be older by a couple of years than most of his 
 fellow-students ; and b}" his previous solitary mode of bringing 
 up, the circumstances of his life, and the peculiar thoughtful- 
 ness and melancholy that had naturally engendered, he was, 
 in a great measure, cut off from the society of comrades who 
 were much younger and higher-spirited than he. His tutor, 
 who had bowed down to the ground, as he walked my lord over 
 the college grass-plats, changed his behavior as soon as the 
 nobleman's back was turned, and was — at least Harry thought 
 so — harsh and overbearing. When the lads used to assemble 
 in their greges in hall, Harr}' found himself alone in the midst 
 of that little flock of boys ; they raised a great laugh at him 
 when he was set on to read Latin, which he did with the foreign 
 pronunciation taught to him by his old master, the Jesuit, than 
 which he knew no other. Mr. Bridge, the tutor, made him 
 the object of clums}^ jokes, in which he was fond of indulging. 
 The young man's spirit was chafed, and his vanity' mortified ; 
 and he found himself, for sorne time, as lonely in this place as 
 ever he had been at Castle wood, whither he longed to return. 
 His birth was a source of shame to him, and he fancied a hun- 
 dred slights and sneers from 3^oung and old, who, no doubt, 
 'had treated him better had he met them himself more frankly. 
 And as he looks back, in calmer days, upon this period of his 
 life, which he thought so unhappy, he can see that his own 
 pride and vanity caused no small part of the mortifications 
 which he attributed to other's ill will. The world deals good- 
 naturedl}' with good-natured people, and I never knew a sulky 
 misanthropist who quarrelled with it, but it was he, and not it, 
 that was in the wrong. Tom Tusher gave Harry plenty of 
 good advice on this subject, for Tom had both good sense and 
 good humor ; but Mr. Harry chose to treat his senior with a 
 great deal of superfluous disdain and absurd scorn, and would 
 by no means part from his darling injuries, in which, verj^ 
 likely, no man believed but himself. As for honest Doctor 
 Bridge, the tutor found, after a few trials of wit with the pupil, 
 that the young man was an ugly subject for wit, and that the 
 laugh was often turned against him. This did not make tutor 
 and pupil any better friends ; but had, so far, an advantage 
 for Esmond, that Mr. Bridge was induced to leave him alone ; 
 and so long as he kept his chapels, and did the college exer- 
 cises required of him, Bridge was content not to see Harry's 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 91 
 
 glum face in his class, and to leave him to read and sulk for 
 himself in his own chamber. 
 
 A poem or two in Latin and English, which were pronounced 
 to have some merit, and a Latin oration, (for Mr. Esmond 
 could write that language better than pronounce it,) got him a 
 little reputation both with the authorities of the University and 
 amongst the 3'oung men, with whom he began to pass for more 
 than he was worth. A few victories over their common enemy, 
 Mr. Bridge, made them incKne towards him, and look upon 
 him as the champion of their order against the seniors. Such 
 of the lads as he took into his confidence found him not so 
 gloomj' and haughty as his appearance led them to believe ; 
 and Don Dismallo, as he was called, became presently a person 
 of some little importance in his college, and was, as he believes, 
 set down by the seniors there as rather a dangerous character. 
 
 Don Dismallo was a staunch young Jacobite, like the rest 
 of his family ; gave himself man}^ absurd airs of loyalty ; used 
 to invite 3'oung friends to Burgundy, and give the King's health 
 on King James's birthday ; wore black on the day of his abdi- 
 cation ; fasted on the anniversary of King William's coronation ; 
 and performed a thousand absurd antics, of which he smiles 
 now to think. 
 
 These follies caused many remonstrances on Tom Tusher's 
 part, who was always a friend to the powers that be, as Esmon(? 
 was always in opposition to them. Tom was a Whig, while 
 Esmond was a Tory. Tom never missed a lecture, and capped 
 the proctor with the profoundest of bows. No wonder he 
 sighed over Harrj-'s insubordinate courses, and was angry when 
 the others laughed at him. But that Hany was known to have 
 my Lord Viscount's protection, Tom no doubt would have 
 broken with him altogether. But honest Tom never gave up 
 a comrade as long as he was the friend of a great man. This 
 was not out of scheming on Tom's part, but a natural inclina- 
 tion towards the great. 'Twas no tiypocris}' in him to flatter, 
 but the bent of his mind, which was always perfectly good- 
 humored, obliging, and servile. 
 
 Harry had very liberal allowances, for his dear mistress of 
 Castle wood not onlj^ regularly supplied him, but the Dowager 
 of Chelsey made her donation annual, and received Esmond at 
 her house near London every Christmas ; but, in spite of these 
 benefactions, Esmond was constantly poor ; whilst 'twas a 
 wonder with how small a stipend from his father Tom Tusher 
 contrived to make a good figure. 'Tis true that Harry both 
 spent, gave, and lent his money very freely, which Thomas 
 
92 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 never did. I think he was like the famous Duke of Marlbor- 
 ough in this instance, who, getting a present of fifty pieces, 
 when a young man, from some foolish woman who fell in love 
 with his good looks, showed the money to Cadogan in a drawer 
 scores of years after, where it had lain ever since he had sold 
 his beardless honor to procure it. I do not mean to say that 
 Tom ever let out his good looks so profitably, for nature had 
 not endowed him with any particular charms of person, and he 
 ever was a pattern of moral behavior, losing no oj^portunity 
 of giving the very best advice to his younger comrade ; with 
 which article, to do him justice, he parted very freely. Not 
 but that he was a merry fellow, too, in his way ; he ^loved a 
 joke, if by good fortune he understood it, and took his share 
 generously of a bottle if another paid for it, and especially if 
 there was a young lord in company to drink it. In these cases 
 there was not a harder drinker in the University than Mr. 
 Tusher could be ; and it was edifying to behold him, fresh 
 shaved and with smug face, singing out "Amen!" at early 
 chapel in the morning. In his reading, poor Harry permitted 
 himself to go a-gadding after all the Nine Muses, and so very 
 likely had but little favor from any one of them ; whereas Tom 
 Tusher, who had no more turn for poetr}' than a ploughboy, 
 nevertheless, by a dogged perseverance and obsequiousness in 
 courting the divine Calliope, got himself a prize, and some 
 credit in the Universit3^ and a fellowship at his college, as a 
 reward for his scholarship. In this time of Mr. Esmond's life, 
 he got the little reading which he ever could boast of, and 
 passed a good part of his days greedily devouring all the books 
 on which he could lay hand. In this desultory wa}' the works 
 of most of the English, French, and Italian poets came under 
 his eyes, and he had a smattering of the Spanish tongue like- 
 wise, besides the ancient languages, of which, at least of Latin, 
 he was a tolerable master. 
 
 Then, about midway in his University career, he fell to 
 reading for the profession to which worldly prudence rather 
 than inclination called him, and was perfectly bewildered in 
 theological controvers3\ In the course of his reading (which 
 was neither pursued with that seriousness or that devout mind 
 which such a study requires) the 3'outh found himself at the 
 end of one month a Papist, and was about to proclaim his faith ; 
 the next month a Protestant, with Chillingworth ; and the third 
 a sceptic, with Hobbes and Bayle. Whereas honest Tom Tusher 
 never permitted his mind to stray out of the prescribed Univer- 
 sity path, accepted the Thirty-nine Articles with aU his heart, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 93 
 
 and would have signed and sworn to other nine-and-thirty with 
 entire obedience. Harry's wilMness in this matter, and dis- 
 orderly thoughts and conversation, so shocked and afflicted his 
 senior, that there grew up a coldness and estrangement between 
 them, so that they became scarce more than mere acquaintances, 
 from having been intimate friends when the}' came to college 
 first. Politics ran high, too, at the University ; and here, also, 
 the young men were at variance. Tom professed himself, albeit 
 a high-churchman, a strong King William's-man ; whereas Harry 
 brought his family Tory politics to college with him, to which 
 he must add a dangerous admiration for OUver Cromwell, 
 whose side, or King James's by turns, he often chose to take in 
 the disputes which the young gentlemen used to hold in each 
 other's rooms, where they debated on the state of the nation, 
 crowned and deposed kings, and toasted past and present heroes 
 and beauties in flagons of college ale. 
 
 Thus, either from the circumstances of his birth, or the natu- 
 ral melancholy of his disposition, Esmond came to live very 
 much by himself during his stay at the University, having neither 
 ambition enough to distinguish himself in the college career, 
 nor caring to mingle with the mere pleasures and boyish frolics 
 of the students, who were, for the most part, two or three years 
 3'ounger than he. He fancied that the gentlemen of the com- 
 mon-room of his college shghted him on account of his birth, 
 and hence kept aloof from their society. It may be that he 
 made the ill will, which he imagined came from them, by his 
 own behavior, which, as he looks back on it in after life, he now 
 sees was morose and haughty. At any rate, he was as tenderly 
 grateful for kindness as he was susceptible of slight and wrong ; 
 and, lonel}' as he was generally, yet had one or two very warm 
 friendships for his companions of those days. 
 
 One of these was a queer gentleman that resided in the 
 University, though he was no member of it, and was the pro- 
 fessor of a science scarce recognized in the common course of 
 college education. This was a French refugee-officer, who had 
 been driven out of his native country at the time of the Protes- 
 tant persecutions there, and who came to Cambridge, where he 
 taught the science of the small-sword, and set up a saloon-of- 
 arms. Though he declared himself a Protestant, 'twas said 
 Mr. Moreau was a Jesuit in disguise ; indeed, he brought very 
 strong recommendations to the Tory part}', which was pretty 
 strong in that University, and very likely was one of the many 
 agents whom King James had in this country. Esmond found 
 this gentleman's conversation very much more agreeable and to 
 
94 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 his taste than the talk of the college divines in the common- 
 room ; he never wearied of Moreaa's stories cf the wars of 
 Turenne and Conde, in which he had borne a part ; and being 
 familiar with the French tongue from his youth, and in a place 
 where but few spoke it, his company became very agreeable to 
 the brave old professor of arms, whose favorite pupil he was, 
 and who made Mr. Esmond a very tolerable proficient in the 
 noble science of escrime. 
 
 At the next term Esmond was to take his degree of Bachelor 
 of Arts, and afterwards, in proper season, to assume the cas- 
 sock and bands which his fond mistress would have him wear. 
 Tom Tusher himself was a parson and a fellow of his college 
 b}' this time ; and Harry felt that he would very gladly cede his 
 right to the living of Castlewood to Tom, and that his own call- 
 ing was in no way to the pulpit. But as he was bound, before 
 all things in the world, to his dear mistress at home, and knew 
 that a refusal on his part would grieve her, he determined to 
 give her no hint of his unwillingness to the clerical office : and 
 it was in this unsatisfactory mood of mind that he went to spend 
 the last vacation he should have at Castlewood before he took 
 orders. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I COME HOME FOR A HOLIDAY TO CASTLEWOOD, AND FIND A 
 SKELETON IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 At his third long vacation, Esmond came as usual to Castle- 
 wood, always feeling an eager thrill of pleasure when he found 
 himself once more in the house where he had passed so many 
 years, and beheld the kind familiar ej'es of his mistress look- 
 ing upon him. She and her children (out of whose compan}' 
 she scarce ever saw him) came to greet him. Miss Beatrix 
 was grown so tall that Harry did not quite know whether he 
 might kiss her or no ; and she blushed and held back when 
 he offered that salutation, though she took it, and even courted 
 it, when they were alone. The young lord was shooting up to 
 be like his gallant father in look, though with his mother's kind 
 eyes : the lady of Castlewood herself seemed grown, too, since 
 Harry saw her — in her look more stately, in her person fuller, 
 in her face still as ever most tender and friendl}', a greater air 
 of command and decision than had appeared in that guileless 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 95 
 
 sweet countenance which Harry remembered so gratefully. 
 The tone of her voice was so much deeper and sadder when 
 she spoke and welcomed him, that it quite startled Esmond, 
 who looked up at her surprised as she spoke, when she with- 
 drew her eyes from him ; nor did she ever look at him after- 
 wards when his own e3'es were gazing upon her. A something 
 hinting at grief and secret, and filling his mind with alarm 
 undefinable, seemed to speak with that low thrilling voice of 
 hers, and look out of those clear sad eyes. Her greeting 
 to Esmond was so cold that it almost pained the lad, (who 
 would have liked to fall on his knees, and kiss the skirt of her 
 robe, so fond and ardent was his respect and regard for her,) 
 and he faltered in answering the questions which she, hesitating 
 on her side, began to put to him. Was he happy at Cambridge ? 
 Did he study too hard ? She hoped not. He had grown very 
 All, and looked ver}- well. 
 
 '- He has got a moustache ! " cries out Master Esmond. 
 
 " Why does he not wear a peruke like m}^ Lord Mohun?" 
 asked Miss Beatrix. '*My lord says that nobody wears their 
 own hair." 
 
 " I believe 3'ou will have to occup}" 3'our old chamber," says 
 my lady. " I hope the housekeeper has got it read}'." 
 
 " Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these three 
 days yourself! " exclaims Frank. 
 
 " And she cut some flowers which 3'ou planted in m^' garden — 
 do 3'ou remember, ever so many 3'ears ago ? — when I was quite 
 a little girl," cries out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe. " And mamma 
 put them in 3'our window." 
 
 " I remember when 3'ou grew well after you were ill that 
 j'ou used to like roses," said the lad3% blushing like one of 
 them. The3' all conducted Flarry Esmond to his chamber ; the 
 children running before, Harr3^ walking b3' his mistress hand- 
 in-hand. 
 
 The old room had been ornamented and beautified not a . 
 iv.tle to receive him. The flowers were in the window in a china 
 vase ; and there was a fine new counterpane on the bed, which 
 chatterbox Beatrix said mamma had made too. A fire was 
 crackling on the hearth, although it was June. M3^ lad3' thought 
 the room wanted warming ; everything was done to make him 
 happ3' and welcome: "And you are not to be a page any 
 longer, but a gentleman and kinsman, and to walk with papa 
 and mamma," said the children. And as soon as his dear mis- 
 tress and children had left him to himself, it was with a heart 
 overflowing with iove and gratefulness that he flung himself 
 
96 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 down on his knees b}" the side of the little bed, and asked a 
 blessing upon those who were so kind to him. 
 
 The children, who are alwa3's house tell-tales, soon made him 
 acquahited with the little history of the house and familj-. 
 Papa had been to London twice. Papa often went awa}^ now. 
 Papa had taken Beatrix to Westlands, where she was taller 
 than Sir George Harper's second daughter, though she was two 
 years older. Papa had taken Beatrix and Frank both to Bell- 
 minster, where Frank had got the better of Lord Bellminster's 
 son in a boxing-match — mj^ lord, laughing, told Harry after- 
 wards. Many gentlemen came to stop with papa, and papa had 
 gotten a new game from London, a French game, called a bil- 
 liard — that the French king played it very well : and the 
 Dowager Lady Castlewood had sent Miss Beatrix a present ; 
 and papa had gotten a new chaise, with two little horses, which 
 he drove himself, beside the coach, which mamma went in ; 
 and Dr. Tusher was a cross old plague, and they did not like 
 to learn from him at all ; and papa did not care about them 
 learning, and laughed when they were at their books, but 
 mamma liked them to learn, and taught them ; and " I don't 
 think papa is fond of mamma," said Miss Beatrix, with her 
 great eyes. She had come quite close up to Harry Esmond 
 by the time this prattle took place, and was on his knee, and 
 had examined all the points of his dress, and all the good or 
 bad features of his homel}' face. 
 
 '' You shouldn't say that papa is not fond of mamma," said 
 the boy, at this confession. "Mamma never said so; and 
 mamma forbade 3'ou to say it, Miss Beatrix." 
 
 'Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in Lady 
 Castlewood's eyes, and the plaintive vibrations of her voice. 
 Who does not know of eyes, lighted b}^ love once, where the 
 flame shines no more? — of lamps extinguished, once properl}^ 
 trimmed and tended? Every man has such in his house. 
 Such mementoes make our splendidest chambers look blank and 
 sad ; such faces seen in a day cast a gloom upon our sunshine. 
 So oaths mutually sworn, and invocations of heaven, and priestly 
 ceremonies, and fond belief, and love, so fond and faithful that 
 it never doubted but that it should live for ever, are all of no 
 avail towards making love eternal : it dies, in spite of the banns 
 and the priest ; and I have often thought there should be a 
 visitation of the sick for it, and a funeral service, and. an ex- 
 treme unction, and an abi in pace. It has its course, like all 
 mortal things — its beginning, progress, and decay. It buds 
 and it blooms out into sunshine, and it withers and ends. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 97 
 
 Strephon and Chloe languish apart ; join in a rapture : and 
 presentl}' you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has 
 broken his crook across her back. Can 3'ou mend it so as to 
 show no marks of rupture? Not all the priests of Hymen, not 
 all the incantations to the gods, can make it whole ! 
 
 Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college 
 honors, in which for two 3'ears, Harry Esmond had been im- 
 mersed, he found himself, instantl}^, on his return home, in the 
 midst of this actual traged}' of life, wiiich absorbed and inter- 
 ested him more than all his tutor had taught him. The persons 
 whom he loved best in the world, and to whom he owed most, 
 were living unhappily' together. The gentlest and kindest of 
 women was suffering ill usage and shedding tears in secret : the 
 man who made her wretched by neglect, if not by violence, was 
 Harry's benefactor and patron. In houses where, in place of 
 that sacred, inmost flame of love, there is discord at the centre, 
 the whole household becomes hypocritical, and each hes to his 
 neighbor. The husband (or it may be the wife) lies when the 
 visitor comes in, and wears a grin of reconciliation or politeness 
 before him. The wife lies (indeed, her business is to do that, 
 and to smile, however much she is beaten), swallows her tears, 
 and lies to her lord and master ; lies in bidding little Jackey 
 respect dear papa ; lies in assuring grandpapa that she is per- 
 fecth' happy. The servants lie, wearing grave faces behind 
 their master's chair, and pretending to be unconscious of the 
 fighting ; and so, from morning till bedtime, life is passed in 
 falsehood. And wiseacres call this a proper regard of morals, 
 and point out Baucis and Philemon as examples of a good life. 
 
 If my lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond, my 
 lord was by no means reserved when in his cups, and spoke his 
 mind very freely, bidding Harry in his coarse way, and with 
 his blunt language, beware of all women as cheats, jades, jilts, 
 and using other unmistakable monosyllables in speaking of 
 them. Indeed, 'twas the fashion of the day, as I must own ; 
 and there's not a writer of my time of an}^ note, with the ex- 
 ception of poor Dick Steele, that does not speak of a woman 
 as of a slave, and scorn and use her as such. Mr. Pope, Mr. 
 Congreve, Mr. Addison, Mr. Gslj, every one of 'em, sing in this 
 key, each according to his nature and politeness, and louder and 
 fouler than all in abuse is Dr. Swift, who spoke of them as he 
 treated them, w^orst of all. 
 
 Much of the quarrels and hatred which arise between married 
 people come in my mind from the husband's rage and revolt at 
 discovering that his slave and bedfellow, who is to minister to 
 
98 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 all his wishes, and is church-sworn to honor and obey him — is 
 his superior ; and that Ae, and not she, ought to be the subordi- 
 nate of the twain ; and in these controversies, I think, lay the 
 cause of my lord's anger against his lady. When he left her, 
 she began to think for herself, and her thoughts were not in his 
 favor. After the illumination, when the love-lamp is put out 
 that anon we spoke of, and by the common daylight we look at 
 the picture, what a daub it looks ! what a clumsy effigy ! How 
 many men and wives come to this knowledge, think you? And 
 if it be painful to a woman to find herself mated for life to a 
 boor, and ordered to love and honor a dullard ; it is worse still 
 for the man himself perhaps, whenever in his dim comprehen- 
 sion the idea dawns that his slave and drudge yonder is, in truth, 
 his superior ; that the woman who does his bidding, and sub- 
 mits to his humor, should be his lord ; that she can think a thou- 
 sand things beyond the power of his muddled brains ; and that 
 in yonder head, on the pillow opposite to him, lie a thousand 
 feelings, mysteries of thought, latent scorns and rebellions, 
 whereof he only dimly perceives the existence as they look out 
 furtively from her e3'es : treasures of love doomed to perish 
 without a hand to gather them ; sweet fancies and images of 
 beauty that would grow and unfold themselves into flower ; bright 
 wit that would shine like diamonds could it be brought into the 
 sun : and the tyrant in possession crushes the outbreak of all 
 these, drives them back like slaves into the dungeon and dark- 
 ness, and chafes without that his prisoner is rebellious, and his 
 sworn subject undutiful and refractory. So the lamp was out 
 in Castlewood Hall, and the lord and lady there saw each other 
 as the}^ were. With her illness and altered beauty m}- lord's 
 fire for his wife disappeared ; with his selfishness and faithless- 
 ness her foolish fiction of love and reverence was rent away. 
 Love ! — who is to love what is base and unlovely? Respect ! 
 — who is to respect what is gross and sensual? Not all the 
 marriage oaths sworn before all the parsons, cardinals, minis- 
 ters, muftis, and rabbins in the world, can bind to that monstrous 
 allegiance. This couple was living apart then ; the woman 
 happy to be allowed to love and tend her children (who were 
 never of her own good-will away from her) , and thankful to have 
 saved such treasures as these out of the wreck in which the 
 better part of her heart went down. 
 
 These young ones had had no instructors save their mother, 
 and Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally, and had made 
 more progress than might have been expected under a tutor so 
 indulgent and fond as Lady Castlewood. Beatrix could sing 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 99 
 
 and dance like a n3'mph. Her voice was her father's delight 
 after dinner. She ruled over the house with little imperial ways, 
 which her parents coaxed and laughed at. She had long learned 
 the value of her bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry, 
 in corpore vili^ upon rustics and country squires, until she should 
 prepare to conquer the world and the fashion. She put on a 
 new ribbon to welcome Harrj' Esmond, made eyes at him, and 
 directed her young smiles at him, not a little to the amusement 
 of the 3^oung man, and the joy of her father, who laughed his 
 great laugh, and encouraged her in her thousand antics. Lady 
 Castlewood watched the child gravely and sadly : the little one 
 was pert in her replies to her mother, yet eager in her protesta- 
 tions of love and promises of amendment ; and as ready to cr}' 
 (after a little quarrel brought on by her own giddiness) until 
 she had won back her mamma's favor, as she was to risk the 
 kind lady's displeasure by fresh outbreaks of i-estless vanity. 
 From her mother's sad looks she fled to her father's chair and 
 boozy laughter. She alread}^ set the one against the other : and 
 the little rogue delighted in the mischief which she knew how 
 to make so earty. 
 
 The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and 
 mother both. He took their caresses as men do, and as if they 
 were his right. He had his hawks and his spaniel dog, his little 
 horse and his beagles. He had learned to ride, and to drink, 
 and to shoot flying : and he had a small court, the sons of the 
 huntsman and woodman, as became the heir-apparent, taking 
 after the example of my lord his father. If he had a headache, 
 'his mother was as much frightened as if the plague were in the 
 house : my lord laughed and jeered in his abrupt wa}' — (indeed, 
 'twas on the day after New Year's Day, and an excess of mince- 
 pie) — and said with some of his usual oaths — " D — n it, Harry 
 Esmond — 3'ou see how my lad}" takes on about Frank's megrim. 
 She used to be sorry about me, m}^ boy (pass the tankard, 
 Harry), and to be frightened if I had a headache once. She 
 don't care about my head now. They're like that — women are 
 
 — all the same, Harry, all jilts in their hearts. Stick to college 
 
 — stick to punch and butter^' ale : and never see a woman that's 
 handsomer than an old cinder-faced bed-maker. That's m}^ 
 counsel." 
 
 It was my lord's custom to fling out many jokes of this 
 nature, in presence of his wife and children, at meals — clumsy 
 sarcasms which my lad}^ turned many a time, or which, some- 
 times, she affected not to hear, or which now and again would 
 hit their mark and make the poor victim wince (as 3'ou could 
 
100 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESM0:N"D. 
 
 see hj her flushing face and eyes filling with tears), or which 
 again worked her up to anger and retort, when, in answer to 
 one of these heavy bolts, she would flash back with a quiver- 
 ing reply. The pair were not happ}' ; nor indeed was it happy 
 to be with them. Alas that youthful love and truth should 
 end in bitterness and bankruptc}' ! To see a young couple 
 loving each other is no wonder ; but to see an old couple 
 loving each other is the best sight of all. Harry Esmond 
 became the confidant of one and the other — that is, my lord 
 told the lad all his griefs and wrongs (which were indeed of 
 Lord Castlewood's own making) , and Harry divined my lady's ; 
 his aflfection leading him easily to penetrate the hypocrisy 
 under which Lady Castle wood generally chose to go disguised, 
 and see her heart aching whilst her face wore a smile. 'Tis 
 a hard task for women in life, that mask which the world bids 
 them wear. But there is no greater crime than for a woman 
 who is ill used and unhapp^^ to show that she is so. The 
 world is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a cheerful 
 face ; and our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to 
 go smiling and painted to sacrifice themselves with their hus- 
 bands ; their relations being the most eager to push them on to 
 their clut}', and, under their shouts and applauses, to smother 
 and hush their cries of pain. 
 
 So, into the sad secret of his patron's household, Harry 
 Esmond became initiated, he scarce knew how. It had passed 
 under his eyes two years before, when he could not understand 
 it ; but reading, and thought, and experience of men, had 
 oldened him ; and one of the deepest sorrows of a life which 
 had never, in truth, been very happy, came upon him now, 
 when he was compelled to understand and pity a grief which 
 he stood quite powerless to relieve. 
 
 It hath been said my lord would never take the oath of 
 allegiance, nor his seat as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland, 
 where, indeed, he had but a nominal estate ; and refused an 
 Enghsh peerage which King William's government offered him 
 as a bribe to secure his loj^alty. 
 
 He might have accepted this, and would doubtless, but for 
 the earnest remonstrances of his wife, who ruled her husband's 
 opinions better than she could govern his conduct, and who 
 being a simple-hearted woman, with but one rule of faith and 
 right, never thought of swerving from her fidelity to the 
 exiled famil}^ or of recognizing any other sovereign but King 
 James ; and though she acquiesced in the doctrine of obedi- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 101 
 
 ence to the reigning power, no temptation, she thought, could 
 induce her to acl^nowledge the Prince of Orange as rightful 
 monarch, nor to let her lord so acknowledge him. So mj^Lord 
 Castlewood remained a nonjuror all his life nearl}', though his 
 self-denial caused him many a pang, and left him sulky and out 
 of humor. 
 
 The 3^ear after the Revolution, and all through King Wil- 
 liam's life, 'tis known there were constant intrigues for the res- 
 toration of the exiled family ; but if m}- Lord Castlewood took 
 any share of these, as is probable, 'twas only for a short time, 
 and when Harry Esmond was too young to be introduced into 
 such important secrets. 
 
 But in the yesir 1695, when that conspiracy of Sir John 
 Fenwick, Colonel Lowick, and others, was set on foot, for 
 waylaying King William as he came from Hampton Court to 
 London, and a secret plot was formed, in which a vast number 
 of the nobility and people of honor were engaged, Father 
 Holt appeared at Castlewood, and brought a young friend with 
 him, a gentleman whom 'twas eas}^ to see that both my lord 
 and the Father treated with uncommon deference. Harry 
 Esmond saw this gentleman, and knew and recognized him in 
 after life, as shall be shown in its place ; and he has little 
 doubt now that my Lord Viscount was implicated somewhat in 
 the transactions which always kept Father Holt emplo3'ed and 
 travelling hither and thither under a dozen of different names 
 and disguises. The Father's companion went by the name of 
 Captain James ; and it was under a very different name and 
 appearance that Harry Esmond afterwards saw him. 
 
 It was the next year that the Fenwick conspiracy blew up, 
 which is a matter of public history now, and which ended in 
 the execution of Sir John and many more, who suffered man- 
 fully for their treason, and who were attended to Tyburn b}' 
 my lady's father Dean Armstrong, Mr. Collier, and other 
 stout nonjuring clerg3^men, who absolved them at the gallows- 
 foot. 
 
 'Tis known that when Sir John was apprehended, discovery 
 was made of a great number of names of gentlemen engaged in 
 the conspiracy; when, with a noble wisdom and clemency, the 
 Prince burned the list of conspirators furnished to him, and 
 said he would know no more. Now it was after this that Lord 
 Castlewood swore his great oath, that he would never, so help 
 him heaven, be engaged in an}^ transaction against that brave 
 and merciful man ; and so he told Holt when the indefatigable 
 priest visited him, and would have had him engage in a farther 
 
102 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 conspiracy. After this my lord ever spoke of King William as 
 he was — as one of the wisest, the bravest, and the greatest of 
 men. My Lady Esmond (for her part) said she could never 
 pardon the King, first, for ousting his father-in-law from his 
 throne, and secondly, for not being constant to his wife, the 
 Princess Mary. Indeed, I think if Nero were to rise again, 
 and be king of England, and a good family man, the ladies 
 yvould pardon him. My lord laughed at his wife's objections — 
 the standard of virtue did not fit him much. 
 
 The last conference which Mr. Holt had witli his lordship 
 took place when Harry was come home for his first vacation 
 from college (Harry saw his old tutor but for a half-hour, and 
 exchanged no private words with him), and their talk, what- 
 ever it might be, left my Lord Viscount very much disturbed 
 in mind — so much so, that his wife, and his young kinsman, 
 Henry Esmond, could not but observe his disquiet. After Holt 
 was gone, m}^ lord rebuffed Esmond, and again treated him 
 with the greatest deference ; he shunned his wife's questions 
 and company, and looked at his children with such a face of 
 gloom and anxiety, muttering, "Poor children — poor chil- 
 dren ! " in a way that could not but fill those whose life it was 
 to watch him and obe}^ him with great alarm. For which 
 gloom, each person interested in the Lord Castlewood, framed 
 in his or her own mind an interpretation. 
 
 My lad}^ with a laugh of cruel bitterness said, " I suppose 
 the person at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him" (for 
 my lord's infatuation about Mrs. Marwood was known only too 
 well). Young Esmond feared for his mone}^ aflEairs, into the 
 condition of which he had been initiated ; and that the ex- 
 penses, always greater than his revenue, had caused Lord 
 Castlewood disquiet. 
 
 One of the causes why my Lord Viscount had taken young 
 Esmond into his special favor was a trivial one, that hath not 
 before been mentioned, though it was a very lucky accident in 
 Henry Esmond's life. A very few months after m}^ lord's com- 
 ing to Castlewood, in the winter time — the little boy, being a 
 child in a petticoat, trotting about — it happened that little 
 Frank was with his father after dinner, who fell asleep over his 
 wine, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire ; and, as 
 good fortune would have it, Esmond was sent by his mistress 
 for the boy just as the poor little screaming urchin's coat was 
 set on fire by a log ; when Esmond, rushing forward, tore the 
 dress oflT the infant, so that his own hands were burned more 
 than the child's, who was frightened rather than hurt hy this 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 103 
 
 accident. But certainly 'twas providential that a resolute per- 
 son should have come in at that instant, or the child had been 
 burned to death probabl}', mj lord sleeping very heavily after 
 drinking, and not waking so cool as a man should who had a 
 danger to face. 
 
 Ever after this the father, loud in his expressions of remorse 
 and humility for being a tipsy good-for-nothing, and of admira- 
 tion for Harry Esmond, whom his lordship would style a hero 
 for doing a ver}' trifling service, had the tenderest regard for 
 his son's preserver, and Harrj- became quite as one of the 
 famil}'. His burns were tended with the greatest care b}^ his 
 kind mistress, who said that heaven had sent him to be the 
 guardian of her children, and that she would love him all her 
 life. 
 
 And it was after this, and from the very great love and ten- 
 derness which had grown up in this little household, rather than 
 from the exhortations of Dean Armstrong (though these had no 
 small weight with him), that Harry came to be quite of the 
 religion of his house and his dear mistress, of which he has 
 ever since been a professing member. As for Dr. Tusher's 
 boasts that he was the cause of this conversion — even in these 
 young days Mr. Esmond had such a contempt for the Doctor, 
 that had Tusher bade him believe anything (which he did not 
 — never meddhng at all), Harry would that instant have ques- 
 tioned the truth on't. 
 
 M}' lady seldom drank wine ; but on certain daj^s of the 
 year, such as birthdays (poor Harry had never a one) and anni- 
 versaries, she took a little ; and this day, the 29th December, 
 was one. At the end, then, of this year, '96, it might have 
 been a fortnight after Mr. Holt's last visit. Lord Castlewood 
 being still very gloomy in mind, and sitting at table — my lady 
 bidding a servant bring her a glass of wine, and looking at her 
 husband with one of her sweet smiles, said — 
 
 " My lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call a 
 toast?". 
 
 " What is it, Rachel?" says he, holding out his empt}^ glass 
 to be filled. 
 
 " 'Tis the 29th of December," says my lady, with her fond 
 look of gratitude : " and my toast is, ' Harry — and God bless 
 him, who saved my boy's life ! ' " 
 
 My lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but 
 clapped it down on the table in a moment, and, with a sort of 
 groan, rose up, and went out of the room. What was the 
 matter? We all knew that some great grief was over him. 
 
104 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOi^D. 
 
 Whether 1113- lord's prudence had made him richer, or lega- 
 cies had fallen to him, which enabled him to support a greater 
 establishment than that frugal one which had been too much 
 for his small means, Harry Esmond knew not ; but the house 
 of Castlewood was now on a scale much more costl}- than it 
 had been during the first 3'ears of his lordship's coming to the 
 title. There were more horses in the stable and more servants 
 in the hall, and many more guests coming and going now than 
 formerly, when it was found difficult enough by the strictest 
 economy to keep the house as befitted one of his lordship's 
 rank, and the estate out of debt. And it did not require very 
 much penetration to find that many of the new acquaintances 
 at Castlewood were not agreeable to the lady there : not that 
 she ever treated them or any mortal with anything but courtes}' ; 
 but they were persons who could not be welcome to her ; and 
 whose society a lady so refined and reserved could scarce desire 
 for her children. There came fuddhng squires from the coun- 
 tr}^ round, who bawled their songs under her windows and 
 drank themselves tipsy with my lord's punch and ale : there 
 came officers from Hexton, in whose compan}' our little lord 
 was made to hear talk and to drink, and swear too, in a way 
 that made the delicate lady tremble for her son. Esmond tried 
 to console her b^^ sa^'ing what he knew of his College experi- 
 ence ; that with this sort of company and conversation a man 
 must fall in sooner or later in his course through the world : 
 and it mattered very little whether he heard it at twelve 3'ears 
 old or twent}' — the youths who quitted mother's apron-strings 
 the latest being not uncommonly the wildest rakes. But it 
 was about her daughter that Lady Castlewood was the most 
 anxious, and the danger which she thought menaced the little 
 Beatrix from the indulgences which her father gave her, (it 
 must be owned that my lord, since these unhapp}' domestic 
 differences especially, was at once violent in his language to 
 the children when angry, as he was too familiar, not to say 
 coarse, when he was in a good humor,) and from the company 
 into which the careless lord brought the child. 
 
 Not very far off from Castlewood is Sark Castle, where the 
 Marchioness of Sark lived, who was known to have been a mis- 
 tress of the late King Charles — and to this house, whither 
 indeed a great part of the countr}^ gentry went, my lord in- 
 sisted upon going, not only himself, but on taking his little 
 daughter and son, to play with the children there. The chil- 
 dren were nothing loth, for the house was splendid, and the 
 welcome kind enough. But my lady, justly no doubt, thought 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 105 
 
 that the children of such a mother as that noted Lad}^ Sark 
 had been, could be no good company for her two ; and spoke 
 her mind to her lord. His own language when he was thwarted 
 was not indeed of the gentlest : to be brief, there was a family 
 dispute on this, as there had been on many other points — and 
 the lady was not only forced to give in, for the other's will was 
 law — nor could she, on account of their tender age, tell her 
 children what was the nature of her objection to their visit of 
 pleasure, or indeed mention to them any objection at all — but 
 she had the additional secret mortification to find them return- 
 ing dehghted with their new friends, loaded with presents from 
 them, and eager to be allowed to go back to a place of such 
 delights as Sark Castle. Every year she thought the company 
 there would be more dangerous to her daughter, as from a child 
 Beatrix grew to a woman, and her daily increasing beauty, and 
 many faults of character too, expanded. 
 
 It was Harr}' Esmond's lot to see one of the visits which the 
 old Lady of Sark paid to the Lad}' of Castlewood Hall : whither 
 she came in state with six chestnut horses and blue ribbons, a 
 page on each carriage step, a gentleman of the horse, and armed 
 servants riding before and behind her. And, but that it was 
 unpleasant to see Lad}' Castle wood's face, it was amusing to 
 watch the behavior of the two enemies : the frigid patience 
 of the younger lady, and the unconquerable good-humor of the 
 elder — who would see no offence whatever her rival intended, 
 and who never ceased to smile and to laugh, and to coax the 
 children, and to pay compliments to every man, woman, child, 
 nay dog, or chair and table, in Castlewood, so bent was she 
 upon admiring everything there. She lauded the children, and 
 wished — as indeed she well might — that her own family had 
 been brought up as well as those cherubs. She had never seen 
 such a complexion as dear Beatrix's — though to be sure she 
 had a right to it from father and mother — Lady Castlewood's 
 was indeed a wonder of freshness, and Lad}' Sark sighed to 
 think she had not been born a fair woman ; and remarking 
 Harry Esmond, with a fascinating superannuated smile, she com- 
 plimented him on his wit, which she said she could see from his 
 eyes and forehead ; and vowed that she would never have him 
 at Sark until her daughter were out of the way. 
 
106 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MY LORD MOHUN COMES AMONG US FOR NO GOOD. 
 
 There had ridden along with this old Princess's caval- 
 cade, two gentlemen : her son, ray Lord Firebrace, and his 
 friend, my Lord Mohun, who both were greeted with a great 
 deal of cordiality by the hospitable Lord of Castle wood. My 
 Lord Firebrace was but a feeble-minded and weak-limbed 3'oung 
 nobleman, small in stature and Hmited in understanding — to 
 judge from the talk young Esmond had with him ; but the other 
 was a person of a handsome presence, with the hel air^ and a 
 bright daring warlike aspect, which, according to the chronicle 
 of those days, had already achieved for him the conquest of 
 several beautios and toasts. He had fought and conquered in 
 France, as well as in Flanders ; he had served a couple of cam- 
 paigns with the Prince of Baden on the Danube, and witnessed 
 the rescue of Vienna from the Turk. And he spoke of his 
 military exploits pleasantly, and with the manly freedom of a 
 soldier, so as to delight all his hearers at Castlewood, who were 
 little accustomed to meet a companion so agreeable. 
 
 On the first day this noble company came, my lord would 
 not hear of their departure before dinner, and carried away the 
 gentlemen to amuse them, whilst his wife was left to do the 
 honors of her house to the old Marchioness and her daughter 
 within. They looked at the stables where my Lord Mohun 
 praised the horses, though there was but a poor show there : 
 they walked over the old house and gardens, and fought the siege 
 of Oliver's time over again : they played a game of rackets in the 
 old court, where m}" Lord Castlewood beat my Lord Mohun, who 
 said he loved ball of all things, and would quickly come back to 
 Castlewood for his revenge. After dinner they played bowls 
 and drank punch in the green alley ; and when they parted the}^ 
 were sworn friends, my Lord Castlewood kissing the other lord 
 before he mounted on horseback, and pronouncing him the best 
 companion he had met for many a long da}^ All night long, 
 over his tobacco-pipe, Castlewood did not cease to talk to Harry 
 Esmond in praise of his new friend, and in fact did not leave 
 off speaking of him until his lordship was so tipsy that he could 
 not speak plainly any more. 
 
 At breakfast next day it was the same talk renewed ; and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 107 
 
 when my lady said there was something free in the Lord Mo- 
 hun's looks and manner of speech which caused her to mistrust 
 him, her lord burst out with one of his laughs and oaths ; said 
 that he never liked man, woman, or beast, but what she was sure 
 to be jealous of it ; that Mohun was the prettiest fellow in Eng- 
 land ; that he hoped to see more of him whilst in the country ; 
 and that he would let Mohun know what my Lady Prude said 
 of him. 
 
 " Indeed," Lady Castlewood said, " I liked his conversation 
 well enough. 'Tis more amusing than that of most people I 
 know. 1 thought it, I own, too free ; not from what he said, 
 as rather from what he implied." 
 
 " Psha ! your ladyship does not know the world," said her 
 husband ; " and you have always been as squeamish as when 
 you were a miss of fifteen." 
 
 '' You found no fault when I was a miss at fifteen." 
 
 " Begad, madam, you are grown too old for a pinafore now ; 
 and I hold that 'tis for me to judge what company my wife shall 
 see," said my lord, slapping the table. 
 
 " Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise," answered my 
 lady, rising and dropping him a curtsj^ in which stately' action, 
 if there was obedience, there was defiance too ; and in which 
 a bj^stander, deepl}' interested in the happiness of that pair as 
 Harry Esmond was, might see how hopelessly separated they 
 were ; what a great gulf of difference and discord had run be- 
 tween them. 
 
 ' ' By G — d ! Mohun is the best fellow in England ; and I'll 
 invite him here, just to plague that woman. Did 3'ou ever see 
 such a frigid insolence as it is, Harr}^? That's the way she 
 treats me," he broke out, storming, and his face growing red as 
 he clenched his fists and went on. " I'm nobody in mj' own 
 house. I'm to be the humble servant of that parson's daughter. 
 By Jove ! I'd rather she should fling the dish at m}' head than 
 sneer at me as she does. She puts me to shame before the 
 children with her d — d airs ; and, I'll swear, tells Frank and 
 Beaty that papa's a reprobate, and that they ought to despise 
 me." 
 
 " Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but 
 of respect regarding you," Harry Esmond interposed. 
 
 "No, curse it! I wish she would speak. But she never 
 does. She scorns me, and holds her tongue. She keeps off 
 from me, as if I was a pestilence. B3' George ! she was fond 
 enough of her pestilence once. And when I came a-courting, 
 you would see miss blush — blush red, by George ! for joy. 
 
108 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 
 
 Why, what do you think she said to me, Harry? She said her- 
 self, when I joked with her about her d — d smiling red cheeks : 
 ' 'Tis as they do at St. James's ; I put up m^^ red flag when my 
 king comes.' I was the king, 3^ou see, she meant. But now, 
 sir, look at her ! I believe she would be glad if I was dead ; 
 and dead I've been to her these five years — ever since you all 
 of you had the small-pox : and she never forgave me for going 
 away." 
 
 " Indeed, my lord, though 'twas hard to forgive, I think m}^ 
 mistress forgave it," Harry Esmond said ; " and remember how 
 eagerh^ she watched your lordship's return, and how sadly she 
 turned away when she saw your cold looks." 
 
 " Damme ! " cries out m}^ lord ; " would you have had me 
 wait and catch the small-pox ? Where the deuce had been the 
 good of that ? I'll bear danger with any man — but not useless 
 danger — no, no. Thank jou for nothing. And — you nod 
 3'our head, and I know very well, Parson Harry, what you 
 mean. There was the — the other aff'air to make her angry. 
 But is a woman never to forgive a husband Who goes a-tripping? 
 Do you take me for a saint? " 
 
 " Indeed, sir, I do not," saj's Harry, with a smile. 
 
 " Since that time my wife's as cold as the statue at Charing 
 Cross. I tell thee she has no forgiveness in her, Hemy. Her 
 coldness blights my whole life, and sends me to the punch-bowl, 
 or driving about the country. My children are not mine, but 
 hers, when we are together. 'Tis only when she is out of sight 
 with her abominable cold glances, that run through me, that 
 they'll come to me, and that I dare to give them so much as a 
 kiss ; and that's why I take 'em and love 'em in other people's 
 houses, Harry. I'm killed by the very virtue of that proud 
 woman. Virtue! give me the virtue that can forgive; give 
 me the virtue that thmks not of preserving itself, but of making 
 other folks happy. Damme, what matters a scar or two if 'tis 
 got in helping a friend in ill fortune ? " 
 
 . And my lord again slapped the table, and took a great 
 draught from the tankard. Harry Esmond admired as he listened 
 to him, and thought how the poor preacher of this self-sacrifice 
 had fled from the small-pox, which the ladj' had borne so cheer- 
 fullj', and which had been the cause of so much disunion in the 
 lives of all in this house. " How well men preach," thought 
 the 3'oung man, " and each is the example in his own sermon. 
 How each has a storj' in a dispute, and a true one, too, and 
 both are right or wrong as you will!" Harry's heart was 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 109 
 
 pained within him, to watch the struggles and pangs that tore 
 the breast of this kind, manly friend and protector. 
 
 " Indeed, sir," said he, "I wish to God that my mistress 
 could hear 3'ou speak as I have heard 3-ou ; she would know 
 much that would make her life the happier, could she hear 
 it." But my lord flung away with one of his oaths, and a jeer ; 
 he said that Parson Harry was a good fellow ; but that as for 
 women, all women were alike — all jades and heartless. So a 
 man dashes a fine vase down, and despises it for being broken. 
 It may be worthless — true : but who had the keeping of it, and 
 who shattered it? 
 
 Harry, who would have given his life to make his benefac- 
 tress and her husband happy, bethought him, now that he saw 
 what my lord's state of mind was, and that he reall}' had a great 
 deal of that love left in his heart, and read}^ for his wife's ac- 
 ceptance if she would take it, whether he could not be a means 
 of reconciliation between these two persons, whom he revered 
 the most in the world. And he cast about how he should break 
 a part of his mind to his mistress, and warn her that in his, 
 Harry's opinion, at least, her husband was still her admirer, 
 and even her lover. 
 
 But he found the subject a very difficult one to handle, when 
 he ventured to remonstrate, which he did in the very gravest 
 tone, (for long confidence and reiterated proofs of devotion and 
 loyalty had given him a sort of authority in the house, which he 
 resumed as soon as ever he returned to it,) and with a speech 
 that should have some effect, as. indeed, it was uttered with the 
 speaker's own heart, he ventured most gently to hint to his 
 adored mistress that she was doing her husband harm b}' her ill 
 opinion of him, and that the happiness of all the famil}' depended 
 upon setting her right. 
 
 She, who was ordinarily calm and most gentle, and full of 
 smiles and soft attentions, flushed up when young Esmond so 
 spoke to her, and rose from her chair, looking at him with a 
 haughtiness and indignation that he had never before known 
 her to display. She was quite an altered being for that mo- 
 ment ; and looked an angr}^ princess insulted by a vassal. 
 
 " Have 3^ou ever heard me utter a word in my lord's dis- 
 paragement?" she asked hastity, hissing out her words, and 
 stamping her foot. 
 
 " Indeed, no," Esmond said, looking down. 
 
 " Are 3'ou come to me as his ambassador — youV she con- 
 tinued. 
 
 ' ' I would sooner see peace between you than anj^thing else 
 
110 THE HISTORY OF HEi^RY ESMOND. 
 
 in the world," Harr}^ answered, " and would go of any embassy 
 that had that end." 
 
 " So you are m}^ lord's go-between?" she went on, not re- 
 garding this speech. " You are sent to bid me back into slavery 
 again, and inform me that my lord's favor is graciously restored 
 to his handmaid? He is weary of Covent Garden, is he, that 
 he comes home and would have the fatted calf killed ? " 
 
 " There's good authorit^^ for it, surely," said Esmond. 
 
 " For a son, yes ; but my lord is not m}^ son. It was he 
 who cast me away from him. It was he who broke our happi- 
 ness down, and he bids me to repair it. It was he who showed 
 himself to me at last, as he was, not as I had thought him. It 
 is he who comes before my children stupid and senseless with 
 wine — who leaves our company for that of frequenters of 
 taverns and bagnios — who goes from his home to the City 
 yonder and his friends there, and when he is tired of them re- 
 turns hither, and expects that I shall kneel and welcome him. 
 And he sends you as his chamberlain ! What a proud embassy ! 
 Monsieur, I make you my compliment of the new place." 
 
 " It would be a proud embassy, and a happ_y embassy too, 
 could I bring you and my lord together," Esmond replied. 
 
 " I presume you have fulfilled 3'our mission now, sir. 'Twas 
 a pretty one for 3'ou to undertake. I don't know whether 'tis 
 3'our Cambridge philosophy, or time, that has altered j^our waj's 
 of thinking," Lady Castlewood continued, still in a sarcastic 
 tone. "Perhaps you too have learned to love drink, and to 
 hiccup over your wine or punch ; — which is your worship's 
 favorite liquor? Perhaps 3'ou too put up at the ' Rose ' on your 
 way to London, and have j^our acquaintances in Covent Garden. 
 M}^ services to jou, sir, to principal and ambassador, to master 
 and — and lacke3\" 
 
 "Great heavens! madam," cried Harr3^ "What have I 
 done that thus, for a second time, 3'ou insult me? Do j^ou wish 
 me to blush for what I used to be proud of, that I lived on your 
 bounty ? Next to doing 3'ou a ser\ice (which my life would pay 
 for), you know that to receive one from 3'ou is m3^ highest 
 pleasure. What wrong have I done 3'ou that 3'ou should wound 
 me so, cruel woman? " 
 
 "What wrong?" she said, looking at Esmond with wild 
 e3^es. " Well, none — none that you know of, Harr3^ or could 
 help. Why did you bring back the small-pox," she added, 
 after a pause, ' ' from Castlewood village ? You could not help 
 it, could you? Which of us knows whither fate leads us? But 
 we were all happ\^, Henry, till then." And Harr3' went away 
 
'^ THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. Ill 
 
 from this colloquy, thinking still that the estrangement between 
 his patron and his beloved mistress was remediable, and that 
 each had at heart a strong attachment to the other. 
 
 The intimacy between the Lords Mohun and Castlewood ap- 
 peared to increase as long as the former remained in the coun- 
 tr}' ; and my Lord of Castlewood especially seemed never to 
 be happy out of his new comrade's sight. They sported to- 
 gether, the\' drank, they played bowls and tennis : my Lord 
 Castlewood would go for three days to Sark, and bring back 
 my Lord Mohun to Castlewood — where indeed his lordship 
 made himself very welcome to all persons, having a joke or 
 a new game at romps foi* the children, all the talk of the towu 
 for my lord, and music and gallantry and plenty of the beau 
 langage for my lady, and for Harry Esmond, who was never 
 tired of hearing his stories of his campaigns and his life at 
 Vienna, Venice, Paris, and the famous cities of Europe which he 
 had visited both in peace and war. And he sang at my lady's 
 harpsichord, and played cards or backgammon, or his new game 
 of billiards with my lord (of whom he invariabh' got the better) ; 
 always having a consummate good-humor, and bearing himself 
 with a certain manly grace, that might exhibit somewhat of 
 the camp and Alsatia perhaps, but that had its charm, and 
 stamped him a gentleman : and his manner to Lady Castle- 
 wood was so devoted and respectful, that she soon recovered 
 from the first feelings of dislike which she had conceived against 
 him — nay, before long, began to be interested in his spiritual 
 welfare, and hopeful of his conversion, lending him books of 
 piety, which he promised dutifully to study. With her my lord 
 talked of reform, of settling into quiet life, quitting the court 
 and town, and buying some land in the neighborhood — though 
 it must be owned that, when the two lords were together over 
 their Burgundy after dinner, their talk was very different, and 
 there was ver}^ little question of conversion on my Lord 
 Mohun's part. When they got to their second bottle^ Harry 
 Esmond used commonl}' to leave these two noble topers, who, 
 though they talked freely enough, heaven knows, in his pres- 
 ence (Good Lord, what a set of stories, of Alsatia and Spring 
 Garden, of the taverns and gaming-houses, of the ladies of the 
 court, and mesdaraes of the theatres, he can recall out of their 
 godly conversation !) — although, I say, they talked before Es- 
 mond freely, yet they seemed pleased when he went away, and 
 then they had another bottle, and then they fell to cards, and 
 then my Lord Mohun came to her ladyship's drawing-room ; 
 leaving his boon companion to sleep off his wine. 
 
112 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. >■ 
 
 'Twas a point of honor with the fine gentlemen of those 
 days to lose or win magnificentlj' at their horse-matches, or 
 games of cards and dice — and yon could never tell, from the 
 demeanor of these two lords afterwards, which had been suc- 
 cessful and which the loser at their games. And when my 
 lady hinted to my lord that he played more than she liked, he 
 dismissed her with a " pish," and swore that nothing was more 
 equal than play betwixt gentlemen, if they did but keep it up 
 long enough. And these kept it up long enough, 3^ou may be 
 sure. A man of fashion of that time often passed a quarter 
 of his day at cards, and another quarter at drink : I have known 
 many a pretty fellow, who was a wit too, ready of repartee, 
 and possessed of a thousand graces, who would be puzzled 
 if he had to write more than his name. 
 
 There is scarce any thoughtful man or woman, I suppose, 
 but can look back upon his course of past life, and remember 
 some point, trifling as it may have seemed at the time of oc- 
 currence, which has nevertheless turned and altered his whole 
 career. 'Tis with almost all of us, as in M. Massillon's mag- 
 nificent image regarding King William, a grain de sable that 
 perverts or perhaps overthrows us ; and so it was but a hght 
 word flung in the air, a mere freak of perverse child's temper, 
 that brought down a whole heap of crushing woes upon that 
 family whereof Harry Esmond formed a part. 
 
 Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year of 
 his academical course, (wherein he had now obtained some dis- 
 tinction, his Latin Poem on the death of the Duke of Glouces- 
 ter, Princess Anne of Denmark's son, having gained him a 
 medal, and introduced him to the society" of the University 
 wits,) Esmond found his little friend and pupil Beatrix grown 
 to be taller than her mother, a slim and lovely young girl, with 
 cheeks mantling with health and roses : with eyes like stars 
 shining out of azure, with waving bronze hair clustered about 
 the fairest young forehead ever seen : and a mien and shape 
 haughty and beautiful, such as that of the famous antique statue 
 of the huntress Diana — at one time haughty, rapid, imperious, 
 with ej^es and arrows that dart and kill. Harry watched and 
 wondered at this 3^oung creature, and likened her in his mind 
 to Artemis with the ringing bow and shafts flashing death upon 
 the children of Niobe ; at another time she was coy and melt- 
 ing as Luna shining tenderly upon Endymion. This fair crea- 
 ture, this lustrous Phoebe, was only young as yet, nor had nearly 
 reached her full splendor : but crescent and brilliant, our young 
 gentleman of the University, his head full of poetical fancies, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 113 
 
 his heart perhaps throbbing with desires undefined, admired 
 this rising 3^onng divinity ; and gazed at her (tliough onty as 
 at some "bright particular star," far above his earth) with 
 endless delight and wonder. She had been a coquette from 
 the earliest times almost, trying her freaks and jealousies, her 
 wayward frolics and winning caresses, upon all that came within 
 her reach ; she set her w^omen quarrelling in the nursery, and 
 practised her e3'es on the groom as she rode behind him on the 
 pillion. 
 
 She was the darling , and torment of father and mother. 
 She intrigued with each secretl}' ; and bestowed her fondness 
 and withdrew it, plied them with tears, smiles, kisses, cajole- 
 ments ; — when the mother was angry, as happened often, flew 
 to the father, and sheltering behind him, pursued her victim ; 
 when both were displeased, transferred her caresses to the 
 domestics, or watched until she could win back her parents' 
 good graces, either b}' surprising them into laughter and good- 
 humor, or appeasing them by submission and artful humilit3\ 
 She was scevo Iceta negotio^ like that fickle goddess Horace de- 
 scribes, and of whose " malicious joy" a great poet of our own 
 has written so nobly — who, famous and heroic as he was, was 
 not strong enough to resist the torture of women. 
 
 It was but three years l)efore that the child, then but ten 
 years old, had nearh' managed to make a quarrel between Harry 
 Esmond and his comrade, good-natured, phlegmatic Thomas 
 Tusher, who never of his own seeking quarrelled with anybody : 
 by quoting to the latter some silly joke which Harry had made 
 regarding him — (it was the merest idlest jest, though it near 
 drove two old friends to blow^s, and I think such a battle would 
 have pleased her) — and from that day Tom kept at a distance 
 from her ; and she respected him, and coaxed him sedulously 
 whenever they met. But Harry was much more easily appeased, 
 because he was fonder of the child : and when she made mis- 
 chief, used cutting speeches, or caused her friends pain, she 
 excused herself for her fault, not b}^ admitting and deploring 
 it, but by pleading not guilt}', and asserting innocence so con- 
 stantl}^ and with such seeming artlessness, that it was impos- 
 sible to question her plea. In her childhood, they were but 
 mischiefs then which she did ; but her power became more fatal 
 as she grew older — as a kitten first plays with a ball, and then 
 pounces on a bird and kills it. 'Tis not to be imagined that 
 Harry Esmond had all this experience at this early stage of his 
 life, whereof he is now writing the history — many things here 
 noted were but known to him in later days. Almost every- 
 
114 THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 thing Beatrix did or undid seemed good, or at least pardonable, 
 to him then, and years afterwards. 
 
 It happened, then, that Harry Esmond came home to Cas- 
 tlewood for his last vacation, with good hopes of a fellowship 
 at his college, and a contented resolve to advance his fortune 
 that way. 'Twas in the first j-ear of the present century, Mr. 
 Esmond (as far as he knew the period of his birth) being then 
 twenty-two years old. He found his quondam pupil shot up 
 into this beauty of which we have spoken, and promising j^et 
 more : her brother, my lord's son, a handsome high-spirited 
 brave lad, generous and frank, and kind to ever3'body, save 
 perhaps his sister, with whom Frank was at war (and not from 
 his but her fault) — adoring his mother, whose joy he was : 
 and taking her side in the unhapp}'' matrimonial differences 
 which were now permanent, while of course Mistress Beatrix 
 ranged with her father. When heads of famihes fall out, it 
 must naturalh^ be that their dependants wear the one or the 
 other party's color ; and even in the parliaments in the servants' 
 hall or the stables, Hany, who had an earl}' observant turn, 
 could see which were m}" lord's adherents and which my lady's, 
 and conjecture pretty shrewdl}^ how their unlucky quarrel was 
 debated. Our lackeys sit in judgment on us. My lord's 
 intrigues may be ever so stealthily conducted, but his valet 
 knows them ; and my lady's woman carries her mistress's 
 private history to the servants' scandal market, and exchanges 
 it against the secrets of other abigails. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MY LORD LEAVES US AND HIS EVIL BEHIND HIM. 
 
 My Lord Mohun (of whose exploits and fame some of the 
 gentlemen of the Universit}' had brought down but ugly re- 
 ports) was once more a guest at Castle wood, and seemingly 
 more intimately allied with m}^ lord even than before. Once in 
 the spring those two noblemen had ridden to Cambridge from 
 Newmarket, whither the}" had gone for the horse-racing, and 
 had honored Harry Esmond with a visit at his rooms ; after 
 which Doctor Montague, the master of the College, who had 
 treated Harry somewhat haughtily, seeing his familiarity with 
 these great folks, and that my Lord Castlewood laughed and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HE^RY ESMOND. 115 
 
 walked with his hand on Harry's shoulder, relented to Mr. 
 Esmond, and condescended to be very civil to him ; and some 
 days after his arrival, Harry, laughing, told this story to Lady 
 Esmond, remarking how strange it was that men famous for 
 learning and renowned over Europe, should, nevertheless, so 
 bow down to a title, and cringe to a nobleman ever so poor. 
 At this Mistress Beatrix flung up her head, and said it became 
 those of low origin to respect their betters ; that the parsons 
 made themselves a great deal too proud, she thought ; and 
 that she liked the way at Lad}'- Sark's best, where the chaplain, 
 though he loved pudding, as all parsons do, always went away 
 before the custard. 
 
 " And when I am a parson," sa3'S Mr. Esmond, " will you 
 give me no custard, Beatrix?" 
 
 "You — 3'ou are different," Beatrix answered. " You are 
 of our blood." 
 
 " My father was a parson, as you call him," said m}^ lady. 
 
 "But mine is a peer of Ireland," saj^s Mistress Beatrix, 
 tossing her head. " Let people know their places. I suppose 
 3^ou will have me go down on my knees and ask a blessing 
 of Mr. Thomas Tusher, that has just been made a curate 
 and whose mother was a waiting-maid." 
 
 And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty 
 humors then. 
 
 When she was gone, my lady looked so sad and grave, that 
 Harry asked the cause of her disquietude. She said it was not 
 merel}^ what he said of Newmarket, but what she had remarked, 
 with great anxiety and terror, that m}^ lord, ever since his 
 acquaintance with the Lord Mohun especiall}-, had recurred 
 to his fondness for play, which he had renounced since his 
 marriage. 
 
 "But men promise more than they are able to perform in 
 marriage," said my lady, with a sigh. "I fear he has lost 
 large sums ; and our propert}', always small, is dwindling away 
 under this reckless dissipation. I heard of him in London with 
 very wild compan}^ Since his return letters and lawyers are 
 constantlj^ coming and going : he seems to me to have a con- 
 stant anxiet}', though he hides it under boisterousness and 
 laughter. I looked through — through the door last night, and 
 — and before," said my lady, "and saw them at cards after 
 midnight ; no estate will bear that extravagance, much less 
 ours, which will be so diminished that my son will have nothing 
 at all, and m}' poor Beatrix no portion ! " 
 
 " I wish I could help you, madam," said Harry Esmond, 
 
116 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 sighing, and wishing that unavailinglj, and for the thousandth 
 time in his life. 
 
 '' Who can ? Onlj^ God," said Lady Esmond — " onlj' God, 
 in whose hands we are." And so it is, and for his rule over 
 his famil}', and for his conduct to wife and children — subjects 
 over whom his power is monarchical — any one who watches 
 the world must think with trembling sometimes of the account 
 which many a man will have to render. For in our society 
 there's no law to control the King of the Fireside. He is mas- 
 ter of property, happiness — life almost. He is free to punish, 
 to make happy or unhappy — to ruin or to torture. He may 
 kill a wife gradually, and be no more questioned than the 
 Grand Seignior who drowns a slave at midnight. He may 
 make slaves and hypocrites of his children ; or friends and 
 freemen ; or drive them into revolt and enmity against the nat- 
 ural law of love. I have heard politicians and coffee-house 
 wiseacres talking over the newspaper, and railing at the tyranny 
 of the French King, and the Emperor, and wondered how these 
 (who are monarchs, too, in their wa}') govern their own domin- 
 ions at home, where each man rules absolute. When the an- 
 nals of each little reign are shown to the Supreme Master, 
 under whom we hold sovereignt}-, histories will be laid bare of 
 household t3'rants as cruel as Amurath, and as savage as Nero, 
 and as reckless and dissolute as Charles. 
 
 If Hany Esmond's patron erred, 'twas in the latter wa}', 
 from a disposition rather self-indulgent than cruel ; and he 
 might have been brought back to much better feelings, had 
 time been given to him to bring his repentance to a lasting 
 reform. 
 
 As m}^ lord and his friend Lord Mohun were such close com- 
 panions. Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the latter ; and 
 the two gentlemen often entertained each other b}' laughing, in 
 their rude boisterous way, at the child's freaks of anger and 
 show of dislike. " When thou art old enough, thou shalt marry 
 Lord Mohun," Beatrix's father would say : on which the girl 
 would pout and say, " I would rather marry Tom Tusher." 
 And because the Lord Mohun always showed an extreme gal- 
 lantry to my Lady Castlewood, whom he professed to admire 
 devotedl}^ one da}^, in answer to this old joke of her father's, 
 Beatrix said, ''I think my lord would rather many mamma 
 than marry me ; and is waiting till you die to ask her." 
 
 The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one night 
 before supper, as the family part}" were assembled near the 
 great fire. The two lords-, who were at cards, both gave a 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 117 
 
 start ; mj' lady turned as red as scarlet, and bade Mistress 
 Beatrix go to her own chamber ; whereupon the girl, putting 
 on, as her wont was, the most innocent air, said, " I am sure I 
 meant no wrong ; I am sure mamma talks a great deal more 
 to Harry Esmond than she does to papa — and she cried 
 when Harr3^ went away, and she never does when papa goes 
 away ! and last night she talked to Lord Mohun for CA^er so 
 long, and sent us out of the room, and cried when we came 
 back, and — " 
 
 " D — n ! " cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all patience. 
 *' Go out of the room, you little viper ! " and he started up and 
 flung down his cards. 
 
 '' Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis," her lad}'- 
 ship said, rising up with a scared face, but yet with a great and 
 touching dignit}^ and candor in her look and voice. "Come 
 awaj' with me, Beatrix." Beatrix sprung up too ; she was in 
 tears now. 
 
 " Dearest mamma, what have I done?" she asked. " Sure 
 I meant no harm." And she clung to her mother, and the pair 
 went out sobbinoj too^ether. 
 
 " I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank," my Lord 
 Mohun cried. "Parson Harry may hear it; and, as I hope 
 for heaven, every word I say is true. Last night, with tears 
 in her eyes, your wife implored me to pla}^ no more with you at 
 dice or at cards, and you know best whether what she asked was 
 not for your good." 
 
 "Of course, it was, Mohun," says my lord in a dry hard 
 voice. " Of course you are a model of a man : and the world 
 knows what a saint 3'ou are." 
 
 My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had 
 many affairs of honor : of which women as usual had been the 
 cause. 
 
 " I am no saint, though 3'our wife is — and I can answer 
 for my actions as other people must for their words," said m}^ 
 Lord Mohun. 
 
 " By G— , my lord, you shall," cried the other, starting up. 
 
 "We have another Uttle account to settle first, my lord," 
 says Lord Mohun. Whereupon Harry Esmond, filled with 
 alarm for the consequences to which this disastrous dispute 
 might lead, broke out into the most vehement expostulations 
 with his patron and his adversar3\ " Gracious heavens ! " he 
 said, "my lord, are you going to draw a sword upon 3- our 
 friend in your own house? Can 3^ou doubt the honor of a 
 lady who is as pure as heaven, and would die a thousand times 
 
118 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 rather than do you a wrong ? Are the idle words of a jealous 
 child to set friends at variance ? Has not my mistress, as much 
 as she dared do, besought your lordship, as the truth must be 
 told, to break your intimacy with my Lord Mohun ; and to give 
 up the habit which may bring ruin on 3'our famil}^ ? But for 
 my Lord Mohun's illness, had he not left you?" 
 
 " 'Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can't run after other 
 men's wives," broke out my Lord Mohun, who indeed was in 
 that wa3' , and with a laugh and a look at his swathed limb so 
 frank and comical, that the other dashing his fist across his 
 forehead was caught by that infectious good-humor, and said 
 
 with his oath, '^ it, Hany, I believe thee," and so this 
 
 quarrel was over, and the two gentlemen, at swords drawn but 
 just now, dropped their points, and shook hands. 
 
 Bead pacijici. "Go, bring my lady back," said Harry's 
 patron. Esmond went away onl}^ too glad to be the bearer of 
 such good news. He found her at the door ; she had been 
 listening there, but went back as he came. She took both his 
 hands, hers were marble cold. She seemed as if she would fall 
 on his shoulder. ''Thank you, and God bless you, m}' dear 
 brother Harry," she said. She kissed his hand, Esmond felt 
 her tears upon it : and leading her into the room, and up to my 
 lord, the Lord Castle wood, with an outbreak of feeling and 
 affection such as he had not exhibited for many a long day, took 
 his wife to his heart, and bent over and kissed her and asked 
 her pardon. 
 
 " 'Tis time for me to go to roost. I will have my gruel 
 a-bed," said my Lord Mohun : and limped off comically on 
 Harry Esmond's arm. " By George, that woman is a pearl ! '* 
 he said ; " and 'tis only a pig that wouldn't value her. Have 
 you seen the vulgar traipsing orange-girl whom Esmond " — but 
 here Mr. Esmond interrupted him, saying, that these were not 
 affairs for him to know. 
 
 My lord's gentleman came in to wait upon his master, who 
 was no sooner in his nightcap and dressing-gown than he had 
 another visitor whom his host insisted on sending to him : and 
 this was no other than the Lady Castlewood herself with the 
 toast and gruel, which her husband bade her make and carry 
 with her own hands in to her guest. 
 
 Lord Castlewood stood looking after his wife as she went 
 on this errand, and as he looked, Harry Esmond could not but 
 gaze on him, and remarked in his patron's face an expression 
 of love, and grief, and care, which yery much moved and 
 touched the young man. Lord Castlewood's hands fell down 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 119 
 
 at his sides, and his head on his breast, and presently he 
 said, — 
 
 '' You heard what Mohan said, parson? " 
 
 " That m}' lady was a saint? " 
 
 '' That there are two accounts to settle. I have been going 
 wrong these five years, Harry Esmond. Ever since 3'ou brought 
 that damned small-pox into the house, there has been a fate 
 pursuing me, and I had best have died of it, and not run away 
 from it like a coward. I left Beatrix with her relations, and 
 went to London ; and I fell among thieves, Harry, and I got 
 back to confounded cards and dice, which I hadn't touched 
 since m}" marriage — no, not since I was in the Duke's Guard, 
 with those wild Mohocks. And I have been playing worse 
 and worse, and going deeper and deeper into it ; and I owe 
 Mohun two thousand pounds now ; and when it's paid I am 
 little better than a beggar. I don't like to look m3'^ boy in the 
 face ; he hates me, I know he does. And I have spent Beaty's 
 little portion : and the Lord knows what will come if I live ; 
 the best thing I can do is to die, and release what portion of 
 the estate is redeemable for the bo3\" 
 
 Mohun was as much master at Castlewood as the owner of 
 the Hall itself; and his equipages filled the stables, where, in- 
 deed, there was room and plent}-^ for rnan}^ more horses than 
 Harr^' Esmond's impoverished patron could afford to keep. 
 He had arrived on horseback with his people ; but when his 
 gout broke out m}^ Lord Mohun sent to London for a light 
 chaise he had, drawn by a pair of small horses, and running 
 as swift, wherever roads were good, as a Laplander's sledge. 
 When this carriage came, his lordship was eager to drive the 
 Lad^^ Castlewood abroad in it, and did so many times, and at a 
 rapid pace, greatlj- to his companion's enjoyment, who loved the 
 swift motion and the healthy breezes over the dowais which lie 
 hard upon Castlewood, and stretch thence towards the sea. 
 As this amusement was ver}' pleasant to her, and her lord, far 
 from showing any mistrust of her intimacy with Lord Mohun, 
 encouraged her to be his companion — as if wdlHng by his present 
 extreme confidence to make up for any past mistrust which his 
 jealousy had shown — the Lady Castlewood enjo3'ed herself freely 
 in this harmless diversion, which, it must be owned, her guest 
 was ver3' eager to give her ; and it seemed that she grew the more 
 free with Lord Mohun, and pleased w4th his companv, because 
 of some sacrifice w^hich his gallantr3' w^as pleased to make in her 
 favor. 
 
 Seeing the two gentlemen constantl3' at cards still of even- 
 
120 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 ings, Harry Esmond one day deplored to his mistress that this 
 fatal infatuation of her lord should continue ; and now they 
 seemed reconciled together, begged his lady to hint to her hus- 
 band that he should play no more. 
 
 But Lady Castle wood, smiling archly and gayly, said she 
 would speali to him presently, and that, for a few nights more 
 at least, he might be let to have his amusement. 
 
 "Indeed, madam," said Harr}^, " 3 ou know not what it 
 costs you ; and 'tis easy for any observer who knows the game, 
 to see that Lord Mohun is by far the stronger of the two." 
 
 " I know he is," says my lady, still with exceeding good- 
 humor ; " he is not only the best pla3'er, but the kindest player 
 in the world." 
 
 " Madam, madam !" Esmond cried, transported and pro- 
 voked. " Debts of honor must be paid some time or other; 
 and my master will be ruined if he goes on." 
 
 " Harr}', shall I tell 3'ou a secret?" my lad3" replied, with 
 kindness and pleasure still in her eyes. '^ Francis will not be 
 ruined if he goes on ; he will be rescued if he goes on. I 
 repent of having spoken and thought unkindty of the Lord 
 Mohun when he was here in the past 3'ear. He is full of much 
 kindness and good ; and 'tis m3^ belief that we shall bring him 
 to better things. I have lent him ' Tillotson ' and your favorite 
 * Bishop Taylor,' and he is much touched, he sa3's ; and as a 
 proof of his repentance — (and herein lies my secret) — what 
 do 3'ou think he is doing with Francis ? He is letting poor 
 Frank win his money back again. He hath won already at the 
 last four nights ; and mv Lord Mohun sa3's that he wiU not be 
 the means of injuring poor Frank and m\' dear children." 
 
 " And in God's name, what do 3'ou return him for the sacri- 
 fice?" asked Esmond, aghast; who knew enough of men, and 
 of this one in particular, to be aware that such a finished rake 
 gave nothing for nothing. " How, in heaven's name, are you 
 to pa3' him ? " 
 
 '* Pay him ! With a mother's blessing and a wife's prayers ! " 
 cries my lad\', clasping her hands together. Harr3^ Esmond 
 did not know whether to laugh, to be angr3^, or to love his dear 
 mistress more than ever for the obstinate innocency with which 
 she chose to regard the conduct of a man of the world, whose 
 designs he knew better how to interpret. He told the lad3% 
 guardedly, but so as to make his meaning quite clear to her, 
 what he knew in respect of the former life and conduct of this 
 nobleman ; of other women against whom he had plotted, and 
 whom he had overcome ; of the conversation which he, Harry 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 121 
 
 himself, had had with Lord Mohun, wherein the lord made a 
 boast of his libertinism, and frequently avowed that he held all 
 women to be fair game (as his lordship styled this pretty sport), 
 and that they were all, without exception, to be won. And the 
 return Harry had. for his entreaties and remonstrances was a 
 fit of anger on Lady Castlewood's part, who would not listen 
 to his accusations ; she said and retorted that he himself must 
 be ver}' wicked and perA'crted to suppose evil designs where she 
 was sure none were meant. "And this is the good meddlers 
 get of interfering," Harry thought to himself with much bitter- 
 ness ; and his perplexity and annoyance were only the greater, 
 because he could not speak to my Lord Castle wood himself 
 upon a subject of this nature, or venture to advise or warn him 
 regarding a matter so very sacred as his own honor, of which 
 my lord was naturally' the best guardian. 
 
 But though Lady Castlewood would listen to no advice from 
 her ycung dependant, and appeared indignantly to refuse it 
 when offered, Harry had the satisfaction to find that she adopted 
 the counsel which she professed to reject ; for tlie next day she 
 pleaded a headache, when my Lord Mohun would have had her 
 drive out, and the next day the headache continued ; and next 
 day, in a laughing gay way, she proposed that the children 
 should take her place in his lordship's car, for they would be 
 charmed with a ride of all things ; and she must not have all 
 the pleasure for herself. My lord gave them a drive with a very 
 good grace, though, I dare say, with rage and disappointment 
 inwardl}' — not that his heart was very seriously engaged in 
 his designs upon this simple lady : but the life of such men is 
 often one of intrigue, and the}^ can no more go through the day 
 without a woman to pursue, than a fox-hunter without his sport 
 after breakfast. 
 
 Under an affected carelessness of demeanor, and though 
 there was no outward demonstration of doubt upon his patron's 
 part since the quarrel between the two lords, Harry yet saw 
 that Lord Castlewood was watching his guest very narrow]}' ; 
 and caught sight of distrust and smothered rage (as Harry 
 thought) which foicboded no good. On the point of honor 
 Esmond knew how touchy his patron was ; and watched him 
 almost as a physician watches a patient, and it seemed to him 
 that this one was slow to take the disease, though he could not 
 throw off the poison when once it had mingled with his blood. 
 We read in Shakspeare (whom the writer for his part considers 
 to be far beyond Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dryden. or any of the wits 
 of the present period,) that when jealousy is once declared, nor 
 
122 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy- syrups of the East, 
 will ever soothe it or medicine it away. 
 
 In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to this 
 young physician (who, indeed, young as he was, had felt the 
 kind pulses of all those dear kinsmen) , that Harry thought it 
 would be his duty to warn my Lord Mohun, and let him know 
 that his designs were suspected and watched. So one da}', 
 when in rather a pettish humor his lordship had sent to Lady 
 Castle wood, who had promised to drive with him, and now 
 refused to come, Harry said — ''My lord, if you will kindly 
 give me a place by your side I will thank you ; I have much to 
 say to you, and would like to speak to you alone." 
 
 "You honor me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry 
 Esmond," says the other, with a very grand bow. My lord was 
 always a fine gentleman, and young as he was there was that 
 in Esmond's manner which showed that he was a gentleman too, 
 and that none might take a liberty with him — so the pair went 
 out, and mounted the little carriage, which was in waiting for 
 them in the court, with its two little cream-colored Hanoverian 
 horses covered with splendid furniture and champing at the bit. 
 
 " M}' lord," says Harry Esmond, after ihey were got into 
 the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun's foot, which was 
 swathed in flannel, and put up rather ostentatiously on a cushion 
 — " my lord, I studied medicine at Cambridge." 
 
 " Indeed, Parson Harr}'," says he ; " and are 3'ou going to 
 take out a diploma : and cure j'our fellow-students of the — " 
 
 " Of the gout," says Harry, interrupthig him, and looking 
 him hard in the face ; " I know a good deal about the gout." 
 
 " I hope you ma}' never have it. 'Tis an infernal disease," 
 says my lord, " and its twinges are diabolical. Ah I " and he 
 made a dreadful wry face, as if he just felt a twinge. 
 
 ' ' Your lordship would be much better if you took oflT all that 
 flannel — it only serves to inflame the toe," Harry continued, 
 looking his man full in the face. 
 
 "Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?" says the 
 other, with an innocent air. 
 
 " If 3'ou took oflT that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper 
 away, and wore a boot," continues Harr3^ 
 
 " You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond? " asks my lord. 
 
 "Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your lordship three days 
 ago run down the gallery fast enough," Hany goes on. " I am 
 sure that taking gruel at night is not so pleasant as claret to 
 your lordship ; and besides it keeps your lordship's head cool 
 for pla}', whilst my patron's is hot and flustered with drink." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 123 
 
 '''Sdeath, sir, 3^011 dare not say that I don't play fair?" 
 cries my lord, whipping his horses, which went away at a 
 gallop. 
 
 " You are cool when my lord is drunk," Harr}' continued ; 
 " your lordship gets the better of my patron. I have watched 
 you as I looked up from my books." 
 
 " You young Argus ! " says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry 
 Esmond — and for whose company and wit, and a certain daring 
 manner, Harry had a great liking too — " You young Argus ! 
 you may look with all your hundred e3'es and see we play fair. 
 I've played awa}^ an estate of a night, and I've played my 
 shirt off m}' back ; and I've played away my periwig and gone 
 home in a nightcap. But no man can say I ever took an 
 advantage of him beyond the advantage of the game. I played 
 a dice-cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won 'em, 
 and have one of 'em in m}' lodging in Bow Street in a bottle 
 of spirits. Harry Mohun will play any man for anything — 
 always would." 
 
 " You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my patron's 
 house," Harry said, '' and more games than are on tlie cards." 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" cries my lord, turning round, 
 with a flush on his face. 
 
 " I mean," answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, " that your 
 gout is well — if ever 3'ou had it." 
 
 " Sir ! " cried my lord, getting hot. 
 
 " And to tell the truth I believe your lordship has no more 
 gout than I have. At any rate, change of air will do you good, 
 m}^ Lord Mohun. And I mean fairly that j^ou had better go 
 from Castlewood." 
 
 " And were 3'ou appointed to give me this message? " cries 
 the Lord Mohun. " Did Frank Esmond commission 3'ou? " 
 
 " No one did. 'Twas the honor of my familj^ that commis- 
 sioned me." 
 
 ' ' And you are prepared to answer this ? " cries the other, 
 furiously lashing his horses. 
 
 "Quite, my lord: your lordship will upset the carriage if 
 you whip so hotly." 
 
 " By George, 3^ou have a brave spirit ! " m3^ lord cried out, 
 bursting into a laugh. " I suppose 'tis that infernal botte de 
 Jesuite that makes you so bold," he added. 
 
 " 'Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world," 
 Harry Esmond said warmh^ — " 'tis the honor of a noble bene- 
 factor — the happiness of m3'' dear mistress and her children. 
 I owe thera everything in life, mj^ lord ; and would lay it down 
 
124 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 for any one of them. What brings 3'ou here to disturb this 
 quiet household? What keeps ^'ou Hngering month after 
 month in the country? What makes you feign ilhiess, and in- 
 vent pretexts for delay? Is it to win my poor patron's money ? 
 Be generous, m}' lord, and spare his weakness for the sake of 
 his wife and children. Is it to practise upon the simple heart 
 of a vir^^uous lady? You might as well storm the Tower single- 
 handed. But you may blemish her name by light comments 
 on it, or by lawless pursuits — and I don't deny that 'tis in 
 your power to make her unhapp3\ Spare these innocent peo- 
 ple, and leave them." 
 
 "By the Lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty 
 Puritan thyself. Master Harr}'," saj's my lord, with his reckless, 
 good-humored laugh, and as if he had been listening with in- 
 terest to the passionate appeal of the young man. '' Whisper, 
 Harry. Art thou in love with her thyself? Hath tipsy Frank 
 Esmond come by the way of all flesh? " 
 
 " My lord, my lord," cried Harr\% his face flushing and his 
 e3'es filling as he spoke, " I never had a mother, but I love 
 this lady as one. I worship her as a devotee worships a saint. 
 To hear her name spoken lightl}' seems blasphemy to me. 
 Would you dare think of your own mother so, or suff'er an^^ one 
 so to speak of her? It is a horror to me to fancy that an^^ man 
 should think of her impurel}'. I implore you, I beseech you, 
 to leave her. Danger will come out of it." 
 
 "Danger, psha ! " says mj^ lord, giving a cut to the horses, 
 which at this minute — for we were got on to the Downs — 
 fairly ran off into a gallop that no pulling could stop. The 
 rein broke in Lord Mohun's hands, and the furious beasts 
 scampered madl}^ forwards, the carriage swaying to and fro, 
 and the persons within it holding on to the sides as best they 
 might, until seeing a great ravine before them, where an upset 
 was inevitable, the two gentlemen leapt for their lives, each 
 out of his side of the chaise. Harr\' Esmond was quit for a fall 
 on the grass, which was so severe that it stunned him for a 
 minute ; but he got up presently ver^^ sick, and bleeding at the 
 nose, but with no other hurt. The Lord Mohun was not so 
 fortunate ; he fell on his head against a stone, and lay on the 
 ground, dead to all appearance. 
 
 This misadventure happened as the gentlemen were on their 
 return homewards ; and my Lord Castlewood, with his son and 
 daughter, who were going out for a ride, met the ponies as 
 they were galloping with the car behind, the broken traces en- 
 tangling their heels, and my lord's people turned and stopped 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 125 
 
 them. It was 3'oung Frank who spied out Lord Mohun's scar- 
 let coat as he la}' on the ground, and the party made up to that 
 unfortunate gentleman and Esmond, who was now standing 
 over. him. His large periwig and feathered hat had fallen off", 
 and he was bleeding pro fusel}' from a wound on the forehead, 
 and looking, and being, indeed, a corpse. 
 
 "Great God! he's dead!" saj's my lord. "Ride, some 
 one : fetch a doctor — stay. Ell go home and bring back 
 Tusher ; he knows surgery," and my lord, with his son after 
 him, galloped away. 
 
 They were scarce gone when Harry Esmond, who was in- 
 deed but just come to himself, bethought him of a similar acci- 
 dent which he had seen on a ride from Newaiarket to Cam- 
 bridge, and taking off a sleeve of my lord's coat, Elarr}^ with a 
 penknife, opened a vein of his arm, and was greatl}' relieved, 
 after a moment, to see the blood flow. He was near half an 
 hour before he came to himself, by which time Doctor Tusher 
 and httle Frank arrived, and found my lord not a corpse indeed, 
 but as pale as one. 
 
 After a time, when he was able to bear motion, the}- put my 
 lord upon a groom's horse, and gave the other to Esmond, the 
 men walking on each side of m}' lord, to support him, if need 
 were, and worth}' Doctor Tusher with them. Little Frank and 
 Hany rode together at a foot pace. 
 
 When we rode together home, the bo}^ said: "We met 
 mamma, who was walking on the terrace with the doctor, and 
 papa frightened her, and told her 3'ou were dead ..." 
 
 " That I was dead ! " asks Harry. 
 
 " Yes. Papa says : ' Here's poor Harry killed, my dear ; ' 
 on which mamma gives a great scream ; and oh, Harry ! she 
 drops down ; and I thought she was dead too. And you never 
 saw such a wa}- as papa was in : he swore one of his great 
 oaths : and he turned quite pale ; and then he began to laugh 
 somehow, and he told the Doctor to take his horse, aud me to 
 follow him ; and we left him. And I looked back, and saw 
 him dashing water out of the fountain on to mamma. Oh, she 
 was so frightened ! " 
 
 Musing upon this curious history — for m.y Lord Mohun's 
 name was Henrj- too, and the}^ called each other Frank and 
 Harr}" often — and not a little disturbed and anxious, Esmond 
 rode home. His dear lad}' was on the terrace still, one of her 
 women with her, and my lord no longer there. There are steps 
 and a little door thence down into the road. My lord passed, 
 looking very ghastly, with a handkerchief over his head, and 
 
126 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 without his hat and periwig, which a groom carried, but his 
 politeness did not desert him, and he made a bow to the lady 
 above. 
 
 " Thank heaven, 3'ou are safe," she said. 
 
 "And so is Harry too, mamma," says little Frank,— 
 "huzzay!" 
 
 Hany Esmond got off the horse to run to his mistress, as did 
 little Frank, and one of the grooms took charge of the two 
 beasts, while the other, hat and periwig in hand, walked by my 
 lord's bridle to the front gate, which la3' half a mile awsiy, 
 
 "Oh, my bo}' ! what a fright you have given me!" Lady 
 Castle wood said, when Harry Esmond came up, greeting him 
 with one of her shining looks, and a voice of tender welcome ; 
 and she was so kind as to kiss the young man ('twas the 
 second time she had so honored him), and she walked into 
 the house between him and her son, holding a hand of each. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WE RIDE AFTER HIM TO LONDON. 
 
 After a repose of a couple of days, the Lord Mohun was so 
 far recovered of his hurt as to be able to announce his departure 
 for the next morning ; when, accordinglj^, he took leave of 
 Castle wood, proposing to ride to London by easj' stages, and 
 lie two nights upon the road. His host treated him with a 
 studied and ceremonious courtes}^, certainly different from my 
 lord's usual frank and careless demeanor ; but there was no 
 reason to suppose that the two lords parted otherwise than 
 good friends, though Harry Esmond remarked that ray Lord 
 Viscount only saw his guest in company with other persons, 
 and seemed to avoid being alone with him. Nor did he ride 
 any distance with Lord Mohun, as his custom was with most of 
 his friends, whom he was always eager to welcome and unwill- 
 ing to lose ; but contented himself, when his lordsliip's horses 
 were announced, and their owner appeared, booted for his 
 journe}', to take a courteous leave of the ladies of Castlewood, 
 b}' following the Lord Mohun down stairs to his horses, and by 
 bowing and wishing him a good-da}', in the court-yard. " I 
 shall see you in London before very long, Mohun," my lord said, 
 with a smile, " when we will settle our accounts together." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 127 
 
 " Do not let them trouble 3*011, Frank," said the other good- 
 naturedl}^, and holding out his hand, looked rather surprised 
 at the grim and stately manner in which his host received his 
 parting salutation ; and so, followed by his people, he rode 
 away. 
 
 Harry Esmond was witness of the departure. It was verj^ 
 different to m^' lord's coming, for w^hich great preparation had 
 been made (the old house putting on its best appearance to 
 welcome its guest), and there was a sadness and constraint 
 about all persons that da}', which filled Mr. Esmond with 
 gloomy forebodings, and sad indefinite apprehensions. Lord 
 Castlewood stood at the door watching his guest and his people 
 as the}' went out under the arch of the outer gate. When he 
 was there, Lord Mohun turned once more, my Lord Viscount 
 slowly raised his beaver and bowled. Llis face wore a peculiar 
 livid look, Harry thought. He cursed and kicked away his 
 dogs, which came jumping about him — then he walked up to 
 the fountain in the centre of the court, and leaned against a 
 pillar and looked into the basin. As Esmond crossed over to 
 his own room, late the chaplain's, on the other side of the court, 
 and turned to enter in at the low door, he saw Lady Castlewood 
 looking through the curtains of the great window of the draw- 
 ing-room overhead, at m}' lord as he stood regarding the foun- 
 tain. There was in the court a peculiar silence somehow ; and 
 the scene remained long in Esmond's memor}' : — the sky bright 
 overhead ; the buttresses of the building and the sun-dial cast- 
 ing shadow over the gilt memento mori inscribed underneath ; the 
 two dogs, a black greyhound and a spaniel nearly white, the one 
 wdth his face up to the sun, and the other snuffing amongst the 
 grass and stones, and m}' lord leaning over the fountain, which 
 was bubbling audibly. 'Tis strange how that scene, and the 
 sound of that fountain, remain fixed on the memory of a man 
 who has beheld a hundred sights of splendor, and danger too, 
 of which he has kept no account. 
 
 It was Lad}' Castlewood — she had been laughing all the 
 morning, and especially gay and lively before her husband and 
 his guest — who as soon as the two gentlemen went together 
 from her room, ran to Harry, the expression of her countenance 
 quite changed now, and with a face and eyes full of care, and 
 said, " Follow them, Harry, I am sure something has gone 
 wrong." And so it was that Esmond was made an eaves- 
 dropper at this lady's orders : and retired to his own chamber, 
 to give himself time in truth to try and compose a story which 
 would soothe his mistress, for he could not but have his own 
 
128 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 apprehension that some serious quarrel was pending between 
 the two gentlemen. 
 
 And now for several days the little company at Castlewood 
 sat at table as of evenings : tiiis care, though unnamed and 
 invisible, being nevertheless present alway, in the minds of at 
 least three persons there. My lord v/as exceeding gentle and 
 kind. Whenever he quitted the room, his wife's eyes followed 
 him. He behaved to her with a kind of mournful courtesy and 
 kindness remarkable in one of his blunt ways and ordinary 
 rough manner. He called her by her Christian name often 
 and fondly, was very soft and gentle with the children, es- 
 pecially with the boy, whom he did not love, and being lax 
 about church generally, he went thither and performed all the 
 offices (down even to listening to Dr. Tusher's sermon) with 
 great devotion. 
 
 '' He paces his room all night ; what is it? Henry, find out 
 what it is," Lad}- Castlewood said constantly to her young 
 dependant. " He has sent three letters to London," she said, 
 another day. 
 
 " Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer," Harry answered, 
 who knew of these letters, and had seen a part of the corre- 
 spondence, which related to a new loan my lord was raising ; 
 and when the .young man remonstrated with his patron, my 
 lord said, " He was onl}' raising money to pay off an old debt 
 on the propert}', which must be discharged." 
 
 Regarding the money. Lady Castlewood was not in the least 
 anxious. Few fond women feel money-distressed ; indeed you 
 can hardly give a woman a greater pleasure than to bid her 
 pawn her diamonds for the man she loves ; and I remember 
 hearing Mr. Congreve sa}^ of my Lord Marlborough, that the 
 reason why m}' lord was so successful with women as a 3'oung 
 man, was because he took money of them. "There are few 
 men who will make such a sacrifice for them," says Mr. Con- 
 greve, who knew a part of the sex prett}' well. 
 
 Harry Esmond's vacation was just over, and, as hath been 
 said, he was preparing to return to the University for his last 
 term before taking his degree and entering into the Church. 
 He had made up his mind for this office, not indeed with that 
 reverence which becomes a man about to enter upon a duty so 
 holy, but with a worldly spirit of acquiescence in the prudence 
 of adopting that profession for his calhng. But his reasoning 
 was that he owed all to the family of Castlewood, and loved 
 better to be near them than anywhere else in the world ; that 
 he might be useful to his benefactors, who had the utmost confi- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 129 
 
 dence in him and affection for him in return ; that he might aid 
 in bringing up the young heir of the house and acting as his 
 governor ; that he might continue to be his dear patron's and 
 mistress's friend and adviser, who both were pleased to say that 
 they should ever look upon him as such ; and so, by making 
 himself useful to those he loved best, he proposed to console 
 himself for giving up of any schemes of ambition which he 
 might have had in his own bosom. Indeed, his mistress had 
 told him that she would not have him leave her ; and whatever 
 she commanded was will to him. 
 
 The Lady Castlewood's mind was greatly reUeved in the last 
 few days of this well-remembered holiday time, by my lord's 
 announcing one morning, after the post had brought him letters 
 from London, in a careless tone, that the Lord Mohun was 
 gone to Paris, and was about to make a great journey in 
 Europe ; and though Lord Castlewood's own gloom did not 
 wear off, or his behavior alter, yet this cause of anxiety being 
 removed from his lady's mind, she began to be more hopeful 
 and eas}' in her spirits, striving too, with all her heart, and by 
 all the means of soothing in her power, to call back my lord's 
 cheerfulness and dissipate his moody humor. 
 
 He accounted for it himself, by saying that he was out of 
 health ; that he wanted to see his phj^sician ; that he would go 
 to London, and consult Doctor Cheyne. It was agreed that 
 his lordship and Harr}^ Esmond should make the journe}" as far 
 as London together; and of a Monday morning, the 11th of 
 October, in the year 1700, the}^ set forwards towards London 
 on horseback. The day before being Sunday, and the rain 
 pouring down, the family did not visit church ; and at night 
 my lord read the service to his famih' very finely, and with a 
 peculiar sweetness and gravity — speaking the parting bene- 
 diction, Harry thought, as solemn as ever he heard it. And 
 he kissed and embraced his wife and children before the}' went 
 to their own chambers with more fondness than he was ordi- 
 narily wont to show, and with a solemnity and feehng of which 
 thej' thought in after days with no small comfort. 
 
 They took horse the next morning (after adieux from the 
 famih' as tender as on the night previous), lay that night on 
 the road, and entered London at nightfall ; m}^ lord going 
 to the "Trumpet," in the Cockpit, Whitehall, a house used 
 by the military in his time as a young man, and accustomed by 
 his lordship ever since. 
 
 An hour after my lord's arrival (which showed that his visit 
 had been arranged beforehand), my lord's man of business 
 
130 THE HISTORY OF HEl^RY ESMOND. 
 
 arrived from Graj^'s Inn ; and thinking that his patron might 
 wish to be private with the lawj^er, Esmond was for leaving 
 them : but m}^ lord said his business was short ; introduced 
 Mr. Esmond particularly to the law3'er, who had been engaged 
 for the family in the old lord's time ; who said that he had paid 
 the mone}', as desired that day, to my Lord Mohun himself, at 
 his lodgings in Bow Street ; that his lordship had expressed 
 some surprise, as it was not customary to employ lavv3'ers, he 
 said, in such transactions between men of honor ; but neverthe- 
 less, he had returned my Lord Viscount's note of hand, which 
 he held at his chent's disposition. 
 
 "I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris!" cried 
 Mr. Esmond, in great alarm and astonishment. 
 
 " He is come back at my invitation," said mj- Lord Viscount. 
 " We have accounts to settle together." 
 
 " I pray heaven the}^ are over, sir," says Esmond. 
 
 "Oh, quite," replied the other, looking hard at the young 
 man. "He was rather troublesome about that money which 
 I told 3'ou I had lost to him at play. And now 'tis paid, and 
 we are quits on that score, and we shall meet good friends 
 again." 
 
 " M}^ lord," cried out Esmond, " I am sure you are deceiv- 
 ing me, and that there is a quarrel between the Lord Mohun 
 and you." 
 
 "Quarrel — pish! We shall sup together this very night, 
 and drink a bottle. Every man is ill-humored who loses such 
 a sum as I have lost. But now 'tis paid, and mj anger is gone 
 with it." 
 
 " Where shall we sup,^sir?" says Harry. 
 
 " We! Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked," says 
 m,y Lord Viscount with a laugh. "You go to Duke Street, 
 and see Mr. Betterton. You love the pla}",' I know. Leave 
 me to follow my own devices : and in the morning we'll break- 
 fast together, with what appetite we may, as the play says." 
 
 "By G — ! m}' lord, I will not leave you this night," sa^^s 
 Harry Esmond. " I think I know the cause of your dispute. 
 I swear to you 'tis nothing. On the \evy day the accident 
 befell Lord Mohun, I was speaking to him about it. I know 
 that nothing has passed but idle gallantry on his part." 
 
 " You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantrj' be- 
 tween Lord Mohun and my wife," says my lord, in a thunder- 
 ing voice — ' ' you knew of this and did not tell me ? " 
 
 " I knew more of it than m}^ dear mistress did herself, sir 
 — a thousand times more. How was she, who was as innocent 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 131 
 
 as a child, to know what was the meaning of the covert ad- 
 dresses of a villain?" 
 
 " A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my wife 
 away from me." 
 
 " Sir, she is as pure as an angel," cried young Esmond. 
 
 " Have I said a word against her?" shrieks out my lord. 
 " Did I ever doubt that she was pure? It would have been 
 the last da}' of her life when I did. Do you fancy I think that 
 she would go astra}'? No, she hasn't passion enough for 
 that. She neither sins nor forgives. I know her temper — 
 and now I've lost her, by heaven I love her ten thousand times 
 more than ever I did — yes, when she was as young and as beau- 
 tiful as an angel — when she smiled at me in her old father's 
 house, and used to lie in wait for me there as I came from 
 hunting — when I used to fling my head down on her little 
 knees and cry like a child on her lap — and swear I w^ould 
 reform, and drink no more and play no more, and follow 
 women no more; when all the men of the Court used to be 
 following her — when she used to look with her child more 
 beautiful, by George, than the Madonna in the Queen's Chapel. 
 I am not good like her, I know it. Who is — by heaven, 
 who is? I tired and w'earied her, I know that very well, I 
 could not talk to her. You men of wat and books could do 
 that, and I couldn't — I felt I couldn't. Why, when 3'ou was 
 but a bo3' of fifteen I could hear you two together talking 
 3'our poetry and your books till I w^as in such a rage that I 
 was fit to strangle 3'ou. But you were alwa^'s a good lad, 
 Harry, and I loved 3"0U, 3'ou know I did. And I felt she 
 didn't belong to me : and the children don't. And I besot- 
 ted myself, and gambled and drank, and took to all sorts 
 of deviltries out of despair and fur3'. And now comes this 
 Mohun, and she likes him, I know she likes him." 
 
 "Indeed, and on m}' soul, 3'ou are wrong, sir," Esmond 
 cried. 
 
 " She takes letters from him," cries my lord — " look here, 
 Harry," and he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of 
 blood upon it. " It fell from him that da3' he wasn't killed. 
 One of the grooms picked it up from the ground and gave 
 it me. Here it is in their d — d comedy jargon. ' Divine 
 Gloriana — Wh}" look so coldl3^ on 3'our slave who adores 
 3'OU? Have you no compassion on the tortures 3'ou have 
 seen me suffering? Do you vouchsafe no repl3' to billets that 
 are written with the blood of mj- heart.' She had more let- 
 ters from him." 
 
132 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, 
 
 *' But she answered none," cries Esmond. 
 
 " That's not Mohun's fault," says my lord, '' and I will be 
 revenged on him, as God's in heaven, I will." 
 
 "For a light word or two, will 3^ou risk your lady's honor 
 and 3-our family's happiness, my lord?" Esmond interposed 
 beseeehingl3\ 
 
 " Psha — there shall be no question of m}^ wife's honor," 
 said my lord ; " we can quarrel on plenty of grounds beside. 
 If I live, that villain will be punished ; if I fall, m}' family will 
 be onl^' the better : there will onl}'^ be a spendthrift the less to 
 keep in the world : and Frank has better teaching than his 
 father. M)^ mind is made up, Harrj' Esmond, and whatever 
 the event is, I am easy about it. I leave m}^ wife and 3'ou as 
 guardians to the children." 
 
 Seeing that m^' lord was bent upon pursuing this quarrel, 
 and that no entreaties would draw him from it, Harry Esmond 
 (then of a hotter and more impetuous nature than now, when 
 care, and reflection, and gra}^ hairs have calmed him) thought 
 it was his duty to stand b}" his kind, generous patron, and said, 
 ''My lord, if 3^ou are determined upon war, 3'ou must not go 
 into it alone. 'Tis the dut3^ of our house to stand b3^ its chief; 
 and I should neither forgive m3'self nor you if you did not call 
 me, or I should be absent from 3'ou at a moment of danger." 
 
 " Wh3', Harry, my poor bo3^, 3'ou are bred for a parson," 
 sa3's m3' lord, taking Esmond by the hand ver3^ kindly ; " and 
 it were a great pit3' that you should meddle in the matter." 
 
 "Your lordship thought of being a churchman once," 
 Harr3^ answered, " and your father's orders did not prevent 
 him fighting at Castlewood against the Roundheads. Y^our 
 enemies are mine, sir; I can-use the foils, as 3'ou have seen, 
 indifferently well, and don't think I shall be afraid when the 
 buttons are taken off 'em." And then Harry explained, with 
 some blushes and hesitation (for the matter was delicate, 
 and he feared lest, b3' having put himself forward in the quar- 
 rel, he might have offended his patron), how he had himself 
 expostulated with the Lord Mohun, and proposed to measure 
 swords with him if need were, and he could not be got to 
 withdraw peaceabl3' in this dispute. "And I should have 
 beat him, sir," sa3"s Harr3", laughing. " He never could parry 
 that hotte I brought from Cambridge. Let us have half an 
 hour of it, and rehearse — I can teach it 3'our lordship : 'tis 
 the most delicate point in the world, and if 3'ou miss it, 3^our 
 adversary's sword is through 3'OU." 
 
 " B3' George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 133 
 
 house," sa3's my lord, gloomily. "You had been a better 
 Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot like me," he added, drawing 
 his hand across his eyes, and surveying his kinsman with ver}' 
 kind and affectionate glances. 
 
 " Let us take our coats off and have half an hour's prac- 
 tice before nightfall," says Harry, after thankfully grasping 
 his patron's manly hand, 
 
 "You are but a little bit of a lad," says my lord, good- 
 humoredly ; "but, in faith, I believe you could do for that 
 fellow. No, my boy," he continued, " I'll have none of your 
 feints and tricks of stabbing : I can use my sword pretty well 
 too, and will fight my own quarrel my own way.'* 
 
 " But I shall be by to see fair play?" cries Harry. 
 
 " Yes, God bless 3'ou — you shall be by." 
 
 "When is it, sir?" says Harry, for he saw that the matter 
 had been arranged privatel}^ and beforehand by m}^ lord. 
 
 ' ' 'Tis arranged thus : 1 sent off a courier to Jack Westbury 
 to say that I wanted him speciall}'. He knows for what, and 
 will be here presentl}*, and drink part of that bottle of sack. 
 Then we shall go to the theatre in Duke Street, where we shall 
 meet Mohun ; and then we shall all go sup at the ' Rose ' or 
 the • Greyhound.' Then we shall call for cards, and there will 
 be probably a difference over the cards — and then, God help 
 us ! — either a wicked villain and traitor shall go out of the 
 world, or a poor worthless devil, that doesn't care to remain in 
 it. I am better away, Hal — my wife will be all the happier 
 when I am gone," saj's m}^ lord, with a groan, that tore the 
 heart of Harrj' Esmond, so that he fairly broke into a sob over 
 his patron's kind hand. 
 
 "The business was talked over with Mohun before he left 
 home — Castlewood I mean " — m}' lord went on. " I took the 
 letter in to him, which I had read, and I charged him with his 
 villainy, and he could make no denial of it, only he said that 
 my wife was innocent." 
 
 "And so she is; before heaven, my lord, she is!" cries 
 Harry. 
 
 "No doubt, no doubt. They always are," says my lord. 
 " No doubt, when she heard he was killed, she fainted from 
 accident." 
 
 "But, my lord, m?/ name is Harry," cried out Esmond, 
 burning red. " You told m}^ lad}', ' Harr}^ was killed ! ' " 
 
 " Damnation ! shall I fight you too?" shouts m}' lord in a 
 fury.'* Are you, 3'ou little serpent, warmed b}^ my fire, going to 
 sting — youf — No, my boy, you're an honest boy ; you are a 
 
134 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 good boy." (And here he broke from rage into tears even more 
 cruel to see.) " You are an honest boy, and I love you ; and, 
 by heavens, 1 am so wretched that I don't care what sword it 
 is that ends me. Stop, here's Jack Westbury. Well, Jack ! 
 Welcome, old boy ! This is my kinsman, Harry Esmond." 
 
 '' Who brought j^onr bowls for you at Castlewood, sir? " says 
 Harry, bowing ; and the three gentlemen sat down and drank 
 of that bottle of sack which was prepared for them. 
 
 " Harry is number three," says my lord. " You needn't be 
 afraid of him, Jack." And the Colonel gave a look, as much 
 as to say, " Indeed, he don't look as if I need." And then my 
 lord explained vvhat he had only told by hints before. When 
 he quarrelled with Lord Mohun he was indebted to his lordship 
 in a sum of sixteen hundred pounds, for which Lord Mohun 
 said he proposed to wait until m}' Lord Viscount should pay 
 him. My lord had raised the sixteen hundred pounds and sent 
 them to Lord' Mohun that morning, and before quitting home 
 had put his affairs into order, and was now quite readj^ to abide 
 the issue of the quarrel. 
 
 When we had drunk a couple of bottles of sack, a coach was 
 called, and the three gentlemen went to the Duke's Playhouse, 
 as agreed. The play was one of Mr. Wycherlev's — " Love in 
 a Wood." 
 
 Harry Esmond has thought of that play ever since with a 
 kind of terror, and of Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress who per- 
 formed the girl's part in the comed3\ She was disguised as a 
 page, and came and stood before the gentlemen as they sat on 
 the stage, and looked over her shoulder with a pair of arch black 
 eyes, and laughed at m}' lord, and asked what ailed the gentle- 
 man from the country, and had he had bad news from Bullock 
 fair? 
 
 Between the acts of the play the gentlemen crossed over and 
 conversed freely. There were two of Lord Mohun's part}', Cap- 
 tain Macartney, in a military habit, and a gentleman in a suit 
 of blue velvet and silver in a fair periwig, with a rich fall of 
 point of Venice lace — my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Hol- 
 land. My lord had a paper of oranges, which he ate and offered 
 to the actresses, joking with them. And Mrs. Bracegirdle, 
 when my Lord Mohun said something rude, turned on him, and 
 asked him what he did there, and whether he and his friends 
 had come to stab anj^body else, as they did poor Will Mount- 
 ford ? My lord's dark face grew darker at this taunt, and wore a 
 mischievous, fatal look. They that saw it remembered it, and 
 said so afterward. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 135 
 
 When the play was ended the two parties joined compan}^ ; 
 and my Lord Castlewood then proposed that they should go to a 
 tavern and sup. Lockit's, the " Greyhound," in Charing Cross, 
 was the house selected. All six marched together that way ; 
 the three lords going a-liead, Lord Mohun's captain, and Colonel 
 Westbury, and Harry Esmond, walking behind them. As they 
 walked, Westbur}' told Harry Esmond about his old friend Dick 
 the Scholar, who had got promotion, and was Cornet of the 
 Guards, and had wrote a book called the "Christian Hero," 
 and had all the Guards to laugh at him for his pains, for the 
 Christian Hero was breaking the commandments constantl}', 
 Westbury said, and had fought one or two duels alread}'. And, 
 in a lower tone, Westbury besought young Mr. Esmond to take 
 no part in the quarrel. " There was no need for more seconds 
 than one," said the Colonel, " and the Captain or Lord War- 
 wick might easily withdraw." But Harry said no ; he was bent 
 on going through with the business. Indeed, he had a plan in 
 his head, which, he thought, might prevent my Lord Viscount 
 from enga^ins^. 
 
 They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired a private 
 room and wine and cards, and when the drawer had brought 
 these, they began to drink and call healths, and as long as the 
 servants were in the room appeared very friendl}'. 
 
 Harry Esmond's plan was no other than to engage in talk 
 with Lord Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first of the quar- 
 rel. So when cards were proposed he offered to play. " Psha ! " 
 says my Lord Mohun (whether wishing to save Harry, or not 
 choosing to try the botte de Jesulte^ it is not to be known) — 
 " Young gentlemen from college should not play these stakes. 
 You are too 3'oung." 
 
 " Who dares' say I am too j'oung?" broke out Harry. " Is 
 your lordship afraid ? " 
 
 " Afraid ! " cries out Mohun. 
 
 But my good Lord Viscount saw the move — " I'll pla}^ 3'ou 
 for ten moidores, Mohun," says he. " You silly boy, we don't 
 play for groats here as you do at Cambridge." And Harry, 
 who had no such sum in his pocket (for his half-year's salary' 
 was always pretty well spent before it was due), fell back with 
 rage and vexation in his heart that he had not money enough 
 to stake. 
 
 "I'll stake the 5'oung gentleman a crown," says the Lord 
 Mohun's captain. 
 
 "I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen 
 of the army," says Harry. 
 
136 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 " Do they birch at College?" sa3's the Captain. 
 
 *'They birch fools," says Harrj^ ^' and they cane bullies, 
 and they fling puppies into the water." 
 
 *' Faith, then, there's some escapes drowning," says the Cap- 
 tain, who was an Irishman ; and all the gentlemen began to 
 laugh, and made poor Harry only more angr3\ 
 
 My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle. It was when 
 the drawers brought in fresh bottles and glasses and were in the 
 room — on which my Lord Viscount said — " The Deuce take 
 you, Mohun, how damned awkward 3'ou are. Light the candle, 
 3^ou drawer." 
 
 " Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my 
 lord," sa3's the other. '' Town gentlemen don't use such words 
 • — or ask pardon if the3' do." 
 
 " I'm a country gentleman," sa3's m3^ Lord Viscount. 
 
 " I see it by your manner," sa3^s my Lord Mohun. "No 
 man shall sa3' damned awkward to me." 
 
 " I fling the words in 3-our face, my lord," says the other; 
 *' shall I send the cards too?" 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?" cr3^ out 
 Colonel Westbur3' and my Lord Warwick in a breath. The 
 drawers go out of the room hastil3'. They tell the people below 
 of the quarrel up stairs. 
 
 " Enough has been said," sa3's Colonel Westbur3\ " Will 
 3'our lordships meet to-morrow morning?" 
 
 " Will my Lord Castle wood withdraw his words? " asks the 
 Earl of Warwick. 
 
 " M3^ Lord Castlewood will be first," sa3^s Colonel 
 
 Westbur3\ 
 
 " Then we have nothing for it. Take notice, gentlemen, 
 there have been outrageous words — reparation asked and re- 
 fused." 
 
 "And refused," says my Lord Castlewood, putting on his 
 hat. "Where shall the meeting be? and when?" 
 
 " Since m3^ Lord refuses me satisfaction, which I deeply re- 
 gret, there is no time so good as now," sa3's m3' Lord Mohun. 
 " Let us have chairs and go to Leicester Field." 
 
 "Are 3^our lordship and I to have the honor of exchanging 
 a pass or two ? " says Colonel Westbur3', with a low bow to m3" 
 Lord of Warwick and Holland. 
 
 " It is an honor for me," sa3's m3" lord, with a profound con- 
 gee, " to be matched with a gentleman who has been at Mons 
 and Namur." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 137 
 
 *' Will 3'our Reverence permit me to give 3011 a lesson?" 
 says the Captain. 
 
 " Na\', na^^, gentlemen, two on a side are plent}," sa3^s 
 Hany's patron. " Spare the bo3', Captain Macartne3%" and he 
 shook Harr3^'s hand — for the last time, save one, in his life. 
 
 At the bar of the tavern all the gentlemen stopped, and m3' 
 Lord Visconnt said, laughing, to the barwoman, that those 
 cards set people sadl3' a-quarrelling ; but that the dispute was 
 over now, and the parties were all going awa3' to m3^ Lord Mo- 
 liun's house, in Bow Street, to drink a bottle more before going 
 to bed. 
 
 A half-dozen of chairs were now called, and the six gentle- 
 men stepping into them, the word was privatel3' given to the 
 chairmen to go to Leicester Field, where the gentlemen were 
 set down opposite the '' Standard Tavern." It was midnight, 
 and the town was abed b3^ this time, and onl3^ a few lights in 
 the windows of the houses ; but the night was bright enough for 
 the unhapp3' purpose which the disputants came about ; and so 
 all six entered into that fatal square, the chairmen standing 
 without the railing and keeping the gate, lest any persons should 
 disturb the meeting. 
 
 All that happened there hath been matter of public notoriet3% 
 and is recorded, for warning to lawless men, in the annals of 
 our country. After being engaged for not more than a couple 
 of minutes, as Harr3' Esmond thought (though being occupied 
 at the time with his own adversar3''s point, which was active, 
 he may not have taken a good note of time) , a cry from the 
 chairmen without, who were smoking their pipes, and leaning 
 over the railings of the field as they watched the dim combat 
 within, announced that some catastrophe had happened, which 
 caused Esmond to drop his sword and look round, at which 
 moment his enemy wounded him in the right hand. But the 
 young man did not heed this hurt much, and ran up to the 
 place where he saw his dear master was down. 
 
 M3^ Lord Mohun was standing over him. 
 
 '' Are 3'OU much hurt, Frank?" he asked in a hollow voice. 
 
 " I believe I am a dead man," mv lord said from the ground. 
 
 " No, no, not so," says the other ; " and I call God to wit- 
 ness, Frank Esmond, that I would have asked 3^our pardon, 
 had 3^ou but given me a chance. In — in the first cause of our 
 falling out, I swear that no one was to blame but me, and — 
 and that m3' lad3^ — " 
 
 '"Hush!" sa3's my poor Lord Viscount, lifting himself on 
 his elbow and speaking faintly. " 'Twas a dispute about the 
 
138 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 cards — the cursed cards. Harry my boy, are you wounded, 
 too ? God help thee ! I loved thee, Harry, and thou must 
 watch over my little Frank — and — and carry this little heart 
 to m}^ wife." 
 
 And here my dear lord felt in his breast for a locket he wore 
 there, and, in the act, fell back fainting. 
 
 We were all at this terrified, thinking him dead ; but Esmond 
 and Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen come into the field ; 
 and so m}' lord was carried to one Mr. Aimes, a surgeon, in 
 Long Acre, who kept a bath, and there the house was wakened 
 up, and the victim of this quarrel carried in. 
 
 My Lord Viscount was put to bed, and his wound looked to 
 b}^ the surgeon, who seemed both kind and skilful. When he 
 had looked to my lord, he bandaged up Harry Esmond's hand 
 (who, from loss of blood, had fainted too, in the house, and 
 may have been some time unconscious) ; and when the young 
 man came to himself, you ma}' be sure he eagerly asked what 
 news there were of his dear patron ; on which the surgeon car- 
 ried him to the room where the Lord Castlewood lay ; who had 
 already sent for a priest ; and desired earnestly, they said, to 
 speak with his kinsman. He was lying on a bed, very pale 
 and ghastly, with that fixed, fatal look in his eyes, which be- 
 tokens death ; and faintly beckoning all the other persons away 
 from him with his hand, and crying out " Only Harry Esmond," 
 the hand fell powerless down on the coverlet, as Harry came 
 forward, and knelt down and kissed it. 
 
 ^'Thou art all but a priest, Harrj^," rny Lord Viscount 
 gasped out, with a faint smile, and pressure of his cold hand. 
 "Are tlie}' all gone? Let me make thee a death-bed con- 
 fession." 
 
 And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bed-foot, 
 as an awful witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped 
 out his last wishes in respect of his family ; — his humble pro- 
 fession of contrition for his faults ; — and his charity towards 
 the world he was leaving. Some things he said concerned 
 Harry Esmond as much as they astonished him. And my Lord 
 Viscount, sinking visibly, was in the midst of these strange 
 confessions, when the ecclesiastic for whom my lord had sent, 
 Mr. Atterbury, arrived. 
 
 This gentleman had reached to no great church dignity 
 as yet, but was only preacher at St. Bride's, drawing all the 
 town thither by his eloquent sermons. Pie was godson to my 
 lord, who had been pupil to his father ; had paid a visit to 
 Castlewood from Oxford more than once ; and it was by his 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 139 
 
 advice, I think, that Harry Esmond was sent to Cambridge, 
 rather than to Oxford, of which place Mr. Atterbur}', though a 
 distinguished member, spoke but ill. 
 
 Our messenger found the good priest already at his books at 
 five o'clock in the morning, and he followed the man eagerly to 
 the house where m}^ poor Lord Viscount la3' — Esmond watch- 
 ing him, and taking his dying words from his mouth. 
 
 My lord, hearing of Mr. Atterbur3''s arrival, and squeezing 
 Esmond's hand, asked to be alone with the priest ; and Esmond 
 left them there for this solemn interview. You may be sure 
 that his own prayers and grief accompanied that dying bene- 
 factor. My lord had said to him that which confounded the 
 young man — informed him of a secret which greatly concerned 
 him. Indeed, after hearing it, he had had good cause for doubt 
 and disma}^ ; for mental anguish as well as resolution. While 
 the colloquy between Mr. Atterbury and his dying penitent took 
 place within, an immense contest of perplexity was agitating 
 Lord Castle wood's young companion. 
 
 At the end of an hour — it may be more — Mr. Atterbury 
 came out of the room, looking very hard at Esmond, and hold- 
 ing a paper. 
 
 "He is on the brink of God's awful judgment," the priest 
 whispered. " He has made his breast clean to me. He forgives 
 and believes, and makes restitution. Shall it be in public? 
 Shall we call a witness to sign it?" 
 
 "God knows," sobbed out the young man, "my dearest 
 lord has only done me kindness all his life." 
 
 The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He looked 
 at it. It swam before his ej'es. 
 
 " 'Tis a confession," he said. 
 
 " 'Tis as you please," said Mr. Atterbury. 
 
 There was a fire in the room where the cloths were drying 
 for the baths, and there lay a heap in a corner saturated with 
 the blood of my dear lord's body. Esmond went to the fire, 
 and threw the paper into it. 'Twas a great chimne}^ with 
 glazed Dutch tiles. How we remember such trifles at such 
 awful moments ! — the scrap of the book that we have read in 
 a great grief — the taste of that last dish that we have eaten 
 before a duel, or some such supreme meeting or parting. On 
 the Dutch tiles at the Bagnio was a rude picture representing 
 Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating Isaac of Esau's birthright. The 
 burning paper lighted it up. 
 
 "'Tis onl}- a confession, Mr. Atterbury," said the young 
 man. He leaned his head against the mantel-piece : a burst of 
 
140 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 tears came to his eyes. They were the first he had shed as he 
 sat b}^ his lord, scared b}' this calamity, and more 3'et b}" what 
 the poor dying gentleman had told him, and shocked to think 
 that he should be the agent of bringing this double misfortune 
 on those he loved best. 
 
 "'Let us go to him," said Mr. Esmond. And accordingly 
 they went into the next chamber, where by this time, the dawn 
 had broke, which showed my lord's poor pale face and wild ap- 
 pealing e\'es, that wore that awful fatal look of coming dis- 
 solution. The surgeon was with him. He went into the 
 chamber as Atterbury came out thence. My Lord Viscount 
 turned round his sick eyes towards Esmond. It choked the 
 other to hear that rattle in his throat. 
 
 "My Lord Viscount," says Mr. Atterbur}^, "Mr. Esmond 
 wants no witnesses, and hath burned the paper." 
 
 "My dearest master!" Esmond said, kneeling down, and 
 taking his hand and kissing it. 
 
 My Lord Viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his arms 
 round ICsmond. "God bl — bless — "was all he said. The 
 blood rushed from his mouth, deluging the young man. My 
 dearest lord was no more. He was gone with a blessing on his 
 lips, and love and repentance and kindness in his manly heart. 
 
 " Benedlcti benedicentes^'' sa3'S Mr. Atterbur^^ and the young 
 man, kneeling at the bedside, groaned out an " Amen." 
 
 " Who shall take the news to her? " was Mr. Esmond's next 
 thought. And on this he besought Mr. Atterbur}' to bear the 
 tidings to Castlewood. He could not face his mistress himself 
 with those dreadful news. Mr. Atterbury complying kindly, 
 Esmond writ a hasty note on his table-book to m}' lord's man, 
 bidding him get the horses for Mr. Atterbury, and ride with 
 him, and send Esmond's own valise to the Gatehouse prison, 
 whither he resolved to go and give himself up. 
 
BOOK 11. 
 
 CONTAINS MR. ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE, AND OTHER MATTERS 
 APPERTAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I AM IN PRISON, AND VISITED, BUT NOT CONSOLED THERE. 
 
 Those raa}^ imagine, who have seen death untimel}^ strike 
 down persons revered and beloved, and know how unavailing 
 consolation is, what was Harr}^ Esmond's anguish after being 
 an actor in that ghastly midnight scene of blood and homicide. 
 He could not, he felt, have faced his dear mistress, and told her 
 that stor}'. He was thankful that kind Atterburj^ consented to 
 break the sad news to her ; bat, besides his grief, which he took 
 into prison with him, he had that in his heart which secretly 
 cheered and consoled him. 
 
 A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy 
 stricken kinsman, lying on his death-bed. Were he to disclose 
 it, as in equity and honor he might do, the discovery would but 
 bring greater grief upon those whom he loved best in the world, 
 and who were sad enough already. Should he bring down 
 shame and perplexity upon all those beings to whom he was 
 attached by so many tender ties of affection and gratitude? 
 degrade his father's widow ? impeach and sully his father's and 
 kinsman's honor? and for what? for a barren*^ title, to be worn 
 at the expense of an innocent boy, the son of his dearest bene- 
 factress. He had debated this matter in his conscience, whilst 
 his poor lord was making his dying confession. On one side 
 were ambition, temptation, justice even ; but love, gratitude, 
 and fidelity, pleaded on the other. And when the struggle was 
 over in Harry's mind, a glow of righteous happiness filled it ; 
 and it was with grateful tears in his e3^es that he returned 
 thanks to God for that decision which he had been enabled to 
 make. 
 
142 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 " When I was denied bym}^ own blood," thought he, " these 
 dearest friends received and cherished me. When I was a 
 nameless orphan myself, and needed a protector, I found one 
 in yonder kind soul, who has gone to his account repenting of 
 the innocent wrong he has done." 
 
 And w^ith this consoling thought he went away to give 
 himself up at the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his 
 benefactor. 
 
 It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse 
 prison, (where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which 
 inflamed and ached severel}^) and with those thoughts and 
 resolutions that have been just spoke of, to depress, and yet to 
 console him, that H. Esmond's keeper came and told him that 
 a visitor was asking for him, and though he could not see her 
 face, which was enveloped in a black hood, her w^hole figure, 
 too, being veiled and covered with the deepest mourning, 
 Esmond knew at once that his visitor was his dear mistress. 
 
 He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very 
 weak ; and advancing towards her as the retiring keeper shut 
 the door upon him and his guest in that sad place, he put for- 
 ward his left hand (for the right was wounded and bandaged), 
 and he would have taken that kind one of his mistress, which 
 had done so many offices of friendship for him for so many 
 years. 
 
 But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back 
 her hood, and leaning against the great stanchioned door which 
 the gaoler had just closed upon them. Her face was ghastly 
 white, as Esmond saw it, looking from the hood ; and her eyes, 
 ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed on him with such a 
 tragic glance of woe and anger, as caused the young man, un- 
 accustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert his own 
 glances from her face. 
 
 "And this, Mr. Esmond," she said, " is where I see you ; 
 and 'tis to this you have brought me ! " 
 
 " You have come to console me in my calamity, madam," 
 said he (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, 
 his emotions at beholding her so overpowered him) . 
 
 She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, look- 
 ing out at him from her black draperies, with her small white 
 hands clasped togetlier, and quivering lips and hollow eyes. 
 
 " Not to reproach me," he continued after a pause. " Mj^ 
 grief is sufficient as it is." 
 
 "Take back your hand — do not touch me with it!" she 
 cried. " Look ! there's blood on it ! " 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 143 
 
 " I wish they had taken it all," said Esmond ; " if you are 
 unkind to me." 
 
 '' Where is m^' husband?" she broke ont. " Give me back 
 my husband, Henr3'. Why did 3'ou stand b}' at midnight and 
 see him murdered? Why did the traitor escape who did it? 
 You, the champion of your house, who offered to die for us! 
 You that he loved and trusted, and to whom I confided him — 
 you that vowed devotion and gratitude, and I believed you — 
 3'es, I believed you — why are 3'ou here, and my noble Francis 
 gone ? WI13- did you come among us ? You have onl3^ brought 
 us grief and sorrow ; and repentance, bitter, bitter repent- 
 ance, as a return for our love and kindness. Did I ever do 
 }'ou a wrong, Henry? You were but an orphan child when 
 I first saw you — when he first saw 3'ou, w^ho was so good, and 
 noble, and trusting. He would have had you sent away, but, 
 like a foolish woman, I besought him to let you stay. And 
 3'ou pretended to love us, and we believed you — and 3'ou made 
 our house wretched, and m3^ husband's heart went from me : 
 and I lost ]iim through 3'ou — I lost him — the husband of m3' 
 youth, I sa3'. I worshipped him : 3'ou know I w^orshipped 
 him — and he was changed to me. He was no more my 
 Francis of old — m3" dear, dear soldier. He loved me before 
 he saw 3'ou ; and I loved him. Oh, God is m3- witness how 
 I loved him ! Why did he not send you from among us ? 
 'Twas only his kindness, that could refuse me nothing then. 
 And, 3'oung as 3'ou were — 3'es, and weak and alone — there 
 was evil, I knew there was evil in keeping 3'ou. I read it in 
 3'our face and eyes. I saw that the3' boded harm to us — and 
 it came, I knew it would. Why did you not die when 3'ou had 
 the small-pox — and I came m3'self and watched 3'ou, and 3'ou 
 didn't know mQ in 3'our dehrium — and 3'ou called out for me, 
 though I was there at your side? All that has happened since, 
 was a just judgment on m3' wicked heart — my wicked jealous 
 heart. Oh, I am punished — awfulty punished ! My husband 
 lies in his blood — murdered for defending me, my kind, kind, 
 generous lord — and 3'ou were b3', and 3-ou let him die, Henr3' ! " 
 
 These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief, by one 
 who was ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a 
 gentle smile and a soothing tone, rung in Esmond's ear; and 
 'tis said that he repeated man3' of them in the fever into which 
 he now fell from his wound, and perhaps from the emotion 
 which such passionate, undeserved upbraidings caused him. 
 It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love for this lad3' and her 
 family were to turn to evil and reproach : as if his presence 
 
144 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 amongst them was indeed a cause of grief, and the continuance 
 of his life but woe and bitterness to theirs. As the Lady Castle- 
 wood spoke bitterly-, rapidly, without a tear, he never offered a 
 word of appeal or remonstrance : but sat at the foot of his 
 prison-bed, stricken onl}' with the more pain at thinking it was 
 that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so cruelly, 
 and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words as she 
 spoke struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of 
 his boyhood and 3'outh passed within him ; whilst this lady, 
 so fond and gentle but yesterday — this good angel whom he 
 had loved and worshipped — stood before him, pursuing him 
 with keen words and aspect malign. 
 
 " I wish I were in my lord's place," he groaned out. "It 
 was not my fault that I was not there, madam. But Fate is 
 stronger than all of us, and willed what has come to pass. It 
 had been better for me to have died when I had the illness." 
 
 "Yes, Henr}'," said she — and as she spoke she looked at 
 him with a glance that was at once so fond and so sad, that the 
 young man, tossing up his arms, wildly fell back, hiding his 
 head in the coverlet of the bed. As he turned he struck 
 against the w^all with his wounded hand, displacing the liga- 
 ture ; and he felt the blood rushing again from the wound. He 
 remembered feeling^a secret pleasure at the accident — and 
 thinking, " Suppose I were to end now, who would grieve for 
 me?" 
 
 This hemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the luck- 
 less young man was at the time of the accident, must have 
 brought on a dehquium presently ; for he had scarce an}^ recol- 
 lection afterwards, save of some one, his mistress probably, 
 seizing his hand — and then of the buzzing noise in his ears as 
 he awoke, with two or three persons of the prison around his 
 bed, whereon he la}^ in a pool of blood from his arm. 
 
 It was now bandaged up again by the prison surgeon, who 
 happened to be in the place ; and the governor's wife and ser- 
 vant, kind people both, were with the patient. Esmond saw 
 his mistress still in the room when he awoke from his trance .* 
 but she went away without a word ; though the governor's wife 
 told him that she sat in her room for some time afterward, and 
 did not leave the prison until she heard that Esmond was likely 
 to do well. 
 
 Days afterwards, when Esmond was brought out of a fever 
 which he had, and which attacked him that night pretty 
 sharply, the honest keeper's wife brought her patient a hand- 
 kerchief fresh washed and ironed, and at the corner of which 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 145 
 
 he recognized his mistress's well-known cipher and viscountess's 
 crown. '^ The lady had bound it round his arm when he fainted, 
 and before she called for help," the keeper's wife said. " Poor 
 lady ! she took on sadly about her husband. He has been 
 buried to-daj^, and a manj^ of the coaches of the nobiUty went 
 with him — my Lord Marlborough's and my Lord Sunderland's, 
 and many of the officers of the Guards, in which he served in 
 the old King's time ; and my lady has been with her two chil- 
 dren to the King at Kensington, and asked for justice against 
 my Lord Mohun, who is in hiding, and my Lord the Earl of 
 Warwick and Holland, who is ready to give himself up and 
 take his trial." 
 
 Such were the news, coupled with assertions about her own 
 honesty and that of Molly her maid, who would never have 
 stolen a certain trumpery gold sleeve-button of Mr. Esmond's 
 that was missing after his fainting fit, that the keeper's wife 
 brought to her lodger. His thoughts followed to that untirael3^ 
 grave, the brave heart, the kind friend, the gallant gentleman, 
 honest of word and generous of thought, (if feeble of purpose, 
 but are his betters much stronger than he ?) who had given him 
 bread and shelter when he had none ; home and love when he 
 needed them ; and who, if he had kept one vital secret from 
 him, had done that of which he repented ere dying — a wrong 
 indeed, but one followed by remorse, and occasioned by almost 
 irresistible temptation. 
 
 Esmond took his handkerchief when his nurse left him, and 
 very likely kissed it, and looked at the bauble embroidered in 
 the corner. "It has cost thee grief enough," he thought, 
 " dear lady, so loving and so tender. Shall I take it from thee 
 and thy children ? No, never ! Keep it, and wear it, my little 
 Frank, mypretty boy. If I cannot make a name for myself, I 
 can die without one. Some day, when my dear mistress sees 
 my heart, I shall be righted ; or if not here or now, why, else- 
 where ; where Honor doth not follow us, but where Love reigns 
 perpetual." 
 
 'Tis needless to relate here, as the reports of the lawyers 
 alread}" have chronicled them, the particulars or issue of that 
 trial which ensued upon my Lord Castlewood's melancholy 
 homicide. Of the two lords engaged in that sad matter, the 
 second, my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland, who had 
 been engaged with Colonel Westbury, and wounded by him, 
 was found not guilty by his peers, before whom he was tried 
 (under the presidence of the Lord Steward, Lord Somers) ; 
 and the principal, the Lord Mohun, being found guilty of the 
 
146 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 manslaughter, (which, indeed, was forced upon him, and of 
 which he repented most sincerely,) pleaded his clergy, and so 
 was discharged without any penalty. The widow of the slain 
 nobleman, as it was told us in prison, showed an extraordinarj^ 
 spirit ; and, though she had to wait for ten years before her son 
 was old enough to compass it, declared she would have revenge 
 of her husband's murderer. So much and suddenly had grief, 
 anger, and misfortune appeared to change her. But fortune, 
 good or ill, as I take it, does not change men and women. It 
 but develops their characters. As there are a thousand thoughts 
 lying within a tnan that he does not know till he takes up the 
 pen to write, so the heart is a secret even to him (or her) who 
 has it in his own breast. Who hath not found himself surprised 
 into revenge, or action, or passion, for good or evil, whereof the 
 seeds lay within him, latent and unsuspected, until the occasion 
 called them forth ? With the death of her lord, a change seemed 
 to come over the whole conduct and mind of Lady Castlewood ; 
 but of this we shall speak in the right season and anon. 
 
 The lords being tried then before their peers at Westmin- 
 ster, according to their privilege, being brought from the 
 Tower with state processions and barges, and accompanied by 
 lieutenants and axe-men, the commoners engaged in that mel- 
 anchol}' fray took their trial at Newgate, as became them ; and, 
 being all found guilty, pleaded likewise their benefit of clergy. 
 The sentence, as we all know in these cases, is, that the culprit 
 lies a 3^ear in prison, or during the King's pleasure, and is burned 
 in the hand, or only stamped with a cold iron ; or this part of 
 the punishment is altogether remitted at the grace of the Sov- 
 ereign. So Harr}^ Esmond found himself a criminal and a 
 prisoner at two-and-twenty years old ; as for the two colonels, 
 his comrades, they took the matter very lightly. Duelling was 
 a part of their business ; and they could not in honor refuse 
 an}^ invitations of that sort. 
 
 But the case was different with Mr. Esmond. His life was 
 changed by that stroke of the sword which destroyed his kind 
 patron's. As he lay in prison, old Dr. Tusher fell ill and died ; 
 and Lady Castlewood appointed Thomas Tusher to the vacant 
 living ; about the filling of which she had a thousand times 
 fondly talked to Hany Esmond : how the}^ never should part ; 
 how he should educate her boy ; how to be a countrj- clergy- 
 man, like saintly George Herbert or pious Dr. Ken, was the 
 happiest and greatest lot in life ; how (if he were obstinately 
 bent on it, though, for her part, she owned rather to holding 
 Queen Bess's opinion, that a bishop should have no wife, and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 147 
 
 if not a bishop why a clergyman?) she would find a good wife 
 for Harry Esmond : and so on, with a hundred pretty prospects 
 told bj" fireside evenings, in fond prattle, as the children played 
 about the hall. All these plans were overthrown now. Thomas 
 Tusher wrote to Esmond, as he lay in prison, announcing that 
 his patroness liad conferred upon him the living his reverend 
 father had held for many 3'ears ; that she never, after the tragi- 
 cal events which had occurred (whereof Tom spoke with a ver}'- 
 edifying horror), could see in the revered Tusher's pulpit, or 
 at her son's table, the man who was answerable for the father's 
 life ; that her ladyship bade him to say that she prayed for her 
 kinsman's repentance and his worldl^^ happiness ; that he was 
 free to command her aid for any scheme of life which he might 
 propose to himself ; but that on this side of the grave she would 
 see him no more. And Tusher, for his own part, added that 
 Harry should have his prayers as a friend of his j^outh, and 
 commended him whilst he was in prison to read certain works 
 of theolog}", which his Reverence pronounced to be very whole- 
 some for sinners in his lamentable condition. 
 
 And this was the return for a life of devotion — this the end 
 of years of affectionate intercourse and passionate fidelity ! 
 Hariy would have died for his patron, and was held as little 
 better than his murderer : he had sacrificed, she did not know 
 how much, for his mistress, and she threw him aside ; he had 
 endowed her family with all they had, and she talked about 
 giving him alms as to a menial ! The grief for his patron's loss ; 
 the pains of his own present position, and doubts as to the 
 future : all these were forgotten under the sense of the consum- 
 mate outrage which he had to endure, and overpowered by the 
 superior i^ng of that torture. 
 
 He writ back a letter to Mr. Tusher from his prison, con- 
 gratulating -his Reverence upon his appointment to the living 
 of Castlewood : sarcasticall}^ bidding him to follow in the foot- 
 steps of his admirable father, whose gown had descended upon 
 him ; thanking her ladyship for her offer of alms, which he said 
 he should trust not to need ; and beseeching her to remember 
 that, if ever her determination should change towards him, he 
 would be ready to give her proofs of a fidelity which had never 
 wavered, and which ought never to have been questioned b}^ that 
 house. " And if we meet no more, or only as strangers in this 
 world," Mr. Esmond concluded, " a sentence against the cruelty 
 and injustice of which I disdain to appeal ; hereafter she will 
 know who was faithful to her, and whether she had any cause to 
 suspect the love and devotion of her kinsman and servant." 
 
148 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 After the sending of this letter, the poor young fellow's mind 
 was more at ease than it had been previousl3\ The blow had 
 been struck, and he had borne it. His cruel goddess had shaken 
 her wings and fled : and left him alone and friendless, but vir- 
 tute sua. And he had to bear him up, at once the sense of his 
 right and tlie feeling of his wrongs, his honor and his misfor- 
 tune. As 1 have seen men waking and running to arms at a 
 sudden trumpet, before emergenc}^ a manly heart leaps up res- 
 olute ; meets the threatening danger with undaunted counte- 
 nance ; and, whether conquered or conquering, faces it alwa3-s. 
 Ah ! no man knows his strength or his weakness, till occasion 
 proves them. If there be some thoughts and actions of his life 
 from the memor}^ of which a man shrinks with shame, sure 
 there are some which he may be proud to own and remember ; 
 forgiven injuries, conquered temptations (now and then) and 
 difficulties vanquished by endurance. 
 
 It was these thoughts regarding the living, far more than any 
 great poignanc}^ of grief respecting the dead, which affected 
 Harr3^ Esmond whilst in prison after his trial : but it may be 
 imagined that he could take no comrade of misfortune into the 
 confidence of his feehngs, and they thought it was remorse and 
 sorrow for his patron's loss which affected the young man, in 
 error of which opinion he chose to leave them. As a compan- 
 ion he was so moody and silent that the two officers, his fellow- 
 sufferers, left him to himself mostlj^, liked little very likely 
 what they knew of him, consoled themselves with dice, cards, 
 and the bottle, and whiled away their own captivity in their 
 own way. It seemed to Esmond as if he lived years in that 
 prison : and was changed and aged when he came out of it. 
 At certain periods of life we live years of emotion in a few 
 weeks — and look back on those times, as on great gaps between 
 the old life and the new. You do not know how much you suf- 
 fer in those critical maladies of the heart, until the disease is 
 over and you look back on it afterwards. During the time, the 
 suffering is at least sufferable. The day passes in more or less 
 of pain, and the night wears away somehow. 'Tis only in after 
 days that we see what the danger has been — as a man out 
 a-hunting or riding for his life looks at a leap, and wonders how 
 he should have survived the taking of it. O dark months of 
 grief and rage I of wrong and cruel endurance ! He is old now 
 who recalls you. Long ago he has forgiven and blest the soft 
 hand that wounded him : but the mark is there, and the wound 
 is cicatrized onl}^ — no time, tears, caresses, or repentance, can 
 obliterate the scar. We are indocile to put up with grief, how- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 149 
 
 ever. Rejicimus rates quassas : we tempt the ocean again and 
 again, and try upon new ventures. Esmond thought of his 
 early time as a novitiate, and of this past trial as an initiation 
 before entering into life — as our young Indians undergo tor- 
 tures silently before they pass to the rank of warriors in the 
 tribe. 
 
 The officers, meanwhile, who were not let into the secret of 
 the grief which was gnawing at the side of their silent young- 
 friend, and being accustomed to such transactions, in which 
 one comrade or another was daily paying the forfeit of the 
 sword, did not, of course, bemoan themselves very inconsolably 
 about the fate of their late companion in arms. This one told 
 stories of former adventures of love, or war, or pleasure, in 
 which poor Frank Esmond had been engaged ; t'other recollected 
 how a constable had been bilked, or a tavern-bull}' beaten : 
 whilst m}' lord's poor widow was sitting at his tomb worshipping 
 iiim as an actual saint and spotless hero — so the visitors said 
 who had news of Lady Castlewood ; and Westbur}' and Macart- 
 ney had pretty nearly had all the town to come a«id see them. 
 
 The duel, its fatal termination, the trial of the two peers 
 and the three commoners concerned, had caused the greatest 
 excitement in the town. The prints and News Letters were full 
 of them. The three gentlemen in Newgate were almost as 
 much crowded as the bishops in the Tower, or a highwayman 
 before execution. We were allowed to live in the Governor's 
 house, as hath been said, both before trial and after condemna- 
 tion, waiting the King's pleasure ; nor was the real cause of the 
 fatal quarrel known, so closely had my lord and the two other 
 persons who knew it kept the secret, but every one imagined that 
 the origin of the meeting was a gambling dispute. Except 
 fresh airif the prisoners had, upon payment, most things they 
 could desire. Interest was made that they should not mix with 
 the vulgar- convicts, whose ribald choruses and loud laughter 
 and curses could be heard from their own part of the prison, 
 where they and the miserable debtors were confined pell-mell. 
 
150 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1 COME TO THE END OF MY CAPTIVITY, BUT NOT OF MY 
 TROUBLE. 
 
 Among the company which came to visit the two oflScers 
 was an old acquaintance of Hariy Esmond ; that gentleman of 
 the Guards, namel3% who had been so kind to Hany when Cap- 
 tain Westbury's troop had been quartered at Castlewood more 
 than seven years before. Dick the Scholar was no longer 
 Dick the Trooper now, but Captain Steele of Lucas's Fusiliers, 
 and secretary to my Lord Cutts, that famous officer of King 
 William's, the bravest and most beloved man of the English 
 army. The two jolly prisoners had been drinking with a party 
 of friends (for our cellar and that of the keepers of Newgate, 
 too, were supplied with endless hampers of Burgundy and 
 Champagne that the friends of the Colonels sent in) ; and Harry, 
 having no wish for their drink or their conversation, being 
 too feeble in health for the one and too sad in spirits for the 
 other, was sitting apart in his little room, reading such books 
 as he had, one evening, when honest Colonel Westbury, flushed 
 with liquor, and always good-humored in and out of his cups, 
 came laughing into Harry's closet and said, '' Ho, young Kill- 
 joy ! here's a friend come to see thee ; he'll pray with thee, or 
 he'll drink with thee ; or he'll drink and pray turn about. 
 Dick, my Christian hero, here's the little scholar of Castle- 
 wood." 
 
 Dick came up and kissed Esmond on both cheeks, impart- 
 ing a strong perfume of burnt sack along with his caress to the 
 young man. 
 
 ' ' What ! is this the little man that used to talk Latin and 
 fetch our bowls ? How tall thou art grown ! I protest I should 
 have known thee anj'where. And so j^ou have turned ruffian 
 and fighter ; and wanted to measure swords with Mohun, did 
 3'ou ? I protest that Mohun said at the Guard dinner yester- 
 day, where there was a pretty company of us, that the young 
 fellow wanted to fight him, and was the better man of the 
 two." 
 
 "I wish we could have tried and proved it, Mr. Steele,'* 
 says Esmond, thinking of his dead benefactor, and his eyes 
 filling with tears. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 151 
 
 With the exception of that one cruel letter which he had 
 from his mistress, Mr. Esmond heard nothing from her, and 
 she seemed determined to execute her resolve of parting from 
 him and disowning him. But he had news of her, such as 
 it was, which Mr. Steele assiduously brought him from the 
 Prince's and Princess's Court, where our lionest Captain had 
 been advanced to the post of gentleman waiter. When off 
 duty there, Captain Dick often came to console his friends in 
 captivit}' ; a good nature and a friendly disposition towards 
 all who were in ill-fortune no doubt prompting him to make his 
 visits, and good-fellowship and good wine to prolong them. 
 
 "Faith," says Westbury, "the little scholar was the first 
 to begin the quarrel — I mind me of it now — at Lockit's. I 
 alwa3^s hated that fellow Mohun. What was the real cause of 
 the quarrel betwixt him and poor Frank ? I would wager 'twas 
 a woman." 
 
 " 'Twas a quarrel about play — on my word, about play," 
 Harr}' said. ' ' My poor lord lost great sums to his guest at 
 Castle wood. Angry words passed between them ; and, though 
 Lord Castlewood was the kindest and most pliable soul alive, 
 his spirit was very high ; and hence that meeting which has 
 brought us all here," says Mr. Esmond, resolved never to ac- 
 knowledge that there had ever been any other cause but cards 
 for the duel. 
 
 " I do not like to use bad words of a nobleman," saj^s West- 
 bury ; " but if my Lord Mohun were a commoner, I would sa}', 
 'twas a pity he was not hanged. He was familiar with dice 
 and women at a time other boys are at school being birched ; 
 he was as wicked as the oldest rake, years ere he had done 
 gi'owing ; and handled a sword and a foil, and a bloody one, 
 too, before he ever used a razor. He held poor Will Mount- 
 ford iff talk that night, when bloody Dick Hill ran him through. 
 He will come to a bad end, will that young lord; and no end 
 is bad enough for him," says honest Mr. Westbury : whose 
 prophec}^ was fulfilled twelve years after, upon that fatal day 
 when Mohun fell, dragging down one of the bravest and great- 
 est gentlemen in England in his fall. 
 
 From Mr. Steele, then, who brought the public rumor, as 
 well as his own private intelligence, Esmond learned the move- 
 ments of his unfortunate mistress. Steele's heart was of very 
 inflammable composition ; and the gentleman usher spoke in 
 terms of boundless admiration both of the widow (that most 
 beautiful woman, as he said) and of her daughter, who, in the 
 Captain's eyes, was a still gi'eater paragon. If the pale widow, 
 
152 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 whom Captain Richard, in his poetic rapture compared to a 
 Niobe in tears — to a Sigismunda — to a weeping Belvidera, 
 was an object the most lovely and pathetic which his eyes had 
 ever beheld, or for which his heart had melted, even her ripened 
 perfections and beauty were as nothing compared to the prom- 
 ise of that extreme loveliness which the good Captain saw in 
 her daughter. It was matre pnlcra jilia pulcrior. Steele com- 
 posed sonnets whilst he was on duty in his Prince's ante-cham- 
 ber, to the maternal and filial charms. He would speak for 
 hours about them to Harry Esmond ; and, indeed, he could 
 have chosen few subjects more likely to interest the unhappy 
 young man, whose heart was now as always devoted to these 
 ladies ; and who was thankful to all who loved them, or praised 
 them, or wished them well. 
 
 Not that his fidelity was recompensed by any answering 
 kindness, or show of relenting even, on the part of a mistress 
 obdurate now after ten years of love and benefactions. The 
 poor young man getting no answer, save Tusher's, to that 
 letter which he had written, and being too proud to write 
 more, opened a part of his heart to Steele, than whom no 
 man, when unhappy, could find a kinder hearer, or more 
 friendly emissar}^ ; described (in words which were no doubt 
 pathetic, for they came imo pectore^ and caused honest Dick 
 to weep plentifully) his j-outh, his constancy, his fond devo- 
 tion to that household which had reared him ; his affection, 
 how earned, and how tenderly requited until but yesterday, 
 and (as far as he might) the circumstances and causes for 
 which that sad quarrel had made of Esmond a prisoner under 
 sentence, a widow and orphans of those whom in life he held 
 dearest. In terms that might well move a harder-hearted man 
 than young Esmond's confidant — for, indeed, the speaker's 
 own heart was half broke as he uttered them — he described 
 a part of what had taken place in that onl}^ sad interview 
 which his mistress had granted him ; how she had left him 
 with anger and almost imprecation, whose words and thoughts 
 until then had been only blessing and kindness ; how she had 
 accused him of the guilt of that blood, in exchange for which 
 he would cheerfully have sacrificed his own (indeed, in this 
 the Lord Mohun, the Lord Warwick, and all the gentlemen 
 engaged, as well as the common rumor out of doors — Steele 
 told him — bore out the luckless 3'Oung man); and with all 
 his heart, and tears, he besought Mr. Steele to inform his 
 mistress of her kinsman's unhappiness, and to deprecate that 
 cruel anger she showed him. Half frantic with grief at the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 153 
 
 injustice done him, and contrasting it with a thousand soft 
 recollections of love and confidence gone by, that made his 
 present misery inexpressibly more bitter, the poor wretch 
 passed many a lonely day and wakeful night in a kind of 
 powerless despair and rage against his iniquitous fortune. It 
 was the softest hand that struck him, the gentlest and most 
 compassionate nature that persecuted him. " I would as lief," 
 he said, " have pleaded guilty to the murder, and have suffered 
 for it like any other felon, as have to endure the torture to 
 which my mistress subjects me." 
 
 Although the recital of Esmond's story, and his passionate 
 appeals and remonstrances, drew so many tears from Dick who 
 heard them, they had no effect upon the person whom they 
 were designed to move. Esmond's ambassador came back 
 from the mission with which the poor young gentleman had 
 charged him, with a sad blank face and a shake of the head, 
 which told that there was no hope for the prisoner ; and scarce 
 a wretched culprit in that prison of Newgate ordered for exe- 
 cution, and trembling for a reprieve, felt more cast down than 
 Mr. Esmond, innocent and condemned. 
 
 As had been arranged between the prisoner and his counsel 
 in their consultations, Mr. Steele had gone to the dowager's 
 house in Chels^v, where it has been said the widow and her 
 orphans were, had seen my Lady Viscountess, and pleaded 
 the cause of her unfortunate kinsman. " And I think I spoke 
 well, my poor boy," sa3's Mr. Steele ; " for who would not 
 speak well in such a cause, and before so beautiful a judge? 
 I did not see the lovely Beatrix (sure her famous namesake 
 of Florence was never half so beautiful), onl}^ the 3'oung Vis- 
 count was in the room with the Lord Churchill, my Lord of 
 Marlborough's eldest son. But these young gentlemen went 
 off to the garden ; I could see them from the window tilting at 
 each other with poles in a mimic tournament (grief touches 
 ''the 3'oung but lightly, and I remember that I beat a drum at 
 the coffin of my own father). M}^ Lady Viscountess looked 
 out at the two boys at their game and said — ' You see, sir, 
 children are taught to use weapons of death as toys, and to 
 make a sport of murder ; ' and as she spoke she looked so 
 lovel}^ and stood there in herself so sad and beautiful, an in- 
 stance of that doctrine whereof I am a humble preacher, that 
 had I not dedicated m}^ little volume of the ' Christian Hero ' 
 ■ — (I perceive, Harr}^, thou hast not cut the leaves of it. The 
 sermon is good, believe me, though the preacher's life may not 
 answer it) — I say, hadn't I dedicated the volume to Lord 
 
154 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Cutts, I would have asked permission to place her ladyship's 
 name on the first page. I think I never saw such a beautiful 
 violet as that of her eyes, Harr}^ Her complexion is of the 
 pink of the blush-rose, she hath an exquisite turned wrist and 
 dimpled hand, and I make no doubt — " 
 
 "• Did 3^ou come to tell me about the dimples on m}' lady's 
 hand?" broke out Mr. Esmond, sadly. 
 
 " A lovely creature in affliction seems alwa^'s doubly beau- 
 tiful to me," says the poor Captain, who indeed was but too 
 often in a state to see double, and so checked he resumed the 
 interrupted thread of his stor}-. '' As I spoke my business," 
 Mr. Steele said, '' and narrated to 3'our mistress what all the 
 world knows, and the other side hath been eager to acknowledge 
 — that you had tried to put j'ourself between the two lords, 
 and to take 3'our patron's quarrel on your own point ; I re- 
 counted the general praises of 3^our gallantry, besides m^' Lord 
 Mohun's particular testimou}- to it ; I thought the widow list- 
 ened with some interest, and her eyes — I have never seen 
 such a violet, Harry — looked up at mine once or twice. But 
 after I had spoken on this theme for a while she suddenly broke 
 away with a cry of grief. ' I would to God, sir,' she said, ' I 
 had never heard that word gallantry which you use, or known 
 the meaning of it. M3' lord might have been here but for that ; 
 my home might be happy; mj^ poor boy have a father. It 
 was what 3'ou gentlemen call gallantr3' came into my home, 
 and drove my husband on to the cruel sword that killed him. 
 You should not speak the word to a Christian woman, sir, a 
 poor widowed mother of orphans, whose home was happ3' until 
 the world came into it — the wicked godless world, that takes 
 the blood of the innocent, and lets the guilt3^ go free.' 
 
 "As the afflicted lady spoke in this strain, sir," Mr. Steele 
 continued, " it seemed as if indignation moved her, even more 
 than grief. ' Compensation ! ' she went on passionate^, her 
 cheeks and e3'es kindling ; ' what compensation does 3''0ur world 
 give the widow for her husband, and the children for the mur- 
 derer of their father? The wretch who did the deed has not 
 even a punishment. Conscience ! what conscience has he, 
 who can enter the house of a friend, whisper falsehood and 
 insult to a woman that never harmed him, and stab the kind 
 heart that trusted him? M3' Lord — my Lord Wretch's, my 
 Lord Villain's, m3^ Lord Murderer's peers meet to try him, and 
 the3'^ dismiss him with a word or two of reproof and send him 
 into the world again, to pursue women with lust and falsehood, 
 and to murder unsuspecting guests that harbor him. That 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 155 
 
 daj, my Lord — m}^ Lord Murderer — (I will never name him) 
 — was let loose, a w€^man was executed at Tj^burn for stealing 
 in a shop. But a man ma}" rob another of his life, or a lady 
 of her honor, and shall pay no penalty ! I take m^^ child, run 
 to the throne, and on my knees ask for justice, and the King 
 refuses me. The King ! he is no king of mine — he never shall 
 be. He, too, robbed the throne from the king his father — the 
 true king — and he has gone unpunished, as the great do.' 
 
 ''I then thought to speak for you," Mr. Steele continued, 
 "and I interposed by saying, 'There was one, madam, who, 
 at least, would have put his own breast between your husband's 
 and my Lord Mohun's sword. Your poor young kinsman, 
 Harry Esmond, hath told me that he tried to draw the quarrel 
 on himself 
 
 " ' Are 3-0U come from himV asked the lady (so Mr. Steele 
 went on) rising up with a great severity and stateliness. ' I 
 thought you had come from the Princess. I saw Mr. Esmond 
 in his prison, and bade him farewell. He brought misery into 
 my house. He never should have entered it.' 
 
 '' ' Madam, madam, he is not to blame,' I interposed," con- 
 tinued Mr. Steele. 
 
 "'Do I blame him to you, sir?' asked the widow. 'If 
 'tis he who sent you, say that I have taken counsel, where' — 
 she spoke with a very pallid cheek now, and a break in her 
 voice — ' where all who ask may have it ; — and that it bids 
 me to part from him, and to see him no more. We met in the 
 prison for the last time — at least for years to come. It ma}'' 
 be, in years hence, when — when our knees and our tears and 
 our contrition have changed our sinful hearts, sir, and wrought 
 our pardon, we may meet again — but not now. After what 
 has passed, I could not bear to see him. I wish him well, sir ; 
 but"! wish him farewell, too ; and if he has that — that regard 
 towards us which he speaks of, I beseech him to prove it by 
 obeying me in this.' 
 
 "'I shall break the young man's heart, madam, by this 
 hard sentence,' " Mr. Steele said. 
 
 " The lady shook her head," continued my kind scholar. 
 *' ' The hearts of young men, Mr. Steele, are not so made,' 
 she said. ' Mr. Esmond will find other — other friends. The 
 mistress of this house has relented very much towards the late 
 lord's son,' she added, with a blush, ' and has promised me, 
 that is, has promised that she will care for his fortune. Whilst 
 I live in it, after the horrid horrid deed which has passed. 
 Castle wood must never be a home to him — never. Nor would 
 
156 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 I have him write to me — except — no — I would have him 
 never write to me, nor see him more. Give him, if 3'ou will, 
 m}^ parting — Hush ! not a word of this before my daughter.' 
 
 " Here the fair Beatrix entered from the river, with her 
 cheeks flushing with health, and looking only the more lovely 
 and fresh for the mourning habiliments which she wore. And 
 my Lady Viscountess said — 
 
 "'Beatrix, this is Mr. Steele, gentleman-usher to the 
 Prince's Highness. When does your new comedy appear, Mr. 
 Steele ? ' I hope thou wilt be out of prison for the first night, 
 Harry." 
 
 The sentimental Captain concluded his sad tale, sa3dng, 
 "Faith, the beauty of FiUa pulcrior drove 'pulcram matrem out 
 of my head ; and 3'et as I came down the river, and thought 
 about the pair, the pallid dignity and exquisite grace of the 
 matron had the uppermost, and I thought her even more noble 
 than the virgin ! " 
 
 The party of prisoners lived very well in Newgate, and with 
 comforts very different to those which were awarded to the 
 poor wretches there (his insensibility to their misery, their 
 gayet}' still more frightful, their curses and blasphemy, hath 
 struck with a kind of shame since — as proving how selfish, 
 during his imprisonment, his own particular grief was, and how 
 entirel}' the thoughts of it absorbed him) : if the three gentle- 
 men lived well under the care of the Warden of Newgate, it 
 was because they paid well : and indeed the cost at the dearest 
 ordinary or the grandest tavern in London could not have 
 furnished a longer reckoning, than our host of the " Handcuff 
 Inn " — as Colonel Westburj' called it. Our rooms were the 
 three in the gate over Newgate — on the second story looking 
 up Newgate Street towards Cheapside and Paul's Church. And 
 we had leave to walk on the roof, and could see thence Smith- 
 field and the Bluecoat Bo3's' School, Gardens, and the Char- 
 treux, where, as Harry Esmond remembered, Dick the Scholar, 
 and his friend Tom Tusher, had had their schooling. 
 
 Harry could never have paid his share of that prodigious 
 heav}" reckoning which my landlord brought to his guests once 
 a week : for he had but three pieces in his pockets that fatal 
 night before the duel, when the gentlemen were at cards, and 
 oflfered to play five. But whilst he was yet ill at the Gate- 
 house, after Lady Castle wood had visited him there, and before 
 his trial, there came one in an orange-tawny coat and blue lace, 
 the livery which the Esmonds always wore, and brought a 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 157 
 
 sealed packet for Mr. Esmond, which contained twenty guineas, 
 and a note sa3'ing that a counsel had been appointed for him, 
 and that more money would be forthcoming whenever he 
 needed it. 
 
 'Twas a queer letter from the scholar as she was, or as she 
 called herself: the Dowager Viscountess Castlewood, written 
 in the strange barbarous French which she and many other fine 
 ladies of that time — witness her Grace of Portsmouth — em- 
 ployed. Indeed, spelling was not an article of general com- 
 modity in the world tlien, and my Lord Marlborough's letters 
 can show that he, for one, had but a little share of this part 
 of grammar ; — 
 
 " MoxG CoussiN," my Lady Viscountess Dowager wrote, " je seay que 
 vous vous etes bravement batew et grievement ble'ssay — du coste' de feu 
 M. le Vicomte. M. le Compte de Varique ne se playt qua parlay de vous : 
 M. de Moon au9y. II di que vous avay voulew vous bastre avecque luy 
 — que vous estes plus fort que luy fur I'ayscrimme — quil'y a surtout cer- 
 taine Botte que vous scavay quil n'a jamniay sceu pariay : et que e'en eut 
 ete fay de luy si vouseluy vous vous f ussiay battevvs ansanib. Aincy ce 
 pauv Vicompte est mort. Mort et peutay t — Mon coussin, mon coussin ! 
 jay dans la tayste que vous n'estes quung pety Monst — angcy que les 
 Esmonds ong tousjours este. La veuve est chay moy. J'ay recuilly cet' 
 pauve famme. Elle est furieuse cont vous, allans tons les jours chercher 
 ley Roy (d'icy) de'mandant a gran cri revanche pour son Mary. Elle ne 
 veux voyre ni entende parlay de vous : pourtant elle ne fay qu'en parlay 
 milfoy par jour. Quand vous seray hor prison venay me voyre. J'auray 
 soing de vous. Si cette petite Prude veut se de'faire de song pety Monste 
 (Helas je craing qiiil ne soy trotar !) je m'en chargeray. J'ay encor quelqu 
 interay et quelques escus de costay. 
 
 " La Veuve se raccommode avec Miladi Marlboro qui est tout pui^ante 
 avecque la Reine Anne. Cet dam sente'raysent pour la petite prude ; qui 
 pourctant a un fi du mesme asge que vous savay. 
 
 " En sortant de prisong venez icy. Je ne puy vous recevoir chaymoy 
 k cause des mechansetes du monde, may pre du moy vous aurez logement. 
 
 " ISABELLE ViCOMTESSE d'EsMOND." 
 
 IN^rchioness of Esmond this lad}' sometimes called herself, 
 in virtue of that patent which had been given by the late King 
 James to Harry Esmond's father ; and in this state she had 
 her train carried by a knight's wife, a cup and cover of assay 
 to drink from, and fringed cloth. 
 
 He who was of the same age as little Francis, whom we 
 shall henceforth call Viscount Castlewood here, was H. R. H. 
 the Prince of Wales, born in the same year and month with 
 Frank, and just proclaimed at Saint Germains, King of Great 
 Britain, France, and Ireland. 
 
158 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I TAKE THE QUEEN's PAY IN QUIN'S REGIMENT. 
 
 The fellow in the orange- tawny livery with blue lace and 
 facings was in waiting when Esmond came out of prison, and, 
 taking the 3'oung gentleman's slender baggage, led the way out 
 of that odious Newgate, and by Fleet Conduit, down to the 
 Thames, where a pair of oars was called, and they went up 
 the river to Chelsey. Esmond thought the sun had never 
 shone so bright ; nor the air felt so fresh and exhilarating. 
 Temple Garden, as they rowed by, looked like the, garden of 
 Eden to him, and the aspect of the quays, wharves, and build- 
 ings by the river, Somerset House, and Westminster (where 
 the splendid new bridge was just beginning), Lambeth tower 
 and palace, and that busy shining scene of the Thames 
 swarming with boats and barges, filled his heart with pleasure 
 and cheerfulness — as well such a beautiful scene might to one 
 who had been a prisoner so long, and with so many dark 
 thoughts deepening the gloom of his captivity. They rowed 
 up at length to the pretty village of Chelse}^, where the nobility 
 have many handsome country-houses ; and so came to my 
 Lady Viscountess's house, a cheerful new house in the row 
 facing the river, with a handsome garden behind it, and a 
 pleasant look-out both towards Surrej' and Kensington, where 
 stands the noble ancient palace of the Lord Warwick, Harr3''s 
 reconciled adversary. 
 
 Here in her ladyship's saloon, the young man saw again 
 some of those pictures which had been at Castlewood, and 
 which she had removed thence on the death of her lord, 
 Harry's father. Specially, and in the place of honor, was 
 Sir Peter Lely's picture of the Honorable Mistress Isabella 
 Esmond as Diana, in yellow satin, with a bow in her hand and 
 a crescent in her forehead ; and dogs frisking about her. 
 'Twas painted about the time when royal Endymions were said 
 to find favor with this virgin huntress ; and, as goddesses 
 have youth perpetual, this one believed to the day of her 
 death that she never grew older: and always persisted in 
 supposing the picture was still like her. 
 
 After he had been shown to her room by the groom of 
 the chamber, who filled many ofiSces besides in her lady- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 159 
 
 ship's modest household, and after a proper interval, his 
 elderly goddess Diana vouchsafed to appear to the young man. 
 A blackamoor in a Turkish habit, with red boots and a silver 
 collar, on which the Viscountess's arms were engraven, pre- 
 ceded her and bore her cushion ; then came her gentlewoman ; 
 a little pack of spaniels barking and frisking about preceded 
 the austere huntress — then, behold, the Viscountess herself 
 " dropping odors." Esmond recollected from his childhood 
 that rich aroma of musk which his mother-in-law (for she 
 may be called so) exhaled. As the sky grows redder and 
 redder towards sunset, so, in the decline of her years, the 
 cheeks of m}^ Lady Dowager blushed more deepl}'. Her face 
 was illuminated with vermilion, which ax)peared the brighter 
 from the white paint employed to set it off. She wore the 
 ringlets which had been in fashion in King Charles's time ; 
 whereas the ladies of King William's had head-dresses like the 
 towers of Cybele. Her e^'es gleamed out from the midst of 
 this queer structure of paint, dyes, and pomatums. Such was 
 my Lady Viscountess, Mr. Esmond's father's widow. 
 
 He made her such a profound bow as her dignity and rela- 
 tionship merited, and advanced with the greatest gravity, and 
 once more kissed that hand, upon the trembling knuckles of 
 which glittered a score of rings — remembering old times when 
 that trembling hand made him tremble. "• Marchioness," says 
 he, bowing, and on one knee, "is it only the hand I may 
 have the honor of saluting ? " For, accompanying that inward 
 laughter, which the sight of such an astonishing old figure 
 might well produce in the young man, there was good will too, 
 and the kindness of consanguinity. She had been his father's 
 wife, and was his grandfather's daughter. She had suflf'ered 
 him in old days, and was kind to him now after her fashion. 
 And now that bar- sinister was removed from Esmond's thought, 
 and "that secret opprobrium no longer cast upon his mind, he 
 was pleased to feel family ties and own them — perhaps secretly 
 vain of the sacrifice he had made, and to think that he, Es- 
 mond, was really the chief of his house, and only prevented by 
 his own magnanimit}" from advancing his claim. 
 
 At least, ever since he had learned that secret from his poor 
 patron on his dying bed, actually as he was standing beside it, 
 he had felt an independency which he had never known before, 
 and which since did not desert him. So he called his old aunt 
 Marchioness, but with an air as if he was the Marquis of 
 Esmond who so addressed her. 
 
 Did she read in the young gentleman's eyes, which had now 
 
160 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 no fear of hers or their superannuated authority, that he knew 
 or suspected the truth about his birth? She gave a start of 
 surprise at his altered manner : indeed, it was quite a different 
 bearing to that of the Cambridge student who had paid her a 
 visit two years since, and whom she had dismissed with five 
 pieces sent by the groom of the chamber. She eyed him, then 
 trembled a little more than was her w^ont, perhaps, and said, 
 '' WelcoQie, cousin," in a frightened voice. 
 
 His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite 
 different, namely, so to bear himself through hfe as if the 
 secret of his birth was not known to him ; but he suddenly and 
 rightl}^ determined on a different course. He asked that her 
 ladyship's attendants should be dismissed, and when they 
 were private — " Welcome, nephew, at least, madam, it should 
 be," he said. "A great wrong has been done to me and to 
 you, and to my poor mother, who is no more." 
 
 " I declare before heaven that I was guiltless of it," she 
 cried out, giving up her cause at once. " It was your wicked 
 father who — " 
 
 " Who brought this dishonor on our famil}^," says Mr. 
 Esmond. "I know it full well. I want to disturb no one. 
 Those who are in present possession have been my dearest 
 benefactors, and are quite innocent of intentional wrong to 
 me. The late lord, my dear patron, knew not the truth 
 until a few months before his death, when Father Holt 
 brought the new^s to him." 
 
 ' ' The wretch ! he had it in confession ! he had it in con- 
 fession ! " cried out the Dowager Lady. 
 
 "Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confes- 
 sion," Mr. Esmond answered. " My father, when wounded 
 at the Boyne, told the truth to a French priest, who was in 
 hiding after the battle, as well as to the priest there, at whose 
 house he died. This gentleman did not think fit to divulge 
 the story till he met with Mr. Holt at Saint Omer's. And 
 the latter kept it back for his own purpose, and until he had 
 learned whether my mother was alive or no. She is dead 
 years since, my poor patron told me with his d3ing breath, 
 and I doubt him not. I do not know even whether I could 
 prove a marriage. I would not if I could. I do not care to 
 bring shame on our name, or grief upon those whom I love, 
 however hardl}^ the}' may use me. My father's son, madam, 
 won't aggravate the wrong my father did 3'ou. Continue to be 
 his widow, and give me your kindness. 'Tis all I ask from 
 you ; and I shall never speak of this matter again." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 161 
 
 ''Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme ! " breaks out my 
 \sidy, speaking, as usual with her when she was agitated, in 
 the French language. 
 
 ''Noblesse oblige," says Mr. Esmond, making her a low 
 bow. '' There are those alive to whom, in return for their love 
 to me, I often fondly said I would give my life away. Shall I 
 be their enemy now, and quarrel about a title? What matters 
 who has it? 'Tis with the family still." 
 
 ' ' What can there be in that little prude of a woman that 
 makes men so raffoler about her ? " cries out mj' Lad}^ Dowager. 
 " She was here for a month petitioning the King. She is pretty, 
 and well conserved ; but she has not the bel air. In his late 
 Majesty's Court all the men pretended to admire her, and she 
 was no better than a httle wax doll. She is better now, and 
 looks the sister of her daughter ; but what mean you all by 
 bepraising her? Mr. Steele, who was in waiting on Prince 
 George, seeing her with her two children going to Kensington, 
 writ a poem about her, and savs he shall wear her colors, and 
 dress in black for the future. Mr. Congreve says he will write 
 a ' Mourning Widow,' that shall be better than his ' Mourning 
 Bride.' Though their husbands quarrelled and fought when 
 that wretch Churchill deserted the King (for which he deserved 
 to be hung). Lady Marlborough has again gone wild about the 
 little widow ; insulted me in my own drawing-room, by sajing 
 'twas not the old widow, but the young Viscountess, she had 
 (jome to see. Little Castle wood and little Lord Churchill are 
 to be sworn friends, and have boxed each other twice or thrice 
 like brothers already. 'Twas that wicked young Mohun who, 
 coming back from the provinces last year, where he had disin- 
 terred her, raved about her all the winter ; said she was a pearl 
 set before swine ; and killed poor stupid Frank. The quarrel 
 was all about his wife. I know 'twas all about her. Was 
 there anything between her and Mohun, nephew? Tell me 
 now — was there anything ? About yourself, I do not ask you 
 to answer questions." 
 
 Mr. Esmond blushed up. " My lady's virtue is like that of 
 a saint in heaven, madam," he cried out. 
 
 "Eh! — mon neveu. Man}^ saints get to heaven after 
 having a deal to repent of. I believe you are like all the rest 
 of the fools, and madly in love with her." 
 
 "Indeed, I loved and honored her before all the world,'* 
 Esmond answered. " I take no shame in that." 
 
 ' ' And she has shut her door on you — given the living to 
 that horrid young cub, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher, and 
 
 11 
 
162 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 says she will never see you more. Monsieur mon neveu — we 
 are all like that. When I was a young woman, I'm positive 
 that a thousand duels were fought about me. And when poor 
 Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself in the canal at Bruges be- 
 cause I danced with Count Springbock, I couldn't squeeze out a 
 single tear, but danced till five o'clock the next morning. 'Twas 
 the Count — no, 'twas my Lord Ormond that played the fiddles, 
 and his Majest}^ did me the honor of dancing all night with 
 me. — How 3'ou are grown ! You have got the bel air. You 
 are a black man. Our Esmonds are all black. The little 
 prude's son is fair; so was his father — fair and stupid. You 
 were an ugl}^ little wretch when you came to Castlewood — you 
 were all eyes, like a young crow. We intended joxx should be 
 a priest. That awful Father Holt — how he used to frighten 
 me when I was 'ill ! I have a comfortable director now — the 
 Abbe Douillette — a dear man. We make meagre on Fridays 
 always. My cook is a devout pious man. You, of course, 
 are of the right way of thinking. The}^ say the Prince of 
 Orange is very ill indeed." 
 
 In this way the old Dowager rattled on remorselessly to Mr. 
 Esmond, who was quite astounded with her present volubility, 
 contrasting it with her former haughty behavior to him. But 
 she had taken him into favor for the moment, and chose not 
 only to like him, as far as her nature permitted, but to be afraid 
 of him ; and he found himself to be as familiar with her now as 
 a young man, as, when a bo}^, he had been timorous and silent. 
 She was as good as her word respecting him. She introduced 
 him to her company, of which she entertained a good deal — 
 of the adherents of King James of course — and a great deal 
 of loud intriguing took place over her card-tables. She pre- 
 sented Mr. Esmond as her kinsman to manj^ persons of honor ; 
 she supplied him not illiberally with money, which he had no 
 scruple in accepting from her, considering the relationship 
 which he bore to her, and the sacrifices which he himself was 
 making in behalf of the family. But he had made up his mind 
 to continue at no woman's apron-strings longer ; and perhaps 
 had cast about how he should distinguish himself, and make 
 himself a name, which his singular fortune had denied him. 
 A discontent with his former bookish life and quietude, — a 
 bitter feeling of revolt at that slavery in which he had chosen 
 to confine himself for the sake of those whose hardness towards 
 him make his heart bleed, — a restless wish to see men and the 
 world, — led him to think of the military profession : at anj' 
 rate, to desire to see a few campaigns, and accordingly he 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 163 
 
 pressed his new patroness to get him a pair of coloi^ ; and one 
 day had the honor of finding himself appointed an ensign in 
 Colonel Qtiin's regiment of Fusileers on the Irish establishment. 
 Mr. Esmond's commission was scarce three weeks old when 
 that accident befell King William which ended the life of the 
 greatest, the wisest, the bravest, and most clement sovereign 
 whom England ever knew. 'Twas the fashion of the hostile 
 party to assail this great prince's reputation during his life ; 
 but the joy which they and all his enemies in Europe showed 
 at his death, is a proof of the terror in which they held him. 
 Young as Esmond was, he was wise enough (and generous 
 enough too, let it be said) to scorn that indecency of gratula- 
 tion which broke out amongst the followers of King James in 
 London, upon the death of this illustrious prince, this invincible 
 warrior, this wise and moderate statesman. Loyalty to the 
 exiled king's famil}' was traditional, as has been said, in that 
 house to which Mr. Esmond belonged. His father's widow 
 had all her hopes, sympathies, recollections, prejudices, en^ged 
 on King James's side ; and was certainly as noisy a conspirator 
 as ever asserted the King's rights, or abused his opponent's, 
 over a quadrille table or a dish of bohea. Her ladyship's house 
 swarmed with ecclesiastics, in disguise and out ; with tale- 
 bearers from St. Germains ; and quidnuncs that knew the last 
 news from Versailles ; nay, the exact force and number of the 
 next expedition which the French king was to send from Dun- 
 kirk, and which was to swallow up the Prince of Orange, his 
 army and his court. She had received the Duke of Berwick 
 when he landed here in '96. She kept the glass he drank from, 
 vowing she never would use it till she drank King James the 
 Third's health in it on his Majesty's return ; she had tokens 
 from the Queen, and rehcs of the saint who, if the story was 
 true, had not alwa3's been a saint as far as she and many others 
 were concerned. She believed in the miracles wrought at his 
 tomb, and had a hundred authentic stories of wondrous cures 
 effected by the blessed king's rosaries, the medals which he 
 wore, the locks of his hair, or what not. Esmond remembered 
 a score of marvellous tales which the credulous old woman told 
 him. There was the Bishop of Autun, that was healed of a 
 malady he had for forty years, and which left him after he said 
 mass for the repose of the king's soul. There was M. Marais, 
 a surgeon in Auvergne, who had a palsy in both his legs, which 
 was cured through the king's intercession. There was Phihp 
 Pitet, of tlie Benedictines, who had a suffocating cough, which 
 wellnigh killed him, but he besought relief of heaven through 
 
164 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the merits and intercession of the blessed king, and he straight- 
 way felt a profuse sweat breaking out all over him, and was 
 recovered perfectl}^ And there was the wife of Mons. Leper- 
 vier, dancing-master to the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, who was 
 entirely eased of a rheumatism by the king's intercession, of 
 which miracle there could be no doubt, for her surgeon and his 
 apprentice had given their testimony, under oath, that they did 
 not in an}' wa}' contribute to the cure. Of these tales, and a 
 thousand like them, Mr. Esmond believed as much as he chose. 
 His kinswoman's greater faith had swallow for them all. 
 
 The English High Church party did not adopt these legends. 
 But truth and honor, as the}^ thought, bound them to the ex- 
 iled king's side ; nor had the banished family any warmer sup- 
 porter than that kind lady of Castlewood, in whose house 
 Esmond was brought up. She influenced her husband, very 
 much more perhaps than my lord knew, who admired his wife 
 prodigiously though he might be inconstant to her, and who, 
 adverse to the trouble of thinking himself, gladly enough adopted 
 the opinions which she chose for him. To one of her simple 
 and faithful heart, allegiance to any sovereign but the one was 
 impossible. To serve King William for interest's sake would 
 have been a monstrous hypocrisy and treason. Her pure con- 
 science could no more have consented to it than to a theft, a 
 forger}', or any other base action. Lord Castlewood might 
 have been won over, no doubt, but his wife never could : and 
 he submitted his conscience to hers in this case as he did in 
 most others, when he was not tempted too sorely. And it 
 was from his affection and gratitude most likely, and from that 
 eager devotion for his mistress, which characterized all Es- 
 mond's youth, that the young man subscribed to this, and 
 other articles of faith, which his fond benefactress set him. 
 Had she been a Whig, he had been one ; had she followed Mr. 
 Fox, and turned Quaker, no doubt he would have abjured 
 ruffles and a periwig, and have forsworn swords, lace-coats, 
 and clocked stockings. In the scholars' boyish disputes at the 
 Universit}', where parties ran very high, Esmond was noted as 
 a Jacobite, and very Hkely from vanity as much as affection 
 took the side of his family. 
 
 Almost the whole of the clergy of the country and more 
 than a half of the nation were on this side. Ours is the most 
 loyal people in the world surely ; we admire our kings, and are 
 faithful to them long after they have ceased to be true to us. 
 *Tis a wonder to any one who looks back at the histor}^ of the 
 Stuart family to think how they kicked their crowns away from 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 165 
 
 them ; how they flung away chances after chances ; what treas- 
 ures of loyalty they dissipated, and how fatally they were bent 
 on consummating their own ruin. If ever men had fidelity, 
 'twas they ; if ever men squandered opportunity, 'twas they ; 
 and, of all the enemies they had, they themselves were the 
 most fatal.* 
 
 When the Princess Anne succeeded, the wearied nation was 
 glad enough to cry a truce from all these wars, controversies, 
 and conspiracies, and to accept in the person of a Princess of 
 the blood royal a compromise between the parties into which 
 the countr}^ was divided. The Tories could serve under her 
 with easy consciences ; though a Tory herself, she represented 
 the triumph of the Whig opinion. The people of England, 
 always liking that their Princes should be attached to their 
 own families, were pleased to think the Princess was faithful 
 to hers ; and up to the very last day and hour of her reign, 
 and but for that fatality which he inherited from his fathers 
 along with their claims to the English crown. King James the 
 Third might have worn it. But he neither knew how to wait 
 an opportunity, nor to use it when he had it ; he was venture- 
 some when he ought to have been cautious, and cautious when 
 he ought to have dared everything. 'Tis with a sort of rage at 
 his inaptitude that one thinks of his melancholj^ story. Do the 
 Fates deal more specially with kings than with common men? 
 One is apt to imagine so, in considering the history of that 
 royal race, in whose behalf so much fideUt}*, so much valor, so 
 much blood were desperately and bootlessly expended. 
 
 The King dead then, the Princess Anne (ugly Anne Hyde's 
 daughter, our Dowager at Chelsey called her) was proclaimed 
 by trumpeting heralds all over the town from Westminster to 
 Ludgate Hill, amidst immense jubilations of the people. 
 
 Next week my Lord Marlborough was promoted to the 
 Garter, and to be Captain-General of her Majesty's forces at 
 home and abroad. This appointment onl}^ inflamed the Dow- 
 ager's rage, or, as she thought it, her fidelity to her rightful 
 sovereign. "The Princess is but a puppet in the hands of 
 that fury of a woman, who comes into my drawing-room and 
 insults me to m}' face. What can come to a country that is 
 given over to such a woman?" says the Dowager: "As for 
 that double-faced traitor, my Lord Marlborough, he has be- 
 traj'ed every man and everj^ woman with whom he has had to 
 
 * ''Cl ttSttoi, oiov Stj vv Q^ovs $poTol alriSwurai^ 
 €| T]fi4<au yap <paal Aca/c' ^fiixevai, ol 5e Kal avroi 
 acpi^aiy a.Ta<rda\i7)criv vir^p /j,6pov dAye' exovaiy. 
 
166 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 deal, except his horrid wife, who makes him tremble. 'Tis all 
 over with the country when it has got into the clutches of such 
 wretches as these." 
 
 Esmond's old kinswoman saluted the new powers in this 
 way ; but some good fortune at last occurred to a family which 
 stood in great need of it, by the advancement of these famous 
 personages who benefited humbler people that had the luck of 
 being in their favor. Before Mr. Esmond left England in the 
 month of August, and being then at Portsmouth, where he had 
 joined his regiment, and was busy at drill, learning the practice 
 and mysteries of the musket and pike, he heard that a pension 
 on the Stamp Office had been got for his late beloved mistress, 
 and that the young Mistress Beatrix was also to be taken into 
 court. So much good, at least, had come of the poor widow's 
 visit to London, not revenge upon her husband's enemies, 
 but reconcilement to old friends, who pitied, and seemed in- 
 clined to serve her. As for the comrades in prison and the 
 late misfortune, Colonel Westbury was with the Captain-General 
 gone to Holland ; Captain Macartne}^ was now at Portsmouth, 
 with his regiment of Fusileers and the force under command of 
 his Grace the Duke of Ormond, bound for Spain it was said ; 
 my Lord Warwick was returned home ; and Lord Mohun, so 
 far from being punished for the homicide which had brought so 
 much grief and change into the Esmond family, was gone in 
 company of my Lord Macclesfield's splendid embassy to the 
 Elector of Hanover, carrying the Garter to his Highness, and 
 a complimentary letter from the Queen. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 RECAPITULATIONS. 
 
 From such fitful lights as could be cast upon his dark history 
 by the broken narrative of his poor patron, torn by remorse and 
 struggling in the last pangs of dissolution, Mr. Esmond had been 
 made to understand so far, that his mother was long since dead ; 
 and so there could be no question as regarded her or her honor, 
 tarnished by her husband's desertion and injury, to infiuence 
 her son in any steps which he might take either for prosecuting 
 or relinquishing his own just claims. It appeared from my poor 
 lord's hurried confession, that he had been made acquainted with 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 167 
 
 the real facts of the case only two years since, when Mr. Holt 
 visited him, and would have implicated him in one of those 
 man}' conspiracies by which the secret leaders of King James's 
 part}' in this country were ever endeavoring to destroy the 
 Prince of Orange's life or power : conspiracies so like murder, 
 so cowardly in the means used, so wicked in the end, that our 
 nation has sure done well in throwing off all allegiance and 
 fidelity to the unhappy family that could not vindicate its right 
 except by such treachery — by such dark intrigue and base 
 agents. There were designs against King William that were no 
 more honorable than the ambushes of cut-throats and footpads. 
 'Tis humihating to think that a great Prince, possessor of a great 
 and sacred right, and upholder of a great cause, should have 
 stooped to such baseness of assassination and treasons as are 
 proved by the unfortunate King James's own warrant and sign 
 manual given to his supporters in this country. What he and 
 they called levying war was, in truth, no better than instigating 
 murder. The noble Prince of Orange burst magnanimously 
 through those feeble meshes of conspiracy in which his enemies 
 tried to envelop him : it seemed as if their cowardly daggers 
 broke upon the breast of his undaunted resolution. After King 
 James's death, the Queen and her people at St. Germains — 
 priests and women for the most part — continued their intrigues 
 in behalf of the young Prince, James the Third, as he was called 
 in France and by his party here (this Prince, or Chevalier de 
 St. George, was born in the same year with Esmond's young 
 pupil Frank, my Lord Viscount's son) ; and the Prince's affairs, 
 being in the hands of priests and women, were conducted as 
 priests and women will conduct them, artfully, cruelly, feebly, 
 and to a certain bad issue. The moral of the Jesuits' story I 
 think as wholesome a one as ever was writ : the artfullest, the 
 wisest, the most toilsome, and dexterous plot-builders in the 
 world — there always comes a day when the roused public indig- 
 nation kicks their flimsy edifice down, and sends its cowardly 
 enemies a-flying. Mr. Swift hath finely described that passion 
 for intrigue, that love of secrecy, slander, and lying, which be- 
 longs to weak people, hangers-on of weak courts. 'Tis the 
 nature of such to hate and envy the strong, and conspire their 
 ruin ; and the conspiracy succeeds very well, and everything 
 presages the satisfactory overthrow of the great victim ; until 
 one day Gulliver rouses himself, shakes off the little vermin 
 of an enemy, and walks away unmolested. Ah ! the Irish 
 soldiers might well say after the Boyne, "Change kings with 
 us and we will fight it over again." Indeed, the fight was not 
 
168 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 fair between the two. 'Twas a weak, priest-ridden, woman- 
 ridden man, with such puny allies and weapons as his own poor 
 nature led him to choose, contending against the schemes, 
 the generalship, the wisdom, and the heart of a hero. 
 
 On one of these many coward's errands then, (for, as I view 
 them now, I can call them no less,) Mr. Holt had come to my 
 lord at Castlewood, proposing some infallible plan for the Prince 
 of Orange's destruction, in which my Lord Viscount, loyalist as 
 he was, had indignantly refused to join. As far as Mr. Esmond 
 could gather from his dying words, Holt came to m}' lord with 
 a plan of insurrection, and offer of the renewal, in his person, 
 of that marquis's title which King James had conferred on the 
 preceding viscount ; and on refusal of tliis bribe, a threat was 
 made, on Holt's part, to upset my Lord Viscount's claim to 
 his estate and title of Castlewood altogether. To back this 
 astounding piece of intelligence, of which Henry Esmond's patron 
 now had the first light, Holt came armed with the late lord's 
 dying declaration, after the affair of the Boyne, at Trim, in Ire- 
 land, made both to the Irish priest and a French ecclesiastic of 
 Holt's order, that was with King James's arm}- . Holt showed, 
 or pretended to show, the marriage certificate of the late Vis- 
 count Esmond with my mother, in the city of Brussels, in the 
 year 1677, when the viscount, then Thomas Esmond, was serv- 
 ing with the English army in Flanders ; he could show, he said, 
 that this Gertrude, deserted by her husband long since, was 
 alive, and a professed nun in the 3'ear 1685, at Brussels, in 
 which 3'ear Thomas Esmond married his uncle's daughter, Isa- 
 bella, now called Viscountess Dowager of Castlewood ; and 
 leaving him, for twelve hours, to consider this astounding news 
 (so the poor d3'ing lord said) , disappeared with his papers in 
 the mysterious wsiy in which he came. Esmond knew how, 
 well enough : b}' that window from which he had seen the 
 Father issue : — but there was no need to explain to my poor 
 lord, onl}' to gather from his parting lips the words which he 
 would soon be able to utter no more. 
 
 Ere the twelve hours were over. Holt himself was a prisoner, 
 implicated in Sir John Fenwick's conspirac}', and locked up at 
 Hexton first, whence he was transferred to the Tower ; leaving 
 the poor Lord Viscount, who was not aware of the others being 
 taken, in daily apprehension of his return, when (as my Lord 
 Castlewood declared, calling God to witness, and with tears in 
 his dying eyes) it had been his intention at once to give up his 
 estate and his title to their proper owner, and to retire to his 
 own house at Walcote with his family. " And wouJd to God I 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 169 
 
 had done it," the poor lord said. " I would not be here now, 
 wounded to death, a miserable, stricken man ! " 
 
 M}' lord waited day after day, and, as may be supposed, no 
 messenger came ; but at a month's end Holt got means to con- 
 vey to him a message out of the Tower, wliich was to this 
 effect : that he should consider all unsaid that had been said, 
 and that things were as they were. 
 
 "I had a sore temptation," said m}' poor lord. " Since I 
 had come into this cursed title of Castlewood, which hath never 
 prospered with me, I have spent far more than the income of 
 that estate, and my paternal one, too. I calculated all my 
 means down to the last shilling, and found I never could pay 
 you back, my poor Harry, whose fortune I had had for twelve 
 years. My wife and children must have gone out of the house 
 dishonored, and beggars. God knows, it hath been a miserable 
 one for me, and mine. Like a coward, I clung to that respite 
 which Holt gave me. I kept the truth from Rachel and you. I 
 tried to win money of Mohun, and only plunged deeper into 
 debt ; I scarce dared look thee in the face when I saw thee. 
 This sword hath been hanging over my head these two years. 
 I swear I felt happy when Mohun's blade entered m}- side." 
 
 After lying ten months in the Tower, Holt, against whom 
 nothing could be found except that he was a Jesuit priest, known 
 to be in King James's interest, was put on shipboard by the 
 incorrigible forgiveness of King AYilliam, who promised him, 
 however, a hanging if ever he should again set foot on English 
 shore. More than once, whilst he was in prison himself, Esmond 
 had thought where those papers could be, which the Jesuit had 
 shown to his patron, and which had such an interest for himself. 
 The}' were not found on Mr. Holt's person when that Father 
 was apprehended, for had such been the case my Lords of the 
 Council had seen them, and this family history had long since 
 been made public. However, Esmond cared not to seek the 
 papers. His resolution being taken ; his poor mother dead ; 
 what matter to him that documents existed proving his right to 
 a title which he was determined not to claim, and of which he 
 vowed never to deprive that family which he loved best in the 
 world? Perhaps he took a greater pride out of his sacrifice 
 than he would have had in those honors which he was resolved 
 to forego. Again, as long as these titles were not forthcoming, 
 Esmond's kinsman, dear young Francis, was the honorable and 
 undisputed owner of the Castlewood estate and title. The mere 
 word of a Jesuit could not overset Frank's right of occupancy, 
 and so Esmond's mind felt actually at ease to think the papers 
 
170 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 were missing, and in their absence his dear mistress and her 
 son the lawful Lad}^ and Lord of Castle wood. 
 
 Very soon after his liberation, Mr. Esmond made it his busi- 
 ness to ride to that village of Ealing where he had passed his 
 earliest years in this country, and to see if his old guardians 
 were still alive and inhabitants of that place. But the onlj' re- 
 iique which he found of old M. Pastoureau was a stone in the 
 churchyard, which told that Athanasius Pastoureau, a native of 
 Flanders, lay there buried, aged 87 years. The old man's cot- 
 tage, which Esmond perfectly recollected, and the garden (where 
 in his childhood he had passed many hours of pla}^ and reverie, 
 and had many a beating from his termagant of a foster-mother) , 
 were now in the occupation of quite a different familj' ; and it 
 was with difficulty that he could learn in the village what had 
 come of Pastoureau's widow and children. The clerk of the 
 parish recollected her — the old man was scarce altered in the 
 fourteen years that had passed since last Esmond set eyes on 
 him. It appeared she had pretty soon consoled herself after 
 the death of her old husband, whom she ruled over, by taking 
 a new one younger than herself, who spent her money and ill- 
 treated her and her children. The girl died ; one of the bo3^s 
 'listed ; the other had gone apprentice. Old Mr. Rogers, the 
 clerk, said he had heard that Mrs. Pastoureau was dead too. 
 She and her husband had left Ealing this seven 3'ear ; and so 
 Mr. Esmond's hopes of gaining any information regarding his 
 parentage from this family were brought to an end. He gave 
 the old clerk a crown-piece for his news, smiling to think of the 
 time when he and his little playfellows had slunk out of the 
 church3^ard or hidden behind the gravestones, at the approach 
 of this awful authority. 
 
 Who was his mother? What had her name been? When 
 did she die ? Esmond longed to find some one who could answer 
 these questions to him, and thought even of putting them to 
 his aunt the Viscountess, who had innocently taken the name 
 which belonged of right to Henry's mother. But she knew 
 nothing, or chose to know nothing, on this subject, nor, indeed, 
 could Mr. Esmond press her much to speak on it. Father Holt 
 was the only man who could enlighten him, and Esmond felt he 
 must wait until some fresh chance or new intrigue might put 
 him face to face with his old friend, or bring that restless inde- 
 fatigable spirit back to England again. 
 
 The appointment to his ensigncy, and the preparations 
 necessar}' for the campaign, presently gave the young gentle- 
 man other matters to think of. His new patroness treated him 
 
TPIE HISTORY OF HET^RY ESMOND. 171 
 
 very kindly and liberally ; she promised to make interest and 
 pay money, too, to get him a compam' speedily ; she bade him 
 procure a handsome outfit, both of clothes and of arms, and 
 was pleased to admire him when he made his first appearance 
 in his laced scarlet coat, and to permit him to salute her on the 
 occasion of this interesting investiture. " Red," saj's she, toss- 
 ing up her old head, '' hath alwa3's been the color worn by the 
 Esmonds." And so her ladyship wore it on her own cheeks 
 very faithfulh' to the last. She would have him be dressed, she 
 said, as became his father's son, and paid cheerfully for his five- 
 pound beaver, his black buckled periwig, and his fine holland 
 shirts, and his swords, and his pistols, mounted with silver. 
 Since the day he was born, poor Harry had never looked such a 
 fine gentleman : his liberal step-mother filled his purse with guin- 
 eas, too, some of which Captain Steele and a few choice spirits 
 helped Harr}' to spend in an entertainment which Dick ordered 
 (and, indeed, w^ould have paid for, but that he had no money when 
 the reckoning was called for ; nor would the landlord give him 
 an}^ more credit) at the " Garter," over against the gate of the 
 Palace, in Pall Mall. 
 
 The old Viscountess, indeed, if she had done Esmond any 
 wrong formerly, seemed inclined to repair it b}' the present kind- 
 ness of her behavior : she embraced him copiously at parting, 
 wept plentifully, bade him write by every packet, and gave him 
 an inestimable rehc, which she besought him to wear round his 
 neck — a medal, blessed by I know not what pope, and worn 
 bj^ his late sacred Majestj^ King James. So Esmond arrived 
 at his regiment with a better equipage than most 3'oung officers 
 could afford. He was older than most of his seniors, and had 
 a further advantage which belonged but to very few of the army 
 gentlemen in his da}^ — man}^ of whom could do little more than 
 write their names — that he had read much, both at home and 
 at the University, was master of two or three languages, and 
 had that further education which neither books nor years will 
 give, but which some men get from the silent teaching of ad- 
 versit}^ She is a great schoolmistress, as man}^ a poor fellow 
 knows, that hath held his hand out to her ferule, and whimpered 
 over his lesson before her awful chair. 
 
172 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 I GO ON THE VIGO BAY EXPEDITION, TASTE SALT-WATER 
 AND SMELL POWDER. 
 
 The first expedition in which Mr. Esmond had the honor to 
 be engaged, rather resembled one of the invasions projected 
 by the redoubted Captain Avory or Captain Kidd, than a war 
 between crowned heads, carried on by generals of rank and 
 honor. On the 1st day of Jul3^, 1702, a great fleet, of a 
 hundred and fifty sail, set sail from Spithead, under the com- 
 mand of Admiral Shovell, having on board 12,000 troops, with 
 his Grace the Duke of Ormond as the Capt. -General of the 
 expedition. One of these 12,000 heroes having never been to 
 sea before, or, at least, only once in his infanc}^ when he made 
 the vojage to England from that unknown country where he 
 was born — one of those 12,000 — the junior ensign of Colonel 
 Quin's regiment of Fusileers — was in a quite unheroic state of 
 corporal prostration a few hours after sailing ; and an enemy, 
 had he boarded the ship, would have had easy work of him. 
 From Portsmouth we put into Plymouth, and took in fresh 
 reinforcements. We were off Finisterre on the 31st of July, 
 so Esmond's table-book informs him : and on the 8th of August 
 made the rock of Lisbon. By this time the Ensign was grown 
 as bold as an admiral, and a week afterwards had the fortune 
 to be under fire for the first time — and under water, too, — 
 his boat being swamped in the surf in Toros Ba}^, where the 
 troops landed. The ducking of his new coat was all the harm 
 the 3'oung soldier got in this expedition, for, indeed, the Span- 
 iards made no stand before our troops, and were not in strength 
 to do so. 
 
 But tlie campaign, if not very glorious, w^as very pleasant. 
 New sights of nature, by sea and land — a life of action, begin- 
 ning now for the first time — occupied and excited the 3'oung 
 man. The man}^ accidents, and the routine of shipboard — 
 the militar}" duty — the new acquaintances, both of his comrades 
 in arms, and of the officers of the fleet — served to cheer and 
 occupy his mind, and waken it out of that selfish depression 
 into which his late unhappy fortunes had plunged him. He 
 felt as if the ocean separated him from his past care, and wel- 
 comed the new era of life which was dawning for him. Abounds 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 173 
 
 heal rapid\y in a heart of two-and-twenty ; hopes revive daily ; 
 and courage rallies in spite of a man. Perhaps, as P]smond 
 thought of his late despondency and melancholy, and how 
 irremediable it had seemed to him, as he lay in his prison a 
 few months back, he was almost mortified in his secret mind at 
 finding himself so cheerful. 
 
 To see with one's own ej'es men and countries, is better than 
 reading all the books of travel in the world ; and it was with 
 extreme delight and exultation that the 3'oung man found him- 
 self actually on his grand tour, and in the view of people and 
 cities which he had read about as a boy. He beheld war for 
 the first time — the pride, pomp, and circumstance of it, at 
 least, if not much of the danger. He saw actually, and with 
 his own eyes, those Spanish cavaliers and ladies whom he had 
 beheld in imagination in that immortal story of Cervantes, 
 which had been the dehght of his youthful leisure. 'Tis forty 
 3^ears since Mr. Esmond witnessed those scenes, but thej^ remain 
 as fresh in his memory as on the day wlien first he saw them 
 as a young man. A cloud, as of grief, that had lowered over 
 him, and had wrapped the last 3'ears of his life in gloom, seemed 
 to clear awa}^ from Esmond during this fortunate voyage and 
 campaign. His energies seemed to awaken and to expand 
 under a cheerful sense of freedom. Was his heart secret!}" glad 
 to have escaped from that fond but ignoble bondage at home? 
 Was it that the inferiorit}" to which the idea of his base birth 
 had compelled him, vanished with the knowledge of that secret, 
 which though, perforce, kept to himself, was 3'et enough to 
 cheer and console him? At any rate, young Esmond of the 
 army was quite a different being to the sad httle dependant of 
 the kind Castlewood household, and the melancholy student of 
 Trinit}" Walks ; discontented with his fate, and with the voca- 
 tion into which that drove him, and thinking, with a secret 
 indignation, that the cassock and bands, and the very sacred 
 ofl3ce with which he had once proposed to invest himself, were, 
 in fact, but marks of a servitude which was to continue all his 
 life long. For, disguise it as he might to himself, he had all 
 along felt that to be Castlewood's chaplain was to be Castle- 
 wood's inferior still, and that his life was but to be a long, 
 hopeless servitude. So, indeed, he was far from grudging his 
 old filend Tom Tuslier's good fortune (as Tom, no doubt, 
 thought it). Had it been a mitre and Lambeth which his 
 friends ofl*ered him, and not a small living and a country par- 
 sonage, he would have felt as much a slave in one case as iu 
 the other, and was quite happy and thankful to be free. 
 
174 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESM0:N^D. 
 
 The bravest man I ever knew in the arm3% and who had been 
 present in most of King William's actions, as well as in the 
 campaigns of the great Duke of Marlborough, could never be 
 got to tell us of anj^ achievement of his, except that once Prince 
 Eugene ordered him up a tree to reconnoitre the enemj-, which 
 feat he could not achieve on account of the horseman's boots 
 he wore ; and on another day that he was very nearly taken 
 prisoner because of these jack-boots, which prevented him from 
 running away. The present narrator shall imitate this laudable 
 reserve, and doth not intend to dwell upon his militarj^ exploits, 
 which were in truth not very different from those of a thousand 
 other gentlemen. This first campaign of Mr. Esmond's lasted 
 but a few days ; and as a score of books have been written 
 concerning it, it may be dismissed very briefly here. 
 
 When our fleet came within view of Cadiz, our commander 
 sent a boat with a white flag and a couple of officers to the 
 Governor of Cadiz, Don Scipio de Brancaccio, with a letter 
 from his Grace, in which he hoped that as Don Scipio had 
 formerly served with the Austrians against the French, 'twas 
 to be hoped that his Excellency would now declare himself 
 against the French King, and for the Austrian in the war 
 between King Philip and King Charles. But his Excellency, 
 Don Scipio, prepared a reply, in which he announced that, 
 having served his former king with honor and fidelit}^, he hoped 
 to exhibit the same loyalty and devotion towards his present 
 sovereign, King PhiUp V. ; and by the time this letter was 
 ready, the two officers had been taken to see the town, and the 
 alameda, and the theatre, where bull-fights are fought, and the 
 convents, where the admirable works of Don Bartholomew 
 Murillo inspired one of them with a great wonder and delight 
 — such as he had never felt before — concerning this divine art 
 of painting ; and these sights over, and a handsome refection 
 and chocolate being served to the English gentlemen, they 
 were accompanied back to their shallop with every courtesy, 
 and were the only two officers of the English army that saw at 
 that time that famous city. 
 
 The general tried the power of another proclamation on the 
 Spaniards, in which he announced that we only came in the 
 interest of Spain and King Charles, and for ourselves wanted 
 to make no conquest nor settlement in Spain at all. But all 
 this eloquence was lost upon the Spaniards, it would seem : the 
 Captain-General of Andalusia would no more listen to us than 
 the Governor of Cadiz ; and in reply to his Grace's proclama- 
 tion, the Marquis of Villadarias fired off another, which those 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 175 
 
 who knew the Spanish thought rather the best of the two ; and 
 of this number was Harry Esmond, whose kind Jesuit in old 
 days had instructed him, and now had the honor of translating 
 for his Grace these harmless documents of war. There was a 
 hard touch for his Grace, and, indeed, for other generals in her 
 Majesty's service, in the concluding sentence of the Don : 
 " That he and his council had the generous example of their 
 ancestors to follow, who had never yet sought their elevation 
 in the blood or in the flight of their kings. ' Mori pro patria ' 
 was his device, which the Duke might communicate to the 
 Princess who governed England." 
 
 Whether, the troops were angry at this repartee or no, 'tis 
 certain something put them in a fury ; for, not being able to 
 get possession of Cadiz, our people seized upon Port Saint 
 Mary's and sacked it, burning down the merchants' storehouses, 
 getting drunk with the famous wines there, pillaging and rob- 
 bing quiet houses and convents, murdering and doing worse. 
 And the only blood which Mr. Esmond drew in this shameful 
 campaign, was the knocking down an English sentinel with a 
 half-pike, who was offering insult to a poor trembling nun. Is 
 she going to turn out a beaut}'? or a princess? or perhaps 
 Esmond's mother that he had lost and never seen ? Alas no, 
 it was but a poor wheezy old dropsical woman, with a wart 
 upon her nose. But having been esiiiy taught a part of the 
 Roman religion, he never had the horror of it that some Protes- 
 tants have shown, and seem to think to be a part of ours. 
 
 After the pillage and plunder of St. Mary's and an assault 
 upon a fort or two, the troops all took shipping, and finished 
 their expedition, at any rate, more brilliantly than it had begun. 
 Hearing that the French fleet with a great treasure was in Vigo 
 Bay, our Admirals, Rooke and Hopson, pursued the enemy 
 thither ; the troops landed and carried the forts that protected 
 the bay, Hopson passing the boom first on board his ship the 
 " Torbay," and the rest of the ships, English and Dutch, fol- 
 lowing him. Twenty ships were burned or taken in the Port 
 of Redondilla, and a vast deal more plunder than was ever 
 accounted for ; but poor men before that expedition were rich 
 afterwards, and so often was it found and remarked that the 
 Vigo officers came home with pockets full of money, that the 
 notorious Jack Shafto, who made such a figure at the coffee- 
 houses and gaming-tables in London, and gave out that he had 
 been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when he was about to be hanged, 
 that Bagshot Heath had been his Vigo, and that he only spoke 
 of La Redondilla to turn away people's eyes from the real place 
 
176 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 where the booty lay. Indeed, Hounslow or Vigo — which mat- 
 ters much ? The latter was a bad business, though Mr. Addison 
 did sing its praises in Latin. That honest gentleman's muse 
 had an e^'e to the main chance ; and I doubt whether she saw 
 much inspiration in the losing side. 
 
 But though Esmond, for his part, got no share of this fabu- 
 lous booty, one great prize which he had out of the campaign 
 was, that excitement of action and change of scene, which 
 shook off a great deal of his previous melancholy. He learnt 
 at any rate to bear his fate cheerfully. He brought back a 
 browned face, a heart resolute enough, and a little pleasant 
 store of knowledge and observation, from that expedition, wliich 
 was over with the autumn, when the troops were back in Eng- 
 land again ; and Ii^smond giving up his post of secretary to 
 General Lumley, whose command was over, and parting with 
 that officer with many kind expressions of good will on the 
 General's side, had leave to go to London, to see if he could 
 push his fortunes any way further, and found himself once more 
 in his dowager aunt's comfortable quarters at Chelsey, and in 
 greater favor than ever with the old lady. He propitiated her 
 with a present of a comb, a fan, and a black mantle, such as 
 the ladies of Cadiz wear, and which my Lady Viscountess pro- 
 nounced became her style of beauty mightily. And she was 
 greatily edified at hearing of that story of his rescue of the nun, 
 and felt very little doubt but that her King James's relic, which 
 he had alwa3^s dutifully worn in his desk, had kept him out of 
 danger, and averted the shot of the enemy. My lady made 
 feasts for him, introduced him to more company, and pushed 
 his fortunes with such enthusiasm and success, that she got a 
 promise of a company for him through the Lad}' Marlborough's 
 interest, who was graciousl}^ pleased to accept of a diamond 
 worth a couple of hundred guineas, which Mr. Esmond was ena- 
 bled to present to her lad3^ship through his aunt's bount}', and 
 who promised that she would take charge of Esmond's fortune. 
 He had the honor to make his appearance at the Queen's draw- 
 ing-room occasionally, and to frequent my Lord Marlborough's 
 levees. That great man received the young one with very espe- 
 cial favor, so Esmond's comrades said, and deigned to say that 
 he had received the best reports of Mr. Esmond, both for cour- 
 age and ability, whereon j^ou may be sure the young gentleman 
 made a profound bow, and expressed himself eager to serve 
 under the most distinguished captain in the world. 
 
 Whilst his business was going on thus prosperously, Esmond 
 had his share of pleasure too, and made his appearance along 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 177 
 
 with other young gentlemen at the coffee-houses, the theatres, 
 and the Mall. He longed to hear of his dear mistress and her 
 family : many a time, in the midst of the gayeties and pleasures 
 of the town, his heart fondl}" reverted to them ; and often as 
 the young fellows of his soeiet}' were making merry at the tav- 
 ern, and calling toasts (as the fashion of that day was) over 
 their wine, Esmond thought of persons — of two fair women, 
 whom he had been used to adore almost, and emptied his glass 
 with a sigh. 
 
 B}^ this time the elder Viscountess had grown tired again of 
 the 3'ounger, and whenever she spoke of my lord's widow, 'twas 
 in terms by no means complimentary towards that poor lad}* : 
 the younger woman not needing her protection any longer, the 
 elder abused her. Most of the family quarrels that I have seen 
 in life (saving always those arising from money disputes, when 
 a division of twopence halfpenny will often drive the dearest 
 relatives into war and estrangement,) spring out of jealousy 
 and envy. Jack and Tom, born of the same family and to the 
 same fortune, live ver}^ cordially together, not untilJack is ruined 
 when Tom deserts him, but until Tom makes a sudden rise in 
 prosperity, which Jack can't forgive. Ten times to one 'tis the i 
 unprosperous man that is angr}', not the other who is in fault. \ 
 'Tis Mrs. Jack, who can onl}" afford a chair, that sickens at 
 Mrs. Tom's new coach-and-sick, cries out against her sister's 
 airs, and sets her husband against his brother. 'Tis Jack who 
 sees his .brother shaking hands with a lord (with whom Jack 
 would like to exchange snuff-boxes himself) , that goes home and 
 tells his wife how poor Tom is spoiled, he fears, and no better 
 than a sneak, parasite, and beggar on horseback. I remember 
 how furious the coffee-house wits were with Dick Steele when he 
 set up his coach and fine house in Bloomsbur3' • they began to 
 forgive him when the bailiffs were after him, and abused Mr. 
 Addison for selUng Dick's country-house. And 3'et Dick in 
 the sponging-house, or Dick in the Park, with his four mares 
 and plated harness, was exactlj^ the same gentle, kindly, im- 
 provident, jovial Dick Steele : and 3'et Mr. Addison was per- 
 fectly right in getting the money which was his, and not giving 
 up the amount of his just claim, to be spent by Dick upon 
 champagne and fiddlers, laced clothes, fine furniture, and para- ; 
 sites, Jew and Christian, male and female, who clung to hircuy 
 As, according to the famous maxim of Monsieur de Rochefou- 
 cault, "in our friends' misfortunes there's something secretly 
 pleasant to us ; " so, on the other hand, their good fortune is 
 disagreeable. If 'tis hard for a man to bear his own good luck, 
 
178 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 'tis harder still for his friends to bear it for him ; and but few 
 of them ordinarily can stand that trial : whereas one of the 
 "precious uses" of adversit}^ is, that it is a great reconciler; 
 that it brings back averted kindness, disarms animosity, and 
 causes yesterday's enemy to fling his hatred aside, and hold out 
 a hand to the fallen friend of old days. There's pit}' and love, 
 as well as envy, in the same heart and towards the same per- 
 son. The rivaby stops when the competitor tumbles ; and, as 
 I view it, we should look at these agreeable and disagreeable 
 qualities of our humanity humbly alike. They are consequent 
 and natural, and our kindness and meanness both manl}*. 
 
 So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of Es- 
 mond's two kinswomen pardoned the 3^ounger her beaut}^, when 
 that had lost somewhat of its freshness, perhaps ; and forgot most 
 her grievances against the other, when the subject of them was 
 no longer prosperous and enviable ; or we ma}- say more benev- 
 olentl}^ (but the sum comes to the same figures, worked either 
 way,) that Isabella repented of her unkindness towards Rachel, 
 when Rachel was unhappj' ; and, bestirring herself in behalf of 
 the poor widow and her children, gave them shelter and friend- 
 ship. The ladies were quite good friends as long as the weaker 
 one needed a protector. Before Esmond went away on his first 
 campaign, his mistress was still on terms of friendship (though 
 a poor little chit, a woman that had evidently no spirit in her, 
 &c.) with the elder Lady Castlewood ; and Mistress Beatrix 
 was allowed to be a beauty. 
 
 But between the first 3'ear of Queen Anne's reign, and the 
 second, sad changes for the worse had taken place in the two 
 younger ladies, at least in the elder's description of them. 
 Rachel, Viscountess Castlewood, had no more face than a 
 dumpling, and Mrs. Beatrix was grown quite coarse, and was 
 losing all her beauty. Little Lord Blandford — (she never 
 would call hira Lord Blandford ; his father was Loi'd Churchill 
 — the King, whom he betrayed, had made him Lord Churchill, 
 and he was Lord Churchill still) — might be making eyes at her ; 
 but his mother, that vixen of a Sarah Jennings, would never 
 liear of such a folly. Lady Marlborough had got her to be a 
 maid of honor at Court to the Princess, but she would repent of 
 it. The widow Francis (she was but Mrs. Francis Esmond) 
 was a scheming, artful, heartless hussy. She was spoihng 
 her brat of a boy, and she would end by marrying her chap- 
 lain. 
 
 "What, Tusher ! " cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange 
 pang of rage and astonishment. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 179 
 
 *' Yes — Tusher, my maid's son; and who has got all the 
 qualities of his father the lackey in black, and his accomplished 
 mamma the waiting- woman," cries my lad3\ ''What do you 
 suppose that a sentimental widow, who will live down in that 
 dingy dungeon of a Castlewood, where she spoils her boy, kills 
 the poor with her drugs, has pra3^ers twice a day and sees no- 
 body but the chaplain — what do 3'ou suppose she can do, mon 
 Cousin, but let the horrid parson, with his great square toes and 
 hideous Uttle green eyes, make love to her? Cela c'estvu, mon 
 Cousin. When I was a girl at Castlewood, all the chaplains 
 fell in love with me — they've nothing else to do." 
 
 My lad}^ went on with more talk of this kind, though, in 
 truth, Esmond had no idea of what she said further, so entirely 
 did her first words occupy his thought. Were they true ? Not 
 all, nor half, nor a tenth part of what the garrulous old woman 
 said, was true. Could this be so? No ear had Esmond for 
 anything else, though his patroness chatted on for an hour. 
 
 Some 3'oung gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond had 
 made acquaintance, had promised to present him to that most 
 charming of actresses, and livel}^ and agreeable of women, Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle, about whom Harry's old adversar}' Mohun had 
 drawn .swords, a few years before mj' poor lord and he fell out. 
 The famous Mr. Congreve had stamped with his high approval, 
 to the wliich there was no gainsaying, this delightful person : 
 and she was acting iu Dick Steele's comedies, and finall}', and 
 for twent3'-four hours after beholding her, Mr. Esmond felt 
 himself, or thought himself, to be as violently enamored of this 
 lovel3' brunette, as were a thousand other 3'ouug fellows about 
 the city. To have once seen her was to long to behold her 
 again ; and to be offered the delightful privilege of her acquaint- 
 ance, was a pleasure the very idea of whicli set the young lieu- 
 tenant's heart on fire. A man cannot live with comrades under 
 the tents without finding out that he too is five-and-twent3' . A 
 3'oung fellow cannot be cast down b3' grief and misfortune ever 
 so severe but some night he begins to sleep sound, and some 
 day when dinner-time comes to feel hungr3' for a beefsteak. 
 Time, youth and good health, new scenes and the excitement of 
 action and a campaign, had pretty well brought Esmond's mourn- 
 ing to an end ; and his comrades said that Don Dismal, as the3^ 
 called him, was Don Dismal no more. So when a part3^ was 
 made to dine at the " Rose," and go to the playhouse afterward, 
 Esmond was as pleased as another to take his share of the bottle 
 and the lAsiy. 
 
 How was it that the old aunt's news, or it might be scandal. 
 
180 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 about Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and sudden excite- 
 ment in Tom's old pla3'fellow? Hadn't he sworn a thousand 
 times in his own mind that the Lad}^ of Castlewood, who had 
 treated him with such kindness once, and then had left him so 
 cruelly, was, and was to remain henceforth, indifferent to him 
 for ever? Had his pride and his sense of justice not long since 
 helped him to cure the pain of that desertion — was it even a 
 pain to him now? Why, but last night as he walked across the 
 fields and meadows to Chelsej^ from Pall Mall, had he not com- 
 posed two or three stanzas of a song, celebrating Bracegirdle's 
 brown e^^es, and declaring them a thousand times more beauti- 
 ful than the brightest blue ones that ever languished under the 
 lashes of an insipid fair beauty ! But Tom Tusher ! Tom 
 Tusher, the waiting-woman's son, raising up his little eyes to his 
 mistress ! Tom Tusher presuming to think of Castlewood's 
 widow ! Rage and contempt filled Mr. Harr3"'s heart at the 
 very notion ; the honor of the family, of which he was the chief, 
 made it his dut}^ to prevent so monstrous an alliance, and to 
 chastise the upstart who could dare to think of such an insult to 
 their house. 'Tis true Mr. Esmond often boasted of repubhcan 
 principles, and could remember many fine speeches he bad made 
 at college and elsewhere, with worth and not birth for a text : 
 but Tom Tusher to take the place of the noble Castlewood — 
 faugh ! 'twas as monstrous as King Hamlet's widow taking off 
 her weeds for Claudius. Esmond laughed at all widows, all 
 wives, all women ; and were the banns about to be published, 
 as no doubt the}^ were, that very next Sunday at Walcote 
 Church, Esmond swore that he would be present to shout No ! 
 in the face of the congregation, and to take a private revenge 
 upon the ears of the bridegroom. 
 
 Instead of going to dinner then at the " Rose" that night, 
 Mr. Esmond bade his servant pack a portmanteau and get 
 horses, and was at Farnham, half-way on the road to Walcote, 
 thirt}' miles off, before his comrades had got to their supper 
 after the pla}'. He bade his man give no hint to my Lad}^ 
 Dowager's household of the expedition on which he was going ; 
 and as Chelsey was distant from London, the roads bad, and 
 infested by footpads, and Esmond often in the habit, when en- 
 gaged in a party of pleasure, of lying at a friend's lodging in 
 town, there was no need that his old aunt should be disturbed at 
 his absence — indeed, nothing more delighted the old lady than 
 to fanc}^ that mon Cousin^ the incorrigible 3'oung sinner, was 
 abroad boxing the watch, or scouring St. Giles's. When she 
 was not at her books of devotion, she thought Etheridge and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 181 
 
 Sedley very good reading. She had a hundred pretty stories 
 about Rochester, Harry Jermyn, and Hamilton ; and if Esmond 
 would but have run away with the wife even of a citizen, 'tis 
 my belief she would have pawned her diamonds (the best of 
 them went to our Lady of Chaillot) to pay his damages. 
 
 My lord's little house of Walcote — which he inhabited be- 
 fore he took his title and occupied the house of Castlewood — 
 lies about a mile from Winchester, and his widow had returned 
 to Walcote after my lord's death as a place alwa^'s dear to her, 
 and where her earliest and happiest days had been spent, cheer- 
 fuller than Castlewood, which was too large for her straitened 
 means, and giving her, too, the protection of the ex-dean, her 
 father. The young Viscount had a year's schooling at the 
 famous college there, with Mr. Tusher as his governor. So 
 much news of them Mr. Esmond had had during the past 3'ear 
 from the old Viscountess, his ow^n father's widow ; from the 
 young one there had never been a word. 
 
 Twice or thrice in his benefactor's lifetime, Esmond had been 
 to Walcote ; and now, taking but a couple of hours' rest onl}' 
 at the inn on the road, he was up again long before daybreak, 
 and made such good speed that he was at Walcote b}' two 
 o'clock of the da3\ He rid to the end of the village, where he 
 alighted and sent a man thence to Mr. Tusher, with a message 
 that a gentleman from London would speak with him on urgent 
 business. The messenger came back to say the Doctor was in 
 town, most likely at prayers in the Cathedi'al. My Lad\^ Vis- 
 countess was there, too ; she always went to Cathedral pra^^ers 
 every day. 
 
 The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester. Es- 
 mond mounted again and rode on to the " George ; " whence he 
 walked, leaving his grumbling domestic at last happ}- with a 
 dinner, straight to the Cathedral. The organ was playing : the 
 winter's day was already growing gray : as he passed under the 
 street-arch into the Cathedral yard, and made his way into 
 the ancient solemn edifice. 
 
182 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE 29th DECEMBER. 
 
 There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside 
 the Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young and 
 old, that performed the beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. 
 Tusher was one of the officiants, and read from the eagle in an 
 authoritative voice, and a great black periwig ; and in the stalls, 
 still in her black widow's hood, sat Esmond's dear mistress, her 
 son by her side, very much grown, and indeed a noble-looking 
 youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown 
 hair, that fell over his poiiit de Venise — a prett}^ picture such 
 as Van Dyck might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of 
 my Lord Viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French 
 version of his manl}-, frank, English face. When he looked up 
 there were two sapphire beams out of his eyes such as no 
 painter's palette has the color to match, I think. On this day 
 there was not much chance of seeing that particular beauty of 
 my young lord's countenance ; for the truth is, he kept his e3^es 
 shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long, was 
 asleep. 
 
 But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, 
 and his eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite 
 him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy upon two 
 persons who had so much of his heart for so man}- years, Lord 
 Castlewood, with a start, pulled at his mother's sleeve (her 
 face had scarce been lifted from her book), and said, ''Look, 
 mother ! " so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other side 
 of the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady 
 Castlewood looked for an instant as her son bade her, and held 
 up a warning finger to Frank ; Esmond felt his whole face 
 flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him 
 once more. The rest of the prayers were speedily over ; Mr. 
 Esmond did not hear them ; nor did his mistress, verj^ likel}', 
 whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never 
 lifted her head again until the service was over, the blessing 
 given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out 
 of the inner chapel. 
 
 Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before 
 the clergy were fairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 183 
 
 embraced him. " My dear, dearest old Harry ! " he said, " are 
 you come back ? Have you been to the wars ? You'll take me 
 with you when you go again? Why didn't you write to us? 
 Come to mother." 
 
 Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a " God bless j^ou, 
 my boy," for his heart was very full and grateful at all this 
 tenderness on the lad's part ; and he was as much moved at 
 seeing Frank as he was fearful about that other interview which 
 was now to take place : for he knew not if the widow would 
 reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago. 
 
 "It was kind of 3'ou to come back to us, Henry," Lady 
 Esmond said. " I thought you might come." 
 
 " We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you 
 not come from Portsmouth ? " F'rank asked, or my Lord Vis- 
 count, as he now must be called. 
 
 Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of 
 his eyes so that he might see his dear friends again once more ; 
 but believing that his mistress had forbidden him her house, he 
 had obe3'ed her, and remained at a distance. 
 
 " Y'^ou had but to ask, and you know I would be here," he 
 said. 
 
 She gave him her hand, her little fair hand ; there was only 
 her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of 
 grief and estrangement was passed. The}^ never had been sepa- 
 rated. His mistress had never been out of his mind all that time. 
 No, not once. No, not in the prison ; nor in the camp ; nor on 
 shore before the enemy ; nor at sea under the stars of solemn 
 midnight ; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn : 
 not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at 
 the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other e^'es were 
 brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces 
 more beautiful, but none so dear — no voice so sweet as that of 
 his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to 
 him during his youth — goddess now no more, for he knew of 
 her weaknesses ; and by thought, by suffering, and that experi- 
 ence it brings, was older now than she ; but more fondly 
 cherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as 
 divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes 
 one little hand the dearest of all? Wlioever can unriddle that 
 m3'ster3'? Here she was, her son b3' his side, his dear boy. 
 Here she was, weeping and happ3\ She took his hand in both 
 hers ; he felt her tears. It was a rapture of reconciliation. 
 
 " Here comes Squaretoes," says Frank. "• Here's Tusher." 
 
 Tushcr, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great heels. 
 
184 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Mr. Tom had divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came 
 forward habited in his cassock and great black periwig. How 
 had Esmond ever been for a moment jealous of this fellow? 
 
 "Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher," he said. The chaplain 
 made him a ver3' low and statel}- bow. " 1 am charmed to see 
 Captain Esmond," says he. " My lord and I have read the 
 Reddas incolumem precor^ and applied it, I am sure, to you. 
 You come back with Gaditanian laurels ; when I heard you 
 were bound thither, I wished, I am sure, I was another Sep- 
 timius. My Lord Viscount, your lordship remembers Septimi^ 
 Gades aditure mecum ?" 
 
 " There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, 
 Tusher," saj's Mr. Esmond. " 'Tis that one where your rev- 
 erence hath a parsonage, and where our youth was brought 
 up." 
 
 " A house that has so many sacred recollections to me," says 
 Mr. Tusher (and Harry remembered how Tom's father used 
 to flog him there) — "a house near to that of my respected 
 patron, my most honored patroness, must ever be a dear abode 
 to me. But, madam, the verger waits to close the gates on 
 your ladyship." 
 
 " And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay ! huzzay ! " 
 cries my lord. " Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put 
 her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of honor, Plarry. Such a 
 fine set-up minx ! " 
 
 "Your heart was never in the Church, Harry," the widow 
 said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. 
 (Now, it seemed they never had been parted, and again, as if 
 they had been ages asunder.) " I always thought you had no 
 vocation that way ; and that 'twas a pity to shut 3'ou out from the 
 world. You would but have pined and chafed at Castlewood : 
 and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. I often 
 said so to my dear lord. How he loved you ! 'Twas my lord 
 that made 3'ou stay with us." 
 
 " I asked no better than to stay near you always," said Mr. 
 Esmond. 
 
 " But to go was best, Harry. "When the world cannot give 
 peace, you will know where to find it ; but one of your strong 
 imagination and eager desires must try the world first before he 
 tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, it 
 was only b}^ my selfishness, that you should remain as chaplain 
 to a countr}^ gentleman and tutor to a little bo}^ You are of 
 the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman ; and that was always wild 
 in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 185 
 
 can keep him in mj nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, 
 and he longs to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and 
 the young Lord Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marlborough 
 has been good to us. You know how kind they were in my 
 misfortune. And so was 3'our — your father's widow. No one 
 knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tis 
 through m}^ Lad}^ Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her 
 place at Court ; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. 
 And the dowager ladj', your father's widow, has promised to 
 provide for you — has she not ? " 
 
 Esmond said, "Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady 
 Castlewood was very good to him. And should her mind 
 change," he added gayly, '' as ladies' minds will, I am strong 
 enough to bear my own burden, and make my way somehow. 
 Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better genius 
 for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man 
 of good parts and education can get on in the world ; and I am 
 pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion ! " Indeed, he 
 had found patrons already in the army, and amongst persons 
 very able to serve him, too ; and told his mistress of the flat- 
 tering aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had 
 never been parted, slowly, with the gray twilight closing round 
 them. 
 
 ''And now we are drawing near to home," she continued, 
 " I knew 3'ou would come, Harry, if — if it was but to forgive 
 me for having spoken unjustly to 3'ou after that horrid — horrid 
 misfortune. I was half frantic with grief then when I saw you. 
 And I know now — they have told me. That wretch, whose 
 name I can never mention, even has said it: how you tried to 
 avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poor 
 child : but it was God's will that I should be punished, and 
 that my dear lord should fall." 
 
 " He gave me his blessing on his death-bed," Esmond said. 
 " Thank God for that legacy ! " 
 
 "Amen, amen! dear Henry," said the lady, pressing his 
 arm. " I knew it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was 
 called to him, told me so. And I thanked God, too, and in my 
 pra3'ers ever since remembered it." 
 
 " You had spared me man^^ a bitter night, had you told me 
 sooner," Mr. Esmond said. 
 
 "I know it, I know it," she answered, in a tone of such 
 sweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever 
 have dared to reproach her. "I know how wicked m}^ heart 
 has been ; and I have suffered too, my dear. I confessed to 
 
186 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Mr. Atterbury — I must not tell any more. He — I said I 
 would not write to jou or go to you — a-nd it was better even 
 that having parted, we should part. But I knew you would 
 come back — I own that. That is no one's fault. And to-day, 
 Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, ' When the Lord 
 turned the caj^tivity of Zion, we were like them that dream,' I 
 thought, yes, like them that dream — them that dream. And 
 then it went, ' They that sow in tears shall reap in joy ; and he 
 that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again with 
 rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him ; ' I looked up from the 
 book, and saw 3'ou. I was not surprised when I saw you. I 
 knew you would come, my dear, and saw the gold sunshine 
 round 3'our head." 
 
 She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. 
 The moon was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty 
 sk3-. He could see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet 
 careworn face. 
 
 " Do you know what day it is? " she continued. " It is the 
 29th of December — it is 3'our birthday ! But last year we did 
 not drink it — no, no. M}" lord was cold, and my Harrj' was 
 likely to die : and my brain was in a fever ; and we had no 
 wine. But now — now you are come again, bringing your 
 sheaves with 3'ou, m3^ dear." She burst into a wild flood of 
 weeping as she spoke ; she laughed and sobbed on the 3'oung 
 man's heart, crying out wildl3', "bringing your sheaves with 
 3'Ou — 3'our sheaves with 3'ou ! " 
 
 As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at mid- 
 night into the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of 
 devout wonder at that endless brightness and beaut3' — in some 
 such a wa3' now, the depth of this pure devotion (which was, 
 for the first time, revealed to him) quite smote upon him, and 
 filled his heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God, who was he, 
 weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be poured 
 out upon him ? Not in vain — not in vain has he lived — hard 
 and thankless should he be to think so — that has such a treas- 
 ure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but selfish 
 vanit3^? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a 
 3'ear hence, when other names sound louder than yours, when 
 3^ou lie hidden away under the ground, along with idle titles 
 engraven on your cofl3n ? But onl3' true love lives after you — 
 follows your memor3' with secret blessing — or precedes 3^ou, 
 and intercedes for 3'OU. Non omnis moriar — if d3'ing, I 3^et 
 live in a tender heart or two ; nor am lost and hopeless living, 
 if a sainted departed soul still loves and pra3's for me. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 187 
 
 " If — if 'tis so, dear lad}^" Mr. Esmond said, " whj^ should 
 I ever leave you ? If God hath given me this great boon — and 
 near or far from me, as I know now, the heart of m}' dearest 
 mistress follows me, let me have that blessing near me, nor 
 ever part with it till death separate us. Coine away — leave 
 this Europe, this place which has so many sad recollections for 
 you. Begin a new life in a new world. My good lord often 
 talked of visiting that land in Virginia which King Charles gave 
 us — gave his ancestor. Frank will give us that. No man 
 there will ask if there is a blot on my name, or inquire in the 
 woods what my title is." 
 
 " And my children — and my duty — and mj good father, 
 Henry? " she broke out. " He has none but me now ! for soon 
 my sister will leave him, and the old man will be alone. He 
 has conformed since the new Queen's reign ; and here in Win- 
 chester, where they love him, they have found a church for 
 him. When the children leave me, I will stay with him. I 
 cannot follow them into the great world, where their way lies — 
 it scares me. They will come and visit me ; and you will, 
 sometimes, Henrj' — yes, sometimes, as now, in the Holy 
 Advent season, when I have seen and blessed 3'ou once more." 
 
 '' I would leave all to follow you," said Mr. Esmond ; " and 
 can you not be as generous for me, dear lady? " 
 
 " Hush, boy ! " she said, and it was with a mother's sweet 
 plaintive tone and look that she spoke. " The world is begin- 
 ning for you. For me, I have been so weak and sinful that I 
 must leave it, and pray out an expiation, dear Henry. Had 
 we houses of religion as there were once, and man}^ divines of 
 our Church would have them again, I often think I would retire 
 to one and pass my life in penance. But I would love you 
 still — 3'es, there is no sin in such a love as mine now; and 
 my dear lord in heaven may see m}^ heart ; and knows the tears 
 that have washed m}' sin away — and now — now my dut}' is 
 here, by my children whilst they need me, and by my poor old 
 father, and — " 
 
 " And not by me? " Henr}^ said. 
 
 " Hush ! " she said again, and raised her hand up to his lip. 
 ^' I have been your nurse. You could not see me, Harry, 
 when 3'ou were in the small-pox, and I came and sat by you. 
 Ah ! I prayed that I might die, but it would have been in sin, 
 Henry. Oh, it is horrid to look back to that time. It is over 
 now and past, and it has been forgiven me. When 3^ou need 
 me again, I will come ever so far. When your heart is 
 wounded, then come to me, my dear. Be silent ! let me say 
 
188 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 all. You never loved me, dear Henry — no, you do not now, 
 and I thank heaven for it. I used to watch you, and knew by 
 a thousand signs that it was so. Do you remember how glad 
 you were to go away to college ? 'Twas I sent you. I told my 
 papa that, and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in 
 London. And they both gave me absolution — both — and 
 they are godly men, having authority to bind and to loose. 
 And they forgave me, as my dear lord forgave me before he 
 went to heaven." 
 
 "I think the angels are not all in heaven," Mr. Esmond 
 said. And as a brother folds a sister to his heart ; and as a 
 mother cleaves to her son's breast — so for a few moments 
 Esmond's beloved mistress came to him and blessed him. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I AM MADE WELCOME AT WALCOTE. 
 
 As they came up to the house at Walcote, the windows from 
 within were lighted up with friendly welcome ; the supper-table 
 was spread in the oak-parlor ; it seemed as if forgiveness and 
 love were awaiting the returning prodigal. Two or three 
 familiar faces of domestics were on the look-out at the porch — ■ 
 the old housekeeper was there, and young Lockwood from 
 Castlewood in my lord's livery of tawny and blue. His dear 
 mistress pressed his arm as they passed into the hall. Her 
 ej'Cs beamed out on him with affection indescribable. " Wel- 
 come," was all she said, as she looked up, putting back her fair 
 curls and black hood. A sweet ros}' smile blushed on her 
 face ; Harry thought he had never seen her look so charming. 
 Her face was lighted with a joy that was brighter than beauty — 
 she took a hand of her son who was in the hall waiting his 
 mother — she did not quit Esmond's arm. 
 
 "Welcome, Harr}^ " my 30ung lord echoed after her. 
 " Here, we are all come to sa}^ so. Here's okl Pincot, hasn't 
 she grown handsome ? " and Pincot, who was older, and no 
 handsomer than usual, made a curtsy to the Captain, as she 
 called Esmond, and told my lord to " Have done, now." 
 
 " And here's Jack Lockwood. He'll make a famous grena- 
 dier, Jack ; and so shall I ; we'll both 'list under 3 ou, Cousin. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 189 
 
 As soon as I'm seventeen, I go to the army — every gentleman 
 goes to the arm}'. Look ! who comes here — ho, ho ! " he burst 
 into a laugh. " 'Tis Mistress Trix, with a new ribbon; I 
 knew she would put one on as soon as she heard a captain was 
 coming to supper." 
 
 This laughing colloquy took place in the hall of Walcote 
 House : in the midst of which is a staircase that leads from an 
 open gallery, where are the doors of the sleeping chambers : and 
 from one of these, a wax candle in her hand, and illuminating 
 her, came Mistress Beatrix — the light falling indeed upon the 
 scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon the most brilUant 
 white neck in the world. 
 
 Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown bej^ond 
 the common height ; and arrived at such a dazzling complete- 
 ness of beauty, that his eyes might well show surprise and 
 delight at beholding her. In hers there was a brightness so 
 lustrous and melting, that I have seen a whole assemblj^ follow 
 her as if b}' an attraction irresistible : and that night the great 
 Duke was at the playhouse after Ramillies, every soul turned 
 and looked (she chanced to enter at the opposite side of the 
 theatre at the same moment) at her, and not at him. She was 
 a brown beaut}" : that is, her eyes, hair, and e3'ebrows and eye- 
 lashes were dark : her hair curling with rich undulations, and 
 waving over her shoulders ; but her complexion was as dazzling 
 white as snow in sunshine ; except her cheeks, which were a 
 bright red, and her hps, which were of a still deeper crimson. 
 Her mouth and chin, the}^ said, were too large and full, and so 
 they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for a woman 
 whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose voice was 
 the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect symmetry, 
 health, decision, activity-, whose foot as it planted itself on the 
 ground was firm but flexible, and whose motion, whether rapid 
 or slow, was always perfect grace — agile as a nymph, lofty as 
 a queen, — now melting, now imperious, now sarcastic — there 
 was no single movement of hers but was beautiful. As he 
 thinks of her, he who writes feels young again, and remembers 
 a paragon. 
 
 So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, 
 and her taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet 
 Esmond. 
 
 '' She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes," 
 sa^'s my lord, still laughing. " Oh, my fine mistress ! is this 
 the way you set your cap at the Captain? " She approached, 
 shining smile? upon Esmond, who could look at nothing but her 
 
190 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 e3'es. She advanced holding forward her head, as if she would 
 have him kiss her as he used to do when she was a child. 
 
 " Stop," she said, " I am grown too big ! Welcome, cousin 
 Harr}'," and she made him an arch curtsy, sweeping down to- 
 the ground ahnost, with the most gracious bend, looking up the 
 while with the brightest e^^es and sweetest smile. Love seemed 
 to radiate from her. Harry eyed her with such a rapture as the; 
 first lover is described as having by Milton. 
 
 " N'est-ce pas?" says my lady, in a low, sweet voice, still 
 hanging on his arm. 
 
 Esmond turned round with a start and ablush, as he met hij* 
 mistress's clear eyes. He had forgotten her, rapt in admiration 
 of the Jilia palcnor. 
 
 "Right foot forward, toe turned out, so: now drop the 
 curtsy, and show the red stockings, Trix. They've silver 
 clocks, Flarry. The Dowager sent 'em. She went to put 'em 
 on," cries m}' lord. 
 
 "Hush, you stupid child!" says Miss, smothering her 
 brother with kisses ; and then she must come and kiss her 
 mamma, looking all the while at Harry, over his mistress's 
 shoulder. And if she did not kiss him, she gave him both her 
 hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and said, " Oh, 
 Harry, we're so, so glad you're come ! " 
 
 " There are woodcocks for supper," says my lord. " Huz- 
 za}' ! It was such a liungr}' sermon." 
 
 "And it is the 29th of December ; and our Harry has come 
 home." 
 
 " Huzzay, old Pincot ! " again saj^s my lord ; and ray dear 
 lady's lips looked as if they were trembling with a praj^er. 
 She woukl have Harry lead in Beatrix to the supper-room, 
 going herself with my 3'oung Lord Viscount ; and to this party 
 came Tom Tusher directly, whom four at least out of the com- 
 pany of five wished away. Away he went, however, as soon 
 as the sweetmeats were put down, and then, by the great crack- 
 ling fire, his mistress or Beatrix, with her blushing graces, 
 filling his glass for him, Harry told the story of his campaign, 
 and passed the most delightful night his life had ever known. 
 The sun was up long ere he was, so deep, sweet, and refreshing 
 was his slumber. He woke as if angels had been watching at 
 his bed all night. I dare say one that was as pure and loving 
 as an angel had blessed his sleep with her prayers. 
 
 Next morning the chaplain read prayers to the little house- 
 hold at Walcote, as the custom was ; Esmond thought Mistress 
 Beatrix did not listen to Tusher's exhortation much : her eyes 
 
^THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 191 
 
 were wandering everywhere during the service, at least when- 
 ever he looked up he met them. Perhaps he also was not very 
 attentive to his Eeverence the Chaplain. "This might have 
 been m}' life," he was thinking; ''this might have been my 
 duty from now till old age. Well, were it not a pleasant one 
 to be with these dear friends and part from 'em no more ? Un- 
 til — until the destined lover comes and takes away pretty Bea- 
 trix" — and the best part of Tom Tusher's exposition, which 
 may have' been very learned and eloquent, was quite lost to 
 poor Harry by this vision of the destined lover, who put the 
 preacher out. 
 
 All the while of the pra3^ers, Beatrix knelt a little wa}^ be- 
 fore Hany Esmond. The red stockings were changed for a 
 pair of gra3% and black shoes, in which her feet looked to the 
 full as prett3\ All the roses of spring could not vie with the 
 brightness of her complexion ; Esmond thought he had never 
 seen anything like the sunny lustre of her eyes. M}^ Lady 
 Viscountess looked fatigued, as if with watching, and her face 
 was pale. 
 
 Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her 
 mother and deplored them. "I am an old woman," says m}^ 
 lady, with a kind smile; "I cannot hope to look as young as 
 you do, my dear." 
 
 " She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's a 
 hundred," says my lord, taking his mother b}' the waist, and 
 kissing her hand. 
 
 "Do I look very wicked, cousin?" sa^'s Beatrix, turning 
 full round on Esmond, with her pretty face so close under his 
 chin, that the soft perfumed hair touched it. She laid her fin- 
 ger-tips on his sleeve as she spoke ; and he put his other hand 
 over hers. 
 
 "I'm like 3'our looking-glass," says he, "and that can't 
 flatter you." 
 
 " He means that 3'ou are alwa3'S looking at him, my dear," 
 says her mother, archly. Beatrix ran awa3' from Esmond at 
 this, and flew to her mamma, whom she kissed, stopping my 
 lady's mouth with her prett3" hand. 
 
 " And Hany is ver3' good to look at," says m3" lad3', with 
 her fond eyes regarding the 3'oung man. 
 
 " If 'tis good to see a happ3^ face," says he, " 3'ou see that." 
 M3^ lady said, "Amen," with a sigh; and Hany thought the 
 memor3' of her dear lord rose up and rebuked her back again 
 into sadness ; for her face lost the smile, and resumed its look 
 of melanchol3\ 
 
192 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver, 
 and our black periwig," cries my lord. "Mother, I am tired 
 of m}" own hair. When shall I have a peruke? Where did 
 you get 3'our steenkirk, Hany ?" 
 
 " It's some of my Lady Dowager's lace," says Harry ; " she 
 gave me this and a number of other fine things." 
 
 "My Lad}^ Dowager isn't such a bad woman," m}^ lord 
 continued. 
 
 " She's not so — so red as she's painted," says Miss Beatrix. 
 
 Her brother broke into a laugh. " I'll tell her you said so ; 
 b}^ the Lord, Trix, I will," he cries out. 
 
 " She'll know that you hadn't the wit to sa}^ it, my lord," 
 says Miss Beatrix. 
 
 "We won't quarrel the first da}^ Harrj-'s here, will we, 
 mother?" said the young lord. "We'll see if we can get on 
 to the new 3'ear without a fight. Have some of this Christmas 
 pie. And here comes the tankard ; no, it's Pincot with the 
 tea." 
 
 "Will the Captain choose a dish?" asked Mistress Beatrix. 
 
 "I sa}', Harry," my lord goes on, "I'll show thee ray 
 horses after breakfast ; and we'll go a bird-netting to-night, 
 and on Monday there's a cock-match at Winchester — do you 
 love cock-fighting, Harry? — between the gentlemen of Sussex 
 and the gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten pound the battle, and 
 fift}" pound the odd battle to show one-ancl-twenty cocks." 
 
 "And what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman?" 
 asks my lad3\ 
 
 "I'll listen to him," says Beatrix. "I am sure he has a 
 hundred things to tell us. And I'm jealous already of the 
 Spanish ladies. Was that a beautiful nun at Cadiz that 3'ou 
 rescued from the soldiers? Your man talked of it last night 
 in the kitchen, and Mrs. Bett}^ told me this morning as she 
 combed my hair. And he says you must be in love, for you 
 sat on deck all night, and scribbled verses all day in 3'our table- 
 book." Harry thought if he had wanted a subject for verses 
 3'esterday, to-day he had found one : and not all the Lindamiras 
 and Ardelias of the poets were half so beautiful as this 3^oung 
 creature ; but he did not sa3^ so, though some one did for him. 
 
 This was his dear lady, who, after the meal was over, and 
 the 3'oung people were gone, began talking of her children 
 with Mr. Esmond, and of the characters of one and the other, 
 and of her hopes and fears for both of them. " 'Tis not while 
 the3* are at home," she said, "and in their mother's nest, I 
 fear for them — 'tis when they are gone into the world, whither 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 193 
 
 I shall not be able to follow them. Beatrix will begin her ser- 
 vice next year. You may have heard a rumor about — about 
 my Lord Blandford. They were both children ; and it is but 
 idle talk. I know mj^ kinswoman would never let liim make 
 such a poor marriage as our Beatrix would be. There's scarce 
 a princess in Europe that she thinks is good enough for him or 
 for her ambition." 
 
 ''There's not a princess in Europe to compare with her," 
 says Esmond. 
 
 " In beauty? No, perhaps not," answered my lady. " She 
 is most beautiful, isn't she? 'Tis not a mother's partiality that 
 deceives me. I marked you yesterday when she came down 
 the stair : and read it in your face. We look when you don't 
 fancy us looking, and see better than you think, dear Harry : 
 and just now when thej^ spoke about 3'our poems — you writ 
 prett}^ lines when you were but a boy — you thought Beatrix 
 was a pretty subject for verse, did not you, Harry?" (The 
 gentleman co,uld only blush for a reply.) " And so she is — 
 nor are 3'ou the first her prett}' face has captivated. 'Tis 
 quickly done. Such a pair of bright eyes as hers learn their 
 power very soon, and use it very early." And, looking at him 
 keenl}' with hers, the fair widow left him. 
 
 And so it is — a pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances 
 suffice to subdue a man ; to enslave him, and inflame him ; to 
 make him even forget ; the}" dazzle him so that the past becomes 
 straightway dim to him ; and he so prizes them that he would 
 give all his life to possess 'em. AVhat is the fond love of 
 dearest friends compared to this treasure? Is memor}^ as 
 strong as expectancy? fruition, as hunger? gratitude, as de- 
 sire ? I have looked at royal diamonds in the jewel-rooms in 
 Europe, and thought how wars have been made about 'em ; 
 Mogul sovereigns deposed and strangled for them, or ransomed 
 with them ; milhons expended to buy them ; and daring lives 
 lost in digging out the little shining toys that I value no more 
 than the button in m}^ hat. And so there are other glittering 
 baubles (of rare water too) for which men have been set to kill 
 and quarrel ever since mankind began ; and which last but for 
 a score of 3'ears, when their sparkle is over. Where are those 
 jewels now that beamed under Cleopatra's forehead, or shone 
 in the sockets of Helen ? 
 
 The second dsij after Esmond's coming to Walcote, Tom 
 Tusher had leave to take a holiday, and went off" in his very 
 best gown and bands to court the .young woman whom his 
 Reverence desired to marry, and who was not a viscount's 
 
 13 
 
194 THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 widow, as it turned out, but a brewer's relict at Southampton, 
 with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune : for honest 
 Tom's heart was under such excellent control, that Venus her- 
 self without a portion would never have caused it to flutter. 
 So he rode away on his heavy-paced gelding to pursue his jog- 
 trot loves, leaving Esmond to the society of his dear mistress 
 and her daughter, and with his 3'oung lord for a companion, 
 who was charmed, not only to see an old friend, but to have 
 the tutor and his Latin books put out of the way. 
 
 The boy talked of things and people, and not a little about 
 himself, in his frank artless way. 'Twas eas}^ to see that he 
 and his sister had the better of their fond mother, for the first 
 place in whose affections, though they fought constantly, and 
 though the kind lady persisted that she loved both equally, 
 'twas not difficult to understand that Frank was his mother's 
 darling and favorite. lie ruled the whole household (always 
 excepting rebellious Beatrix) not less now than when he was a 
 child marshalling the village boys in playing at soldiers, and 
 caning them lustily too, like the sturdiest corporal. As for 
 Tom Tusher, his Reverence treated the young lord with that 
 politeness and deference which he alwaj^s showed for a great 
 man, whatever his age or his stature was. Indeed, with re- 
 spect to this 3'oung one, it was impossible not to love him, so 
 frank and winning were his manners, his beauty, his gaj'et^', 
 the ring of his laughter, and the delightful tone of his voice. 
 Wherever he went, he charmed and domineered. I think his 
 old grandfather the Dean, and the grim old housekeeper, Mrs. 
 Pincot, were as much his slaves as his mother was : and as for 
 Esmond, he found himself presentlj' submitting to a certain 
 fascination the bo}' had, and slaving it like the rest of the 
 famil3\ The pleasure whic h he had in Frank's mere company 
 and converse exceeded that which he ever enjo^^ed in the society 
 of an}' other man, however delightful in talk, or famous for wit. 
 His presence brought sunshine into a room, his laugh, his 
 prattle, his noble beauty and brightness of look cheered and 
 charmed indescribabl3^ At the least tale of sorrow, his hands 
 Y/ere in his purse, and he was eager with sj'mpathy and bounty. 
 The wa}' in which women Icved and petted him, when, a year 
 or two afterwards, he came upon the world, yet a mere boy, 
 and the follies which they did for him (as indeed he for them), 
 recalled the career of Rochester, and outdid the successes of 
 Grammont. His very creditors loved him ; and the hardest 
 usurers, and some of the rigid prudes of the other sex too, 
 could deny him nothing. He was no more witty than another 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 195 
 
 man, but what he said, he said and looked as no man else 
 could sa}' or look it. I have seen the women at the corned}^ at 
 Bruxelles crowd round him in the lobby : and as he sat on the 
 stage more people looked at him than at the actors, and watched 
 him ; and I remember at Ramillies, when he was hit and fell, a 
 great big red-haired Scotch sergeant flung his halbert down, 
 burst out a-crying like a woman, seizing him up as if he had 
 been an infant, and carrying him out of the fire. This brother 
 and sister were the most beautiful couple ever seen ; though 
 after he winged away from the maternal nest this pair were 
 seldom together. 
 
 Sitting at dinner two days after Esmond's arrival (it was the 
 last da}^ of the A'ear), and so happy a one to Harry Esmond, 
 that to enjoj^ it was quite worth all the previous pain which he 
 had endured and forgot, my young lord, filling a bumper, and 
 bidding Harry take another, drank to his sister, saluting her 
 under the title of " Marchioness." 
 
 " Marclvoness ! " says Harr}^ not without a pang of wonder, 
 for he was curious and jealous already. 
 
 " Nonsense, my lord," says Beatrix, with a toss of her head. 
 My Lady Viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond, and 
 cast her e3'es down. 
 
 "The Marchioness of Blandford," says Frank. "Don't 
 you know — hath not Rouge Dragon told you?" (My lord 
 used to call the Dowager of Chelsey by this and other names.) 
 " Blandford has a lock of her hair; the Duchess found him on 
 his knees to Mistress Trix, and boxed his ears, and said Dr. 
 Hare should whip him." 
 
 "I wish Mr. Tusher would whip 3'ou too," says Beatrix. 
 
 My lady onl}^ said : " I hope you will tell none of these silly 
 stories elsewhere than at home, Francis." 
 
 " 'Tis true, on my word," continues Frank: "look at 
 Harry scowling, mother, and see how Beatrix blushes as red 
 as the silver-clocked stockings." 
 
 " I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine and 
 their talk," says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the air of a 
 young queen, tossing her rustling flowing draperies about her, 
 and quitting the room, follow^ed b}' her mother. 
 
 Lady Castle wood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped 
 down and kissed Frank. "Do not tell those silly stories, 
 child," she said: "do not drink much wine, sir; Harr}- never 
 loved to drink wine." And she went away, too, in her black 
 robes, looking back on the young man with her fair, fond 
 face. 
 
196 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "Egad! it's true," says Frank, sipping his wine with the 
 air of a lord. "What think you of this Lisbon — real Col- 
 lares ? 'Tis better than your head}^ port : we got it out of one 
 of the Spanish ships that came from Vigo last year : my 
 mother bought it at Southampton, as the ship was lying there — 
 the ' Rose,' Captain Hawkins." 
 
 " Whj', I came home in that ship," says Harry. 
 
 "And it brought home a good fellow and good wine," says 
 my lord. " I say, Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed bar 
 sinister." 
 
 ' ' And wh}'^ not the bar sinister ? " asks the other. 
 
 " Suppose I go to the army and am killed — every gentle- 
 man goes to the army — who is to take care of the women ? 
 Trix will never stop at home ; mother's in love with you, — 
 3'es, I think mother's in love with 3'ou. She was alwaj'S prais- 
 ing 3'ou, and alwaj's talking about you ; and when she went to 
 Southampton, to see the ship, I found her out. But 3'ou see 
 it is impossible : we are of the oldest blood in England ; we 
 came in with the Conqueror ; we were only baronets, — but what 
 then? we were forced into that. James the First forced our 
 great grandfather. We are above titles ; we old English gentry 
 don't want 'em ; the Queen can make a duke an}^ day. Look 
 at Blandford's father, Duke Churchill, and Duchess Jennings, 
 what were they, Harry? Damn it, sir, what are the}', to turn 
 up their noses at us? Where were they when our ancestor 
 rode with King Henry at Agincourt, and filled up the French 
 King's cup after Poictiers? 'Fore George, sir, why shouldn't 
 Blandford marry Beatrix ? By G — ! he shall marry Beatrix, 
 or tell me the reason why. We'll marr}' with the best blood 
 of England, and none but the best blood of England. You 
 are an Esmond, and 3'ou can't help 3'our birth, my boy. Let's 
 have another bottle. What! no more? I've drunk three 
 parts of this myself. I had many a night with my father ; 
 you stood to him like a man, Harr3\ You backed 3'our blood ; 
 you can't help your misfortune, you know, — no man can help 
 that." 
 
 The elder said he would go in to his mistress's tea-table. 
 The young lad, with a heightened color and voice, began sing- 
 ing a snatch of a song, and marched out of the room. 
 Esmond heard him presently calling his dogs about him, 
 and cheering and talking to them ; and by a hundred of 
 his looks and gestures, tricks of voice and gait, was reminded 
 of the dead lord, Frank's father. 
 
 And so, the Sylvester night passed away ; the famil}^ parted 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 197 
 
 long before midnight. Lady Castlewood remembering, no 
 doubt, former New Years' Eves, wlien healths were drunk, 
 and laughter went round in the compan^^ of him, to whom 
 years, past, and present, and future, were to be as one ; and 
 so cared not, to sit with her children and hear the Cathedral 
 bells ringing the birth of the year 1703. Esmond heard the 
 chimes as he sat in his own ohamber, ruminating by the blazing 
 fire there, and listened to the last notes of them, looking out 
 from his window towards the cit}^, and the great gray towers 
 of the Cathedral lying under the frosty sky, with the keen 
 stars shining above. 
 
 The sight of these brilliant orbs no doubt made him think 
 of other luminaries. ' ' And so her e3'es have already done 
 execution," thought Esmond — "on whom? — who can tell 
 me ? " Luckily his kinsman was b}^ and Esmond knew he 
 would have no difficulty in finding out Mistress Beatrix's his- 
 tory from the simple talk of the boy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FAMILY TALK. 
 
 What Harry admired and submitted to in the pretty lad his 
 kinsman was (for why should he resist it?) the calmness of 
 patronage which m}' young lord assumed, as if to command was 
 his undoubted right, and all the world (below his degree) ought 
 to bow down to Viscount Castlewood. 
 
 "I know my place, Harr}-," he said. "I'm not proud — 
 the boys at AVinchester College say I'm proud : but I'm not 
 proud. I am simply Francis James Viscount Castlewood in 
 the peerage of Ireland. I might have been (do you know 
 that?) Francis James Marquis and Earl of Esmond in that of 
 England. The late lord refused the title which was offered to 
 him by my godfather, his late Majest}'. You should know 
 that — 3^ou are of our famil}", 3^ou know — joii cannot help 3'our 
 bar sinister, Hany, m3' dear fellow ; and you belong to one of 
 the best families in England, in spite of that ; and you stood b3' 
 my father, and by G — ! I'll stand by 3'ou. You shall never 
 want a friend, Harr3', while Francis James Viscount Castlewood 
 has a shilling. It's now 1703 — I shall come of age in 1709. 
 I shall go back to Castlewood ; I shall live at Castlewood ; I 
 
198 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 shall build up the house. My propert}' will be pretty well re- 
 stored by then. The late viscount mismanaged m}^ property, 
 and left it in a ver}' bad state. My mother is living close, as 
 you see, and keeps me in a way hardly befitting a peer of these 
 realms ; for I have but a pair of horses, a governor, and a man 
 that is valet and groom. But when I am of age, these 
 things will be set right, Harry. Our house will be as it should 
 be. Y^ou will alwa3's come to Castlewood, won't you? Y"ou 
 shall alwa^'s have your two rooms in the court kept for you ; 
 
 and if anybody slights you, d them ! let them have a care 
 
 of me. I shall marry early — Trix will be a duchess by that time, 
 most likely ; for a cannon ball may knock over his grace any 
 day, 3^ou know." 
 
 '' How ? " says Harry. 
 
 " Hush, my dear I " saj^s my Lord Viscount. " l^ou are of 
 the family — you are faithful to us, b}^ George, and I tell you 
 ever^^thing. Blandford will marry her — or" — and here he 
 put his little hand on his sword — " you understand the rest. 
 Blandford knows which of us two is the best weapon. At small- 
 sword, or back-sword, or sword and dagger if he likes ; I can 
 beat him. I have tried him, Harry ; and begad he knows I am 
 a man not to be trifled with." 
 
 ''But 3'ou do not mean," sa3'S Harr3', concealing his laugh- 
 ter, but not his wonder, " that 3'ou can force m3' Lord Blandford, 
 the son of the first man of this kingdom, to marr3^ your sister 
 at sword's point ? " 
 
 " I mean to sa3^ that we are cousins bj' the mother's side, 
 though that's nothing to boast of. I mean to say that an 
 Esmond is as good as a Churchill ; and when the King comes 
 back, the Marquis of Esmond's sister may be a match for an3' 
 nobleman's daughter in the kingdom. There are but two mar- 
 quises in all England, WiUiam Herbert Marquis of Powis, and 
 Francis James Marquis of Esmond ; and hark 3'ou, Hany, — 
 now swear 3'ou will never mention this. Give me 3'our honor 
 as a gentleman, for 3^ou are a gentleman, though 3'ou are a — " 
 
 " Well, well?" says Harr3', a little impatient. 
 
 " Well, then, when after m3' late viscount's misfortune, my 
 mother went up with us to London, to ask for justice against 
 you all (as for Mohun, I'll have his blood, as sure as m3^ name 
 is Francis Viscount Esmond) — we went to stay with our cousin 
 ray Lady Marlborough, with whom we had quarrelled for ever 
 so long. But when misfortune came, she stood by her blood ; 
 — so did the Dowager Viscountess stand b3^ her blood, — so 
 did 3'ou. Well, sir, whilst m3^ mother was petitioning the late 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 199 
 
 Prince of Orange — for I will never call him king — and 
 while 3'0ii were in prison, we lived at my Lord Marlborough's 
 house, who was only a little there, being away with the army 
 in Holland. And then ... I say, Harry, you won't tell, 
 now ? " 
 
 Harry again made a vow of secrecy. 
 
 "Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, 3'ou know: my 
 Lady Marlborough was vei'y fond of us, and she said I was to 
 be her page ; and she got Trix to be a maid of honor, and 
 while she was up in her room cr^dng, we used to be always 
 having fun, 3'ou know; and the Duchess used to kiss me, and 
 so did her daughters, and Blandford fell tremendous in love 
 with Trix, and she liked him ; and one da}^ he — he kissed her 
 behind a door — he did though, — and the Duchess caught him, 
 and she banged such a box of the ear both at Trix and Bland- 
 ford — ^3'ou' should have seen it! And then she said that we 
 must leave directly, and abused m}' mamma who was cognizant 
 of the business; but she wasn't — never thinking about any- 
 thing but father. And so we came down to Walcote. Bland- 
 ford being locked up, and not allowed to see Trix. But /got 
 at him. I climbed along the gutter, and in through the win- 
 dow, where he was crying. 
 
 '' ' Marquis,' says I, when he had opened it and helped me 
 in, ' you know I wear a sword,' for I had brought it. 
 
 " ' Oh, viscount,' says he — 'oh, my dearest Frank ! ' and 
 he threw himself into my arms and burst out a-cr3'ing. ' I do 
 love Mistress Beatrix so, that I shall die if I don't have her.' 
 
 " ' My dear Blandford,' says I, ' you are 3^oung to think of 
 marrying ; ' for he was but fifteen, and a 3'oung fellow of that 
 age can scarce do so, you know. 
 
 " 'But FU wait twent}' years, if she'll have me,' sa^'s he. 
 ' I'll never marry — no, never, never, never, marry anybody 
 but her. No, not a princess, though they would have me do 
 it ever so. If Beatrix will wait for me, her Blandford swears 
 he will be faithful.' And he wrote a paper (it wasn't spelt 
 right, for he wrote ' I'm ready to sine with my hlode^' which, 
 you know, Harr^^, isn't the way of spelling it), and vowing that 
 he would marr}^ none other but the Honorable Mistress Ger- 
 trude Beatrix P^smond, onl^^ sister of his dearest friend Francis 
 James, fourth Viscount Esmond. And so I gave him a locket 
 of her hair." 
 
 " A locket of her hair? " cries Esmond. 
 
 " Yes. Trix gave me one after the fight with the Duchess 
 that very day. I am sure I didn't want it ; and so I gave it 
 
200 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 him, and we kissed at parting, and said — ' Good-bj^, brother.* 
 And I got back through the gutter ; and we set off home that xery 
 evennig. And he went to King's College, m Cambridge, and 
 I'm going to Cambridge soon ; and if he doesn't stand to his 
 promise (for he's onl}^ wrote once) , — he knows I wear a 
 sword, Harr}^ Come along, and let's go see the cocking- 
 match at Winchester. 
 
 " . . . . But I sa}^" he added, laughing, after a pause, " I 
 don't think Trix will break her heart about him. La bless 
 you ! whenever she sees a man, she makes eyes at him ; and 
 young Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley, and Anthon}^ 
 Henley of Alresford, were at swords drawn about her, at the 
 Winchester Assembl}', a month ago." 
 
 That night Mr. Harry's sleep was by no means so pleasant 
 or sweet as it had been on the first two evenings after his 
 aiTival at Walcote. "So the bright eyes have been already 
 shining on another," thought he, " and the pretty lips, or the 
 cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which they were made 
 for. Here's a girl not sixteen, and one 3'oung gentleman is 
 alread}' whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country 
 squires are ready to cut each other's throats that they may 
 have the honor of a dance with her. What a fool am I to be 
 dallying about this passion, and singeing my wings in this fool- 
 ish flame. Wings! — why not say crutches? There is but 
 eight 3'ears' difference between us, to be sure ; but in life I am 
 thirty ^^ears older. How could I ever hope to please such a 
 sweet creature as that, with my rough ways and glum face? 
 Sa}" that I have merit ever so much, and won myself a name, 
 could she ever listen to me ? She must be my Lad}^ Marchion- 
 ess, and I remain a nameless bastard. Oh ! my master, my 
 master ! " (here he fell to thinking with a passionate grief of 
 the vow which he had made to his poor dying lord.) "Oh! 
 m}' mistress, dearest and kindest, will you be contented with 
 the sacrifice which the poor orphan makes for 3"ou, whom you 
 love, and who so loves you?" 
 
 And then came a fiercer pang of temptation. "A word 
 from me," Harry thought, " a syllable of explanation, and all 
 this might be changed ; but no, I swore it over the dying bed 
 of my benefactor. For the sake of him and his ; for the sacred 
 love and kindness of old daj's ; I gave my promise to him, and 
 ma}^ kind heaven enable me to keep my vow ! " 
 
 The next da}-, although Esmond gave no sign of what was 
 going on in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarilj' gay 
 and cheerful when he met his friends at the morning meal, his 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 201 
 
 dear mistress, whose clear e3'es it seemed no emotion of his 
 could escape, perceived that something troubled him, for she 
 looked anxiously towards him more than once during the break- 
 fast, and when he went up to his chamber afterwards she pres- 
 ently followed him, and knocked at his door. 
 
 As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her 
 at once, for she found our 3'oung gentleman packing his valise, 
 pursuant to the resolution which he had come to over-night of 
 making a brisk retreat out of this temptation. 
 
 She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then 
 leant against it, very pale, her hands folded before her, looking 
 at the young man, who was kneeling over his work of packing. 
 *' Are you going so soon? " she said. 
 
 He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so dis- 
 covered, in the very act, as it were, and took one of her fair 
 little hands — it was that which had her marriage ring on — 
 and kissed it. 
 
 " It is best that it should be so, dearest lady," he said. 
 
 " I knew you were going, at breakfast. I — I thought 3^ou 
 might sttxy. What has happened? Why can't you remain 
 longer with us ? What has Frank told you — you were talking 
 together late last night?" 
 
 "I had but three days' leave from Chelse}^" Esmond said, 
 as gayl}' as he could. ' ' My aunt — she lets me call her aunt — is 
 my mistress now ! I owe her m}^ lieutenancy and my laced coat. 
 She has taken me into high favor ; and my new General Is to 
 dine at Chelse}' to-morrow — General Lumle}', madam — who 
 has appointed me his aide-de-camp, and on whom I must have 
 the honor of waiting. See, here is a letter from the Dowager ; 
 the post brought it last night ; and I would not speak of it, for 
 fear of disturbing our last merry meeting." 
 
 My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a smile 
 that was somewhat contemptuous. "I have no need to read 
 the letter," says she -- (indeed, 'twas as well she did not ; for 
 the Chelsey missive, in the poor Dowager's usual French jargon, 
 permitted him a longer holiday than he said. " Je vous donne," 
 quoth her ladyship, " oui jour, pour vous fatigay parfaictement 
 de vos parens fatigans ") — "I have no need to read the letter," 
 says she. " What was it Frank told 3'ou last night?" 
 
 " He told me little I did not know," Mr. Esmond answered. 
 "But I have thought of that little, and here's the result: I 
 have no right to the name I bear, dear lady ; and it is only by 
 your sufferance that I am allowed to keep it. If I thought for 
 an hour of what has perhaps crossed your mind too — " 
 
202 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 " Y'es, I did, Harr}'," said she ; " I thought of it ; and think 
 of it. I would sooner call you my son than the greatest prince 
 in Europe — yes, than the greatest prince. For who is there 
 so good and so brave, and who would love her as you would ? 
 But there are reasons a mother can't tell." 
 
 "I know them," said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with a 
 smile. " I know there's Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Craw- 
 ley, and Mr. Anthony Henley of the Grange, and my Lord 
 Marquis of Blandford, that seems to be the favored suitor. 
 You shall ask me to wear my Lady Marchioness's favors and 
 to dance at her ladyship's wedding." 
 
 " Oh ! Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten 
 me," cried out Lady Castlewood. "Lord Churchill is but a 
 child, his outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish folly. His 
 parents would rather see him buried than married to one below 
 him in rank. And do you think that I would stoop to sue for 
 a husband for Francis Esmond's daughter ; or submit to have 
 my girl smuggled into that proud famil}' to cause a quarrel 
 between son and parents, and to be treated onh' as an inferior? 
 I would disdain such a meanness. Beatrix would scorn it. 
 Ah ! Henr}', 'tis not with 3'ou the fault lies, 'tis with her. I 
 know 3'ou both, and love 3'ou : need I be ashamed of that love 
 now? No, never, never, and 'tis not 3'OU, dear Harry, that is 
 unworthy. 'Tis for m3' poor Beatrix I tremble — whose head- 
 strong will frightens me ; whose jealous temper (the3" say I was 
 jealous too, but, pra3'^ God, I am cured of that sin) and whose 
 vanit3^ no words or prayers of mine can cure — onl3^ suffering, 
 onl3^ experience, and remorse afterwards. Oh ! Henr3% she 
 will make no man happ3^ who loves her. Go away, my son : 
 leave her : love us alwa3's, and think kindly of us : and for me, 
 m3^ dear, you know that these walls contain all that I love in 
 the world." 
 
 In after life, did Esmond find the words true which his fond 
 mistress spoke from her sad heart? Warning he had: but I 
 doubt others had warning before his time, and since : and he 
 benefited b3' it as most men do. 
 
 M3^ 3'oung Lord Viscount was exceeding sorry when he 
 heard that I-Iarr3^ could not come to the cock-match with him, 
 and must go to London, but no doubt m3" lord consoled him- 
 self when the Hampshire cocks won the match ; and he saw 
 ever3^ one of the battles, and crowed properl3' over the con- 
 quered Sussex gentlemen. 
 
 As Esmond rode towards town his servant, coming up to 
 him, informed him with a grin, that Mistress Beatrix had 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 203 
 
 brought out a new gown and blue stockings for that daj-'s 
 dinner, in whicli she intended to appear, and had flown into a 
 rage and given her maid a slap on the face soon after she heard 
 he was going SiWSi}\ Mistress Beatrix's woman, the fellow 
 said, came down to the servants' hall cr3'ing, and with the 
 mark of a blow still on her cheek : but Esmond peremptorily 
 ordered him to fall back and be silent, and rode on with 
 thoughts enough of his own to occup}^ him — some sad ones, 
 some inexpressibly dear and pleasant. 
 
 His mistress, from whom he had been a 3'ear separated, was 
 his dearest mistress again. The family from which he had been 
 parted, and which he loved with the fondest devotion, was his 
 family once more. If Beatrix's beauty shone upon him, it was 
 with a friendly lustre, and he could regard it with much such 
 a delight as he brought away after seeing the beautiful pictures 
 of the smiling Madonnas in the convent at Cadiz, when he was 
 despatched thither with a flag ; and as for his mistress, 'twas 
 difficult to say with what a feeling he regarded her. 'Twas 
 happiness to have seen her ; 'twas no great pang to part ; a 
 fihal tenderness, a love that was at once respect and protection, 
 filled his mind as he thought of her ; and near her or far from 
 her, and from that da\' until now, and from now till death 
 is past and beyond it, he prays that sacred flame may ever 
 burn. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN OF 1704. 
 
 Mr. Esmond rode up to London then, where, if the Dowager 
 had been angry at the abrupt leave of absence he took, she was 
 mightily pleased at his speed}^ return. 
 
 He went immediately and paid his court to his new general, 
 General Lumley, who received him graciously*, having known 
 his father, and also, he was pleased to say, having had the 
 very best accounts of Mr. Esmond from the officer whose aide- 
 de-camp he had been at Vigo. During this winter Mr. Esmond 
 was gazetted to a lieutenancy in Brigadier Webb's regiment of 
 Fusileers, then with their colonel in Flanders ; but being now 
 attached to the suite of Mr. Lumley, Esmond did not join his 
 own regiment until more than a year afterwards, and after his 
 return from the campaign of Blenheim, which was fought the 
 
204 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 next 3^ear. The campaign began very early, our troops march- 
 ing out of their quarters before the winter was almost over, and 
 investing the city of Bonn, on the Rhine, under the Duke's 
 command. His Grace joined the army in deep grief of mind, 
 with crape on his sleeve, and his household in mourning ; and 
 the very same packet which brought the Commander-in-Chief 
 over, brought letters to the forces which preceded him, and 
 one from his dear mistress to Esmond, which interested him 
 not a little. 
 
 The young Marquis of Blandford, his Grace's son, who had 
 been entered in King's College in Cambridge, (whither my Lord 
 Viscount had also gone, to Trinity, with Mr. Tusher as his 
 governor,) had been seized with small-pox, and was dead at 
 sixteen jears of age, and so poor Frank's schemes for his 
 sister's advancement were over, and that innocent childish 
 passion nipped in the birth. 
 
 Esmond's mistress would have had him return, at least her 
 letters hinted as much ; but in the presence of the enemj' this 
 was impossible, and our young man took his humble share in 
 the siege, which need not be described here, and had the good 
 luck to escape without a wound of any sort, and to drink his 
 general's health after the surrender. He was in constant mili- 
 tary duty this jear, and did not think of asking for a leave of 
 absence, as one or two of his less fortunate friends did, who 
 were cast away in that tremendous storm which happened 
 towards the close of November, that " which of late o'er pale 
 Britannia past" (as Mr. Addison sang of it), and in which 
 scores of our greatest ships and 15,000 of our seamen went 
 down. 
 
 The}^ said that our Duke was quite heart-broken by the 
 calamity which had befallen his famih' ; but his enemies found 
 that he could subdue them, as well as master his grief. Suc- 
 cessful as had been this great General's operations in the past 
 3^ear, they were far enhanced by the splendor of his victor}^ in 
 the ensuing campaign. His Grace the Captain-General went 
 to England after Bonn, and our army fell back into Holland, 
 where, in April 1704, his Grace again found the troops, em- 
 barking from Harwich and landing at Maesland Sluys : thence 
 his Grace came immediately to the Hague, where he received 
 the foreign ministers, general officers, and other people of 
 quality. The greatest honors were paid to his Grace every- 
 where — at the Hague, Utrecht, Ruremonde, and Maestricht; 
 the civil authorities coming to meet his coaches : sah^os of 
 cannon saluting him, canopies of state being erected for him 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 205 
 
 where he stopped, and feasts prepared for the numerous gentle- 
 men following in his suite. His Grace reviewed the troops of 
 the States-General between Liege and Maestricht, and after- 
 wards the English forces, under the command of General 
 Churchill, near Bois-le-Duc. Ever}" preparation was made for 
 a long march ; and the arm^^ heard, with no small elation, that 
 it was the Commander-in-Chief's intention to carry the war out 
 of the Low Countries, and to march on the Mozelle. Before 
 leaving our camp at Maestricht, we heard that the French, un- 
 der the Marshal Villeroy, were also bound towards the Mozelle. 
 
 Towards the end of May, the army reached Coblentz ; and 
 next day, his Grace, and the generals accompanying him, 
 went to visit the Elector of Treves at his Castle of Ehrenbreit- 
 stein, the horse and dragoons passing the Rhine whilst the 
 Duke was entertaiiled at a grand feast by the Elector. All as 
 yet was novelt}", festivit}^, and splendor — a brilliant march of 
 a great and glorious army through a friendl}" countrj', and sure 
 through some of the most beautiful scenes of nature which I 
 ever witnessed. 
 
 The foot and artillerj^, following after the horse as quick 
 as possible, crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbreitstein, and so 
 to Castel, over against Mayntz, in which city his Grace, his 
 generals, and his retinue were received at the landing-place by 
 the Elector's coaches, carried to his Highness's palace amidst 
 the thunder of cannon, and then once more magnificently enter- 
 tained. Gidlingen, in Bavaria, was appointed as the general 
 rendezvous of the army, and thither, by different routes, the 
 whole forces of English, Dutch, Danes, and German auxiliaries 
 took their way. The foot and artillery under General Churchill 
 passed the Neckar, at Heidelberg ; and Esmond had an oppor- 
 tunity of seeing that city and palace, once so famous and 
 beautiful (though shattered and battered b}' the French, under 
 Turenne, in the late war), where his grandsire had served the 
 beautiful and unfortunate Electress-Palatine, the first King 
 Charles's sister. 
 
 At Mindelsheim, the famous Prince of Savoy came to visit 
 our commander, all of us crowding eagerly to get a sight of 
 that brilliant and intrepid warrior ; and our troops were drawn 
 up in battalia before the Prince, who was pleased to express 
 his admiration of this noble English army. At length we came 
 in sight of the enem}' between Dillingen and Lawingen, the 
 Brentz lying between the two armies. The Elector, judging 
 that Donauwort would be the point of his Grace's attack, sent 
 a strong detachment of his best troops to Count Darcos, who 
 
206 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 was posted at Schellenberg, near that place, where great in- 
 trenchments were thrown up, and thousands of pioneers em- 
 plo3'ed to strengthen the position. 
 
 On the 2nd of July his Grace stormed the post, with what 
 success on our part need scarce be told. His Grace advanced 
 with six thousand foot, English and Dutch, thirty squadrons, 
 and three regiments of Imperial Cuirassiers, the Duke cross- 
 ing the river at the head of the cavalry. Although our troops 
 made the attack with unparalleled courage and fury — rushing up 
 to the very guns of the enem}^ and being slaughtered before their 
 works — we were driven back manj^ times, and should not have 
 carried them, but that the Imperialists came up under the Prince 
 of Baden, when the enemy could make no head against us : we 
 pursued them into the trenches, making a terrible slaughter 
 there, and into the very Danube, where a great part of his 
 troops, foUovC'ing the example of their generals. Count Darcos 
 and the Elector himself, tried to save themselves by swimming. 
 Our army entered Donauwort, which the Bavarians evacuated ; 
 and where 'twas said the Elector purposed to have given us a 
 warm reception, by burning us in our beds ; the cellars of the 
 houses, when we took possession of them, being found stuffed 
 with straw. But though the links were there, the link-boys had 
 run away. The townsmen saved their houses, and our General 
 took possession of the enemy's ammunition in the arsenals, his 
 stores, and magazines. Five daj's afterwards a great " Te 
 Deum " was sung in Prince Lewis's arm}-, and a solemn day of 
 thanksgiving held in our own ; the Prince of Savoj^'s compli- 
 ments coming to his Grace the Captain-General during the da3''s 
 religious ceremony, and concluding, as it were, with an Amen. 
 
 And now, having seen a great mihtary march through a 
 friendly countr}^ ; the pomps and festivities of more than one 
 German court ; the severe struggle of a hotly contested battle, 
 and the triumph of victory, Mr. Esmond beheld another part of 
 military duty : our troops entering the enemy's territory, and 
 putting all around them to fire and sword ; burning farms, 
 wasted fields, shrieking women, slaughtered sons and fathers, 
 and drunken soldiery, cursing and carousing in the midst of 
 tears, terror, and murder. Wh}^ does the stately Muse of 
 Histor3% that delights in describing the valor of heroes and the 
 grandeur of conquest, leave out these scenes, so brutal, mean, 
 and degrading, that 3'et form by far the greater part of the 
 drama of war? You, gentlemen of England, who live at home 
 at ease, and compliment j^ourselves in the songs of triumph with 
 which our chieftains are bepraised — j^ou pretty maidens, that 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 207 
 
 come tumbling down the stairs when the fife and drum call you, 
 and huzzali for the British Grenadiers — do you take account 
 that these items go to make up the amount of the triumph you ad- 
 mire, and form part of the duties of the heroes you fondle ? Our 
 chief, whom England and all Europe, saving only the French- 
 men, worshipped almost, had this of the godlike in him, that he 
 was impassible before victor}', before danger, before defeat. 
 Before the greatest obstacle or the most trivial ceremony ; before 
 a hundred thousand men drawn in battalia, or a peasant slaugh- 
 tered at the door of his burning hovel ; before a carouse of 
 drunken German lords, or a monarch's court or a cottage table, 
 where his plans were laid, or an enemy's battery, vomiting 
 flame and death, and strewing corpses round about him ; — he 
 was always cold, calm, resolute, hke fate. He performed a 
 treason or a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black as Styx, 
 as easilj' as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. 
 He took a mistress, and left her ; he betrayed his benefactor, 
 and supported him, or would have murdered him, with the same 
 calmness alwaj's, and having no more remorse than Clotho 
 when she weaves the thread, or Lachesis when she cuts it. In 
 the hour of battle I have heard the Prince of Savoy's officers 
 sa}', the Prince became possessed with a sort of warlike fur}^ ; 
 his eyes lighted up ; he rushed hither and thither, raging ; he 
 shrieked curses and encouragement, yeUing and harking his 
 blood}' war-dogs on, and himself alwaj's at the first of tlie hunt. 
 Our Duke was as calm at the mouth of the cannon as at the 
 door of a drawing-room. Perhaps he could not have been the 
 great man he was, had he had a heart either for love or hatred, 
 or pity or fear, or regret or remorse. He achieved the highest 
 deed of daring, or deepest calculation of thought, as he per- 
 formed the very meanest action of which a man is capable ; 
 told a lie, or cheated a fond woman, or robbed a poor beggar 
 of a halfpenny, with a like awful serenity and equal capacity of 
 the highest and lowest acts of our nature. 
 
 His qualities were pretty well known in the arm}^ where 
 there w^ere parties of all politics, and of plenty of shrewdness 
 and wit ; but there existed such a perfect confidence in him, as 
 the first captain of the world, and such a faith and admiration 
 in his prodigious genius and fortune, that the ver}- men whom 
 he notoriously cheated of their pay, the chiefs whom he used 
 and injured — (for he used all men, great and small, that came 
 near him, as his instruments alike, and took something of 
 theirs, either some quality or some property — the blood of a 
 soldier, it might be, or a jewelled hat, or a hundred thousand 
 
208 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 crowns from a king, or a portion out of a starving sentinel's 
 three-farthings ; or (when he was 3'oung) a kiss from a woman, 
 and tlie gokl chain off her neck, taking all he could from woman 
 or man, and having, as I have said, this of the godlike in him, 
 that he could see a hero perish or a sparrow fall, with the same 
 amount of sympathy for either. Not that he had no tears ; he 
 could always order up this reserve at the proper moment to 
 battle ; he could draw upon tears or smiles alike, and when- 
 ever need was for using this cheap coin. He would cringe to a 
 shoeblack, as he would flatter a minister or a monarch ; be 
 haughty, be humble, threaten, repent, weep, grasp 3'our hand, 
 (or stab you whenever he saw occasion) — but 3'et those of the 
 army, who knew him best and had suffered most from him, 
 admired him most of all : and as he rode along the lines to 
 battle or galloped up in the nick of time to a battalion reehng 
 from before the enemy's charge or shot, the fainting men and 
 officers got new courage as they saw the splendid calm of his 
 face, and felt that his will made them irresistible. 
 
 After the great victor}^ of Blenheim the enthusiasm of the 
 army for the Duke, even of his bitterest personal enemies in it, 
 amounted to a sort of rage — nay, the very officers who cursed 
 him in their hearts were among the most frantic to cheer him. 
 Who couki refuse his meed of admiration to such a victory and 
 such a victor? Not he who writes : a man may profess to be 
 ever so much a philosopher ; but he who fought on that day 
 must feel a thrill of pride as he recalls it. 
 
 The French right was posted near to the village of Blen- 
 heim, on the Danube, where the Marshal Tallard's quarters 
 were ; their line extending througli, it ma^' be a league and a 
 half, before Lutzingen and up to a woody hill, round the base 
 of which, and acting against the Prince of Savoy, were forty of 
 his squadrons. 
 
 Here was a village that the Frenchmen had burned, the 
 wood being, in fact, a better shelter and easier of guard than 
 any village. 
 
 Before these two villages and the French lines ran a little 
 stream, not more than two foot broad, through a marsh (that 
 was mostly dried up from the heats of 'the weather), and this 
 stream was the only separation between the two armies — ours 
 coming up and ranging themselves in line of battle before the 
 French, at six o'clock in the morning ; so that our line was 
 quite visible to theirs ; and the whole of this great plain was 
 black and swarming with troops for hours before the cannon- 
 ading began. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 209 
 
 On one side and the other this cannonading lasted many 
 hours. The French guns being in position in front of their 
 line, and doing severe damage among our horse especiall}^, 
 and on our right wing of Imperiahsts under the Prince of 
 Savoy, who could neither advance his artillery nor his lines, 
 the ground before him being cut up by ditches, morasses, and 
 \ery difficult of passage for the guns. 
 
 It was past mid-day when the attack began on our left, 
 where Lord Cutts commanded, the bravest and most beloved 
 officer in the English army. And now, as if to make his expe- 
 rience in war complete, our ^oung aide-de-camp having seen 
 two great armies facing each other in line of battle, and had 
 the honor of riding with orders from one end to other of the 
 line, came in for a not uncommon accompaniment of military 
 glory, and was knocked on the head, along with many hundred 
 of brave fellows, almost at the very commencement of this 
 famous day of Blenheim. A little after noon, the disposition 
 for attack being completed with much delay and difficulty, and 
 under a severe fire from the enemy's guns, that were better 
 posted and more numerous than ours, a body of English and 
 Hessians, with Major-General Wilkes commanding at the ex- 
 treme left of our line, marched upon Blenheim, advancing with 
 great gallantry, the Major-General on foot, with his officers, at 
 the head of the column, and marching, with his hat off, intrep- 
 idl}" in the face of the enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous 
 fire from his guns and musketr}', to which our people were in- 
 structed not to reply, except with pike and ba3'onet when they 
 reached the French palisades. To these Wilkes walked in- 
 trepidl3% and struck the woodwork with his sword before our 
 people charged it. He was shot down at the instant, with his 
 colonel, major, and several officers ; and our troops cheering 
 and huzzaing, and coming on, as the}' did, with immense reso- 
 lution and gallantry, were nevertheless stopped b}' the murder- 
 ous fire from behind the enemy's defences, and then attacked 
 in flank by a furious charge of French horse which swept out 
 of Blenheim, and cut down our men in great numbers. Three 
 fierce and desperate assaults of our foot were made and re- 
 pulsed by the enem}' ; so that our columns of foot were quite 
 shattered, and fell back, scrambling over the little rivulet, which 
 we had crossed so resolutel}' an hour before, and pursued by 
 the French cavalry, slaughtering us and cutting us downi. 
 
 And now the conquerors were met by a furious charge of 
 English horse under Esmond's general. General Lumle3% behind 
 whose squadrons the flying foot found refuge, and formed again, 
 
 14 
 
210 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOI!TD. 
 
 whilst Lumley drove back the French horse, charging up to the 
 village of Blenheim and the palisades where Wilkes, and many 
 hundred more gallant Englishmen, lay in slaughtered heaps. 
 Beyond this moment, and of this famous victory, Mr. Esmond 
 knows nothing ; for a shot brought down his horse and our 
 young gentleman on it, who fell crushed and stunned under the 
 animal, and came to his senses he knows not how long after, 
 onl}' to lose them again from pain and loss of blood. A dim 
 sense, as of people groaning round about him, a wild incoher- 
 ent thought or two for her who occupied so much of his heart 
 now, and that here his career, and his hopes, and misfortunes 
 were ended, he remembers in the course of these hours. When 
 he woke up, it was with a pang of extreme pain, his breast- 
 plate was taken off, his servant was holding his liead up, the 
 good and faithful lad of Hampshire * was blubbering over his 
 master, whom he found and had thought dead, and a surgeon 
 was probing a wound in the shoulder, which he must have got 
 at the same moment when his horse was shot and fell over him. 
 The battle was over at this end of the field, by this time : the 
 village was in possession of the English, its brave defenders 
 prisoners, or fled, or drowned, man}' of them, in the neighbor- 
 ing waters of Donau. But for honest Lock wood's faithful 
 search after his master, there had no doubt been an end of 
 Esmond here, and of this his story. The marauders were out 
 rifling the bodies as they la}' on the field, and Jack had brained 
 one of these gentr}^ with the club-end of his musket, who had 
 eased Esmond of his hat and periwig, his purse, and fine silver- 
 mounted pistols which the Dowager gave him, and was fum- 
 bling in his pockets for further treasure, when Jack Lockwood 
 came up and put an end to the scoundrel's triumph. 
 
 Hospitals for our wounded were established at Blenheim, 
 and here for several weeks Esmond lay in very great danger 
 of his life ; the wound was not very great from which he suf- 
 fered, and the ball extracted by the surgeon on the spot where 
 our young gentleman received it ; but a fever set in next 
 day, as he was lying in hospital, and that almost carried him 
 awa}'. Jack Lockwood said he talked in the wildest manner 
 during his delirium ; that he called himself the Marquis of Es- 
 mond, and seizing one of the surgeon's assistants who came to 
 dress his wounds, swore that he was Madam Beatrix, and that 
 he would make her a duchess if she would but say yes. He 
 was passing the days in these crazy fancies, and vana somnia, 
 
 * My mistress, before I went this campaign, sent me John Lockwood 
 out of Walcote, who hath ever since remained with me. — H, E. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 211 
 
 whilst the army was singing " Te Deiim " for the victory, and 
 those famous festivities were taking place at which our Duke, 
 now made a Prince of the Empire, was entertained b}^ the 
 King of the Romans and his nobility. His Grace went home 
 by Berlin and Hanover, and Esmond lost the festivities which 
 took place at those cities, and which his general shared in 
 company of the other general officers who travelled with our 
 great captain. AYhen he could move, it was by the Duke of 
 Wiirtemberg's cit}' of Stuttgard that he made his way- home- 
 wards, revisiting Heidelberg again, whence he went to Man- 
 heim, and hence had a tedious but eas}' water journey down 
 the river of Rhine, which he had thought a delightful and 
 beautiful voyage indeed, but that his heart was longing for 
 home, and something far more beautiful and delightful. 
 
 As bright and welcome as the eyes almost of his mistress 
 shone the lights of Harwich, as the packet came in from Hol- 
 land. It was not man}' hours ere he, Esmond, was in London, 
 of that you may be sure, and received with open arras by the 
 old Dowager of Chelsey, who vowed, in her jargon of French 
 and English, that he had the air noble ^ that his pallor embel- 
 lished him, that he was an Amadis and deserved a Gloriana ; 
 and oh ! flames and darts ! what was his jo}' at hearing that his 
 mistress was come into waiting, and was now with her Majesty 
 at Kensington ! Although Mr. Esmond had told Jack Lock- 
 wood to get horses 'and they would ride for Winchester that 
 night, when he heard this news he countermanded the horses 
 at once ; his business lay no longer in Hants ; all his hope 
 and desire lay within a couple of miles of him in Kensington 
 Park wall. Poor Harry had never looked in the glass before 
 so eagerly to see whether he had the bd air^ and his paleness 
 reallj' did become him ; he never took such pains about the 
 curl of his periwig, and the taste of his embroider}^ and point- 
 lace, as now, before Mr. Amadis presented himself to Madam 
 Gloriana. Was the fire of the French lines half so murderous 
 as the killing glances from her ladyship's eyes ? Oh ! darts and 
 raptures, how beautiful were the}' ! 
 
 And as, before the blazing sun of morning, the moon fades 
 away in the sk}' almost invisible, Esmond thought, with a blush 
 perhaps, of another sweet pale face, sad and faint, and fading 
 out of sight, with its sweet fond gaze of affection ; such a last 
 look it seemed to cast as Eurydice might have given, yearning 
 after her lover, when Fate and Pluto summoned her, and she 
 passed away into the shades. 
 
212 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A WOMAW. 
 
 Ant taste for pleasure which Esmond had (and he liked to 
 desipere in loco^ neither more nor less than most 3^oung men of 
 his age) he could now gratify to the utmost extent, and in the 
 best compan}" which the town afforded. When the army went 
 into winter quarters abroad, those of the officers who had in- 
 terest or money easil}* got leave of absence, and found it much 
 pleasanter to spend their time in Pall Mall and H3'de Park, 
 than to pass the winter away behind the fortifications of the 
 dreary old Flanders towns, where the English troops were 
 gathered. Y^achts and packets passed daily between the Dutch 
 and Flemish ports and Harwich ; the roads thence to London 
 and the great inns were crowded with army gentlemen ; the 
 taverns and ordinaries of the town swarmed with red-coats ; 
 and our great Duke's levees at St. James's were as thronged 
 as the}^ had been at Ghent and Brussels, where we treated him, 
 and he us, with the grandeur and ceremony of a sovereign. 
 Though Esmond had been appointed to a lieutenancy in the 
 Fusileer regiment, of which that celebrated officer. Brigadier 
 John Richmond Webb, was colonel, he had never joined the 
 regiment, nor been introduced to its excellent commander, 
 though they had made the same campaign together, and been 
 engaged in the same battle. But being aide-de-camp to General 
 Lumley, who commanded the division of horse, and the army 
 marching to its point of destination on the Danube by different 
 routes, Esmond had not fallen in, as yet, with his commander 
 and future comrades of the fort; and it was in London, in 
 Golden Square, where Major-General Webb lodged, that Cap- 
 tain Esmond had the honor of first paying his respects to his 
 friend, patron, and commander of after days. 
 
 Those who remember this brilliant and accomplished gen- 
 tleman may recollect his character, upon which he prided 
 himself, I think, not a little, of being the handsomest man 
 in the army ; a poet who writ a dull copy of verses upon the 
 battle of Oudenarde three years after, describing Webb, 
 says : — 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 213 
 
 " To noble danger Webb conducts the way, 
 His great example all his troops obey ; 
 Before the front the general sternly rides. 
 With such an air as Mars to battle strides : 
 Propitious heaven must sure a hero save, 
 Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave.*' 
 
 Mr. Webb thought these verses quite as fine as Mr. Addison's 
 on the Blenheim Campaign, and, indeed, to be Hector a la mode 
 de Paris, was part of this gallant gentleman's ambition. It 
 would have been difficult to find an officer in the whole army, 
 or amongst the splendid courtiers and cavaliers of the Maison 
 du Roy, that fought under Vendosme and Villeroy in the army 
 opposed to ours, who was a more accomplished soldier and 
 perfect gentleman, and either braver or better-looking. And 
 if Mr. Webb believed of himself what the world said of him, 
 and was deeply convinced of his own indisputable genius, 
 beauty, and valor, who has a right to quarrel with him very 
 much? This self-content of his kept him in general good- 
 humor, of which his friends and dependants got the benefit. 
 
 He came of a very ancient Wiltshire family, which he re- 
 spected above all families in the world : he could prove a lineal 
 descent from King Edward the First, and his first ancestor, 
 Roaldus de Richmond, rode by William the Conqueror's side 
 on Hastings field. "We were gentlemen, Esmond," he used 
 to say, " when the Churchills were horse-boys." He was aver}' 
 tall man, standing in his pumps six feet three inches (in his 
 great jack-boots, with his tall fair periwig, and hat and feather, 
 he could not have been less than eight feet high). " I am taller 
 than Churchill," he would say, surveying himself in the glass, 
 " and I am a better made man ; and if the women won't like 
 a man that hasn't a wart on his nose, faith, I can't help myself, 
 and Churchill has the better of me there." Indeed, he was 
 alwa3's measuring himself with the Duke, and always asking 
 his friends to measure them. And talking in this frank way, as 
 he would do, over his cups, wags would laugh and encourage 
 him ; friends would be sorry for him ; schemers and flatterers 
 would egg him on, and tale-bearers carry the stories to head- 
 quarters, and widen the difference which alread}^ existed there, 
 between the great captain and one of the ablest and bravest 
 lieutenants he ever had. 
 
 His rancor against the Duke was so apparent, that one saw 
 it in the first half-hour's conversation with General Webb ; and 
 his lady, who adored her General, and thought him a hundred 
 times taller, handsomer, and braver than a prodigal nature had 
 
214 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 made him, hated the great Duke with such an intensity as it 
 becomes faithful wives to feel against their husbands' enemies. 
 Not that my Lord Duke was so yet ; Mr. Webb had said a 
 thousand things against him, which his superior had pardoned ; 
 and his Grace, whose spies were everywhere, liad heard a thou- 
 sand things more that Webb had never said. But it cost this 
 great man no pains to pardon ; and he passed over an injury 
 or a benefit alike easily. 
 
 Should any child of mine take the pains to read these his 
 ancestor's memoirs, I would not have him judge of the great 
 Duke * by what a contemporary has written of him. No man 
 hath been so immensely lauded and decried as this great states- 
 man and warrior ; as, indeed, no man ever deserved better the 
 very greatest praise and the strongest censure. If the present 
 writer joins with the latter faction, ver}^ likely a private pique 
 of his own may be the cause of his ill-feeling. 
 
 On presenting himself at the Commander-in-Chief's levee, 
 his Grace had not the least remembrance of General Lumley's 
 aide-de-camp, and though he knew Esmond's famil}' perfectly 
 well, having served with both lords (m}- Lord Francis and the 
 Viscount Esmond's father) in Flanders, and in the Duke of 
 York's Guard, the Duke of Marlborough, who was friendly and 
 serviceable to the (so-styled) legitimate representatives of the 
 Viscount Castlewood, took no sort of notice of the poor lieu- 
 tenant who bore their name. A word of kindness or acknowl- 
 edgment, or a single glance of approbation, might have changed 
 Esmond's opinion of the great man ; and instead of a satire, 
 which his pen cannot help writing, who knows but that the 
 humble historian might have taken the other side of panegjTic? 
 We have but to change the point of view, and the greatest 
 action looks mean ; as we turn the perspective-glass, and a 
 giant appears a pigm}^ You may describe, but who can tell 
 whether your sight is clear or not, or 3^our means of information 
 accurate ? Had the great man said but a word of kindness to 
 the small one (as he would have stepped out of his gilt chariot 
 to shake hands with Lazarus in rags and sores, if he thought 
 Lazarus could have been of any service to him), no doubt 
 Esmond would have fought for him with pen and sword to the 
 utmost of his might ; but my lord the lion did not want master 
 mouse at this moment, and so Muscipulus went off and nibbled 
 in opposition. 
 
 * This passage in the Memoirs of Esmond is written on a leaf inserted 
 into the MS. book, and dated 1744, probably after he had heard of the 
 Duchess's death. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 215 
 
 So it was, however, that a 3^oung gentleman, who, in the 
 eyes of his fomily, and in his own, doubtless, was looked upon 
 as a consummate hero, found that the great hero of the day 
 took no more notice of him than of the smallest drummer in his 
 Grace's army. The Dowager at Chelsey was furious against 
 this neglect of her family, and had a great battle with Lady 
 Marlborough (as Lady Castlewood insisted on calhng the 
 Duchess). Her Grace was now Mistress of the Robes to her 
 Majesty, and one of the greatest personages in this kingdom, 
 as her husband was in all Europe, and the battle between the 
 two ladies took place in the Queen's drawing-room. 
 
 The Duchess, in reply to my aunt's eager clamor, said 
 haughtily, that she had done her best for the legitimate branch 
 of the Esmonds, and could not be expected to provide for the 
 bastard brats of the famiij'. 
 
 " Bastards ! " says the Viscountess, in a fur3\ " There p.re 
 bastards among the Churchills, as your Grace knows, and the 
 Duke of Berwick is provided for weh enough." 
 
 " Madam," says the Duchess, " you know whose fault it is 
 that there are no such dukes in the Esmond familj' too, and 
 how that little scheme of a certain ladj^ miscarried." 
 
 Esmond's friend, Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the 
 Prince, heard the controversy between the ladies at court. 
 " And faith," says Dick, " I think, Harrj^, thy kinswoman had 
 the worst of it." 
 
 He could not keep the story quiet ; 'twas all over the coffee- 
 houses ere night ; it was printed in a News Letter before a 
 month was over, and " The reply of her Grace the Duchess of 
 M-rlb-r-gh to a Popish Lady of the Court, once a favorite 
 of the late K — J-m-s," was printed in half a dozen places, 
 with a note stating that ''this duchess, when the head of this 
 lady's family came by his death lately in a fatal duel, never 
 rested until she got a pension for the orphan heir, and widow, 
 from her Majesty's bount3\" The squabble did not advance 
 poor Esmond's promotion much, and indeed made him so 
 ashamed of himself that he dared not show his face at the 
 Commander-in-Chiefs levees again. 
 
 During those eighteen months which had passed since 
 Esmond saw his dear mistress, her good father, the old Dean, 
 quitted this life, firm in his principles to the very last, and 
 enjoining his family always to remember that the Queen's 
 brother. King James the Third, was their rightful sover- 
 eign. He made a very edifying end, as his daughter told 
 Esmond, and not a little to her surprise, after his death (for 
 
216 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 he had lived alwa3^s very poorlj^) my lady found that her father 
 had left no less a sum than 3,000^. behmd him, which he 
 bequeathed to her. 
 
 With this little fortune Lady Castlewood was enabled, when 
 her daughter's turn at Court came, to come to London, where 
 she took a small genteel house at Kensington, in the neighbor- 
 hood of the Court, bringing her children with her, and here it 
 was that Esmond found his friends. 
 
 As for the 3'oung lord, his university career had ended rather 
 abruptly. Honest Tusher, his governor, had found mj^ 3'oung 
 gentleman quite ungovernable. My lord worried his life away 
 with tricks ; and broke out, as home-bred lads will, into a 
 hundred youthful extravagances, so that Dr. Bentley, the new 
 master of Trinity, thought fit to write to the Viscountess 
 Castlewood, my lord's mother, and beg her to remove the 
 young nobleman from a college where he declined to learn, 
 and where he only did harm by his rigtous e:^ample. Indeed, 
 I believe he nearly set fire to Nevil's Court, that beautiful new 
 quadrangle of our college, which Sir Christopher Wren had 
 lately built. He knocked down a proctor's man that wanted to 
 arrest him in a midnight prank ; he gave a dinner-party on the 
 Prince of Wales's birthdaj', which was within a fortnight of his 
 own, and the twenty young gentlemen then present sallied out 
 after their wine, having toasted King James's health with open 
 windows, and sung ca\^alier songs, and shouted " God save 
 the King ! " in the great court, so that the master came out of 
 his lodge at midnight, and dissipated the riotous assembly. 
 
 This was my lord's crowning freak, and the Rev. Thomas 
 Tusher, domestic chaplain to the Right Honorable the Lord 
 Viscount Castlewood, finding his pra3'ers and sermons of no 
 earthl}^ avail to his lordship, gave up his duties of governor ; 
 went and married his brewer's widow at Southampton, and 
 took her and her money to his parsonage house at Castlewood. 
 
 M}' lad}' could not be angry with her son for drinking King 
 James's health, being herself a loyal Tor}^, as all the Castle- 
 wood family were, and acquiesced with a sigh, knowing, per- 
 haps, that her refusal would be of no avail to the .young lord's 
 desire for a military life. She would have liked him to be in 
 Mr. Esmond's regiment, hoping that Harry might act as a 
 guardian and adviser to his waj^ward young kinsman ; but my 
 young lord would hear of nothing but the Guards, and a com- 
 mission was got for him in the Duke of Ormond's regiment ; 
 so Esmond found my lord, ensign and lieutenant, when he 
 returned from Germany after the Blenheim campaign. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 217 
 
 The effect produced by both Lady Castlewood's children 
 when they appeared in public was extraordinary, and the whole 
 town speedily rang with their fame : such a beaatiful couple, 
 it was declared, never had been seen ; the young maid of honor 
 was toasted at every table and tavern, and as for my young 
 lord, his good looks were even more admired than his sister's. 
 A hundred songs were written about the pair, and as the 
 fashion of that day was, my young lord was praised in these 
 Anacreontics as warmly as Bathyllus. You ma}' be sure that 
 he accepted very complacently the town's opinion of him, and 
 acquiesced with that frankness and charming good-humor he 
 always showed in the idea that he was the prettiest fellow in 
 all London. 
 
 The old Dowager at Chelsey, though she could never be got 
 to acknowledge that Mistress Beatrix was an}" beauty at all, 
 (in which opinion, as it may be imagined, a vast number of the 
 ladies agreed with her), yet, on the very first sight of young 
 Castlewood, she owned she fell in love with him \ and Henry 
 Esmond, on his return to Chelsey, found himself quite super- 
 seded in her favor by her younger kinsman. The feat of 
 drinking the King's health at Cambridge would have won her 
 heart, she said, if nothing else did. " How had the dear 
 young fellow got such beauty?" she asked. "Not from his 
 father — certainly not from his mother. How had he come by 
 such noble manners, and the perfect bel air? That countrified 
 Walcote widow could never have taught him." Esmond had 
 his own opinion about the countrified Walcote widow, who had 
 a quiet grace and serene kindness, that had always seemed to 
 him the perfection of good breeding, though he did not try to 
 argue this point with his aunt. But he could agree in most 
 of the praises which the enraptured old dowager bestowed 
 on my Lord Viscount, than whom he never beheld a more fas- 
 cinating and charming gentleman. Castlewood had not wit so 
 much as enjoyment. " The lad looks good things," Mr. Steele 
 used to say ; " and his laugh lights up a conversation as much 
 as ten repartees from Mr. Congreve. I would as soon sit over 
 a bottle with him ag> with Mr. Addison ; and rather listen to 
 his talk than hear Nicolini. Was ever man so gracefully drunk 
 as my Lord Castlewood? I would give anything to carry my 
 wine" (though, indeed, Dick bore his very kindly, and plenty 
 of it, too), " like this incomparable young man. When he is 
 sober he is delightful ; and when tipsy, perfectly irresistible." 
 And referring to his favorite, Shakspeare (who was quite out 
 of fashion until Steele brought him back into the mode) , Dick 
 
218 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 compared Lord Castlewood to Prince Hal, and was pleased to 
 dub Esmond as ancient Pistol. 
 
 The Mistress of the Robes, the greatest lad}^ in England 
 after the Queen, or even before her Majesty, as the world said, 
 though she never could be got to sa}- a civil word to Beatrix, 
 whom she had promoted to her place as maid of honor, took 
 her brother into instant favor. When 3'oung Castlewood, in 
 his new uniform, and looking like a prince out of a fairy tale, 
 went to pay his duty to her Grace, she looked at him for a 
 minute in silence, the 3'oung man blushing and in confusion 
 before her, then fairly burst out a-crying, and kissed him 
 before her daughters and company. " He was my boy's friend," 
 she said, through her sobs. " M}^ Blandford might have been 
 like him." And everybod}^ saw, after this mark of the Duchess's 
 favor, that my young lord's promotion was secure, and people 
 crowded round the favorite's favorite, who became vainer and 
 gayer, and more good-humored than ever. 
 
 Meanwhile Madam Beatrix was making her conquests on 
 her own side, and amongst them was one poor gentleman, who 
 had been shot b\^ her .young eyes two 3'ears before, and had 
 never been quite cured of that wound ; he knew, to be sure, 
 how hopeless any passion might be, directed in that quarter, 
 and had taken that best, though ignoble, remedium amoris, a 
 speedy retreat from before the charmer, and a long absence 
 from her ; and not being dangerousl}^ smitten in the first in- 
 stance, Esmond pretty soon got the better of his complaint, and 
 if he had it still, did not know he had it, and bore it easily. 
 But when he returned after Blenheim, the 3'oung ladj^ of six- 
 teen, who had appeared the most beautiful object his eyes had 
 ever looked on two ^^ears back, was now advanced to a perfect 
 ripeness and perfection of beauty, such as instantly' enthralled 
 the poor devil, who had already been a fugitive from her charms. 
 Then he had seen her but for two days, and fled ; now he be- 
 held her day after day, and when she was at Court watched after 
 her ; when she was at home, made one of the family party ; 
 when she went abroad, rode after her mother's chariot ; when 
 she appeared in public places, was in the box near her, or in 
 the pit looking at her ; when she went to church was sure to be 
 there, though he might not listen to the sermon, and be ready 
 to hand her to her chair if she deigned to accept of his services, 
 and select him from a score of 3'Oung men who were alwa3'S hang- 
 ing round about her. When she went away^ accompanying her 
 Majesty to Hampton Court, a darkness fell over London. 
 Gods, what nights has Esmond passed, thinking of her, rhym- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 219 
 
 ing about her, talking about her ! His friend Dick Steele was 
 at this time courting the young lady, Mrs. Scurlock, whom he 
 married ; she had a lodging in Kensington Square, hard by my 
 Lady Castlewood's house there. Dick and Harry, being on the 
 same errand, used to meet constantly at Kensington. They 
 were always prowling about that place, or dismally walking 
 thence, or eagerly running thither. They emptied scores of 
 bottles at the ''King's Arms," each man prating of his love, 
 and allowing the other to talk on condition that he might have 
 his own turn as a listener. Hence arose an intimacy between 
 them, though to all the rest of their friends they must have been 
 insufferable. Esmond's verses to " Gloriana at the Harpsi- 
 chord," to " Gloriana's Nosegay," to " Gloriana at Court," ap- 
 peared this year in the Observator. — Have you never read 
 them ? They were thought pretty poems, and attributed by 
 some to Mr. Prior. 
 
 This passion did not escape — how should it? — the clear 
 eyes of Esmond's mistress : he told her all ; what will a man not 
 do when frantic with love ? To what baseness will he not de- 
 mean himself? What pangs will he not make others suffer, so 
 that he may ease his selfish heart of a part of its own pain? 
 Da3' after day he would seek his dear mistress, pour insane 
 hopes, supplications, rhapsodies, raptures, into her ear. She 
 listened, smiled, consoled, with untiring pity and sweetness. 
 Esmond was the eldest of her children, so she was pleased to 
 say ; and as for her kindness, who ever had or would look for 
 aught else from one who was an angel of goodness and pity ? 
 After what has been said, 'tis needless almost to add that poor 
 Esmond's suit was unsuccessful. What was a nameless, penni- 
 less lieutenant to do, when some of the greatest in the land 
 were in the field ? Esmond never so much as thought of asking 
 permission to hope so far above his reach as he knew this prize 
 was — and passed his foolish, useless life in mere abject sighs 
 and impotent longing. What nights of rage, what days of tor- 
 ment, of passionate unfulfilled desire, of sickening jealousy can 
 he recall ! Beatrix thought no more of him than of the lackey 
 that followed her chair. His complaints did not touch her in 
 the least ; his raptures rather fatigued her ; she cared for his 
 verses no more than for Dan Chaucer's, who's dead these ever 
 so man}' hundred years ; she did not hate him ; she rather de- 
 spised him, and just suffered him. 
 
 One day, after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear, fond, 
 constant mistress — for hours — for all day long — pouring out 
 his flame and his passion, his despair and rage, returning again 
 
220 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 and again to the theme, pacing the room, tearing up the flowers 
 on the table, twisting and breaking into bits the v/ax out of the 
 stand-dish, and performing a hundred mad freaks of passionate 
 follj ; seeing his mistress at last quite pale and tired out with 
 sheer weariness of compassion, and watching over his fever for 
 the hundredth time, Esmond seized up his hat, and took his 
 leave. As he got into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse 
 came over him for the wearisome pain he had been inflicting 
 Upon the dearest and kindest friend ever man had. He went 
 back to the house, where the servant still stood at the open 
 door, ran up the stairs, and found his mistress where he had 
 left her in the embrasure of the window, looking over the fields 
 towards Chelsej. She laughed, wiping aw^ay at the same time 
 the tears which were in her kind e3'es ; he flung himself down 
 on his knees, and buried his head in her lap. She had in her 
 hand the stalk of one of the flowers, a pink, that he had torn to 
 pieces. "Oh, pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and kind- 
 est," he said ; " I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings 
 me a drop of water." 
 
 "I am 5'our mother, you are my son, and I love you 
 always," she said, holding her hands over him : and he went 
 away comforted and humbled in mind, as he thought of that 
 amazing and constant love and tenderness with which this sweet 
 lady ever blessed and pursued him. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE FAMOUS MR. JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 The gentlemen ushers had a table at Kensington, and the 
 Guard a very splendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either of 
 which ordinaries Esmond was free to dine. Dick Steele liked 
 the Guard-table better than his own at the gentlemen ushers', 
 where there was less wine and more ceremony ; and Esmond 
 had many a jolly afternoon in company of his friend, and a hun- 
 dred times at least saw Dick into his chair. If there is verity 
 in wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable-natured 
 character Dick's must have been ! In proportion as he took in 
 wine he overflowed with kindness. His talk was not witt}" so 
 much as charming. He never said a word that could auger 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 221 
 
 anj^bod}^ and only became the more benevolent tLe more tipsy 
 he grew. Many of the wags derided the poor fellow in his cups, 
 and chose him as a butt for their satire : but there was a kind- 
 ness about him, and a sweet plaj^ful fancy, that seemed to Es- 
 mond far more charming than the pointed talk of the brightest 
 wits, with their elaborate repartees and affected severities. I 
 think Steele shone rather than sparkled. Those famous beaux- 
 espn'ts of the coffee-houses (Mr. Wilham Congreve, for instance, 
 when his gout and his grandeur permitted him to come among 
 us) would make many brilhant hits — half a dozen in a night 
 sometimes — but, like sharp-shooters, w^hen the}^ had fired their 
 shot, they were obliged to retire under cover till their pieces 
 were loaded again, and wait till they got another chance at their 
 enem}' ; whereas Dick never thought that his bottle com- 
 panion was a butt to aim at — onl}' a friend to shake by the 
 hand. The poor fellow had half the town in his confidence ; 
 ever3'body knew everything about his loves and his debts, his 
 creditors or his mistress's obduracy. When Esmond first came 
 on to the town, honest Dick was all flames and raptures for a 
 young lady, a West India fortune, whom he married. In a 
 couple of years the lady was dead, the fortune was all but spent, 
 and the honest widower was as eager in pursuit of a new para- 
 gon of beauty, as if he had never courted and married and 
 buried the last one. 
 
 Quitting the Guard-table one Sunday afternoon, when by 
 chance Dick had a sober fit upon him, he and his friend were 
 making their way down Germain Street, and Dick all of a sud- 
 den left his companion's arm, and ran after a gentleman who 
 was poring over a folio volume at the book-shop near to St. 
 James's Church. He was a fair, tall man, in a snuff-colored 
 suit, with a plain sword, very sober, and almost shabby in 
 appearance — at least when compared to Captain Steele, who 
 loved to adorn his joll}^ round person with the finest of clothes, 
 and shone in scarlet and gold lace. The Captain rushed up, 
 then, to the student of the book-stall, took him in his arms, 
 hugged him, and would have kissed him — for Dick was always 
 hugging and bussing his friends — but the other stepped back 
 with a flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this public 
 manifestation of Steele's regard. 
 
 '^ My dearest Joe, w^here hast thou hidden thyself this age? " 
 cries the Captain, still holding both his friend's hands; "I 
 have been languishing for thee this fortnight." 
 
 "A fortnight is not an age, Dick," says the other, very 
 good-humoredly. (He had light blue eyes, extraordinary 
 
222 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 bright, and a face perfectly regular and handsome, like a tinted 
 statue.) ''And I have been hiding myself — where do you 
 think?" 
 
 " What ! not across the water, my dear Joe?" says Steele, 
 with a look of great alarm : " thou knowest I have always — " 
 
 " No," says his friend, interrupting him with a smile : "we 
 are not come to such straits as that, Dick. I have been hiding, 
 sir, at a place where people never think of finding 3'ou — at my 
 own lodgings, whither I am going to smoke a pipe now and 
 drink a glass of sack : will your honor come ? " 
 
 '' Harry Esmond, come hither," cries out Dick. " Thou 
 hast heard me talk over and over again of my dearest Joe, my 
 guardian angel?" 
 
 " Indeed," sa3^s Mr. Esmond, with a bow, " it is not from 
 3'ou only that I have learnt to admire Mr. Addison. We loved 
 good poetr^^ at Cambridge as well as at Oxford ; and I have 
 some of 3'ours b3' heart, though I have put on a red coat .... 
 ' O qui canoro blandius Orpheo vocale ducis carmen ; ' shall I go 
 on, sir?" says Mr. Esmond, who, indeed, had read and loved 
 the charming Latin poems of Mr. Addison, as every scholar of 
 that time knew and admired them. 
 
 "This is Captain Esmond who was at Blenheim," sa3^8 
 Steele. 
 
 " Lieutenant Esmond," sa3^s the other, with a low bow, " at 
 Mr. Addison's service." 
 
 " I have heard of 3'ou," says Mr. Addison, with a smile ; as, 
 indeed, everybod3^ about town had heard that unlucky story 
 about Esmond's dowager aunt and the Duchess. 
 
 " We were going to the ' George' to take a bottle before 
 the pla3%" says Steele : " wilt thou be one, Joe?" 
 
 Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard b3% where he 
 was still rich enough to give a good bottle of wine to his friends ; 
 and invited the two gentlemen to his apartment in the Hay- 
 market, whither we accordingly went. 
 
 " I shall get credit with m3^ landlad3%" says he, with a smile, 
 " when she sees two such fine gentlemen as you come up my 
 stair." And he politel3^ made his visitors welcome to his apart- 
 ment, which was indeed but a shabb3' one, though no grandee 
 of the land could receive his guests with a more perfect and 
 courtly grace than this gentleman. A frugal dinner, consisting 
 of a slice of meat and a penny loaf, was awaiting the owner of 
 the lodgings. " My wine is better than my meat," sa3"s Mr. 
 Addison; " m3^ Lord Hahfax sent me the Burgundy." And 
 he set a bottle and glasses before his friends, and ate his simple 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 223 
 
 dinner in a very few minutes, after which the three fell to, and 
 began to dnnk. "You see," says Mr. Addison, pointing to 
 his writing-table, whereon was a map of the action at Hoch- 
 stedt, and several other gazettes and pamphlets relating to the 
 battle, "that I, too, am busy about your affairs. Captain. I 
 am engaged as a poetical gazetteer, to say truth, and am 
 writing a poem on the campaign." 
 
 So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he 
 knew about the famous battle, drew the river on the table allquo 
 mero^ and with the aid of some bits of tobacco-pipe showed the 
 advance of the left wing, where he had been engaged. 
 
 A sheet or two of the verses lay alread}' on the table beside 
 our bottles and glasses, and Dick having plentifully refreshed 
 himself from the latter, took up the pages of manuscript, writ 
 out with scarce a blot or correction, in the author's slim, neat 
 handwriting, and began to read therefrom with great emphasis 
 and volubilit3\ At pauses of the verse, the enthusiastic reader 
 stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause. 
 
 Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. 
 "You are like the German Burghers," says he, "and the 
 Princes on the Mozelle : when our army came to a halt, they 
 alwa3's sent a deputation to compliment the chief, and fired a 
 salute with all their artillery from their walls." 
 
 "And drunk the great chiefs health afterward, did not 
 they?" says Captain Steele, gayl}^ filling up a bumper; — he 
 never was tardy at that sort of acknowledgment of a friend's 
 merit. 
 
 "And the Duke, since 3'ou will have me act his Grace's 
 part," says Mr. Addison, with a smile, and something of a 
 blush, " pledged his friends in return. Most Serene Elector of 
 Covent Garden, I drink to 3'our Highness's health," and he 
 filled himself a glass. Joseph required scarce more pressing 
 than Dick to that sort of amusement ; but the wine never 
 seemed at all to fluster Mr. Addison's brains ; it only unloosed 
 his tongue : w^hereas Captain Steele's head and speech were 
 quite overcome hy a single bottle. 
 
 No matter what the verses were, and, to sa}^ truth, Mr. 
 Esmond found some of them more than indifferent, Dick's en- 
 thusiasm for his chief never faltered, and in ever}^ line from 
 Addison's pen, Steele found a master-stroke. B}^ the time 
 Dick had come to that part of the poem, wherein the bard 
 describes as blandl}^ as though he were recording a dance at 
 the opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic cudgelling at a village 
 fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our campaign, with the 
 
224 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 remembrance whereof every soldier who bore a part in it must 
 sicken with shame — when we were ordered to ravage and lay 
 waste the Elector's countr}^ ; and with fire and murder, slaugh- 
 ter and crime, a great part of his dominions was overrun ; when 
 Dick came to the lines — 
 
 " In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand 
 With sword and fire, and ravages the land, 
 In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn, 
 A thousand villages to ashes turn. 
 To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat, 
 And mixed with bellowing herds confusedly bleat. 
 Their trembling lords the common shade partake, 
 And cries of infants found in every brake. 
 The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands, 
 Loth to obey his leader's just commands. 
 The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed, 
 To see his just commands so well obeyed ; " 
 
 by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a 
 perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccupped out the last line with 
 a tenderness that set one of his auditors a-laughing. 
 
 " I admire the license of your poets," saj's Esmond to Mr. 
 Addison. (Dick, after reading of the verses, was fain to go 
 off, insisting on kissing his two dear friends before his depart- 
 ure, and reeling away with his periwig over his eyes.) " I 
 admire your art : the murder of the campaign is done to militar}^ 
 music, like a battle at the opera, and the virgins shriek in har- 
 mony, as our victorious grenadiers march into their villages. 
 Do 3'ou know what a scene it was? " — (by this time, perhaps, 
 the wine had warmed Mr. Esmond's head too,) — " what a tri- 
 umph you are celebrating? what scenes of shame and horror 
 were enacted, over which the commander's genius presided, as 
 calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere? You talk of 
 the ' listening soldier fixed in sorrow,' the 'leader's grief swayed 
 by generous pit}^ ; ' to my behef the leader cared no more for 
 bleating flocks than he did for infants' cries, and many of our 
 ruffians butchered one or the other with equal alacrity-. I was 
 ashamed of my trade when I saw those horrors perpetrated, 
 which came under every man's eyes. You hew out of your 
 polished verses a stately image of smiling victory ; I tell you 
 *tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol ; hideous, blood}-, and 
 barbarous. The rites performed before it are shocking to think 
 of. You great poets should show it as it is — ugh' and horrible, 
 not beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, 
 believe me, you never would have sung it so." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 225 
 
 During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening, smok- 
 ing out of his long pipe, and smiling very placidly. " What 
 would 3^ou have?" says he. " In our polished daj's, and ac- 
 cording to the rules of art, 'tis imjwssibie tliat the Muse should 
 depict tortures or begrime her hands with the horrors of war. 
 These are indicated rather than described ; as in the Greek trage- 
 dies, that, I dare say, 3^ou have read (and sure there can be no 
 more elegant specimens of composition), Agamemnon is slain, 
 or Medea's children destroyed, away from the scene ; — the cho- 
 rus occupying the stage and singing of the action to pathetic 
 music. Something of this I attempt, my dear sir, in my hum- 
 ble way : 'tis a panegyric I mean to write, and not a satire. 
 Were I to sing as you would have me, the town would tear the 
 poet in pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the common 
 hangman. Do you not use tobacco? Of all the weeds grown 
 on earth, sure the nicotian is the most soothing and salutary. 
 We must paint our great Duke," Mr. Addison went on, " not 
 as a man, which no doubt he is, with weaknesses like the rest of 
 us, but as a hero. 'Tis in a triumph, not a battle, that your 
 humble servant is riding his sleek Pegasus. We college poets 
 trot, 3'ou know, on ver}^ easy nags ; it hath been, time out of 
 mind, part of the poet's profession to celebrate the actions of 
 heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which 3'ou men of war 
 perform. I must follow the rules of m}^ art, and the composi- 
 tion of such a strain as this must be harmonious and majestic, 
 not familiar, or too near the vulgar truth. Si parva licet : if 
 Virgil could invoke the divine Augustus, a humbler poet from 
 the banks of the Isis may celebrate a victory and a conqueror 
 of our own nation, in whose triumphs every Briton has a share, 
 and whose glory and genius contributes to every citizen's indi- 
 vidual honor. When hath there been, since our Henrys' and 
 Edwards' daj^s, such a great feat of arms as that from which 
 3^ou 3'ourself have brought away marks of distinction? If 'tis 
 in my power to sing that song worthity, I will do so, and be 
 thankful to m3" Muse. If I fail as a poet, as a Briton at least 
 I will show my loyalty, and fling up my cap and huzzah for the 
 conqueror : — 
 
 " ' Rheni pacator et Istri 
 Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit 
 Ordinibus ; laetatur eques, plauditque senator, 
 Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.' " 
 
 " There were as brave men on that field," says Mr. Esmond 
 (who never could be made to love the Duke of Marlborough, 
 
 15 
 
226 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 nor to forget those stories which he used to hear in his youth 
 regarding that great chiefs selfishness and treaclier}^) — " there 
 were men at Blenheim as good as the leader, whom neither 
 knights nor senators applauded, nor voices plebeian or patrician 
 favored, and who lie there forgotten, under the clods. What 
 poet is there to sing them? " 
 
 '' To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades ! " sa3^s 
 Mr. Addison, with a smile. ''Would you celebrate them all? 
 If I may venture to question anything in such an admirable 
 work, the catalogue of the ships in Homer hath alwa3's appeared 
 to me as somewhat wearisome ; what had the poem been, sup- 
 posing the writer had chronicled the names of captains, lieuten- 
 ants, rank and file? One of the greatest of a great man's 
 qualities is success ; 'tis the result of all the others ; 'tis a latent 
 power in him which compels the favor of the gods, and subju- 
 gates fortune. Of all his gifts I admire that one in the great 
 Marlborough. To be brave ? every man is brave. But in being 
 victorious, as he is, I fancy there is something divine. In pres- 
 ence of the occasion, the great soul of the leader shines out, 
 and the god is confessed. Death itself respects him, and passes 
 by him to lay others low. War and carnage flee before him to 
 ravage other parts of the field, as Hector from before the divine 
 Achilles. You say he hatli no pity ; no more have the gods, 
 who are above it, and superhuman. The fainting battle gathers 
 strength at his aspect ; and, wherever he rides, victor}' charges 
 with him." 
 
 A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited his 
 poetic friend, he found this thought, struck out in the fervor of 
 conversation, improved and shaped into those famous lines, 
 which are in truth the noblest in the poem of the " Campaign." 
 As the two gentlemen sat engaged in talk, Mr. Addison solacing 
 himself with his customarj' pipe, the little maid-servant that 
 waited on his lodging came up, preceding a gentleman in fine 
 laced clothes, that had evidently been figuring at Court or a great 
 man's levee. The courtier coughed a little at the smoke of the 
 pipe, and looked round the room curiously, which was shabby 
 enough, as was the owner in his worn, snuff'-colored suit and 
 plain tie-wig. 
 
 " How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?" saj's the 
 Court gentleman on looking down at the papers that were on 
 the table. 
 
 "We were but now over it," says Addison (the greatest 
 courtier in the land could not have a more splendid politeness, 
 or greater dignity of manner). " Here is the plan," says he. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 227 
 
 ^' on the table * hac ibat Simois, here ran the little river Nebel : 
 hie est Sigeia tellus, here are Tallard's quarters, at the bowl of 
 this pipe, at th^ attack of which Captain Esmond was present. 
 I have the honor to introduce him to Mr. Boyle ; and Mr. Es- 
 mond was but now depicting aliquo proelia mixta mero, when 
 you came in." In truth, the two gentlemen had been so en- 
 gaged when the visitor arrived, and Addison, in his smiling 
 way, speaking of Mr. Webb, colonel of Esmond's regiment 
 (who commanded a brigade in the action, and great!}' distin- 
 guished himself there), was lamenting that he could find never 
 a suitable rhj^me for Webb, otherwise the brigade should have 
 had a place in the poet's verses. " And for 3'ou, you are but 
 a lieutenant," says Addison, " and tlie Muse can't occupy her- 
 self with any gentleman under the rank of a field officer." 
 
 Mr. Bo34e was all impatient to hear, saying that my Lord 
 Treasurer and my Lord Halifax were equallj' anxious ; and 
 Addison, blushing, began reading of his verses, and, I suspect, 
 knew their weal^: parts as well as the most critical hearer. 
 When he came to the lines describing the angel, that 
 
 " Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 
 And taught the doubtful battle wliere to rage," 
 
 he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much as 
 to say, "You know where that simile came from — from our 
 talk, and our bottle of Burgundy, the other day." 
 
 The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, and 
 applauded the verses with all their might. The gentleman of 
 the Court sprang up in great dehght. " Not a word more, my 
 dear sir," saj's he. "Trust me with the papers — I'll defend 
 them with my life. Let me read them over to my Lord Treas- 
 urer, whom I am appointed to see in half an hour. I venture 
 to promise, the verses shall lose nothing by my reading, and 
 then, sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to 
 complain that his friend's pension is no longer paid." And 
 without more ado, the courtier in lace seized the manuscript 
 pages, placed them in his breast with his ruffled hand over his 
 heart, executed a most gracious wave of the hat with the dis- 
 engaged hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room, leaving 
 an odor of pomander behind him. 
 
 "Does not the chamber look quite dark?" says Addison, 
 surveying it, " after the glorious appearance and disappearance 
 of that gracious messenger? Why, he illuminated the whole 
 room. Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond, will bear any hght ; but 
 this threadbare old coat of mine, how very worn it looked under 
 
228 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the glare of that splendor ! I wonder whether they will do any- 
 thing for me," he continued. "When I came out of Oxford 
 into the world, my patrons promised me great things ; and you 
 see where their promises have landed me, in a lodging up two 
 pair of stairs, with a sixpenny dinner from the cook's shop. 
 Well, I suppose this promise will go after the others, and for- 
 tune will jilt me, as the jade has been doing any time these 
 seven 3'ears. ' I puff the prostitute away,' " says he, smiling, 
 and blowing a cloud out of his pipe. "There is no hardship 
 in poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable ; no hardship even in 
 honest dependence that an honest man may not put up with. 
 I came out of the lap of Alma Mater, puffed up with her praises 
 of me, and thinking to make a figure in the world with the 
 parts and learning which had got me no small name in our 
 college. The world is the ocean, and Isis and Charwell are 
 but little drops, of which the sea takes no account. My repu- 
 tation ended a mile beyond Maudlin Tower ; no one took note 
 of me ; and I learned this at least, to bear up against evil for- 
 tune with a cheerful heart. Friend Dick hath made a figure in 
 the world, and has passed me in the race long ago. What 
 matters a little name or a little fortune? There is no fortune 
 that a philosopher cannot endure. I have been not unknown 
 as a scholar, and yet forced to live by turning bear-leader, and 
 teaching a boy to spell. What then? The life was not pleas- 
 ant, but possible — the bear was bearable. Should this ven- 
 ture fail, I will go back to Oxford ; and some day, when you 
 are a general, 3'ou shall find me a curate in a cassock and 
 bands, and I shall welcome your honor to my cottage in the 
 eountr}' , and to a mug of penny ale. 'Tis not poverty that's 
 the hardest to bear, or the least happy lot in life," sa3's Mr. 
 Addison, shaking the ash out of his pipe. " See, m}^ pipe is 
 smoked out. Shall we have another bottle? I have still a 
 couple in the cupboard, and of the right sort. No more? — let 
 us go abroad and take a turn on the Mall, or look in at the 
 theatre and see Dick's comedy. 'Tis not a masterpiece of wit ; 
 but Dick is a good fellow, though he doth not set the Thames 
 on fire." 
 
 Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket had 
 come up a prodigious prize in the lotterj^ of life. All the town 
 was in an uproar of admiration of his poem, the " Campaign," 
 which Dick Steele was spouting at every coffee-house in White- 
 hall and Covent Garden. The wits on the other side of Temple 
 Bar saluted him at once as the greatest poet the world had seen 
 for ages ; the people huzza'ed for Marlborough and for Addison, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENEY ESMOND. 229 
 
 and, more than this, the party in power provided for the merito- 
 rious poet, and Addison got the appointment of Commissioner 
 of Excise, which the famous Mr. Locke vacated, and rose from 
 this place to other dignities and lionors ; his prosperity from 
 henceforth to the end of his life being scarce ever interrupted. 
 But I doubt whether he was not happier in his garret in the Hay- 
 market, than ever he was in his splendid palace at Kensington ; 
 and I believe the fortune that came to him in the shape of the 
 countess his wife was no better than a shrew and a vixen. 
 
 Gay as the town was, 'twas but a dreary place for Mr. 
 Esmond, whether his charmer was in or out of it, and he was 
 glad when his general gave him notice that he was going back 
 to his division of the army which lay in winter-quarters at Bois- 
 le-Duc. His dear mistress bade him farewell with a cheerful 
 face ; her blessing he knew he had alwaj^s, and wheresoever 
 fate carried him. Mistress Beatrix was awa}^ in attendance 
 on her Majesty at Hampton Court, and kissed her fair finger- 
 tips to him, b}^ way of adieu, when he rode thither to take his 
 leave. She received her kinsman in a waiting-room, where 
 there were half a dozen more ladies of the Court, so that his 
 high-flown speeches, had he intended to make any (and very 
 hkely he did) , were impossible ; and she announced to her 
 friends that her cousin was going to the arm}^, in as easy a 
 manner as she would have said he was going to a chocolate- 
 house. He asked with a rather rueful face, if she had any 
 orders for the army ? and she was pleased to say that she would 
 like a mantle of Mechlin lace. She made him a saucy curtsy 
 in reply to his own dismal bow. She deigned to kiss her finger- 
 tips from the window, where she stood laughing with the other 
 ladies, and chanced to see him as he made his way to the 
 "Toy." The Dowager at Chelsey was not sorry to part with 
 him this time. " Mon cher, vous etes triste comme un sermon," 
 she did him the honor to say to him ; indeed, gentlemen in his 
 condition are by no means amusing companions, and besides, 
 the fickle old woman had now found a much more amiable 
 favorite, and raffoled for her darling lieutenant of the Guard. 
 Frank remained behind for a while, and did not join the arm}^ 
 till later, in the suite of his Grace the Commander-in-Chief. His 
 dear mother, on the last day before Esmond went awa}^ and 
 when the three dined together, made Esmond promise to be- 
 friend her boy, and besought Frank to take the example of his 
 kinsman as of a loyal gentleman and brave soldier, so she was 
 pleased to say ; and at parting, betraj'ed not the least sign of 
 
230 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 faltering or weakness, though, God knows, that fond heart was 
 fearful enough when others were concerned, though so resolute 
 in bearing its own pain. 
 
 Esmond's general embarked at Harwich. 'Twas a grand 
 sight to see Mr. Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck, waving 
 his hat as our yacht put off, and the guns saluted from the 
 shore. Harry did not see his viscount again, until three 
 months after, at Bois-le-Duc, when his Grace the Duke came 
 to take the command, and Frank brought a budget of news 
 from home : how he had supped with this actress, and got tired 
 of that ; how he had got the better of Mr. St. John, both over 
 the bottle, and with Mrs. Mountford, of the Haymarket Theatre 
 (a veteran charmer of lift}', with whom the 3'oung scapegrace 
 chose to fancy himself in love) ; how his sister w^as always at her 
 tricks, and had jilted a young baron for an old earl. " I can't 
 make out Beatrix," he said; " she cares for none of us — she 
 only thinks about herself; she is never happy unless she is 
 quarreUing ; but as for my mother — my mother, Harr}^, is an 
 angel." Harry tried to impress on the young fellow the neces- 
 sity of doing everything in his power to please that angel ; not 
 to drink too much ; not to go into debt ; not to .run after the 
 pretty Flemish girls, and so forth, as became a senior speaking 
 to a lad. " But Lord bless thee ! " the boy said ; " I may do 
 what I like, and I know she will love me all the same ; " and 
 so, indeed, he did what he liked. Everybody spoiled him, and 
 his grave kinsman as much as the rest. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 I GET A COMPANY IN THE CAMPAIGN OF 1706. 
 
 On Whit-Sunday, the famous 23rd of May, 1706, my young 
 lord first came under the fire of the enemy, whom we found 
 posted in order of battle, their lines extending three miles or 
 more, over the high ground behind the little Gheet river, and 
 having on his left the little village of Anderkirk or Autre-eghse, 
 and on his right Ramillies, which has given its name to one of 
 the most brilUant and disastrous days of battle that history ever 
 hath recorded. 
 
 Our Duke here once more met his old enemy of Blenheim, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 231 
 
 the Bavarian Elector and the Marechal Villeroy, over whom the 
 Prince of Savoy had gained the famous victory of Chiari. What 
 Enghshman or Frenchman doth not know the issue of that day ? 
 Having chosen his own ground, having a force superior to the 
 EngUsh, and besides the excellent Spanish and Bavarian troops, 
 the whole Maison-du-Roy with him, the most splendid body of 
 horse in the world, — in an hour (and in spite of the prodigious 
 gallantry of the French Royal Household, who charged through 
 the centre ol^ our line and broke it,) this magnificent army of 
 Villeroy was utterly routed by troops that had been marching 
 for twelve hours, and by the intrepid skill of a commander, who 
 did, indeed, seem in the presence of the enemy to be the very 
 Genius of Victory. 
 
 I think it was more from conviction than policy, though that 
 policy was surely the most prudent in the world, that the great 
 Duke always spoke of his victories with an extraordinary mod- 
 est}^, and as if it was not so much his own admirable genius 
 and courage which achieved these amazing successes, but as if 
 he was a special and fatal instrument in the hands of Provi- 
 dence, that willed irresistibly the enen\v's overthrow. Before 
 his actions he always had the church service read solemnl}^, and 
 professed an undoubting belief that our Queen's arms were 
 blessed and our victor}^ sure. All the letters which he writ 
 after his battles show awe rather than exultation ; and lie attrib- 
 utes the glory of these achievements, about which I have heard 
 mere pettj' officers and men bragging with a pardonable vain- 
 glor}^ in nowise to his own bravery or skill, but to the superin- 
 tending protection of heaven, which he ever seemed to think 
 was our especial ally. And our army got to beheve so, and the 
 enemy learnt to think so too ; for we never entered into a battle 
 without a perfect confidence that it was to end in a victory ; 
 nor did the French, after the issue of Blenheim, and that aston- 
 ishing triumph of Ramillies, ever meet us without feeling that 
 the game was lost before it was begun to be played, and that 
 our general's fortune was irresistible. Here, as at Blenheim, 
 the Duke's charger was shot, and 'twas thought for a moment 
 he was dead. As he mounted another, Binfield, his master of 
 the horse, kneeling to hold his Grace's stirrup, had his head 
 shot away b}- a cannon-ball. A French gentleman of the Ro3^al 
 Household, that was a prisoner with us, told the writer that at 
 the time of the charge of the Household, when their horse and 
 ours were mingled, an Irish officer recognized the Prince-Duke, 
 and calling out — " Marlborough, Marlborough ! " fired his pis- 
 tol at him a hout-portant^ and that a score more carbines and 
 
232 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 pistols were discharged at him. Not one touched him : he rode 
 through the French Curiassiers sword-in-hand, and entirely 
 unhurt, and calm and smiling, rallied the German Horse, that 
 was reeling before the enem}^ brought these and twent}^ squad- 
 rons of Orkney's back upon them, and drove the French across 
 the river, again leading the charge himself, and defeating the 
 only dangerous move the French made that day. 
 
 Major-General Webb commanded on the left of our line, and 
 had his own regiment under the orders of their beloved colonel. 
 Neither he nor they belied their character for gallantry on this 
 occasion ; but it was about his dear young lord that Esmond 
 was anxious, never having sight of him save once, in the whole 
 course of the da3^, when he brought an order from the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief to Mr. Webb. When our horse, having charged 
 round the right flank of the enem}^ by Overkirk, had thrown him 
 into entire confusion, a general advance was made, and our 
 whole line of foot, crossing the little river and the morass, 
 ascended the high ground where the French were posted, cheer- 
 ing as they went, the enemy retreating before them. 'Twas a 
 service of more glory than danger, the French battalions never 
 waiting to exchange push of pike or bayonet with ours ; and 
 the gunners flying from their pieces, which our line left behind 
 us as they advanced, and the French fell back. 
 
 At first it was a retreat orderly enough ; but presently the 
 retreat became a rout, and a frightful slaughter of the French 
 ensued on this panic : so that an army of sixty thousand men 
 was utterl}' crushed and destroyed in the course of a couple of 
 hours. It was as if a hurricane had seized a compact numerous 
 fleet, flung it all to the winds, shattered, sunk, and annihilated 
 it : affiavit Deus^ et dissipati sunt. The French army of Flan- 
 ders was gone, their artillery, their standards, their treasure, 
 provisions, and ammunition were all left behind them : the poor 
 devils had even fled without their soup-kettles, which are as 
 much the palladia of the French infantry as of the Grand 
 Seignior's Janissaries, and round which they rally even more 
 than round their lilies. 
 
 The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage which ensued (for the 
 dregs of a battle, however brilliant, are ever a base residue of 
 rapine, cruelty, and drunken plunder,) was carried far beyond 
 the field of Ramillies. 
 
 Honest Lock wood, Esmond's servant, no doubt wanted to 
 be among the marauders himself and take his share of the 
 booty ; for when, the action over, and the troops got to their 
 ground for the night, the Captain bade Lockwood get a horse, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 233 
 
 he asked, with a very rueful countenance, whether his honor 
 would have him come too ; but his honor only bade him go about 
 his own business, and Jack hopped away quite delighted as 
 soon as he saw his master mounted. Esmond made his way, 
 and not without danger and difficulty, to his Grace's head- 
 quarters, and found for himself ver}^ quickly where the aide- 
 de-camps' quarters were, in an out-building of a farm, where 
 several of these gentlemen were seated, drinking and singing, 
 and at supper. If he had an}' anxiety about his bo}', 'twas re- 
 lieved at once. One of the gentlemen was singing a song to a 
 tune that Mr. Farquhar and Mr. Ga}- both had used in their 
 admirable comedies, and very popular in the army of that day ; 
 and after the song came a chorus, " Over the hills and far 
 away ; " and Esmond heard Frank's fresh voice, soaring, as it 
 were, over the songs of the rest of the joung men — a voice 
 that had always a certain artless, indescribable pathos with it, 
 and indeed which caused Mr. Esmond's ejes to fill with tears 
 now, out of thankfulness to God the child was safe and still 
 alive to laugh and sing. 
 
 When the song was over Esmond entered the room, where 
 he knew several of the gentlemen present, and there sat my 
 young lord, having taken off his cuirass, his waistcoat open, 
 his face flushed, his long yellow hair hanging over his shoul- 
 ders, drinking with the rest ; the youngest, gayest, handsomest 
 there. As soon as he saw Esmond, he clapped down his 
 glass, and running towards his friend, put both his arms round 
 him and embraced him. The other's voice trembled with joy 
 as he greeted the lad ; he had thought but now as he stood 
 in the court-yard under the clear-shining moonlight; "Great 
 God ! what a scene of murder is here within a mile of us ; what 
 hundreds and thousands have faced danger to-day ; and here 
 are tliese lads singing over their cups, and the same moon that 
 is shining over yonder horrid field is looking down on Walcote 
 ver}^ likely, while my lady sits and thinks about her boy that is 
 at the war." As Esmond embraced his young pupil now, 'twas 
 with the feeling of quite religious thankfulness and an almost 
 paternal pleasure that he beheld him. 
 
 Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that 
 was made of small brilliants and might be worth a hundred 
 crowns. " Look," says he, "won't that be a pretty present 
 for mother?'' 
 
 " Who gave you the Order?" sa3'S Harry, saluting the gen- 
 tleman : ' ' did 3^ou win it in battle ? " 
 
 " I won it," cried the other, " with my sword and my spear. 
 
234 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 There was a mousquetaire that had it round his neck — such a 
 big mousquetaire, as big as General Webb. I called out to 
 him to surrender, and that I'd give him quarter : he called me 
 a petit polisson and fired his pistol at me, and then sent it at my 
 head with a curse. I rode at him, sir, drove my sword right 
 under his arm-hole, and broke it in the rascal's bod3\ I found 
 a purse in his holster with sixty-five Louis in it, and a bundle 
 of love-letters, and a flask of Hungar}"- water. Vive la guerre! 
 there are the ten pieces you lent me. I should like to have a 
 fight every day ; " and he pulled at his little moustache and bade 
 a servant bring a supper to Captain Esmond. 
 
 Harry fell to with a very good appetite ; he had tasted noth- 
 ing since twenty hours ago, at early dawn. Master Grandson, 
 who read this, do you look for the history of battles and sieges? 
 Go, find them in the proper books ; this is onl}' the storj^ of 
 your grandfather and his family. Far more pleasant to him 
 than the victory- , though for that too he maj' say meminisse 
 juvat^ it was to find that the day was over, and his dear young 
 Castlewood was unhurt. 
 
 And would jon^ sirrah, wish to know how it was that a 
 sedate Captain of Foot, a studious and rather solitar}^ bachelor 
 of eight or nine and twenty years of age, who did not care very 
 much for the jollities which his comrades engaged in, and was 
 never known to lose his heart in any garrison-town — should 
 you wish to know wh}^ such a man had so prodigious a tender- 
 ness, and tended so fondly a bo}^ of eighteen, wait, my good 
 friend, until thou art in love with thy schoolfellow's sister, and 
 then see how might}^ tender thou wilt be towards him. Esmond's 
 general and his Grace the Prince-Duke were notoriously at 
 variance, and the former's friendship was in nowise likel}^ to 
 advance au}^ man's promotion of whose services Webb spoke 
 well ; but rather likel}^ to injure him, so the arm}' said, in the 
 favor of the greater man. However, Mr. Esmond had the good 
 fortune to be mentioned very advantageousl}' b}^ Major-General 
 Webb in his report after the action ; and the major of his regi- 
 ment and two of the captains having been killed upon the day 
 of Ramillies, Esmond, who was second of the lieutenants, got 
 his conipan}^ and had the honor of serving as Captain Esmond 
 in the next campaign. 
 
 M}' lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid to 
 follow him. His dear mistress wrote him letters more than 
 once, thanking him, as mothers know how to thank, for his care 
 and protection of her boy, extolling Esmond's own merits with 
 a great deal more praise than thej- deserved ; for he did his 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 2'6b 
 
 duty no better than any other officer ; and speaking sometimes, 
 though gently and cautiously, of Beatrix. News came from 
 home of at least half a dozen grand matches that the beautiful 
 maid of honor was about to make. She was engaged to an 
 earl, our gentleman of St. James's said, and then jilted him for 
 a duke, who, in his turn, had drawn off. Earl or duke it might 
 be who should win this Helen, Esmond knew she would never 
 bestow herself on a poor captain. Her conduct, it was clear, 
 was little satisfactory to her mother, who scarcely mentioned 
 her, or else the kind lady thought it was best to sa}^ nothing, and 
 leave time to work out its cure. At any rate, Harr}- was best 
 away from the fatal object which always wrought him so much 
 mischief; and so he never asked for leave to go home, but 
 remained with his regiment that was garrisoned in Brussels, 
 which city fell into our hands when the victory of Ramillies 
 drove the French out of Flanders. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 i meet an old acquaintance in flanders, and find my 
 mother's grave and my ovtn cradle there. 
 
 Being one da}^ in the Church of St. Gudule, at Brussels, 
 admiring the antique splendor of the architecture (and always 
 entertaining a great tenderness and reverence for the Mother 
 Church, that hath been as wickedly persecuted in England as 
 ever she herself persecuted in the days of her prosperit}^) , 
 Esmond saw kneeling at a side altar an officer in a green uniform 
 coat, very deeply engaged in devotion. Something familiar in 
 the figure and posture of the kneeling man struck Captain 
 Esmond, even before he saw the officer's face. As he rose up, 
 putting awa}' into his pocket a little black breviar}", such as 
 priests use, Esmond beheld a countenance so like that of his 
 friend and tutor of early days, Father Holt, that he broke out 
 into an exclamation of astonishment and advanced a step to- 
 wards the gentleman, who was making his way out of church. 
 The German officer too looked surprised when he saw Esmond, 
 and his face from being pale grew suddenly red. By this mark 
 of recognition, the Englishman knew that he could not be 
 mistaken ; and though the other did not stop, but on the con- 
 
236 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 trary rather hastil}^ walked away towards the door, Esmond 
 pursued him and faced him once more, as the officer, helping 
 himself to holy water, turned mechanically towards the altar, 
 to bow to it ere he quitted the sacred edifice. 
 
 " M}' Father ! " says Esmond in English. 
 
 " Silence ! I do not understand. I do not speak English," 
 BSLjs the other in Latin. 
 
 Esmond smiled at this sign of confusion, and replied in the 
 same language — " I should know my Father in any garment, 
 black or white, shaven or bearded ; " for the Austrian officer 
 was habited quite in the military manner, and had as warlike a 
 mustachio as an}^ Pandour. 
 
 He laughed — we were on the church steps by this time, 
 passing through the crowd of beggars that usually is there hold- 
 ing up little trinkets for sale and whining for alms. "You 
 speak Latin," says he, "in the Enghsh wa}^, Harry Esmond; 
 3'ou have forsaken the old true Roman tongue you once knew." 
 His tone was very frank, and friendly quite ; the kind voice of 
 fifteen 3'ears back ; he gave Esmond his hand as he spoke. 
 
 " Others have changed their coats too, my Father," says 
 Esmond, glancing at his friend's military decoration. 
 
 "Hush ! I am Mr. or Captain von Holtz, in the Bavarian 
 Elector's service, and on a mission to his Highness the Prince 
 of Savo3\ You can keep a secret I know from old times." 
 
 "Captain von Holtz," saj^s Esmond, "I am 3'our very 
 humble servant." 
 
 "And you, too, have changed 3"our coat," continues the 
 other in his laughing wa3^ ; " I have heard of you at Cambridge 
 and afterwards : we have friends ever3'where ; and I am told 
 that Mr. Esmond at Cambridge was as good a fencer as he 
 was a bad theologian." (So, thinks Esmond, m3' old maitre 
 d'armes was a Jesuit, as the3' said.) 
 
 "Perhaps 3'ou are right," sa3'S the other, reading his 
 thoughts quite as he used to do in old days; "you were all 
 but killed at Hochstedt of a wound in the left side. You were 
 before that at Vigo, aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ormonde. 
 Y'ou got your compan3^ the other da3' after Ramillies ; 3^our 
 general and the Prince-Duke are not friends ; he is of the 
 Webbs of Lydiard Tregoze, in the count3^ of York, a relation 
 of m3^ Lord St. John. Your cousin, M. de Castlewood, served 
 his first campaign this year in the Guard ; 3'es, I do know a 
 few things, as you see." 
 
 Captain Esmond laughed in his turn. " You have indeed a 
 curious knowledge," he says. A foible of Mr. Holt's, who did 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 237 
 
 know more about books and men than, perhaps, almost an}^ 
 person Esmond had ever met, was omniscience ; thus in ever}^ 
 point he here professed to know, he was nearly right, but not 
 quite. Esmond's wound was in the right side, not the left; 
 his first general was General Lumle}^ ; Mr. Webb came out of 
 Wiltshire, not out of Yorkshire ; and so forth. Esmond did 
 not think fit to correct his old master in these trifling blunders, 
 but they served to give him a knowledge of the other's char- 
 acter, and he smiled to think that this was his oracle of early 
 days ; only now no longer infallible or divine. 
 
 " l^es,'"' continues Father Holt, or Captain von Holtz, " for 
 a man who has not been in England these eiglit years, I know 
 what goes on in London very well. The old Dean is dead, my 
 Lady Castlewood's father. Do you know that 3'our recusant 
 bishops wanted to consecrate him Bishop of Southampton, and 
 that Collier is Bishop of Thetford by the same imposition? 
 The Princess Anne has the gout and eats too much ; when the 
 King returns, Collier will be an archbishop." 
 
 "Amen!" says Esmond, laughing; "and I hope to see 
 your Eminence no longer in jack-boots, but red stockings, at 
 Whitehall." 
 
 ' ' You are alwaj's with us — T know that — I heard of that 
 when you were at Cambridge ; so was the late lord ; so is the 
 young viscount." 
 
 "And so was my father before me," said Mr. Esmond, 
 looking calmly at the other, who did not, however, show the 
 least sign of intelligence in his impenetrable gra}^ e3'es — how 
 well Hany remembered them and their look ! only crows' feet 
 were wrinkled round them — marks of black old Time had 
 settled there. 
 
 Esmond's face chose to show no more sign of meaning than 
 the Father's. There may have been on the one side and the 
 other just the faintest glitter of recognition, as you see a bay- 
 onet shining out of an ambush ; but each party fell back, when 
 everything was again dark. 
 
 "And you, mon capitaine, where have you been?" says 
 Esmond, turning away the conversation from this dangerous 
 ground, where neither chose to engage. 
 
 "I may have been in Pekin," says he, "or I may have 
 been in Paragua}^ — who knows where? I am now Captain 
 von Holtz, in the service of his Electoral Highness, come to 
 negotiate exchange of prisoners with his Highness of Savoy." 
 
 'Twas well known that very many officers in our army were 
 well-affected towards the young king at St. Germains, whose 
 
238 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 right to the throne was undeniable, and whose accession to it, 
 at tlie death of his sister, by far the greater part of the EngUsh 
 people would have preferred, to the having a petty German 
 prince for a sovereign, about whose crueltj', rapacity, boorish 
 manners, and odious foreign ways, a thousand stories were 
 current. It wounded our English pride to think that a shabby 
 High-Dutch duke, whose revenues were not a tithe as great as 
 those of man}' of the princes of our ancient English nobility, 
 who could not speak a word of our language, and whom we 
 chose to represent as a sort of German boor, feeding on train- 
 oil and sour-crout, with a bev}^ of mistresses in a barn, should 
 come to reign over the proudest and most polished people in 
 the world. Were we, the conquerors of the Grand Monarch, 
 to submit to that ignoble domination? What did the Hano- 
 verian's Protestantism matter to us? Was it not notorious 
 (we were told and led to believe so) that one of the daughters 
 of this Protestant hero was being bred up with no religion at 
 all, as yet, and read}' to be made Lutheran or Roman, accord- 
 ing as the husband might be whom her parents should find for 
 her? This talk, very idle and abusive much of it was, went 
 on at a "hundred mess-tables in the army; there was scarce an 
 ensign that did not hear it, or join in it, and everybody knew, 
 or affected to know, that the Commander-in-Chief himself had 
 relations with his nephew, the Duke of Berwick ('twas by an 
 Englishman, thank God, that we were beaten at Almanza), 
 and that his Grace was most anxious to restore the ro^'al race 
 of his benefactors, and to repair his former treason. 
 
 This is certain, that for a considerable period no officer in 
 the Duke's army lost favor with the Commander-in-Chief for 
 entertaining or proclaiming his loyalty towards the exiled 
 family. When the Chevalier de St. George, as the King of 
 England called himself, came with the dukes of the Frendi 
 blood royal, to join the French army under Vendosme, hun- 
 dreds of ours saw him and cheered him, and we all said he was 
 like his father in this, who, seeing tlie action of La Hogue 
 fought between the French ships and ours, was on tlie side of 
 his native country during the battle. But this, at least the 
 Chevalier knew, and every one knew, that, however well our 
 troops and their general might be inclined towards the prince 
 personally, in the face of the enemy there was no question at 
 all. Wherever m}^ Lord Duke found a French army, he would 
 fight and beat it, as he did at Oudenarde, two years after 
 Ramillies, where his Grace achieved another of his transcen- 
 dent victories ; and the noble young prince, who charged 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 239 
 
 gallant!}^ along with the magnificent Maison-du-Ro}', sent to 
 compUment his conquerors after the action. 
 
 In this battle, where the young Electoral Prince of Hanover 
 behaved himself very gallantl,y, fighting on our side, Esmond's 
 dear General Webb distinguished himself prodigious^, exhibit- 
 ing consummate skill and coolness as a general, and fighting 
 with the personal bravery of a common soldier. Esmond's 
 good-luck again attended him ; he escaped without a hurt, 
 although moii*e than a third of his regiment was killed, had 
 again the honor to be favorably mentioned in his commander's 
 report, and was advanced to the rank of major. But of this 
 action there is little need to speak, as it hath been related in 
 every Gazette, and talked of in every hamlet in this countr3\ 
 To return from it to the writer's private affairs, which here, in 
 his old age, and at a distance, he narrates for his children who 
 come after him. Before Oudenarde, after that chance rencontre 
 with Captain von Holtz at Brussels, a space of more than a 
 year elapsed, during which the captain of Jesuits and the cap- 
 tain of Webb's Fusileers were thrown very much together. 
 Esmond had no diflSculty in finding out (indeed, the other 
 made no secret of it to him, being assured from old times of 
 his pupil's fidelity), that the negotiator of prisoners was an 
 agent from St. Germains, and that he carried intelligence be- 
 tween great personages in our camp and that of the French. 
 "My business," said he — "and I tell you, both because I 
 can trust you and your keen eyes have already discovered it — 
 is between the King of England and his subjects here engaged 
 in fighting the French king. As between you and them, all 
 the Jesuits in the world will not prevent your quarreUing : fight 
 it out, gentlemen. St. George for England, I say — and you 
 know who says so, wherever he may be." 
 
 I think Holt loved to make a parade of mystery, as it were, 
 and would appear and disappear at our quarters as suddenly 
 as he used to return and vanish in the old days at Castlewood. 
 He had passes between both armies, and seemed to know (but 
 with that inaccuracy which belonged to the good Father's omnis- 
 cience) equally well what passed in the French camp and in 
 ours. One day he would give Esmond news of a great feste 
 that took place in the French quarters, of a supper of Monsieur 
 de Rohan's, where there was play and violins, and then dancing 
 and masques ; the King drove thither in Marshal Villars' own 
 guinguette. Another day he had the news of his Majesty's 
 ague : the King had not had a fit these ten days, and might be 
 said to be well. Captain Holtz made a visit to England during 
 
240 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 this time, so eager was he about negotiating prisoners; and 
 'twas on returning from this vo3^age that he began to open him- 
 self more to Esmond, and to make him, as occasion served, at 
 their various meetings, several of those confidences which are 
 here set down all together. 
 
 The reason of his increased confidence was this ; upon going 
 to London, the old director of Esmond's aunt, the dowager, 
 paid her lad3'ship a visit at Chelse}^ and there learnt from her 
 that Captain Esmond was acquainted with the secret of his 
 family, and was determined never to divulge it. The knowl- 
 edge of this fact raised Esmond in his old tutor's e3'es, so Holt 
 was pleased to sa}', and he admired Harry very much for his 
 abnegation. 
 
 ' ' The family at Castlewood have done far more for me than 
 my own ever did," Esmond said. ''I would give m}^ life for 
 them. Wh}^ should I grudge the onl}^ benefit that 'tis in my 
 power to confer on them?" The good Father's eyes filled with 
 tears at this speech, which to the other seemed very simple : he 
 embraced Esmond, and broke out into mau}^ admiring expres- 
 sions ; he said he was a nohle cceur^ that he was proud of him, 
 and fond of him as his pupil and friend — regretted more than 
 ever that he had lost him, and been forced to leave him in 
 those early times, when he might have had an influence over 
 him, have brought him into that onl}^ true church to which the 
 Father belonged, and enlisted him in the noblest arni}^ in which 
 a man ever engaged — meaning his own society of Jesus, which 
 numbers (says he) in its troops the greatest heroes the world 
 ever knew ; — warriors brave enough to dare or endure an}^- 
 thing, to encounter any odds, to die an}- death ; — soldiers that 
 have won triumphs a thousand times more brilliant than those 
 of the greatest general ; that have brought nations on their 
 knees to their sacred banner, the Cross ; that have achieved 
 glories and palms incomparably brighter than those awarded to 
 the most splendid earthly conquerors — crowns of immortal 
 light, and seats in the high places of heaven. 
 
 Esmond was thankful for his old friend's good opinion, how- 
 ever little he might share the Jesuit- father's enthusiasm. "I 
 have thought of that question, too," says he, "dear Father," 
 and he took the other's hand — " thought it out for myself, as 
 all men must, and contrive to do the right, and trust to heaven 
 as devoutly in my way as you in yours. Another six months 
 of you as a child, and I had desired no better. I used to weep 
 upon my pillow at Castlewood as I thought of you, and I might 
 have been a brother of your order ; and who knows," Esmond 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 241 
 
 added, with a smile, " a priest in full orders, and with a pair 
 of mnstachios, and a Bavarian uniform?" 
 
 '^ My son," sa^'s Father Holt, turning red, " in the cause of 
 religion and loj^alt}- all disguises are fair." 
 
 '' Yes," broke in Esmond, " all disguises are fair, 3'ou say ; 
 and all uniforms, say I, black or red, — a black cockade or a 
 white one — or a laced hat, or a sombrero, with a tonsure 
 under it. I cannot beheve that St. Francis Xavier sailed over 
 the sea in a cloak, or raised the dead — I tried, and ver}' nearly 
 did once, but cannot. Suffer me to do the right, and to hope 
 for the best in m}^ own way." 
 
 Esmond wished to cut short the good Father's theology, and 
 succeeded ; and the other, sighing over his pupil's invincible 
 ignorance, did not withdraw his affection from him, but gave 
 him his utmost confidence — as much, that is to say, as a priest 
 can give ; more than most do ; for he was naturally garrulous, 
 and too eager to speak. 
 
 Holt's friendship encouraged Captain Esmond to ask, what 
 he long wished to know, and none could tell him, some history 
 of the poor mother whom he had often imagined in his dreams, 
 and whom he never knew. He described to Holt those cir- 
 cumstances which are already put down in the first part of this 
 story — the promise he had made to his dear lord, and that 
 d3ing friend's confession ; and he besought Mr. Holt to tell 
 him what he knew regarding the poor woman from whom he 
 had been taken. 
 
 " She was of this ver}^ town," Holt said, and took Esmond 
 to see the street where her father lived, and where, as he be- 
 lieved, she was boi'n. "In 1676, when your father came 
 hither in the retinue of the late king, then Duke of York, and 
 banished hither in disgrace, Captain Thomas Esmond became 
 acquainted with 3'our mother, pursued her, and made a victim 
 of her ; he hath told me in many subsequent conversations, 
 which I felt bound to keep private then, that she was a woman 
 of great virtue and tenderness, and in all respects a most fond, 
 faithful creature. He called himself Captain Thomas, having 
 good reason to be ashamed of his conduct towards her, and 
 hath spoken to me man^^ times with sincere remorse for that, 
 as with fond love for her many amiable qualities. He owned 
 to having treated her very ill : and that at this time his life 
 was one of profligacy, gambling, and poverty. She became 
 with child of you ; was cursed b,y her own parents at that dis- 
 covery ; though she never upbraided, except by her involuntary 
 
 16 
 
242 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 tears, and the misery depicted on her countenance, the author 
 of her wretchedness and ruin. 
 
 "Thomas Esmond — Captain Thomas, as he was called — 
 became engaged in a gaming-house brawl, of which the conse- 
 quence was a duel, and a wound so severe that he never — his 
 surgeon said — could outlive it. Thinking his death certain, 
 and touched with remorse, he sent for a priest of the very 
 Church of St. Gudule where I met you ; and on the same day, 
 after his making submission to our Church, w^as married to 
 3^our mother a few weeks before you were born. My Lord 
 Viscount Castlewood, Marquis of Esmond, by King James's 
 patent, which I myself took to 3'our father, 3'our lordship was 
 christened at St. Gudule by the same cure who married your 
 parents, and by the name of Henry Thomas, son of E. Thomas, 
 ofRcier Anglois, and Gertrude Maes. You see you belong to 
 us from your birth, and why I did not christen 3'ou when jon 
 became m}' dear little pupil at Castlewood. 
 
 "Your father's wound took a favorable turn — perhaps his 
 conscience was eased b}' the right he had done — and to the 
 surprise of the doctors he recovered. But as his health came 
 back, his wicked nature, too, returned. He was tired of the 
 poor girl, whom he had ruined ; and receiving some remittance 
 from his uncle, my lord the old viscount, then in England, he 
 pretended business, promised return, and never saw your poor 
 mother more. 
 
 "He owned to me, in confession first, but afterwards in 
 talk before your aunt, his wife, else I never could have dis- 
 closed what I now tell 3^ou, that on coming to London he writ 
 a pretended confession to poor Gertrude Maes — Gertrude 
 Esmond — of his having been married in England previousl}', 
 before uniting himself with her ; said that his name was not 
 Thomas ; that he was about to quit Europe for the Virginian 
 plantations, where, indeed, j^our family had a grant of land 
 from King Charles the First ; sent her a supply of money, the 
 half of the last hundred guineas he had, entreated her pardon, 
 and bade her farewell. 
 
 " Poor Gertrude never thought that the news in this letter 
 might be untrue as the rest of 3^our father's conduct to her. 
 But though a young man of her own degree, who knew her 
 historA", and whom she liked before she saw the English gentle- 
 uaan who was the cause of all her miser}', offered to marry her, 
 and to adopt you as his own child, and give 3'ou his name, she 
 refused him. This refusal only angered her father, who had 
 taken her home ; she never held up her head there, being the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 243 
 
 subject of constant iinkindness after her fall ; and some de- 
 vout ladies of her acquaintance offering to pay a little pen- 
 sion for her, she went into a convent, and 3'ou were put out 
 to nurse. 
 
 "A sister of the young fellow who would have adopted you 
 as his son was the person who took charge of 3'ou. Your 
 mother and this person were cousins. She had just lost a 
 child of her own, which you replaced, 3'our own mother being 
 too sick and feeble to feed you ; and presently your nurse grew 
 so fond of 3'ou, that she even grudged letting you visit the con- 
 vent where your mother was, and where the nuns petted the 
 little infant, as the}^ pitied and loved its unhappy parent. Her 
 vocation became stronger ever}' dav, and at the end of two 
 years she was received as a sister of the house. 
 
 "Your nurse's family were silk-weavers out of France, 
 whither they returned to Arras in French Flanders, shortly 
 before 3-our mother took her vows, carrying 3'ou with them, 
 then a child of three years old. 'Twas a town, before the late 
 vigorous measures of the French king, full of Protestants, and 
 here your nurse's father, old Pastoureau, he with whom 3'ou 
 afterwards lived at Ealing, adopted the reformed doctrines, 
 perverting all his house with him. The}- were expelled thence 
 b}^ the edict of his most Christian Majesty, and came to London, 
 and set up their looms in Spittlefields. The old man brought 
 a little mone}' with him, and carried on his trade, but in a poor 
 wa}'. He was a widower ; by this time his daughter, a widow 
 too, kept house for him, and his son and he labored together 
 at their vocation. Meanwhile 3'our father had p'ublicl}' owned 
 his conversion just before King Charles's death (in whom our 
 Church had much such another convert), was reconciled to my 
 Lord Viscount Castlewood, and married, as 3'ou know, to his 
 daughter. 
 
 "It chanced that the 3'ounger Pastoureau, going with a 
 piece of brocade to the mercer who emplo3'ed him, on Ludgate 
 Hill, met his old rival coming out of an ordlnar3' there. Pas- 
 toureau knew 3'our father at once, seized him bv the collar, 
 and upbraided him as a villain, who had seduced his mistress, 
 and afterwards deserted her and her son. Mr. Thomas Esmond 
 also recognized Pastoureau at once, besought him to calm his 
 indignation, and not to bring a crowd round about them ; and 
 bade him to enter into the tavern, out of which he had just 
 stepped, when he would give him an3" explanation. Pastoureau 
 entered, and heard the landlord order the drawer to show Cap- 
 tain Thomas to a room ; it was by his Christian name that 
 
244 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 3'our father was familiarly called at his tavern haunts, which, 
 to say the truth, were none of the most reputable. 
 
 *' I must tell you that Captain Thomas, or my Lord Viscount 
 afterwards, was never at a loss for a story, and could cajole a 
 woman or a dun with a volubilit}", and an air of simplicit}^ at 
 the same time, of which many a creditor of his has been the 
 dupe. His tales used to gather verisimilitude as he went on 
 with them. He strung together fact after fact with a wonderful 
 rapidit}^ and coherence. It required, saving your presence, a 
 very long habit of acquaintance with your father to know when 
 his lordship was 1 , — telling the truth or no. 
 
 ' ' He told me with rueful remorse when he was ill — for the 
 fear of death set him instantly repenting, and with shrieks of 
 laughter when he was weh, his lordship having a very great 
 sense of humor — how in a half an hour's time, and before a 
 bottle was drunk, he had completel}^ succeeded in biting poor 
 Pastoureau. The seduction he owned to : that he could not 
 help : he was quite ready with tears at a moment's warning, and 
 shed them profusely to melt his credulous listener. He wept 
 for 3'our mother even more than Pastoureau did, who cried very 
 heartil}^, poor fellow, as m}' lord informed me ; he swore upon 
 his honor that he had twice sent mone^^ to Brussels, and men- 
 tioned the name of the merchant with whom it was lying for 
 poor Gertrude's use. He did not even know whether she had a 
 child or no, or whether she was ahve or dead ; but got these 
 facts easily out of honest Pastoureau's answers to him. When 
 he heard that she was in a convent, he said he hoped to end his 
 daj's in one himself, should he survive his wife, whom he hated, 
 and had been forced by a cruel father to marr}^ ; and when he 
 was told that Gertrude's son was alive, and actually in London, 
 ' I started,' sa3^s he ; ' for then, damme, my wife was expecting 
 to lie in, and I thought should this old Put, my father-in-law, 
 run rust}', here would be a good chance to frighten him.' 
 
 " He expressed the deepest gratitude to the Pastoureau 
 family for the care of the infant : j^ou were now near six years 
 old ; and on Pastoureau bluntly telling him, when he proposed 
 to go that instant and see the darling child, that they never 
 wished to see his ill-omened face again within their doors ; that 
 he might have the bo}^, though they should all be ver}' sorry to 
 lose him ; and that the}' would take his money, they being poor, 
 if he gave it ; or bring him up, by God's help, as they had 
 hitherto done, without : he acquiesced in this at once, with a 
 sigh, said, ' Well, 'twas better that the dear child should re- 
 main with friends who had been so admirably kind to him ; ' and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 245 
 
 in his talk to me afterwards, honestl}' praised and admired the 
 weaver's conduct and spirit ; owned tliat the Frenchman was a 
 riglit fellow, and he, the Lord have mercy upon him, a sad 
 villain. 
 
 '' Your father," Mr. Holt went on to sa^^ " was good- 
 natured with his mone}^ when he had it ; and having that day 
 received a supply from his uncle, gave the weaver ten pieces 
 with perfect freedom, and promised him further remittances. 
 He took down eagerly Pastoureau's name and place of abode in 
 his table-book, and when the other asked him for his own, gave, 
 with the utmost readiness, his name as Captain Thomas, New 
 Lodge, Penzance, Cornwall ; he said he was in London for a 
 few days only on business connected with his wife's property ; 
 described her as a shrew, though a woman of kind disposition ; 
 and depicted his father as a Cornish squire, in an infirm state of 
 health, at whose death he hoped for something handsome, when 
 he promised richlj' to reward the admirable protector of his 
 child, and to provide for the boy. ' And by Gad, sir,' he said 
 to me in his strange laughing way, ' I ordered a piece of brocade 
 of the very same pattern as that which the fellow was carr} ing, 
 and presented it to my wife for a morning wrapper, to receive 
 company after she lay in of our little boy.' 
 
 " Your little pension was paid regularly enough ; and when 
 3^our father became Viscount Castlewood on his uncle's demise, 
 I was employed to keep a watch over you, and 'twas at my in- 
 stance that you were brought home. Your foster-mother was 
 dead ; her father made acquaintance with a woman whom he 
 married, who quarrelled with his son. The faithful creature 
 came back to Brussels to be near the woman he loved, and died, 
 too, a few months before her. Will you see her cross in the 
 convent cemetery? The Superior is an old penitent of mine, 
 and remembers Soeur Marie Madeleine fondl}^ still." 
 
 Esmond came to this spot in one sunny evening of spring, 
 and saw, amidst a thousand black crosses, casting their shadows 
 across the grassy mounds, that particular one which marked his 
 mother's resting-place. Man}" more of those poor creatures that 
 lay there had adopted that same name, with which sorrow had 
 rebaptized her, and which fondly seemed to hint their individual 
 story of love and grief. He fancied her in tears and darkness, 
 kneeling at the foot of her cross, under which her cares were 
 buried. Surely he knelt down, and said his own praj^er there, 
 not in sorrow so much as in awe (for even his memor}^ had no 
 recollection of her), and in pit}" for the pangs which the gentle 
 
246 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 soul in life had been made to suffer. To this cross she brought 
 them ; for this heavenly bridegroom she exchanged the husband 
 who had wooed her, the traitor who had left her. A thousand 
 such hillocks la}^ round about, the gentle daisies springing out 
 of the grass over them, and each bearing its cross and requi- 
 escat. A nun, veiled in black, was kneeling hard b}', at a sleep- 
 ing sister's bedside (so fresh made, that the spring had scarce 
 had time to spin a coverlid for it) ; be^'ond the cemetery" walls 
 you had glimpses of life and the world, and the spires and 
 gables of the city. A bird came down from a roof opposite, 
 and lit first on a cross, and then on the grass below it, whence 
 it flew SiWfxy presently with a leaf in its mouth : then came a 
 sound as of chanting, from the chapel of the sisters hard by ; 
 others had long since filled the place which poor Mary Magde- 
 leine once had there, were kneeling at the same stall, and hear- 
 ing the same hj^rans and prayers in which her stricken heart had 
 found consolation. Might she sleep in peace — might she sleep 
 in peace ; and we, too, when our struggles and pains are over ! 
 But the earth is the Lord's as the heaven is ; we are alike his 
 creatures here and yonder. I took a little flower off" the hillock 
 and kissed it, and went m}^ wa}^, like the bird that had just 
 lighted on the cross by me, back into the world again. Silent 
 receptacle of death ; tranquil depth of calm, out of reach of 
 tempest and trouble ! I felt as one who had been walking be- 
 low the sea, and treading amidst the bones of shipwrecks. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CAMPAIGN OP 1707, 1708. 
 
 During the whole of the 3'ear which succeeded that in which 
 the glorious battle of Ramillies had been fought, our army made 
 no movement of importance, much to the disgust of very many 
 of our oflflcers remaining inactive in Flanders, who said that his 
 Grace the Captain-General had had fighting enough, and was 
 all for mone}^ now, and the enjo3'ment of his five thousand a 
 year and his splendid palace at Woodstock, which was now be- 
 ing built. And his Grace had suflScient occupation fighting his 
 enemies at home this 3'ear, where it began to be whispered that 
 his favor was decreasing, and his duchess losing her hold on 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 24? 
 
 the Queen, who was transferring her royal affections to the 
 famous Mrs. Masliam, and Mrs. Masham's humble servant, Mr. 
 Harle3\ Against their intrigues, our Duke passed a great part 
 of his time intriguing. Mr. Harley was got out of office, and his 
 Grace, in so far, had a victory. But her Majesty, convinced 
 against her will, w^as of that opinion still, of which the poet says 
 people are when so convinced, and Mr. Harley before long had 
 his revenge. 
 
 Meanwhile the business of fighting did not go on any way to 
 the satisfaction of Marlborough's gallant lieutenants. During 
 all 1707, with the French before us, we had never so much as a 
 battle ; our army in Spain was utterly routed at Almanza by the 
 gallant Duke of Berwick; and we of Webb's, which regiment 
 the young Duke had commanded before his father's abdication, 
 were a little proud to think that it was our colonel who had 
 achieved this victory. " I think if I had had Gal way's place, 
 and my Fusileers," says our General, " we would not have laid 
 down our arms, even to our old colonel, as Galway did ; " and 
 Webb's officers swore if we had had Webb, at least we would 
 not have been taken prisoners. Our dear old general talked in- 
 eautiousl}' of himself and of others ; a braver or a more brilliant 
 soldier never lived than he ; but he blew his honest trumpet 
 rather more loudh* than became a commander of his station, 
 and, mighty man of valor as he was, shook his great spear and 
 blustered before the army too fiercel}'. 
 
 Mysterious Mr. Holtz went off on a secret expedition in the 
 early part of 1708, with great elation of spirits and a prophecy 
 to Esmond that a wonderful something was about to take place. 
 This secret came out on my friend's return to the arm}', whither 
 he brought a most rueful and dejected countenance, and owned 
 that the great something he had been engaged upon had failed 
 utterly. He had been indeed with that luckless expedition of 
 the Chevalier de St. George, who was sent b}' the French king 
 with ships and an arm}' from Dunkirk, and was to have invaded 
 and conquered Scotland. But that ill wind which ever opposed 
 all the projects upon which the Prince ever embarked, pre- 
 vented the Chevalier's invasion of Scotland, as 'tis known, and 
 blew poor Monsieur von Holtz back into our camp again, to 
 scheme and foretell, and to pry about as usual. The Cheva- 
 lier (the king of England, as some of us held him) went from 
 Dunkirk to the French army to make the campaign against us. 
 The Duke of Burgundy had the command this year, having the 
 Duke of Berry with him, and the famous Mareschal Vendosme 
 and the Duke of Matignon to aid him in the campaign. Holtz, 
 
248 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 who knew ever^^thing that was passing in Flanders and France 
 (and the Indies for what I know), insisted that there would be 
 no more fighting in 1708 than there had been in the previous 
 year, and that our commander had reasons for keeping him 
 quiet. Indeed,' Esmond's general, who was known as a 
 grumbler, and to have a hearty mistrust of the great Duke, 
 and hundreds more officers besides, did not scruple to say that 
 these private reasons came to the Duke in the shape of crown- 
 pieces from the French King, by whom the Generalissimo was 
 bribed to avoid a battle. There were plenty of men in our 
 lines, quidnuncs, to whom Mr. Webb listened onlv too will- 
 ingly^, who could specif}' the exact sums the Duke got, how 
 much fell to Cadogan's share, and what was the precise fee 
 given to Doctor Hare. 
 
 And the successes with which the French began the campaign 
 of 1708 served to give strength to these reports of treason, 
 which were in everybody's mouth. Our general allowed the 
 enemy to get between us and Ghent, and declined to attack 
 him, though for eight and forty hours the armies were in pres- 
 ence of each other. Ghent was taken, and on the same day 
 Monsieur de la Mothe summoned Bruges ; and these two great 
 cities fell into the hands of the F^rench without firing a shot. 
 A few days afterwards La Mothe seized upon the fort of Plash- 
 endall : and it began to be supposed that all Spanish Flanders, 
 as well as Brabant, would- fall into the hands of the French 
 troops ; when the Prince Eugene arrived from the Mozelle, and 
 then there was no more shill3'-shallying. 
 
 The Prince of Savoy always signalized his arrival at the 
 army by a great feast (my Lord Duke's entertainments were 
 both seldom and shabbj^) : and I remember our general return- 
 ing from this dinner with the two commanders-in-chief; his 
 honest head a little excited by wine, which was dealt out much 
 more liberall}' by the Austrian than by the English commander : 
 — " Now," sa3's my general, slapping the table, with an oath, 
 
 " he must fight ; and when he is forced to it, d it, no man 
 
 in Europe can stand up against Jack Churchill." Within a 
 week the battle of Oudenarde was fought, when, hate each 
 other as they might, Esmond's general and the Commander-in- 
 Chief were forced to admire each other, so splendid was the 
 gallantry of each upon this da}^ 
 
 The brigade commanded by Major-General Webb gave and 
 received about as hard knocks as any that were delivered in 
 that action, in which Mr. Esmond had the fortune to serve 
 at the head of his own company in his regiment, under the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 249 
 
 command of their own Colonel as Major-General ; and it was 
 his good luck to bring the regiment out of action as commander 
 of it, the four senior officers above him being killed in the pro- 
 digious slaughter which happened on that day. I like to think 
 that Jack Haythorn, who sneered at me for being a bastard and 
 a parasite of Webb's, as he chose to call me, and with whom I 
 had had words, shook hands with me the day before the battle 
 began. Three daj's before, poor Brace, our Lieutenant-Colonel, 
 had heard of his elder brother's death, and was heir to a baro- 
 netcy in Norfolk, and four thousand a year. Fate, that had 
 left him harmless through a dozen campaigns, seized on him 
 just as the world was worth living for, and he went into action 
 knowing, as he said, that the luck was going to turn against 
 him. The Major had just joined us — a creature of Lord Marl- 
 borough, put in much to the dislike of the other officers, and to 
 be a sp3^ upon us, as it was said. I know not whether the 
 truth was so, nor who took the tattle of our mess to head- 
 quarters, but Webb's regiment, as its Colonel, was known to 
 be in the Commander-in-Chief's black books : '' And if he did 
 not dare to break it up at home," our gallant old chief used to 
 say, " he was determined to destroy it before the enemy ; " so 
 that poor Major Proudfoot was put into a post of danger. 
 
 Esmond's dear young Viscount, serving as aide-de-camp to 
 my Lord Duke, received a wound, and won an honorable name 
 for himself in the Gazette ; and Captain Esmond's name was 
 sent in for promotion by his General, too, whose favorite he 
 was. It made his heart beat to think that certain eyes at home, 
 the brightest in the world, might read the page on which his 
 humble services were recorded ; but his mind was made up 
 steadily to keep out of their dangerous influence, and to let 
 time and absence conquer that passion he had still lurking 
 about him. Awa}' from Beatrix, it did not trouble him ; but 
 he knew as certain that if he returned home, his fever would 
 break out again, and avoided Walcote as a Lincolnshire man 
 avoids returning to his fens, where he is sure that the ague is 
 lying in wait for him. 
 
 We of the English part}^ in the army, who were inclined to 
 sneer at everything that came out of Hanover, and to treat 
 as little better than boors and savages the Elector's court and 
 family, were yet forced to confess that, on the day of Oude- 
 narde, the .young Electoral Prince, then making his first cam- 
 paign, conducted himself with the spirit and courage of an 
 approved soldier. On this occasion his Electoral Highness had 
 better luck than the King of England, who was with his cousins 
 
250 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 in the enem3''s camp, and had to run with them at the ignomin- 
 ious end of the da}'. With the most consummate generals in the 
 world before them, and an admirable commander on their own 
 side, the}' chose to neglect the councils, and to rush into a com- 
 bat with the former, which would have ended in the utter anni- 
 hilation of their army but for the great skill and bravery of the 
 Duke of Vendosme, who remedied, as far as courage and genius 
 might, the disasters occasioned b}' the squabbles and foUies of 
 his kinsmen, the legitimate princes of the blood ro3'al. 
 
 " If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the aruiy, the fate 
 of the day would have been very different," was all that poor 
 Mr. von Holtz could say ; " and 3'ou would have seen that the 
 hero of Almanza was fit to measure swords with the conqueror 
 of Blenheim." 
 
 The business relative to the exchange of prisoners was always 
 going on, and was at least that ostensible one which kept Mr. 
 Holtz perpetuallj' on the move between the forces of the French 
 and the Allies. I can answer for it, that he was once very near 
 hanged as a sp}' b\' Major-General Wayne, when he was released 
 and sent on to head-quarters by a special order of the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief. He came and went, always favored, wherever 
 he was, by some high though occult protection. He carried 
 messages between the Duke of Berwick and his uncle, our Duke. 
 He seemed to know as well what was taking place in the Prince's 
 quarter as our own : he brought the comphments of the King 
 of England to some of our officers, the gentlemen of Webb's 
 among the rest, for their behavior on that great day ; and 
 after Wynendael, when our General was chafing at the neglect 
 of our Commander-in-Chief, he said he knew how that action 
 was regarded by the chiefs of the French army, and that the 
 stand made before Wynendael wood was the passage by which 
 the Allies entered Lille. 
 
 "Ah!" says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to 
 listen to him), " if the king came b\' his own, how changed the 
 conduct of affairs would be ! His Majesty's ver}' exile has this 
 advantage, that he is enabled to read England impartially, and 
 to judge honestly of all the eminent men. His sister is always 
 in the hand of one greedy favorite or another, through whose 
 e3'es she sees, and to whose flattery or dependants she gives 
 awa3' everything. Do 3'ou suppose that his Majest3', knowing 
 England so well as he does, would neglect such a man as Gen- 
 eral Webb? He ought to be in the House of Peers as Lord 
 L3'diard. The enemy and all' Europe know his merit ; it is 
 that ver3' reputation which certain great people, who hate all 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 251 
 
 equalit}' and independence, can never pardon." It was intended 
 that ttiese conversations should be carried to Mr. Webb. They 
 were welcome to him, for great as his services were, no man 
 could value them more than John Richmond Webb did himself, 
 and the differences between him and Marlborough being noto- 
 rious, his Grace's enemies in the arm}' and at home began to 
 court Webb, and set him up against the all-grasping, domineer- 
 ing chief. And soon after the victory of Oudenarde. a glorious 
 opportunit}' fell into General Webb's way, which that gallant 
 warrior did not neglect, and which gave him the means of im- 
 mensel}' increasing his reputation at home. 
 
 After Oudenarde, and against the counsels of Marlborough, 
 it was said, the Prince of Savoy sat down before Lille, the 
 capital of French Flanders, and commenced that siege, the 
 most celebrated of our time, and almost as famous as the siege 
 of Troy itself, for the feats of valor performed in the assault 
 and the defence. The enmit}' of the Prince of Savoy against 
 the P'rench king was a furious personal hate, quite unlike the 
 calm hostility of our great English general, who was no more 
 moved by the game of war than that of billiards, and pushed 
 forward his squadrons, and drove his red battalions hither 
 and thither as calmly as he would combine a stroke or make a 
 cannon with the balls. The game over (and he pla3'ed it so as 
 to be pretty sure to win it) , not the least animosit}' against the 
 other party remained in the breast of this consummate tac- 
 tician. Whereas between the Prince of Savo}^ and the French 
 it was guerre a mort. Beaten off in one quarter, as he had 
 been at Toulon in the last year, he was back again on another 
 frontier of France, assailing it with his indefatigable fury. 
 When the Prince came to the army, the smouldering fires of 
 war were lighted up and burst out into a flame. Our phleg- 
 matic Dutch allies were made to advance at a quick march — 
 our calm Duke forced into action. The Prince was an army 
 in himself against the French ; the energy of his hatred, pro- 
 digious, indefatigable — infectious over hundreds of thousands 
 of men. The Emperor's general was repaying, and with a 
 vengeance, the slight the French King had put upon the fier}^ 
 little Abbe of Savoy. Brilliant and famous as a leader him- 
 self, and beyond all measure daring and intrepid, and enabled 
 to cope with almost the best of those famous men of war who 
 commanded the armies of the French King, Eugene had a 
 weapon, the equal of which could not be found in France, 
 since the cannon-shot of Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, 
 and could hurl Marlborough at the heads of the French host, 
 
252 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 and crush them as with a rock, under which all the gathered 
 strength of their strongest captains must go down. 
 
 The English Duke took little part in that vast siege of 
 Lille, which the Imperial Generalissimo pursued with all his 
 force and vigor, further than to cover the besieging lines from 
 the Duke of Burgund^^'s armj", between which and the Impe- 
 riahsts our Duke lay. Once, when Prince Eugene was wounded, 
 our Duke took his Highness's place in the trenches ; but the 
 siege was with the Imperialists, not with us. A division under 
 Webb and Rantzau was detached into Artois and Picardy upon 
 the most painful and odious service that Mr. Esmond ever saw 
 in the course of his military life. The wretched towns of the 
 defenceless provinces, whose young men had been drafted 
 away into the French armies, which year after year the insa- 
 tiable war devoured, were left at our mere}" ; and our orders 
 were to show them none. We found places garrisoned by 
 invalids, and children and women ; poor as they were, and as 
 the costs of this miserable war had made them, our commission 
 was to rob these almost starving wretches — to tear the food 
 out of their granaries, and strip them of their rags. 'Twas an 
 expedition of rapine and murder we were sent on : our soldiers 
 did deeds such as an honest man must blush to remember. 
 We brought back money and provisions in quantity to the 
 Duke's camp ; there had been no one to resist us, and 3^et who 
 dares to tell with what murder and violence, with what brutal 
 cruelty, outrage, insult, that ignoble boot}' had been ravished 
 from the innocent and miserable victims of the war? 
 
 Meanwhile, gallantly as the operations before Lille had been 
 conducted, the Allies had made but little progress, and 'twas 
 said when we returned to the Duke of Marlborough's camp, 
 that the siege would never be brought to a satisfactory 
 end, and that the Prince of Savo}^ would be forced to raise 
 it. M3' Lord Marlborough gave this as his opinion openly ; 
 those who mistrusted him, and Mr. Esmond owns himself to 
 be of the number, hinted that the Duke had his reasons why 
 Lille should not be taken, and that he was paid to that end 
 b}^ the French King. If this was so, and I beUeve it, General 
 Webb had now a remarkable opportunity of gratifying his 
 hatred of the Commander-in-Chief, of balking that shameful 
 avarice, which was one of the basest and most notorious qual- 
 ities of the famous Duke, and of showing his own consum- 
 mate skill as a commander. And when I consider all the cir- 
 cumstances preceding the event which will now be related, that 
 my Lord Duke was actually offered certain millions of crowns 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 253 
 
 provided that the siege of Lille should be raised : that the 
 Imperial army before it was without provisions and ammu- 
 nition, and must have decamped but for the supplies that they 
 received ; that the march of the convoy destined to relieve 
 the siege was accuratel}' known to the French ; and that the 
 force covering it was shamefully inadequate to that end, and 
 by six times inferior to Count de la Mothe's army, which was 
 sent to intercept the convoy ; when 'tis certain tiiat the Duke 
 of Berwick, De la Mothe's chief, was in constant correspond- 
 ence with his uncle, the English Generalissimo: I believe on 
 my conscience that 'twas m}- Lord Marlborough's intention to 
 prevent those supplies, of which the Prince of Savoy stood in 
 absolute need, from ever reaching his Highness ; that he meant 
 to sacrifice the Uttle army which covered this convoy, and to 
 betray it as he had betra3'ed Tollemache at Brest ; as he had 
 betrajed every friend he had, to further his own schemes of 
 avarice or ambition. But for the miraculous victory which 
 Esmond's general won over an arm}^ six or seven times greater 
 than his own, the siege of Lille must have been raised ; and it 
 must be remembered that our gallant little force was under the 
 command of a general whom Marlborough hated, that he was 
 furious with the conqueror, and tried by the most open and 
 shameless injustice afterwards to rob him of the credit of his 
 victory. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 GENERAL WEBB WINS THE BATTLE OF WYNENDAEL. 
 
 By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most 
 brilliant feats of valor were performed that ever illustrated any 
 war. On the French side (whose gallantry was prodigious, 
 the skill and bravery of Marshal Boufflers actually eclipsing 
 those of his conqueror, the Prince of Savoy) may be mentioned 
 that daring action of Messieurs de Luxembourg and Tournefort, 
 who, with a body of horse and dragoons, curried powder into 
 the town, of which the besieged were in extreme want, each 
 soldier bringing a bag with forty pounds of powder behind him ; 
 with which perilous provision they engaged our own horse, 
 faced the fire of the foot brought out to meet them : and though 
 half of the men were blown up in the dreadful errand they rode 
 on, a part of them got into the town with the succors of which 
 
254 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the garrison was so much in want. A French officer, Monsieur 
 du Bois, performed an act equally daring, and perfectly- suc- 
 cessful. The Duke's great army lying at Helchin, and covering 
 the siege, and it being necessary for M. de Vendosme to get 
 news of the condition of the place. Captain Dubois performed 
 his famous exploit : not only passing through the lines of the 
 siege, but swimming afterwards no less than seven moats and 
 ditches : and coming back the same way, swimming with his 
 letters in his moutli. 
 
 By these letters Monsieur de Boufflers said that he could 
 undertake to hold the place till October ; and that if one of the 
 convoys of the AlUes could be intercepted, they must raise the 
 siege altogether. 
 
 Such a convoy as hath been said was now prepared at 
 Ostend, and about to march for the siege ; and on the 27th 
 September we (and the French too) had news that it was on 
 its wa}^ It was composed of 700 wagons, containing ammu- 
 nition of all sorts, and was escorted out of Ostend by 2,000 
 infantry and 300 horse. At the same time M. de la Mothe 
 quitted Bruges, having with him five-and-thirty battalions, and 
 upwards of sixty squadrons and forty guns, in pursuit of the 
 convo3\ 
 
 Major-General Webb had meanwhile made up a force of 
 twenty battalions and three squadrons of dragoons at Turout, 
 whence he moved to cover the convo}^ and pursue La Mothe : 
 with whose advanced guard ours came up upon the great plain 
 of Turout, and before the little wood and castle of W3'nendael ; 
 behind which the convoy was marching. 
 
 As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced 
 troops were halted, with the wood behind them, and the rest 
 of our force brought up as quickl}" as possible, our little body 
 of horse being brought forward to the opening of the plain, as 
 our General said, to amuse the enemy. When M. de la Mothe 
 came up, he found us posted in two lines in front of the wood ; 
 and formed his own army in battle facing ours, in eight lines, 
 four of infantry in front, and dragoons and cavalry behind. 
 
 The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade 
 which lasted three hours, when they made their attack, advan- 
 cing in eight lines, four of foot and four of horse, upon the allied 
 troops in the wood where we were posted. Their infantry 
 behaved ill ; the^y were ordered to charge with the bayonet, but, 
 instead, began to fire, and almost at the very first discharge 
 from our men, broke and fled. The cavalry behaved better; 
 with these alone, who were three or four times as numerous as 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 255 
 
 onr whole force, Monsieur de la Mothe might have won victory : 
 but onl}^ two of our battalions were shaken in the least ; and 
 these speedily rallied : nor could the repeated attacks of the 
 French horse cause our troops to budge an inch from the posi- 
 tion in the wood in which our General had placed them. 
 
 After attacking for two hours, the French retired at night- 
 fall entirely foiled. With all the loss we had inflicted upon 
 him, the enemy was still three times stronger than we : and it 
 could not be supposed that our General could pursue M. de la 
 Mothe, or do much more than hold our ground about the wood, 
 from which the Frenchman had in vain attempted to dislodge 
 us. La Mothe retired behind his fort}^ guns, his cavahy pro- 
 tecting them better than it had been enabled to anno}' us ; and 
 meanwhile the convo3% which was of more importance than all 
 our little force, and the safe passage of which we would have 
 dropped to the last man to accomplish, marched awaj' in perfect 
 safety during the action, and joyfully reached the besieging 
 camp before Lille. 
 
 Major-General Cadogan, my Lord Duke's Quarter-Master- 
 General, (and between whom and Mr. Webb there was no 
 love lost) , accompanied the convoy, and joined Mr. Webb with 
 a couple of hundred horse just as the battle was over, and the 
 enemy in full retreat. He offered, readily enough, to charge 
 with his horse upon the French as the}' fell back ; but his force 
 was too weak to inflict any damage upon them ; and Mr. Webb, 
 commanding as Cadogan's senior, thought enough was done in 
 holding our ground before an enem}' that might still have over- 
 whelmed us had we engaged him in the open territor}', and in 
 securing the safe passage of the convoy. Accordingly, the 
 horse brought up by Cadogan did not draw a sword ; and only 
 prevented, b}' the good countenance they showed, any disposi- 
 tion the French might have had to renew the attack on us. 
 And no attack coming, at nightfall General Cadogan drew off 
 with his squadron, being bound for head-quarters, the two 
 Generals at parting grimly saluting each other. 
 
 " He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my Lord Duke's 
 trenchers at supper," says Mr. Webb. 
 
 Our own men lay out in the woods of W^'nendael that night, 
 and our General had his supper in the little castle there. 
 
 '' If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this daj^'s 
 work," General Webb said ; " and, Harry, thou shouldst have 
 a regiment. Thou hast been reported in the last two actions : 
 thou wert near killed in the first. I shall mention thee in mj^ 
 despatch to his Grace the Commander-lQ-Chief, and recommend 
 
256 THE HISTORY OF HEIsTRY ESMOND. 
 
 thee to poor Dick Harwood's vacant majority. Have j'ou ever 
 a hundred guineas to give Cardonnel ? SHp them into his hand 
 to-morrow, when 3'ou go to head-quarters with my report." 
 
 In this report the Major-General was good enough to men- 
 tion Captain Esmond's name with particular favor ; and that 
 gentleman carried the despatch to head-quarters the next day, 
 and was not a little pleased to bring back a letter bj' his Grace's 
 secretary, addressed to Lieutenant-General Webb. The Dutch 
 officer despatched by Count Nassau Woudenbourg, Vselt-Mare- 
 schal Auverquerque's son, brought back also a complimentary 
 letter to his commander, who had seconded Mr. Webb in the 
 action with great valor and skill. 
 
 Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented his 
 despatch, and saluted Mr. Webb as Lieutenant-General, as he 
 gave it in. The gentlemen round about him — he was riding 
 with his suite on the road to Menin as Esmond came up with 
 him — gave a cheer, and he thanked them, and opened the 
 despatch with rather a flushed, eager face. 
 
 He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read 
 it. " 'Tis not even writ with his own hand. Read it out, 
 Esmond." And Esmond read it out : — 
 
 " Sir, — Mr. Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted me with 
 the success of the action you had yesterday in the afternoon against the 
 body of troops commanded by M. de la Mothe, at Wynendael, which must 
 be attributed chiefly to your good conduct and resolution. You may be 
 sure I shall do you justice at home, and be glad on all occasions to own the 
 service you have done in securing this convoy. — Yours, &c., M." 
 
 "Two lines by that d — d Cardonnel, and no more, for the 
 taking of Lille — for beating five times our number — for an 
 action as brilliant as the best he ever fought," says poor Mr. 
 Webb. "Lieutenant-General! That's not his doing. I was 
 
 the oldest major-general. B3' , I believe he had been 
 
 better pleased if I had been beat." 
 
 The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer 
 and more complimentary than that to Mr. Webb. 
 
 " And this is the man," he broke out, " that's gorged with 
 gold — that's covered with titles and honors that we won for 
 him — and that grudges even a line of praise to a comrade 
 in arms ! Hasn't he enough ? Don't we fight that he may 
 roll in riches? Well, well, wait for the Gazette, gentlemen. 
 The Queen and the country will do us justice if his Grace denies 
 it us." There were tears of rage in the brave warrior's ej^es as 
 he spoke ; and he dashed them off his face on to his glove. He 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 257 
 
 shook bis fist in the air. "Oh, by the Lord!" says he, "I 
 know what I had rather have than a peerage ! " 
 
 " And what is that, sir?" some of them asked. 
 
 " I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John Churchill, 
 on a fair green field, and only a pair of rapiers between my 
 shirt and his — " 
 
 " Sir ! " interposes one. 
 
 "Tell him so! I know that's what j'ou mean. I know 
 every word goes to him that's dropped from every general 
 officer's mouth. I don't say he's not brave. Curse him ! he's 
 brave enough ; but we'll wait for the Gazette, gentlemen. God 
 save her Majesty ! she'll do us justice." 
 
 The Gazette did not come to us till a month afterwards ; 
 when my General and his officers had the honor to dine with 
 Prince Eugene in Lille ; his Highness being good enough to 
 say that we had brought the provisions, and ought to share in 
 the banquet. 'Twas a great banquet. His Grace of Marl- 
 ])orough was on his Highness's right, and on his left the Mareschal 
 de Boufflers, who had so bravely defended the place. The chief 
 officers of either arm}' were present ; and you may be sure 
 Esmond's General was splendid this day : his tall noble person, 
 and manly beauty of face, made him remarkable anywhere ; he 
 wore, for the first time, the star of the Order of Generosity, 
 that his Prussian Majesty had sent to him for his victor}'. His 
 Highness the Prince of Savoy called a toast to the conqueror of 
 Wynendael. My Lord Duke drank it with rather a sickly smile. 
 The aides-de-camp were present : and Harry Esmond and his 
 dear young lord were together, as they always strove to be 
 when duty would permit : they were over against the table 
 where the generals were, and could see all that passed pretty 
 well. Frank laughed at my Lord Duke's glum face : the affair 
 of Wynendael, and the Captain-General's conduct to Webb, 
 had been the talk of the whole army. When his Highness 
 spoke, and gave — " Le vainqueur de Wynendael; son armee 
 et sa victoire," adding, "qui nous font diner a Lille aujour- 
 d'huy " — there was a great cheer through the hall ; for Mr. 
 Webb's bravery, generosity, and very weaknesses of character 
 (jaused him to be beloved in the army. 
 
 " Like Hector, handsome, and like Paris, brave ! " whispers 
 Frank Castlewood. "A Venus, an elderly Venus, corjdn't 
 refuse him a pippin. Stand up, Harry. See, we are drliiking 
 the army of Wynendael. Ramillies is nothing to it. H<!,zzay i 
 huzzay ! " 
 
 At this very time, and just after our General had n^de his 
 
 17 
 
258 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 acknowledgment, some one brought in an English Gazette — 
 and was passing it from hand to hand down the table. Officers 
 were eager enough to read it ; mothers and sisters at home 
 must have sickened over it. There scarce came out a Gazette 
 for six jears that did not tell of some heroic death or some 
 brilliant achievement. 
 
 " Here it is — Action of Wynendael — here 3'ou are. Gen- 
 eral," sa3-s Frank, seizing hold of the little dingy paper that 
 soldiers love to read so ; and, scrambling over from our bench, 
 he went to where the General sat, who knew him, and had seen 
 many a time at his table his laughing, handsome face, which 
 everybody loved who saw. The generals in their great perukes 
 made way for him. He handed the paper over General Dohna's 
 buff-coat to our General on the opposite side. 
 
 He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat : "I thought 
 he'd like it, Harry," the young fellow whispered. "Didn't I 
 like to read my name after Ramillies, in the London Gazette ? 
 — Viscount Castlewood serving a volunteer — I say, what's 
 3'onder ? " 
 
 Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, looked very strange — 
 slapped it down on the table — then sprang up in his place, 
 and began to — " Will your Highness please to — " 
 
 His Grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too — 
 " There's some mistake, my dear General Webb." 
 
 " Your Grace had better rectifj^ it," says Mr. Webb, holding 
 out the letter ; but he was five off his Grace the Prince Duke, 
 who, besides, was higher than the General (being seated with 
 the Prince of Savo}', the Electoral Prince of Hanover, and the 
 envoys of Prussia and Denmark, under a baldaquin), and Webb 
 could not reach him, tall as he was. 
 
 " Stay," says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea, 
 and then, with a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he ran 
 the Gazette through with the point, and said, "Permit me to 
 hand it to your Grace." 
 
 The Duke looked very black. "Take it," saj's he, to his 
 Master of the Horse, who was waiting behind him. 
 
 The Lieutenant-General made a ver}- low bow, and retired 
 and finished his glass. The Gazette in which Mr. Cardon- 
 nel, the Duke's secretary, gave an account of the victory of 
 Wynendael, mentioned Mr. Webb's name, but gave the sole 
 praise and conduct of the action to the Duke's favorite, Mr. 
 Cadogan. 
 
 There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this 
 strange behavior of General Webb, who had almost drawn a 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 259 
 
 sword upon the Commander-in-Chief; but the General, after 
 the first outbreak of his anger, mastered it outwardly altogether ; 
 and, by his subsequent behavior, had the satisfaction of even 
 more angering the Commander-in-Chief, than he could have 
 done b}' any public exhibition of resentment. 
 
 On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his chief 
 adviser, Mr. Esmond, who was now entirely in the General's 
 confidence, and treated by him as a friend, and almost a 
 son, Mr. Webb writ a letter to his Grace the Commander-in- 
 Chief, in which he said : — 
 
 "Your Grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of the London 
 Gazette, in wliich your Grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, hath mentioned 
 Major-General Cadogan's name as the officer commanding in the late action 
 of Wynendael, must have caused a feehng of anything but pleasure to the 
 General who fought that action. 
 
 " Your Grace must be aware that Mr. Cadogan was not even present at 
 the battle, tliough he arrived with squadrons of horse at its close, and put 
 himself under tlie connnand of his superior officer. And as the result of 
 the battle of Wynendael, in which Lieutenant-General Webb had the good 
 fortune to command, was the capture of Lille, the relief of Brussels, then 
 invested by the enemy under the Elector of Bavaria, the restoration of the 
 great cities of Ghent and Bruges, of which the enemy (by treason within 
 the walls) had got possession in the previous year, Mr. Webb cannot con- 
 sent to forego the honors of such a success and service, for the benefit of 
 Mr. Cadogan, or any other person. 
 
 " As soon as the military operations of the year are over, Lieutenant- 
 General Webb will request permission to leave the army, and return to his 
 place in Parliament, where lie gives notice to his Grace the Commander-in 
 Chief, that he shall lay his case before the House of Commons, the country, 
 and her Majesty the Queen. 
 
 "By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the Gazette, which 
 had been written by his Grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel, Mr. Webb, not 
 being able to reach his Grace the Commander-in-Chief on account of the 
 gentlemen seated between them, placed the paper containing the false 
 statement on his sword, so that it might more readily arrive in the hands of 
 his Grace tlie Duke of Marlborough, who surely would wish to do justice 
 to every officer of his army. 
 
 " Mr. Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubordination to his 
 superior officer, or of using his sword in a campaign against any but the 
 enemies of her Majesty. He solicits permission to return to England im- 
 mediately the military duties will permit, and take with him to England 
 Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who acted as his aide-de-camp, and was 
 present during the entire action, and noted by his watch the time when 
 Mr. Cadogan arrived at its close." 
 
 The Commander-in-Chief could not but grant this permis- 
 sion, nor could he take notice of Webb's letter, though it was 
 couched in terms the most insulting. Half the army believed 
 that the cities of Ghent and Bruges were given up by a treason, 
 which some in our arm}^ ver}^ well understood ; that the Com- 
 
260 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 mander-in-Chief would not have relieved Lille if he could have 
 helped himself; that he would not have fought that year had 
 not the Prince of Savoj^ forced him. When the battle once 
 began, then, for his own renown, my Lord Marlborough would 
 fight as no man in the world ever fought better ; and no bribe 
 on earth could keep him from beating the enem}'.* 
 
 But the matter was taken up by the subordinates ; and half 
 the army might have been by the ears, if the quarrel had not 
 been stopped. General Cadogan sent an intimation to Gen- 
 eral Webb to say that he was ready if Webb liked, and would 
 meet him. This was a kind of invitation our stout old general 
 was always too ready to accept, and 'twas with great difficulty 
 we got the General to reply that he had no quarrel with Mr. 
 Cadogan, who had behaved with perfect gallantry, but only 
 with those at head-quarters, who had belied him. Mr. Cardon- 
 nel offered General Webb reparation ; Mr. Webb said he had 
 a cane at the service of Mr. Cardonnel, and the only satisfac- 
 tion he wanted from him was one he was not likely to get, 
 namely, the truth. The officers in our staff of Webb's, and 
 those in the immediate suite of the General, were ready to come 
 to blows ; and hence arose the only affair in which Mr. Esmond 
 ever engaged as principal, and that was from a revengeful wish 
 to wipe off" an old injury. 
 
 M}^ Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield's 
 regiment of the Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the 
 Duke. He had sunk by this time to the very worst reputation ; 
 he had had another fatal duel in Spain ; he had married, and 
 forsaken his wife ; he was a gambler, a profligate, and de- 
 
 * Our Grandfather's hatred of the Duke of Marlborough appears all 
 through his account of these campaigns. He always persisted that the 
 Duke was the greatest traitor and soldier history ever told of : and declared 
 that he took bribes on all hands during the war. My Lord Marquis (for 
 so we may call him here, though he never went by any other name tlian 
 Colonel Esmond) was in the habit of telling many stories which he did not 
 set down in his memoirs, and which he had from his friend the Jesuit, who 
 was not always correctly informed, and who persisted that Marlborough 
 was looking for a bribe of two millions of crowns before the campaign of 
 Ramillies. 
 
 And our Grandmother used to tell us children, that on his first presen- 
 tation to my Lord Duke, the Duke turned his back upon my Grandfather ; 
 and said to the Duchess, who told my lady dowager at Chelsey, who after- 
 wards told Colonel Esmond — " Tom Esmond's bastard has been to my 
 levee : he has the hang-dog look of his rogue of a father " — an expression 
 which my Grandfather never forgave. He was as constant in his dislikes 
 as in his attachments ; and exceedingly partial to Webb, whose side he 
 took against the more celebrated general. We have General Webb's por- 
 trait now at Ca&tlewood, Va. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 261 
 
 bauchee. He joined just before Oudenarde ; and, as Esmond 
 feared, as soon as Frank Castlewood heard of his arrival, Frank 
 was for seeking him out, and killing him. The wound my lord 
 got at Oudenarde prevented their meeting, but that was nearly 
 healed, and Mr. Esmond trembled daily lest Siuy chance should 
 bring his boy and this known assassin together. They met at 
 the mess-table of Handyside's regiment at Lille ; the officer 
 commanding not knowing of the feud between the two noble- 
 men. 
 
 Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of Mohur^ 
 for nine 3'ears, since they had met on that fatal night in Leices- 
 ter Field. It was degraded with crime and passion now ; it 
 wore the anxious look of a man who has three deaths, and who 
 knows how many hidden shames, and lusts, and crimes on his 
 conscience. He bowed with a sickly low bow, and slunk away 
 when our host presented us round to one another. Frank 
 Castlewood had not known him till then, so changed was he. 
 He knew the boy well enough. 
 
 'Twas curious to look at the two — especially the young man, 
 whose face flushed up when he heard the hated name of the 
 other ; and who said in his bad French and his brave bo3'ish 
 voice — "He had long been anxious to meet my Lord Mohun." 
 The other onl}' bowed, and moved away from him. I do him 
 justice, he wished to have no quarrel with the lad. 
 
 Esmond put himself between them at table. "D it," 
 
 says Frank, " why do you put yourself in the place of a man 
 who is above you in degree? My Lord Mohun should walk 
 after me. I want to sit b}^ my Lord Mohun." 
 
 Esracfnd whispered to Lord Mohun, that Frank was hurt 
 in the leg at Oudenarde ; and besought the other to be quiet. 
 Quiet enough he was for some time ; disregarding the many 
 taunts which young Castlewood flung at him, until after several 
 healths, when my Lord Mohun got to be rather in liquor. 
 
 "Will you go away, my lord?" Mr. Esmond said to him, 
 imploring him to quit the table. 
 
 " No, by G — ," says my Lord Mohun. " Til not go away 
 for any man ; " he was quite flushed with wine by this time. 
 
 The talk got round to the affairs of 3'esterday. Webb had 
 off*ered to challenge the Commander-in-Chief: Webb had been 
 ill-used : Webb was the bravest, handsomest, vainest man in 
 the army. Lord Mohun did not know that Esmond was Webb's 
 aide-de-camp. He began to tell some stories against the Gen- 
 eral ; which, from t'other side of Esmond, young Castlewood 
 contradicted. 
 
262 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 " I can't bear any more of this," ssljs my Lord Mohun. 
 
 "Nor can I, my lord," sa3"s Mr. Esmond, starting up. 
 " The story my Lord Mohun has told respecting General Webb 
 is false, gentlemen — false, I repeat," and making a low bow 
 to Lord Mohun, and without a single word more, Esmond got 
 up and left the dining-room. These affairs were common 
 enough among the military of those da3's. There was a gar- 
 den behind the house, and all the party turned instantly into 
 it ; and the two gentlemen's coats were off and their points 
 engaged within two minutes after Esmond's words had been 
 spoken. If Captain Esmond had put Mohun out of the world, 
 as he might, a villain w^ould have been punished and spared 
 further villanies — but who is one man to punish another? I 
 declare upon my honor that my only thought was to prevent 
 Lord Mohun from mischief with Frank, and the end of this 
 meeting was, that after half a dozen passes my lord went home 
 with a hurt which prevented him from lifting his right arm for 
 three months. 
 
 " Oh, Harry ! why didn't you kill the villain?" 3'oung Castle- 
 wood asked. " I can't walk without a crutch : but I could have 
 met him on horseback with sword and pistol." But Harry 
 Esmond said, " 'Twas best to have no man's life on one's con- 
 science, not even that villain's." And this affair, which did 
 not occupy three minutes, being over, the gentlemen went back 
 to their wine, and my Lord Mohun to his quarters, where he 
 was laid up with a fever which had spared mischief had it 
 proved fatal. And ver}^ soon after this affair HsLvry Esmond 
 and his General left the camp for London ; whither a certain 
 reputation had preceded the Captain, for my Lady Castle wood 
 of Chelse}^ received him as if he had been a conquering hero. 
 She gave a great dinner to Mr. Webb, where the General's 
 chair was crowned with laurels ; and her lad^'ship called 
 Esmond's health in a toast, to which my kind General was 
 graciously pleased to bear the strongest testimou}' : and took 
 down a mob of at least forty coaches to cheer our General as he 
 came out of the House of Commons, the day when he received 
 the thanks of Parliament for his action. The mob huzza'd and 
 applauded him, as well as the fine company : it was splendid to 
 see him waving his hat, and bowing, and la3'ing his hand upon 
 his Order of Generosit3^ He introduced Mr. Esmond to Mr. 
 St. John and the Right Honorable Robert Harle3', Esquire, as 
 he came out of the House walking between them ; and was 
 pleased to make man3^ flattering observations regarding Mr. 
 Esmond's behavior during the three last campaigns. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 263 
 
 Mr. St. John (who had the most winning presence of any 
 man I ever saw, excepting always my peerless j-oung Frank 
 Castlewood) said he had heard of Mr. Esmond before from 
 Captain Steele, and how he had helped Mr. Addison to write 
 his famous poem of the '' Campaign." 
 
 " 'Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim 
 itself," Mr. Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron 
 of letters, and so, perhaps, it may be — though for my part I 
 think there are twent}^ beautiful lines, but all the rest is com- 
 monplace, and Mr. Addison's hymn worth a thousand such 
 poems. 
 
 All the town was indignant at my Lord Duke's unjust treat- 
 ment of General Webb, and applauded the vote of thanks which 
 the House of Commons gave to the General for his victor}^ at 
 Wynendael. 'Tis certain that the capture of Lille was the con- 
 sequence of that lucky achievement, and the humiliation of the 
 old French King, who was said to suffer more at the loss of 
 this great city, than from an}" of the former victories our troops 
 had won over him. And, I think, no small part of Mr. Webb's 
 exultation at his victory arose from the idea that Marlborough 
 had been disappointed of a great bribe the French King had 
 promised him, should the siege be raised. The very sum of 
 money offered to him was mentioned by the Duke's enemies ; 
 and honest Mr. Webb chuckled at the notion, not onlj- of beat- 
 ing the French, but of beating Marlborough too, and inter- 
 cepting a convoy of three millions of French crowns, that were 
 on their way to t)ie Generalissimo's insatiable pockets. When 
 the General's lady went to the Queen's drawing-room, all the 
 Tory women crowded round her witn congratulations, and made 
 her a train greater than the Duchess of Marlborough's own. 
 Feasts were given to the General by all the chiefs of the Tory 
 part}^ who vaunted him as the Duke's equal in mihtar}' skill ; 
 and perhaps used the worthy soldier as their instrument, whilst 
 he thought they were but acknowledging his merits as a com- 
 mander. As the General's aide-de-camp and favorite officer. 
 Mr. Esmond came in for a share of his chief's popularitj^ and 
 was presented to her Majesty, and advanced to the rank of 
 Lieutenant-Colonel, at the request of his grateful chief. 
 
 We may be sure there was one family in which any good 
 fortune tliat happened to Esmond caused such a sincere pride 
 and pleasure, that he, for his part, was thankful he could make 
 them so happy. With these fond friends, Blenheim and Oude- 
 narde seemed to be mere trifling incidents of the war ; and 
 Wynendael was its crowning victor3\ Esmond's mistress never 
 
264 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 tired to hear accounts of the battle ; and I think General Webb's 
 lady grew jealous of her, for the General was for ever at Ken- 
 sington, and talking on that delightful theme. As for his 
 aide-de-camp, though, no doubt, Esmond's own natural vanity 
 was pleased at the little share of reputation which his good 
 fortune had won him, yet it was chiefly precious to him (he 
 may say so, now that he hath long since outlived it,) because it 
 pleased his mistress, and, above all, because Beatrix valued it. 
 
 As for the old Dowager of Chelsey, never was an old woman 
 in all England more delighted nor more gracious than she. 
 Esmond had his quarters in her ladj^ship's house, where the 
 domestics were instructed to consider him as their master. 
 She bade him give entertainments, of which she defrayed the 
 charges, and was charmed when his guests were carried away 
 tipsy in their coaches. She must have his picture taken ; and 
 accordingly he was painted b}^ Mr. Jervas, in his red coat, and 
 smiling upon a bomb-shell, which was bursting at the corner of 
 the piece. She vowed that unless he made a great match, she 
 should never die easy, and was for ever bringing 3^oung ladies 
 to Chelsey, with pretty faces and pretty fortunes, at the disposal 
 of the Colonel. He smiled to think how times were altered 
 with him, and of the early da3's in his father's lifetime, when a 
 trembling page he stood before her, with her ladj'ship's basin 
 and ewer, or crouched in her coach-step. The onl}' fault she 
 found with him was, that he was more sober than an Esmond 
 ought to be ; and would neither be carried to bed by his valet, 
 nor lose his heart to any beauty, whether of St. James's or 
 Covent Garden. 
 
 What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the birth 
 of it? 'Tis a state of mind that men fall into, and depending 
 on the man rather than the woman. We love being in love, 
 that's the truth on't. If we had not met Joan, we should have 
 met Kate, and adored her. We know our mistresses are no 
 better than man}' other women, nor no prettier, nor no wiser, 
 nor no wittier. 'Tis not for these reasons we love a woman, 
 or for any special qualit}' or charm I know of ; we might as well 
 demand that a lad}^ should be the tallest woman in the world, 
 like the Shropshire giantess,* as that she should be a paragon 
 in any other character, before we began to love her. Esmond's 
 mistress had a thousand faults beside her charms ; he knew 
 both perfectlj" well ! She was imperious, she was light-minded, 
 she was flighty, she was false, she had no reverence in her char^ 
 
 * 'Tis not thus woman loves : Col. E. hath owned to this folly for a score 
 of women besides. — R. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 265 
 
 acter ; she was in eveiything, even in beaut}^, the contrast of 
 her mother, who was the most devoted and the least selfish 
 of women. Well, from the ver}^ first moment he saw her on 
 the stairs at Walcote, Esmond knew he loved Beatrix. There 
 might be better women — he wanted that one. He cared for 
 none other. Was it because she was gloriously beautiful? 
 Beautiful as she was, he had heard people say a score of times 
 in their company that Beatrix's mother looked as 3'oung, and 
 was the handsomer of the two. Wh}^ did her voice thrill in his 
 ear so? She could not sing near so well as Nicolini or Mrs. 
 Tofts ; na}", she sang out of tune, and yet he liked to hear her 
 better than St. Cecilia. She had not a finer complexion than 
 Mrs. Steele, (Dick's wife, whom he had now got, and who ruled 
 poor Dick with a rod of pickle,) and yet to see her dazzled 
 Esmond ; he would shut his e3'es, and the thought of her daz- 
 zled him all the same. She was brilliant and lively in talk, but 
 not so incomparably witt}' as her mother, who, when she was 
 cheerful, said the finest things ; but yet to hear her, and to be 
 with her, was Esmond's greatest pleasure. Days passed away 
 between him and these ladies, he scarce knew how. He poured 
 his heart out to them, so as he never could in any other corn- 
 pan}', where he hath generally passed for being mood}', or 
 supercilious and silent. This societ}'* was more delightful than 
 that of the greatest wits to him. May heaven pardon him the 
 lies he told the Dowager at Chelsey, in order to get a pretext 
 for going away to Kensington : the business at the Ordnance 
 which he invented ; the interview with his General, the courts 
 and statesmen's levees which he didn't frequent and describe ; 
 who wore a new suit on Sunday at St. James's or at the Queen's 
 birthday ; how many coaches filled the street at Mr. Harley's 
 levee ; how many bottles he had had the. honor to drink 
 over-night with Mr. St. John at the "Cocoa-Tree," or at the 
 " Garter" with Mr. Walpole and Mr. Steele. 
 
 Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the 
 point of making great matches, so the Court scandal said ; but 
 for his part Esmond never w^ould believe the stories against 
 her ; and came back, after three years' absence from her, not 
 so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still hungering after 
 her and no other ; still hopeful, still kneeling, with his heart 
 in his hand for the young lady to take. We were now got to 
 1709. She was near twent3'-two years old, and three years 
 at Court, and without a husband. 
 
 * And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand times more 
 charming, for where was bis equal ? — R. 
 
266 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 " 'Tis not for want of being asked," Lady Castle wood said^ 
 looking into Esmond's heart, as she could, with that percep- 
 tiveness affection gives. " But she will make no mean match, 
 Harry : she will not marry as I would have her ; the person 
 whom I should like to call my son, and Henry Esmond knows 
 who that is, is best served b}^ my not pressing his claim. Bea- 
 trix is so wilful, that what I would urge on her, she would be 
 sure to resist. The man who would marry her, will not be 
 happy with her, unless he be a great person, and can put her 
 in a great position. Beatrix loves admiration more than love ; 
 and longs, beyond all things, for command. Wh}^ should a 
 mother speak so of her child? You are my son, too, Harrj^ 
 You should know the truth about your sister. I thought you 
 might cure yourself of 3'our passion," my lady added, fondly. 
 ^' Other people can cure themselves of that folly, you know. 
 But I see 3^ou are still as infatuated as ever. When we read 
 your name in the Gazette, I pleaded for 3'ou, my poor boy. 
 Poor boy, indeed ! You are growing a grave old gentleman, 
 now, and I am an old woman. IShe likes 3'our fame. well 
 enough, and she likes 3'Our person. She says 3'ou have w4t, 
 and fire, and good-breeding, and are more natural than the 
 fine gentlemen of the Court. But this is not enough. She 
 wants a commander-in-chief, and not a colonel. Were a duke 
 to ask her, she would leave an earl whom she had promised. 
 I told you so before. I know not how m3^ poor girl is so 
 worldly." 
 
 " Well," says Esmond, "a man can but give his best and 
 his all. She has that from me. What little reputation I have 
 won, I swear I cared for it because I thought Beatrix would 
 be pleased with it. What care I to be a colonel or a general? 
 Think 3'ou 'twill matter a few score years hence, what our fool- 
 ish honors to-day are? I would have had a little fame, that 
 she might wear it in her hat. If I had an3^thing better, I would 
 endow her with it. If she wants my life, I would give it her. 
 If she marries another, I will say God bless him. I make no 
 boast, nor no complaint. I think m3^ fidelit3^ is folly, pei-haps. 
 But so it is. I cannot help m3^self. I love her. You are a 
 thousand times better : the fondest, the fairest, the dearest of 
 women. Sure, m3^ dear \sidy, I see all Beatrix's faults as well 
 as 3^ou do. But she is my fate. 'Tis endurable. I shall not 
 die for not having her. I think I should be no happier if I 
 won her. Que voulez-vous? as my Lady of Chelse3' would 
 say. Je I'aime." 
 
 ^'I wish she would have 3'ou," said Harry's fond mistress, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 267 
 
 giving a hand to him. He kissed the fair hand ('twas the pret- 
 tiest dimpled Kttle hand in the world, and my Lady Castle wood, 
 though now almost forty years old, did not look to be within 
 ten years of her age). He kissed and kept her fair hand, as 
 they talked together. 
 
 "Why," sa3's he, "should she hear me? She knows 
 what I would say. Far or near, she knows I'm her slave. 
 I have sold myself for nothing, it may be. Well, 'tis the 
 price I choose to take. I am worth nothing, or I am worth 
 all." 
 
 "You are such a treasure," Esmond's mistress was pleased 
 to say, " that the woman who has 3'our love, shouldn't change 
 it away against a kingdom, I think. I am a countr3'-bred 
 woman, and cannot say but the ambitions of the town seem 
 mean to me. I never was awe-stricken by my Lad}' Duchess's 
 rank and finer}', or afraid,'' she added, with a sly laugh, " of 
 anj'thing but her temper. I hear of Court ladies who pine be- 
 cause her Majest}' looks cold on them ; and great noblemen 
 who would give a hmb that they might wear a garter on the 
 other. This worldhness, which I can't comprehend, was born 
 with Beatrix, who, on the first day of her waiting, was a per- 
 fect courtier. We are like sisters, and she the eldest sister, 
 somehow. She tells me I have a mean spirit. I laugh, and 
 say she adores a coach-and-six. I cannot reason her out of 
 her ambition. 'Tis natural to her, as to me to love quiet, and 
 be indifferent about rank and riches. What are they, Harr}'? 
 and for how long do they last? Our home is not here." She 
 smiled as she spoke, and looked like an angel that was only on 
 earth on a visit. " Our home is where the just are, and where 
 our sins and sorrows enter not. M}^ father used to rebuke me, 
 and saj' that I was too hopeful about heaven. But I cannot 
 help my nature, and grow obstinate as I grow to be an old 
 woman ; and as I love my children so, sure our Father loves 
 us with a thousand and a thousand times greater love. It must 
 be that we shall meet 3'onder, and be happ3\ Yes, you — and 
 mj^ children, and mj' dear lord. Do you know, Harr}-, since 
 his death, it has always seemed to me as if his love came back 
 to me, and that we are parted no more. Perhaps he is here 
 now, Harr}' — I think he is. Forgiven I am sure he is : even 
 Mr. Atterbury absolved him, and he died forgiving. Oh, what 
 a noble heart he had ! How generous he was ! I was but fif- 
 teen and a child when he married me. How good he was to 
 stoop to me ! He was always good to the poor and humble." 
 She stopped, then presently, with a peculiar expression, as if 
 
268 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 her eyes were looking into heaven, and saw m^' lord there, she 
 smiled, and gave a Httle laugh. "I laugh to see you, sir," 
 she sa3's ; "when you come, it seems as if 3'ou never were 
 away." One may put her words down, and remember them, 
 but how describe her sweet tones, sweeter than music ! 
 
 My 3^oung lord did not come home at the end of the cam- 
 paign, and wrote that he was kept at Bruxelles on military 
 dut}^ Indeed, I believe he was engaged in laying siege to a 
 certain lad}', who was of the suite of Madame de Soissons, the 
 Prince of Savoy's mother, who was just dead, and who, like 
 the Fiemisli fortresses, was taken and retaken a great number 
 of times during the war, and occupied by French, English, and 
 Imperialists. Of course, Mr. Esmond did not think fit to 
 enlighten Lady Castlewood regarding the young scapegrace's 
 doings : nor had he said a word about the affair with Lord 
 Mohun, knowing how abhorrent that man's name was to his 
 mistress. Frank did not waste much time or money on pen 
 and ink ; and, when Harry came home with his General, only 
 writ two lines to his mother, to say his wound in the leg was 
 almost healed, that he would keep his coming of age next j^ear 
 — that the dutj^ aforesaid would keep him at Bruxelles, and 
 that Cousin Harry would tell all the news. 
 
 But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood 
 always liked to have a letter about the famous 29th of Decem- 
 ber, m}^ lord writ her a long and full one, and in this he must 
 have described the aff'air with Mohun ; for when Mr. Esmond 
 came to visit his mistress one day, early in the new year, to 
 his great wonderment, she and her daughter both came up and 
 saluted him, and after them the Dowager of Chelse}', too, 
 whose chairman had just brought her lad^'ship from her village 
 to Kensington across the fields. After this honor, I sa}^ from 
 the two ladies of Castlewood, the Dowager came forward in 
 great state, with her grand tall head-dress of King James's 
 reign, that she never forsook, and said, ''Cousin Henr^^ all 
 our family have met ; and we thank 3'ou, cousin, for your 
 noble conduct towards the head of our house." And pointing 
 to her blushing cheek, she made Mr. Esmond aware that he 
 was to enjoy the rapture of an embrace there. Having saluted 
 one cheek, she turned to him the other. " Cousin Harry," 
 said both the other ladies, in a little chorus," we thank you for 
 3'our noble conduct ; " and then Harr}' became aware that the 
 story of the Lille aflfair had come to his kinswomen's ears. 
 It pleased him to hear them all saluting him as one of their 
 family. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 269 
 
 The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great enter- 
 tainment ; and the ladies were in gala dresses — mj^ Lady of 
 Chelse}^ in her highest tour, my Lady Viscountess out of 
 black, and looking fair and happ}^ a ravir ; and the Maid 
 of Honor attired with that splendor which naturally distin- 
 guished her, and wearing on her beautiful breast the French 
 officer's star which Frank had sent home after Ramillies. 
 
 " You see, 'tis a gala day with us," says she, glancing down 
 to the star complacentl}^, " and we have our orders on. Does 
 not mamma look charming? 'Twas I dressed her! " Indeed, 
 Esmond's dear mistress, blushing as he looked at her, with her 
 beautiful fair hair, and an elegant dress according to the 
 mode^ appeared to have the shape and complexion of a girl 
 of twenty. 
 
 On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard, 
 and a beautiful chased silver handle, with a blue ribbon for a 
 sword-knot. "What is this?" says the Captain, going up to 
 look at this pretty piece. 
 
 Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. " Kneel down," says 
 she : " we dub you our knight with this " — and she waved the 
 sword over his head. " My Lady Dowager hath given the 
 sword ; and I give the ribbon, and mamma hath sewn on 
 the fringe." 
 
 " Put the sword on him, Beatrix," says her mother. " You 
 are our knight, Harry — our true knight. Take a mother's 
 thanks and prayers for defending her son, my dear, dear friend." 
 She could say no more, and even the Dowager was affected, 
 for a couple of rebellious tears made sad marks down those 
 Wrinkled old roses which Esmond had just been allowed to 
 salute. 
 
 *' We had a letter from dearest Frank," his mother said, 
 " three days since, whilst 3^ou were on your visit to your friend 
 Captain Steele, at Hampton. He told us all that you had 
 done, and how nobly you had put yourself between him and 
 that — that wretch." 
 
 " And I adopt j^ou from this day," saj's the Dowager, " and 
 I wish I was richer, for 3'our sake, son Esmond," she added 
 with a wave of her hand ; and as Mr. Esmond dutifull}^ went 
 down on his knee before her ladyship, she cast her eyes up to 
 the ceihng, (the gilt chandelier, and the twelve wax-candles in 
 it, for the party was numerous,) and invoked a blessing from 
 that quarter upon the newly adopted son. 
 
 " Dear Frank," says the other viscountess, " how fond he is 
 of his military profession ! He is studying fortification very 
 
270 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 hard. I wish he were here. We shall keep his coming of age 
 at Castlewood next year." 
 
 " If the campaign permit us," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 " I am never afraid when he is with you," cries the boy's 
 mother. " I am sure my Henry will always defend him." 
 
 " But there will be a peace before next year ; we know it 
 for certain," cries the Maid of Honor. " Lord Marlborough 
 will be dismissed, and that horrible duchess turned out of 
 all her places. Her Majesty won't speak to her now. Did 
 3^ou see her at Bush3% Harry? She is furious, and she 
 ranges about the park like a lioness, and tears people's eyes 
 out." 
 
 "And the Princess Anne will send for somebody," says my 
 Lad}^ of Chelse}^ taking out her medal and kissing it. 
 
 " Did you see the King at Oudenarde, Hany ? " his mistress 
 asked. She was a staunch Jacobite, and would no more have 
 thought of denj'ing her king than her God. 
 
 " I saw the young Hanoverian only," Harry said. "The 
 Chevaher de St. George — " 
 
 " The King, sir, the King ! " said the ladies and Miss Bea- 
 trix ; and she clapped her prettv hands, and cried, "Vive 
 le Roy." 
 
 By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove in 
 the doors of the house almost. It was three o'clock, and the 
 company were arriving ; and presently the servant announced 
 Captain Steele and his lad}". 
 
 Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had 
 driven to Kensington from their countr3'-house, the Hovel at 
 Hampton Wick. "Not from our mansion in Bloomsbur}^ 
 Square," as Mrs. Steele took care to inform the ladies. Indeed 
 Harry had ridden away from Hampton that ver}- morning, 
 leaving the couple by the ears ; for from the chamber where life 
 lay, in a bed that was none of the cleanest, and kept awake by 
 the com pan}" which he had in his own bed, and the quarrel 
 which was going on in the next room, he could hear both night 
 and morning the curtain lecture which Mrs. Steele was in the 
 habit of administering to poor Dick. 
 
 At night it did not matter so much for the culprit ; Dick 
 was fuddled, and when in that way no scolding could interrupt 
 his benevolence. Mr. Esmond could hear him coaxing and 
 speaking in that maudlin manner, which punch and claret pro- 
 duce, to his beloved Prue, and beseeching her to remember 
 that there was a distiwisht officer ithe rex roob^ who would over- 
 hear her. She went on, nevertheless, calling him a drunken 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 271 
 
 wretch, and was only interrupted in her harangues by the 
 Captain's snoring. 
 
 In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache 
 and consciousness, and the dialogue of the night was resumed. 
 " Wh}^ do 3'ou bring captains home to dinner when there's not 
 a guinea in the house? How am I to give dinners when you 
 leave me without a shilling? How am I to go traipsing to 
 Kensington in my yellow satin sack before all the fine com- 
 pany ? I've nothing fit to put on ; I never have : " and so the 
 dispute went on — Mr. Esmond interrupting the talk when it 
 seemed to be growing too intimate by blowing his nose as 
 loudly as ever he could, at the sound of which trumpet there 
 came a lull. But Dick was charming, though his wife was 
 odious, and 'twas to give Mr. Steele pleasure, that the ladies of 
 Castlewood, who were ladies of no small fashion, invited Mrs. 
 Steele. 
 
 Besides the Captain and his lady, there was a great and 
 notable assemblage of company : my Lady of Chelsey having 
 sent her lackej's and liveries to aid the modest attendance at 
 Kensington. There was Lieutenant-General Webb, Harrj^'s 
 kind patron, of whom the Dowager took possession, and who 
 resplended in velvet and gold lace ; there was Harry's new ac- 
 quaintance, the Right Honorable Henrj^ St. John, Esquire, the 
 General's kinsman, who was charmed with the Lady Castle- 
 wood, even more than with her daughter ; there was one of 
 the greatest noblemen in the kingdom, the Scots Duke of Ham- 
 ilton, just created Duke of Brandon in England ; and two other 
 noble lords of the Tor}" party, my Lord Ashburnham, and an- 
 other I have forgot ; and for ladies, her Grace the Duchess of 
 Ormonde and her daughters, the Lady Mary and the Lady 
 Betty, the former one of Mistress Beatrix's colleagues in wait- 
 ing on the Queen. 
 
 ' ' What a party of Tories ! " whispered Captain Steele to Es- 
 mond, as we were assembled in the parlor before dinner. Indeed, 
 all the company present, save Steele, were of that faction. 
 
 Mr. St. John made his special compliments to Mrs. Steele, 
 and so charmed her that she declared she would have Steele a 
 Tory too. 
 
 " Or will 3'ou have me a Whig?" saj^s Mr. St. John. *' I 
 think, madam, 3'ou could convert a man to anything." 
 
 '* If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will 
 teach him what I know," says Mrs. Steele, dropping her hand- 
 some eyes. " Do you know Bloomsbury Square? " 
 
 "Do I know the Mall? Do I know the Opera? Do I 
 
272 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 know the reigning toast? Why, Bloomsbary is the very height 
 of the mode," says Mr. St. John. " 'Tis ras in urhe. You 
 have gardens all the way to Hampstead, and palaces round 
 about you — Southampton House and Montague House." 
 
 "Where you wretches go and fight duels," cries Mrs. 
 Steele. 
 
 " Of which the ladies are the cause ! " says her entertainer. 
 " Madam, is Dick a good swordsman? How charming the 
 ' Tatler ' is ! We all recognized 3'our portrait in the 49th num- 
 ber, and I have been dying to know you ever since I read it. 
 ' Aspasia must be allowed to be the first of the beauteous order 
 of love.' Doth not the passage run so? 'In this accomplished 
 lady love is the constant effect, though it is never the design ; 
 yet though her mien carries much more invitation than com- 
 mand, to behold her is an immediate check to loose behavior, 
 and to love her is a liberal education.' " 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to un- 
 derstand a word of what the gentleman was saying. 
 
 " Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress? " 
 saj's Mr. St. John, still gallant and bowing. 
 
 " Mistress ! upon my word, sir ! " cries the lady. " If you 
 mean me, sir, I would have you know that I am the Captain's 
 wife." 
 
 " Sure we all know it," answers Mr. St. John, keeping his 
 countenance very gravely ; and Steele broke in saying, " 'Twas 
 not about Mrs. Steele I writ that paper — though I am sure she 
 is worthy of any compliment I can pay her — but of the Lad}^ 
 Elizabeth Hastings." 
 
 " I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and a 
 poet," says Mr. St. John. " Is it true that his hand is to be 
 found in your ' Tatler,' Mr. Steele?" 
 
 " Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can 
 come near him," cries Steele. 
 
 " A fig, Dick, for yonv Mr. Addison ! " cries out his lady : 
 " a gentleman who gives himself such airs and holds his head 
 so high now. I hope your ladyship thinks as I do : I can't 
 bear those very fair men with white eyelashes — a black man 
 for me." (All the black men at table applauded, and made 
 Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) "As for this Mr. 
 Addison," she went on, "he comes to dine with the Captain 
 sometimes, never says a word to me, and then they walk up 
 stairs both tipsy, to a dish of tea. I remember your Mr. Addi- 
 son when he had but one coat to his back, ana that with a patch 
 at the elbow." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 273 
 
 '' Indeed — a patch at the elbow ! You interest me," says 
 Mr. St. John. '' 'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters 
 from the charming wife of another." 
 
 "La, 1 could tell you ever so much about 'em," continues 
 the voluble lady. ''What do you think the Captain has got 
 now? — a little hunchback fellow — a little hop-o'-my-thumb 
 creature that he calls a poet — a little Popish brat ! " 
 
 "Hush, there are two in the room," whispers her com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope," says 
 the lady. "'Tis only my joking way. And this little dwarf 
 of a fellow has wrote a pastoral poem — all about shepherds and 
 shepherdesses, 3'ou know." 
 
 " A shepherd should have a little crook," says my mistress, 
 laughing from her end of the table : on which Mrs. Steele said, 
 " She did not know, but the Captain brought home this queer 
 little creature when she was in bed with her first boy, and it 
 was a mercy he had come no sooner ; and Dick raved about his 
 germs^ and was always raving about some nonsense or other." 
 
 " Which of the ' Tatlers ' do you prefer, Mrs. Steele? " asked 
 Mr. St. John. 
 
 "I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, 
 sir," says the laclj'. " Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and Distaff, 
 and Quarterstaff, as it all is ! There's the Captain going on 
 still with the Burgundy — I know he'll be tipsy before he stops 
 — Captain Steele ! " 
 
 " I drink to 3^our eyes, my dear," says the Captain, who 
 seemed to think his wife charming, and to receive as genuine 
 all the satiric conipliments which Mr. St. John paid her. 
 
 All this while the Maid of Honor had been tr3ing to get 
 Mr. Esmond to talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow. 
 For, by sgme mistake, just as he was going to pop into the vacant 
 place, he was placed far away from Beatrix's chair, who sat 
 between his Grace and my Lord Ashburnham, and shrugged her 
 lovel}' white shoulders, and cast a look as if to sa}', " Vity me," 
 to her cousin. My Lord Duke and his 3'oung neighbor were 
 presently" in a very animated and close conversation. Mrs. 
 Beatrix could no more help using her e^^es than the sun can 
 help shining, and setting those it shines on a-burning. Bj^ the 
 time the first course was done the dinner seemed long to 
 Esmond ; by the time the soup came he fancied the}' must 
 have been hours at table : and as for the sweets and jellies he 
 thought the}^ never would be done. 
 
 At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian glance 
 
 18 
 
274 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 at her duke as she retreated ; a fresh bottle and glasses were 
 fetched, and toasts were called. Mr. St. John asked his Grace 
 the Duke of Hamilton and the company to drink to the health 
 of his Grace the Duke of Brandon. Another lord gave General 
 Webb's health, ''and maj^ he get the command the bravest 
 officer in the world deserves." Mr. Webb thanked the compan}^, 
 complimented his aide-de-camp, and fought his famous battle 
 over again. 
 
 *' II est fatiguant," whispers Mr. St. John, " avec sa trom- 
 pette de Wynendael." 
 
 Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loj'all}" gave the 
 health of the Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of the 
 age. 
 
 "I drink to the greatest general with all m}^ heart," saj^s 
 Mr. Webb; " there can be no gainsaying that character of him. 
 My glass goes to the General, and not to the Duke, Mr. Steele." 
 And the stout old gentleman emptied his bumper ; to which 
 Dick replied b}' filling and emptying a pair of brimmers, one 
 for the General and one for the Duke. 
 
 And now his Grace of Hamilton, rising up with flashing 
 eyes (we had all been drinking pretty freel}'), proposed a toast 
 to the lovel}^ to the incomparable Mrs. Beatrix Esmond ; we 
 all drank it with cheers, and m}- Lord Ashburnham especially, 
 with a shout of enthusiasm. 
 
 "What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton," whispers 
 St. John, who drank more wine and yet was more steady than 
 most of the others, and we entered the drawing-room where the 
 ladies were at their tea. As for poor Dick, we were obliged to 
 leave him alone at the dining-table, where he was hiccupping 
 out the lines from the " Campaign," in which the greatest poet 
 had celebrated the greatest general in the world ; and Harry 
 Esmond found him, half an hour afterwards, in a more advanced 
 stage of liquor, and weeping about the treacher}' of Tom Boxer. 
 
 The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harr}-, in spite of 
 the grand illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him. When 
 my Lord Duke went away, she practised upon the next in rank, 
 and plied my young Lord Ashburnham with all the fire of her 
 e3^es and the fascinations of her wit. Most of the part}' were 
 set to cards, and Mr. St. John, after 3'awning in the face of 
 Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care to pursue any more ; and 
 talking in his most brilliant animated way to Lady Castlewood, 
 whom he pronounced to be beautiful, of a far higher order of 
 beauty than her daughter, presently took his leave, and went 
 his way. The rest of the company speedily followed, my Lord 
 
THE HISTORY O^ HENRY ESMOl^D. 275 
 
 Ashburnham the last, throwing tier}" glances at the smiling 3'oung 
 temptress, who had bewitched more hearts than his in her thrall. 
 
 No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought 
 fit to be the last of all in it ; he remained after the coaches had 
 rolled away — after his dowager aunt's chair and flambeaux had 
 marched off in the darkness towards Chelsey, and the town's 
 people had gone to bed, who had been drawn into the square 
 to gape at the unusual assemblage of chairs and chariots, lack- 
 ej'S, and torchmen. The poor mean wretch lingered yet for 
 a few minutes, to see whether the girl would vouchsafe him a 
 smile, or a parting word of consolation. But her enthusiasm 
 of the morning was quite died out, or she chose to be in a differ- 
 ent mood. She fell to joking about the dowd}^ appearance of 
 Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarit}^ of Mrs. Steele ; and 
 then she put up her little hand to her mouth and 3'awned, lighted 
 a taper, and shrugged her shoulders, and dropping Mr. Esmond 
 a sauc}' curts}', sailed off to bed. 
 
 '• Ttie day began so well, Henr}^, that I hoped it might have 
 ended better," was all the consolation that poor Esmond's fond 
 mistress could give him ; and as he trudged home through the 
 dark alone, he thought with bitter rage in his heart, and a feel- 
 ing of almost revolt against the sacrifice he had made : — " She 
 would have me," thought he, "had I but a name to give her. 
 But for Th}^ promise to her father, I might have my rank and 
 my mistress too." 
 
 I suppose a man's vanity is stronger than an}^ other passion 
 in him ; for I blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of 
 those distant days, the memory of which still smarts, though 
 the fever of balked desire has passed away more than a score 
 of years ago. When the writer's descendants come to read 
 this memoir, I wonder will they have lived to experience a sim- 
 ilar defeat and shame? Will they ever have knelt to a woman 
 who has listened to them, and played with them, and laughed 
 with them — who beckoning them with lures and caresses, and 
 with Yes smihng from her ej'cs, has tricked them on to their 
 knees, and turned her back and left them. All this shame Mr. 
 Esmond had to undergo ; and he submitted, and revolted, and 
 present!}^ came crouching back for more. 
 
 After this feste, m}^ 3^oung Lord Ashburnham's coach was 
 for ever roUing in and out of Kensington Square ; his lad}'- 
 mother came to visit Esmond's mistress, and at every assembly 
 in the town, wherever the Maid of Honor made her appearance, 
 you might be pretty sure to see the young gentleman in a new 
 suit every week, and decked out in all the finery that his tailor 
 
t!76 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 or embroiderer could furnish for him. My lord was for ever 
 psLjing Mr. Esmond compliments : bidding him to dinner, offer- 
 ing him horses to ride, and giving him a thousand uncouth 
 marks of respect and good-will. At last, one night at the 
 coffee-house, whither my lord came considerably flushed and 
 excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr. Esmond, and cries 
 out — " Give me joy, my dearest Colonel ; I am the happiest of 
 men." 
 
 " The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him 
 jov," says Mr. Esmond. " What is the cause of this supreme 
 felicity?" 
 
 "Haven't you heard?" says he. "Don't you know? I 
 thought the family told 3'ou everything : the adorable Beatrix 
 hath promised to be mine." 
 
 "What!" cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy 
 hours with Beatrix that very morning — had writ verses for her, 
 that she had sung at the harpsichord. 
 
 " Yes," says he ; "I waited on her to-day. I saw j-ou walk- 
 ing towards Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach ; and she 
 looked so lovel}^ and spoke so kind, that I couldn't help going 
 down on my knees, and — and — sure I am the happiest of men 
 in all the world ; and I'm xery young ; but she says I shall get 
 older : and j^ou know I shall be of age in four months ; and 
 there's very little difference between us ; and I'm so happy. I 
 should like to treat the company to something. Let us have a 
 bottle — a dozen bottles — and drink the health of the finest 
 woman in England." 
 
 Esmond left the 3'oung lord tossing off bumper after bumper, 
 and strolled away to Kensington to ask whether the news was 
 true. 'Twas only too sure : his mistress's sad, compassionate 
 face told him the storj^ ; and then she related what particulars 
 of it she knew, and how my young lord had made his offer, half 
 an hour after Esmond went away that morning, and in the very 
 room where the song lay yet on the harpsichord, which Esmond 
 had writ, and they had sung together. 
 
BOOK III. 
 
 CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I COME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES AND BRUISES. 
 
 That feverish desire to gain a little reputation which Es- 
 mond had had, left him now perhaps that he had attained some 
 portion of his wish, and the great motive of his ambition was 
 over. His desire for military honor was that it might raise him 
 in Beatrix's eyes. 'Twas next to nobility and wealth, the only 
 kind of rank she valued. It was th^ stake quickest won or 
 lost too ; for law is a very long game that requires a life to 
 practise ; and to be distinguished in letters or the Church would 
 not have forwarded the poor gentleman's plans in the least. 
 So he had no suit to play but the red one, and he plaj^ed it ; 
 and this, in truth, was the reason of his speedy promotion ; for 
 he exposed himself more than most gentlemen do, and risked 
 more to win mOre. Is he the onl}' man that hath set his life 
 against a stake which may be not worth the winning? Another 
 risks his hfe (and his honor, too, sometimes,) against a bundle 
 of bank-notes, or a yard of blue ribbon, or a seat in Parlia- 
 ment ; and some for the mere pleasure and excitement of the 
 sport ; as a field of a hundred huntsmen will do, each out-bawl- 
 ing and out-galloping the other at the tail of a dirty fox, that is 
 to be the prize of the foremost happ}' conqueror. 
 
 When he heard this news of Beatrix's engagement in mar- 
 riage. Colonel Esmond knocked under to his fate, and resolved 
 to surrender his sword, that could win him nothing now he 
 cared for ; and in this dismal frame of mind he determined to 
 retire from the regiment, to the great delight of the captain 
 next in rank to him, who happened to be a young gentleman of 
 good fortune, who eagerly paid Mr. Esmond a thousand guin- 
 eas for his majoritj" in Webb's regiment, and was knocked on 
 
278 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the head the next campaign. Perhaps Esmond would not have 
 been sorry to share his fate. He was more the Knight of the 
 Woful Countenaace than ever he had been. His moodiness 
 must have made him perfectly odious to his friends under the 
 tents, who like a jolly fellow, and laugh at a melancholy warrior 
 always sighing after Dulcinea at home. 
 
 Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr. Esmond 
 quitting the army, and his kind General coincided in his wish 
 of retirement and helped in the transfer of his commission, 
 which brought a pretty sum into his pocket. But when the 
 Commander-in-Chief came home, and was forced, in spite of 
 himself, to appoint Lieutenant- General Webb to the command 
 of a division of the army in Flanders, the Lieutenant-General 
 praj^ed Colonel Esmond so urgentl}' to be his aide de-camp and 
 military secretary, that Esmond could not resist his kind pa- 
 tron's entreaties, and again took the field, not attached to any 
 regiment, but under Webb's orders. What must have been the 
 continued agonies of fears * and apprehensions which racked 
 the gentle breasts of wives and matrons in those dreadful daj's, 
 when every Gazette brought accounts of deaths and battles, and 
 when the present anxiet}^ over, and the beloved person escaped, 
 the doubt still remained that a battle might be fought, possibly, 
 of which the next Flanders letter would bring the account ; so 
 they, the poor tender creatures, had to go on sickening and 
 trembling through the whole campaign. Wiiatever these terrors 
 were on the part of Esmond's mistress, (and that tenderest of 
 women must have felt them most keenlj' for both her sons, as 
 she called them), she never allowed them outward!}' to appear, 
 but hid her apprehension as she did her charities and devotion. 
 'Twas only by chance that Esmond, wandering in Kensington, 
 found his mistress coming oat of a mean cottage there, and 
 heard that she had a score of poor retainers, whom she visited 
 and comforted in their sickness and poverty, and who blessed 
 her dail}'. She attended the earl}- church dail}' (though of a 
 Sunday, especially, she encouraged and advanced all sorts of 
 cheerfulness and innocent gayety in her little household) : and 
 by notes entered into a taVle-book of hers at this time, and de- 
 votional compositions writ with a sweet artless fervor, such as 
 the best divines could not surpass, showed how fond her heart 
 was, how humble and pious her spirit, what pangs of apprehen- 
 sion she endured silently, and with what a faithful reliance she 
 committed the care of those she loved to the awful Dispenser 
 of death and life. 
 
 * What indeed ? Psm. xci. 2. 3. 7. — R. E. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 279 
 
 As for her ladyship at Chelse}^ Esmond's newl}' adopted 
 mother, she was now of an age when the danger of any second 
 part}' doth not disturb the rest much. vSlie cared for trumps 
 more than for most things in life. She was firm enough in her 
 own faith, but no longer very bitter against ours. She had a 
 very good-natured, easy French director. Monsieur Gauthier by 
 name, who was a gentleman of the world, and would take a 
 hand of cards with Dean Atterbury, m}^ lady's neiglibor at 
 Chelse}^ and was well with all the High Church part}'. No 
 doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew what Esmond's peculiar position 
 was, for he corresponded with Holt, and always treated Colonel 
 Esmond with particular respect and kindness ; but for good 
 reasons the Colonel and the Abb« never spoke on this matter 
 together, and so they remained perfect good friends. 
 
 All the frequenters of my Lady of Chelse3''s house were of 
 the Tory and High Church party. Madame Beati'ix was as 
 frantic about the King as her elderl}' kinswoman : she wore his 
 picture on her heart ; she had a piece of his hair ; she vowed 
 he was the most injured, and gallant, and accomplished, and 
 unfortunate, and beautiful of princes. Steele, who quarrelled with 
 ver}' many of his Tory friends, but never with Esmond, used 
 to tell the Colonel that his kinswoman's house was a rendezvous 
 of Torj' intrigues ; that Gauthier was a sp}^ ; that Atterbury 
 was a sp3' ; that letters were constantly' going from that house 
 to the Queen at St. Germains ; on which Esmond, laughing, 
 would reply, that they used to say in the army the Duke of 
 Marlborough was a spy too, and as much in correspondence 
 with that famil}' as any Jesuit. And without entering very 
 eagerly into the controversy, Esmond had frankl}' taken the 
 side of his family. It seemed to him that King James the 
 Third was undoubtedly King of England by right : and at his 
 sister's death it would be better to have him than a foreigner 
 over us. No man admired King William more ; a hero and a 
 conqueror, the bravest, justest, wisest of men — but 'twas by 
 the sword he conquered the countr}', and held and governed it 
 by the ver}' same right that the great Cromwell held it, who was 
 trul}^ and greatly a sovereign. But that a foreign despotic 
 Prince, out of Germany, who happened to be descended from 
 King James the First, should take possession of this empire, 
 seemed to Mr. Esmond a monstrous injustice — at least, ever}' 
 Englishman had a right to protest, and the English Prince, the 
 heir-at-law, the first of all. Whatman of spirit with such a 
 cause would not back it? What man of honor with such a crown 
 to wdn would not fight for it? But that race was destined. 
 
280 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 That Prince bad himself against him, an enemy he could not 
 overcome. He never dared to draw his sword, though he had it. 
 He let his chances slip b}' as he lay in the lap of opera-girls, 
 or snivelled at the knees of priests asking pardon ; and the 
 blood of heroes, and the devotedness of honest hearts, and en- 
 durance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him in vain. 
 
 But let us return to my Lady of Chelse}', who, when her son 
 Esmond announced to her ladyship that he proposed to make 
 the ensuing campaign, took leave of him with perfect alacrity, 
 and was down to piquet with her gentlewoman before he had 
 well quitted the room on his last visit. " Tierce to a king," 
 were the last words he ever heard her say : the game of life was 
 pretty nearly over for the good lady, and three months after- 
 wards she took to her bed, where she flickered out without any 
 pain, so the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to Mr. Esmond, then 
 with his General on the frontier of France. The Lady Castle- 
 wood was with her at her ending, and had written too, but 
 these letters must have been taken by a privateer in the packet 
 that brought them ; for Esmond knew nothing of their contents 
 until his return to England. 
 
 My Lady Castle wood had left everything to Colonel Esmond, 
 " as a reparation for the wrong done to him;" 'twas writ in 
 her will. But her fortune was not much, for it never had been 
 large, and the honest viscountess had wisel}' sunk most of the 
 money she had upon an annuit}^ which terminated with her life. 
 However, there was the house and furniture, plate and pictures 
 at Chelsey, and a sum of money 13'ing at her merchant's, Sir 
 Josiah Child, which altogether would realize a sum of near 
 three hundred pounds per annum, so that Mr. Esmond found 
 himself, if not rich, at least easy for life. Likewise there were 
 the famous diamonds which had been said to be worth fabulous 
 sums, though the goldsmith pronounced they would fetch no 
 more than four thousand pounds. These diamonds, however. 
 Colonel Esmond reserved, having a special use for them : but 
 the Chelse}^ house, plate, goods, &c., with the exception of a 
 few articles which he kept back, were sold by his orders ; and 
 the sums resulting from the sale invested in the public securities 
 so as to realize the aforesaid annual income of three hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 Having now something to leave, he made a will and de- 
 spatched it home. The arm}^ was now in presence of the enemy ; 
 and a great battle expected every day. 'Twas known that the 
 General-in-Chief was in disgrace, and the parties at home strong 
 against him, and there was no stroke this great and resolute 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 281 
 
 player would not venture to recall his fortune when it seemed 
 desperate. Frank Castlewood was with Colonel Esmond ; his 
 General having gladly taken the 3'oung nobleman on to his staff. 
 His studies of fortifications at Bruxelles were over by this time. 
 The fort he was besieging had yielded, I believe, and my lord 
 had not only marched in with flying colors, but marched out 
 again. He used to tell his boyish wickednesses with admirable 
 humor, and was the most charming young scapegrace in the 
 army. 
 
 'Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every 
 penny of his little fortune to this bo3\ It was the Colonel's 
 firm conviction that the next battle would put an end to him : 
 for he felt awear}- of the sun, and quite ready to bid that and 
 the earth farewell. Frank would not listen to his comrade's 
 gloomy forebodings, but swore they would keep his birthda}- at 
 Castlewood that autumn, after the campaign. He had heard 
 of the engagement at home. " If Prince Eugene goes to 
 London," says Frank, "and Trix can get hold of him, she'll 
 jilt Ashburnham for his Highness. I tell you, she used to make 
 eyes at the Duke of Marlborough, when she was onl}^ fourteen, 
 and ogling poor little Blandford. /wouldn't many her, Harry — 
 no, not if her eyes were twice as big. I'll take my fun. I'll 
 enjoy for the next three years ever}' possible pleasure. I'll sow 
 m}' wild oats then, and marry some quiet, stead}', modest, 
 sensible viscountess ; hunt m}' harriers ; and settle down at 
 Castlewood. Perhaps I'll represent the count}^ — no, damme, 
 you shall represent the count}'. You have the brains of the 
 family. By the Lord, my dear old Harry, you have the best 
 head and the kindest heart in all the army ; and every man says 
 so — and when the Queen dies, and the King comes back, why 
 shouldn't you go to the House of Commons, and be a Minister, 
 and be made a Peer, and that sort of thing? Tou be shot in 
 the next action ! I wager a dozen of Burgundy you are not 
 touched. Mohun is well of his wound. He is always with 
 Corporal John now. As soon as ever I see his ugly face I'll 
 spit in it. I took lessons of Father — of Captain Holt at 
 Bruxelles. What a man that is ! He knows everything." 
 Esmond bade Frank have a care ; that Father Holt's knowl- 
 edge was rather dangerous ; not, indeed, knowing as yet how 
 far the Father had pushed his instructions with his young 
 pupil. 
 
 The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and English 
 side, have given accounts sufficient of that bloody battle of 
 Blarignies or Malplaquet, which was the last and the hardest 
 
282 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 earned of the victories of the great Duke of Marlborough. In 
 that tremendous combat near upon two hundred and fifty 
 thousand men were engaged, more than thirty thousand of whom 
 were slain or wounded (the Allies lost twice as man}' men as 
 they killed of the French, whom they conquered) : and this 
 dreadful slaughter very likely took place because a great gen- 
 eral's credit was shaken at home, and he thought to restore it 
 by a victory. If such were the motives which induced the Duke 
 of Marlborough to venture that prodigious stake, and desper- 
 ately sacrifice thirty thousand brave lives, so that he might 
 figure once more in a Gazette, and hold his places and pensions 
 a little longer, the event defeated the dreadful and selfish design, 
 for the victory was purchased at a cost which no nation, greedy 
 of glory as it may be, would willingly pay for any triumph. 
 The gallantry of the French was as remarkable as the furious 
 braver}' of their assailants. We took a few score of their flags, 
 and a few pieces of their artillerj' ; but we left twenty thousand 
 of the bravest soldiers of the world round about the intrenched 
 lines, from which the enemy was driven. He retreated in per- 
 fect good order ; the panic-spell seemed to be broke, under 
 which the French had labored ever since the disaster of Hoch- 
 stedt ; and, fighting now on the threshold of their countrj', they 
 showed an heroic ardor of resistance, such as had never met 
 us in the course of their aggressive war. Had the battle been 
 more successful, the conqueror might have got the price for 
 which he waged it. As it w^as, (and justl3% I think,) the party 
 adverse to the Duke in England were indignant at the lavish 
 extravagance of slaughter, and demanded more eagerly than 
 ever the recall of a chief whose cupidity and desperation might 
 urge him further still. After this bloody fight of Malplaquet, 
 I can answer for it, that in the Dutch quarters and our own, 
 and amongst the yery regiments and commanders whose gal- 
 lantry was most conspicuous upon this frightful day of carnage, 
 the general cry was, that there was enough of the war. The 
 French were driven back into their own boundar}^ and all their 
 conquests and booty of Flanders disgorged. As for the Prince 
 of Savo}^, with whom our Commander-in-Chief, for reasons of 
 bis own, consorted more closely than ever, 'twas known that he 
 was animated not merel}' by a political hatred, but by personal 
 rage against the old French King : the Imperial Generalissimo 
 never forgot the slight put by Lewis upon the Abbe de Savoie ; 
 and in the humiliation or ruin of his most Christian Majesty, 
 the H0I3' Roman Emperor found his account. But what were 
 these quarrels to us, the free citizens of England and Holland? 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 283 
 
 Despot as he was, the French monarch was yet the chief of 
 European civUization, more venerable in his age and misfor- 
 tunes than at the period of his most splendid successes ; whilst 
 his opponent was but a semi-barbarous t3'rant, with a pillaging, 
 murderous horde of Croats and Pandours, composing a half of 
 his arm}', filling our camp with their strange figures, bearded 
 like the miscreant Turks their neighbors, and carrying into 
 Christian warfare their native heathen habits of rapine, lust, 
 and murder. Why should the best blood in England and 
 France be shed in order that the H0I3' Roman and Apostolic mas- 
 ter of these ruffians should have his revenge over the Christian 
 king? And it was to this end we were fighting; for this that 
 every village and family in England was deploring the death of 
 beloved sons and fathers. We dared not speak to each other, 
 even at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful were the gaps left in 
 our army b}' the cannon of that bloody action. 'Twas heart- 
 rending for an officer who had a heart to look down his line on 
 a parade-day afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces of com- 
 rades — humble or of high rank — that had gathered but yes- 
 terday full of courage and cheerfulness round the torn and 
 blackened flags. AVhere were our friends? As the great Duke 
 reviewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of prancing 
 aides-de-camp and generals, stopping here and there to thank 
 an officer with those eager smiles and bows of which his Grace 
 was alwa3's lavish, scarce a huzzah could be got for him, though 
 Cadogan, with an oath, rode up and cried — "D — n 3^ou, why 
 don't you. cheer ? " But the men had no heart for that : not 
 one of them but was thinking, "Where's my comrade? — 
 Where's my brother that fought b^' me, or my dear captain that 
 led me 3'esterday?" 'Twas the most gloom3^ pageant I ever 
 looked on; and the " Te Deum" sung by our chaplains, the 
 most woful and drear3^ satire. 
 
 Esmond's General added one more to the man3" marks of 
 honor which he had received in the front of a score of battles, 
 and got a wound in the groin, which laid him on his back ; and 
 you ma3^ be sure he consoled himself b3' abusing the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief, as he lay groaning, — "Corporal John's as 
 fond of me," he used to say, " as King David was of General 
 Uriah ; and so he alwa3's gives me the post of danger." He 
 persisted, to his dying day, in believing that the Duke intended 
 he should be beat at Wynendael, and sent him purposely with 
 a small force, hoping that he might be knocked on the head 
 there. Esmond and Frank Castle wood both escaped without 
 hurt, though the division which our General commanded suffered 
 
284 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 even more than any other, having to sustain not only the fury 
 of the enemy's cannonade, which was verj' hot and well served, 
 but the furious and repeated charges of the famous Maison du 
 Roy, which we had to receive and beat off again and again, 
 with vollcN's of shot and hedges of iron, and our four lines of 
 musqueteers and pikemen. They said the King of England 
 charged us no less than twelve times that day, along with the 
 French Household. Esmond's late regiment, General Webb's 
 own Fusileers, served in the division which their colonel com- 
 manded. The General was thrice in the centre of the square 
 of the Fusileers, calling the fire at the French charges, and, after 
 the action, his Grace the Duke of Berwick sent his compliments 
 to his old regiment and their Colonel for their behavior on the 
 field. 
 
 We drank my Lord Castlewood's health and majority, the 
 25th of September, the army being then before Mons : and 
 here Colonel Esmond was not so fortunate as he had been in 
 actions much more dangerous, and was hit bj^ a spent ball just 
 above the place where his former wound was, which caused the 
 old wound to open again, fever, spitting of blood, and other 
 ugly symptoms, to ensue ; and, in a word, brought him near to 
 death's door. The kind lad, his kinsman, attended his elder 
 comrade with a ver}- praiseworthy affectionateness and care 
 until he was pronounced out of danger bv the doctors, when 
 Frank went off, passed the winter at Bruxelles, and besieged, 
 no doubt, some other fortress there. Very few lads would 
 have given up their pleasures so long and so ga3'ly as Frank 
 did ; his cheerful prattle soothed manj' long days of Esmond's 
 pain and languor. Frank was supposed to be still at his kins- 
 man's bedside for a month after he had left it, for letters came 
 from his mother at home full of thanks to the 3'ounger gentle- 
 man for his care of his elder brother (so it pleased Esmond's 
 mistress now affectionately to style him) ; nor was Mr. Es- 
 mond in a hurry to undeceive her, when the good young fel- 
 low was gone for his Christmas holida3\ It was as pleasant 
 to Esmond on his couch to watch the .young man's pleasure at 
 the idea of being free, as to note his simple efforts to disguise 
 his satisf^iction on going away. There are daj^s when a flask 
 of champagne at a cabaret, and a red-cheeked partner to share 
 it, are too strong temptations for smy 3'oung fellow of spirit. 
 I am not going to play the moralist, and crj^ '' Fie." For ages 
 past, I know how old men preach, and what young men prac- 
 tise ; and that patriarchs have had their weak moments too, 
 long since Father Noah toppled over after discovering the vine. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 285 
 
 Frank went off, then, to his pleasures at Bruxelles, in which 
 capital man}^ yo^^ng fellows of our army declared the}' found 
 infinitely greater diversion even than in London : and Mr. 
 Henry Esmond remained in his sick-room, where he writ a fine 
 comedy, that his mistress pronounced to be sublime, and that 
 was acted no less than three successive nights in London in the 
 next year. 
 
 Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr. Holt re- 
 appeared, and stopped a whole month at Mons, where he not 
 only won over Colonel Esmond to the King's side in politics 
 (that side being always held by the Esmond famil}') ; but 
 where he endeavored to reopen the controversial question 
 between the churches once more, and to recall Esmond to that 
 religion in which, in his infancy, he had been baptized. Holt 
 was a casuist, both dexterous and learned, and presented the 
 case between the English church and his own in such a wa}'' 
 that those who granted his premises ought certainly to allow 
 his conclusions. He touched on Esmond's delicate state of 
 health, chance of dissolution, and so forth ; and enlarged upon 
 the immense benefits that the sick man was likely to forego — 
 benefits which the church of England did not deny to those of 
 the Roman communion, as how should she, being derived from 
 that church, and only an offshoot from it? But Mr. Esmond 
 said that his church was the church of his country, and to that 
 he chose to remain faithful : other people were welcome to 
 worship and to subscribe any other set of articles, whether at 
 Rome or at Augsburg. But if the good Father meant that 
 Esmond should join the Roman communion for fear of conse- 
 quences, and that all England ran the risk of being damned 
 for heresy, Esmond, for one, was perfectly willing to take his 
 chance of the penalty along with the countless millions of his 
 fellow-countrj^men, who were bred in the same faith, and along 
 with some of the noblest, the truest, the purest, the wisest, 
 the most pious and learned men and women in the world. 
 
 As for the political question, in that Mr. Esmond could 
 agree with the Father much more readily, and had come to the 
 same conclusion, though, perhaps, by a different way. The 
 right divine, about which Dr. Sacheverel and the High Church 
 party in England were just now making a bother, they were 
 welcome to hold as the}^ chose. If Richard Cromwell, and his 
 father before him had been crowned and anointed (and bishops 
 enough would have been found to do it) , it seemed to Mr. Es- 
 mond that they would have had the right divine just as much 
 as any Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart. But the desire of 
 
286 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the countr}' being nnqiiestionabty for an hereditary monarch3% 
 Esmond tliought an English king out of St. Germains was 
 better and fitter than a German prince from Herrenhausen, and 
 that if he failed to satisf}' the nation, some other Englishman 
 might be found to take his place ; and so, though with no fran- 
 tic enthusiasm, or worship of that monstrous pedigree which 
 the Tories chose to consider divine, he was ready to say, 
 *' God save King James ! " when Queen Anne went the way of 
 kings and commoners. 
 
 ••' I fear, Colonel, you are no better than a republican at 
 heart," says the priest with a sigh. 
 
 "I am an Englishman," says Hany, " and take my coun- 
 tr^^ as 1 find her. The will of the nation being for church and 
 king, I am for church and king too ; but English church and 
 Enghsh king ; and that is wli}' your church isn't mine, though 
 your king is." 
 
 Though the}" lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French 
 who were elated by that action, whilst the conquerors were dis- 
 pirited b}' it ; and the enem}^ gathered together a larger army 
 than ever, and made prodigious efl^brts for the next campaign. 
 Marshal Berwick was with the French this year ; and we heard 
 that Mareschal Villars was still suflfering of his wound, was 
 eager to bring our Duke to action, and vowed he would fight 
 us in his coach. IToung Castlewood came flying back from 
 Bruxelles, as soon as he heard that fighting was to begin ; and 
 the arrival of the Chevalier de St. George was announced 
 about Ma}'. " It's the King's third campaign, and it's mine," 
 Frank liked saying. He was come back a greater Jacobite 
 than ever, and Esmond suspected that some fair conspirators 
 at Bruxelles had been inflaming the young man's ardor. In- 
 deed, he owned that he had a message from the Queen, 
 Beatrix's godmother, who had given her name to Frank's sister 
 the 3'ear before he and his sovereign were born. 
 
 However desirous Marshal Villars might be to fight, my 
 Lord Duke did not seem disposed to indulge him this campaign. 
 Last 3'ear his Grace had been all for the Whigs and Hanove- 
 rians ; but finding, on going to England, his country cold towards 
 himself, and the people in a ferment of High Church lo3'alt3', 
 the Duke comes back to his army cooled towards the Hano- 
 verians, cautious with the Imperialists, and particular!}" civil 
 and polite towards the Chevalier de St. George. 'Tis certain 
 that messengers and letters were continually passing between 
 his Grace and his brave nephew, the Duke of Berwick, in the 
 opposite camp. No man's caresses were more opportune than 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 287 
 
 his Grace's, and no man ever uttered expressions of regard and 
 affection more generoush\ He professed to Monsieur de Tore}', 
 so Mr. 8t. John told the writer, quite an eagerness to be cut in 
 pieces for the exiled Queen and her famil}^ ; na^' more, I beheve, 
 this 3'ear he parted with a portion of the most precious part of 
 himself — his money — which he sent over to the royal exiles. 
 Mr. Tunstal, who was in the Prince's service, was twice or 
 thrice in and out of our camp ; the French, in theirs of Arlieu 
 and about Arras. A little river, the Canihe I think 'twas called, 
 (but this is writ away from books and Europe ; and the only 
 map the writer hath of these scenes of his 3'outh, bears no mark 
 of this little stream,) divided our pickets from the enemy's. 
 Our sentries talked across the stream, when the}' could make 
 themselves understood to each other, and when the}' could not, 
 grinned, and handed each other their brand^'-flasks or their 
 pouches of tobacco. And one fine day of June, riding thither 
 with the officer who visited the outposts, (Colonel Esmond was 
 taking an ah'ing on horseback, being too weak for military 
 dut}',) they came to this river, where a number of F^nglish and 
 Scots were assembled, talking to the good-natured enem}' on 
 the other side. 
 
 Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long 
 fellow, with a great curling red moustache, and blue eyes, that 
 was half a dozen inches taller than his swarthy little com- 
 rades on the French side of the stream, and being asked by the 
 Colonel, saluted him, and said that he belonged to the Royal 
 Cravats. 
 
 From his way of saying " Ro3'al Cravat," Esmond at once 
 knew that the fellow's tongue had first wagged on the banks of 
 the Liff'ey, and not the Loire ; and the poor soldier — a deserter 
 probabl}' — dic^ not like to venture ver}' deep into French con- 
 versation, lest his unluck}' brogue should peep out. He chose 
 to restrict himself to such few expressions in the French lan- 
 guage as he thought he had mastered easily ; and his attempt 
 at disguise was infinitely amusing. Mr. Esmond whistled Lilli- 
 bullero, at which Teague's e3'es began to twinkle, and then 
 flung him a dollar, when the poor bo}' broke out with a " God 
 bless — that is, Dieu benisse votre honor," that would infallibly 
 have sent him to the provost-marshal had he been on our side 
 of the river. 
 
 Whilst this parlej^ was going on, three officers on horseback, 
 on the French side, appeared at some little distance, and 
 stopped as if eying us, when one of them left the other two, 
 and rode close up to us who were by the stream. "Look, 
 
288 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 look ! " sa3's the Koyal Cravat, with great agitation, " pas lui, 
 that's he ; not him, I'antre," and pointed to the distant officer 
 on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun, and over 
 it a broad bhie ribbon. 
 
 " Please to take Mr. Hamilton's services to my Lord Marl- 
 borough — m}^ Lord Duke," sa^-s the gentleman in English; 
 and, looking to see that the party were not hostilely disposed, 
 he added, with a smile, " There's a friend of yours, gentlemen, 
 3'onder ; he bids me to sa}^ that he saw some of your faces on 
 the 11th of September last year." 
 
 As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up, and 
 came quite close. We knew at once who it was. It was the 
 King, then two-and-twenty years old, tall and slim, with deep 
 brown eyes, that looked melancholy, though his lips wore a 
 smile. We took off our hats and saluted him. No man, sure, 
 could see for the first time, without emotion, the 3'outliful inheri- 
 tor of so much fame and misfortune. It seemed to Mr. Esmond 
 that the Prince was not unlike J'oung Castlewood, whose age 
 and figure he resembled. The Chevalier de St. George ac- 
 knowledged the salute, and looked at us hard. Even the idlers 
 on our side of the river set up a hurrah. As for the Ro^'al 
 Cravat, he ran to the Prince's stirrup, knelt down and kissed 
 his boot, and bawled and looked a hundred ejaculations and 
 blessings. The prince bade the aide-de-camp give him a piece 
 of money ; and when the party saluting us had ridden awav, 
 Cravat spat upon the piece of gold b}^ way of benediction, and 
 swaggered awa}^, pouching his coin and twirling his honest 
 carroty moustache. 
 
 The officer in whose company- Esmond was, the same little 
 captain of Handy side's regiment, Mr. Sterne, who had proposed 
 the garden at Lille, when mj^ Lord Mohun and Esmond had 
 their affair, was an Irishman too, and as brave a little soul as 
 ever wore a sword. " Bedad," says Roger Sterne, " that long 
 fellow spoke French so beautiful that I shouldn't have known 
 he wasn't a foreigner, till he broke out with his huUa-ballooing, 
 and only an Irish calf can bellow like that." And Roger made 
 another remark in his wild way, in which there was sense as 
 well as absurdit}^ — "If that young gentleman," says he, 
 "would but ride over to our camp, instead ofVillars's, toss 
 up his hat and sa}-, ' Here am I, the King, who'll follow me ? ' 
 b}' the Lord, Esmond, the whole arm}' woukl rise and carry 
 him home again, and beat Villars, and take Paris by the 
 way." 
 
 The news of the Prince's visit was all through the camp 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 289 
 
 quickly, and scores of ours went down in hopes to see him. 
 Major Hamilton, whom we had talked with, sent back by a 
 trumpet several silver pieces for officers with us. Mr. Esmond 
 received one of these ; and that medal, and a recompense not 
 uncommon amongst Princes, were the only rewards he ever had 
 from a Royal person, whom he endeavored not very long after 
 to serve. 
 
 Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this, 
 following his general home ; and, indeed, being advised to 
 travel in the fine weather and attempt to take no farther part 
 in the campaign. But he heard from the army, that of the 
 many who crowded to see the Chevaher de St. George, Frank 
 Castlewood had made himself most conspicuous ; mj^ Lord 
 Viscount riding across the little stream bareheaded to where 
 the Prince was, and dismounting and kneeling before him to do 
 bim homage. Some said that the Prince had actually knighted 
 bim, but my lord denied that statement, though he acknowl- 
 edged the rest of the story, and said : — " From having been 
 out of favor with Corporal John," as he called the Duke, 
 " before his Grace warned him not to commit those follies, and 
 smiled on him cordiall\' ever after." 
 
 " And he was so kind to me," Frank writ, " that I thought 
 1 would put in a good word for Master Flarry, but when I 
 mentioned your name he looked as black as thunder, and said 
 he had never heard of you." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I GO HOME, AND HARP ON THE OLD STRING. 
 
 After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting 
 for a packet at Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his young kins- 
 man Castlewood at Bruxelles, convej'ing intelligence whereof 
 Frank besought him to be the bearer to London, and which 
 caused Colonel Esmond no small anxiety. 
 
 The 3^oung scapegrace, being one-and-twent}^ years old, and 
 being anxious to sow his " wild otes," as he wrote, had married 
 Mademoiselle de Wertheim, daughter of Count de Wertheim, 
 Chamberlain to the Emperor, and having a post in the House- 
 hold of the Governor of the Netherlands. "P.S.," the young 
 gentleman wrote: "Clotilda is older than me^ which perhaps 
 
 19 
 
290 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 may be objected to her : but I am so old a raik that the age 
 makes no difference, and I am determined to reform. We were 
 married at St. Gudule, by Father Holt. She is heart and soul 
 for the good cause. And here the cry is Vif-le-Roy, which my 
 mother will join in, and Trix too. Break this news to 'em 
 gently : and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to press the people for 
 their rents, and send me the ryno anyhow. Clotilda sings, and 
 plays on the Spinet beautifully. She is a fair beauty. And if 
 it's a son, you shall stand Godfather. I'm going to leave the 
 army, having had enuf of soldering ; and my Lord Duke recom- 
 mends me. I shall pass the winter here : and stop at least 
 until Clo's lying in. I call her old Clo, but nobody else shall. 
 She is the cleverest woman in all Bruxelles : understanding 
 painting, music, poetry, and perfect at cookery and puddens. I 
 horded with the Count, that's how I came to know her. There 
 are four Counts her brothers. One an Abbey — three with the 
 Prince's army. They have a lawsuit for an iinmence fortune : 
 but are now in a pore way. Break this to mother, who'll take 
 anything from you. And write, and bid Finch write amediately. 
 Hostel de I'Aigle Noire, Bruxelles, Flanders." 
 
 So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir 
 was expected, and Mr. ICsmond was to cany this intelligence 
 to his mistress at London. 'Twas a difficult embassy ; and the 
 Colonel felt not a little tremor as he neared the capital. 
 
 Fle reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington 
 to announce his arrival and visit the next morning. The mes- 
 senger brought back news that the Court was at Windsor, and 
 the fair Beatrix absent and engaged in her duties there. Only 
 Esmond's mistress remained in her house at Kensington. She 
 appeared in court but once in the j^ear ; Beatrix was quite the 
 mistress and ruler of the little mansion, inviting the compan}^ 
 thither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of town pleas- 
 ure. Whilst her mother, acting as the young lady's protectress 
 and elder sister, pursued her own path, which was quite modest 
 and secluded. 
 
 As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been 
 awake long before the town), he took a coach for Kensington, 
 and reached it so early that he met his dear mistress coming 
 home from morning prayers. She carried her pra3'er-book, 
 never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybod}^ else did : and 
 it was b}' this simple sign Esmond knew what her occupation 
 had been. He called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out 
 as she looked towards him. She wore her hood as usual, and 
 she turned quite pale when she saw him. To feel that kind 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 291 
 
 /ittle hand near to his heart seemed to give him strength. 
 They were soon at the door of her ladj^ship's house — and 
 within it. 
 
 With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it. 
 
 "How ill 3'ou have been: how weak you look, my dear 
 Henr}'," she said. 
 
 'Tis certain the Colonel did look like a ghost, except that 
 ghosts do not look verj' happy, 'tis said. Esmond always felt 
 so on returning to her after absence, indeed whenever he looked 
 in her sweet kind face. 
 
 " I am come back to be nursed by my family," says he. 
 "If Frank had not taken care of me after my wound, very 
 likely I should have gone altogether." 
 
 "Poor Frank, good Frank!" says his mother. "You'll 
 always be kind to him, my lord," she went on. "The poor 
 child never knew he was doing you a wrong." 
 
 " M}^ lord!" cries out Colonel Esmond. "What do you 
 mean, dear lad3^?" 
 
 " I am no lady," says she ; " I am Rachel Esmond, Francis 
 Esmond's widow, my lord. I cannot bear that title. Would 
 we never had taken it from him who has it now. But we did 
 all in our power, Henry : we did all in our power ; and my lord 
 and I — that is — " 
 
 " Who told you this tale, dearest lad}'? " asked the Colonel. 
 
 " Have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you at 
 Mons directly I heard it," says Lady Esmond. 
 
 "And from whom?" again asked Colonel Esmond — and 
 his mistress then told him that on her death-bed the Dowager 
 Countess, sending for her, had presented her with this dismal 
 secret as a legacy. " 'Twas very malicious of the Dowager," 
 Lad}' P^smond said, "to have had it so long, and to have 
 kept the truth from me." " Cousin Rachel," she said, — and 
 Esmond's mistress could not forbear smiling as she told the 
 story — "Cousin Rachel," cries the Dowager, "I have sent 
 for 3'ou, as the doctors say I may go off any day in this dysen- 
 ter}^ ; and to ease my conscience of a great load that has been 
 on it. You alwaj's have been a poor creature and unfit for 
 great honor, and what I have to say won't, therefore, affect 
 you so much. You must know, Cousin Rachel, that I have 
 left my house, plate, and furniture, three thousand pounds in 
 mone}^, and my diamonds that my late revered Saint and Sov- 
 ereign, King James, presented me with, to my Lord Viscount 
 Castlewood." 
 
292 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "To m}^ Frank?" says Lady Castlewood ; "I was in 
 hopes — " 
 
 " To Viscount Castlewood, my dear; Viscount Castlewood 
 and Baron Esmond of Sliandon in the Kingdom of Ireland, 
 Earl and Marquis of Esmond under patent of his Majesty 
 King James the Second, conferred upon m}^ husband the late 
 Marquis — for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and 
 man." 
 
 " And have 3^ou left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness ? " 
 asks Lady Castlewood (she hath told me the story completel}" 
 since with her quiet arch way ; the most charming an}^ woman 
 ever had : and I set down the narrative here at length, so as to 
 have done with it) . " And have 3'ou left poor Harry nothing ? " 
 asks m}^ dear lady : "for 3'ou know, Henry," she sa3's with her 
 sweet smile, " I used always to pity Esau — and I think I am 
 on his side — though papa tried very hard to convince me the 
 other way." 
 
 " Poor Harry ! " says the old lad3^ " So 3'ou want some- 
 thing left to poor Harr3^ : he, — he ! (reach me the drops, 
 cousin). Well, then, m3^ dear, since 3'ou want poor Harry to 
 have a fortune, you must understand that ever since the 3-ear 
 1691, a week after the battle of the Boyne, where the Prince of 
 Orange defeated his royal sovereign and father, for which crime 
 he is now suffering in flames (ugh ! ugh !) Henry Esmond hath 
 been Marquis of Esmond and Earl of Castlewood in the United 
 Kingdom, and Baron and Viscount Castlewood of Shandon in 
 Ireland, and a Baronet — and his eldest son will be, by courtes3% 
 st3^1ed Earl of Castlewood — he ! he ! What do you think of 
 that, m3^ dear ? " 
 
 " Gracious mercy ! how long have 3'ou known this?" cries 
 the other lady (thinking perhaps that the old Marchioness was 
 wandering in her wits). 
 
 "My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked 
 wretch," the sick sinner continued. " When he was in the 
 Low Countries he seduced a weaver's daughter ; and added to 
 his wickedness by marrying her. And then he came to this 
 countr3^ and married me — a poor girl — a poor innocent 3'Oung 
 thing — I say," — "though she was past fort3^ you know, 
 Harr3% when she married: and as for being innocent" — 
 " Well," she went on, "I knew nothing of m3^ lord's wicked- 
 ness for three 3'ears after our marriage, and after the burial of 
 our poor little bo3' I had it done over again, m3^ dear : I had 
 myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel, as soon 
 as ever I heard the creature was dead — and having a great 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 293 
 
 illness then, arising from another sad disappointment I had, 
 the priest came and told me that m}^ lord had a son before our 
 marriage, and that the child was at nurse in England ; and I 
 consented to let the brat be brought home, and a queer httle 
 melanchol}^ child it was when it came. 
 
 " Our intention was to niake a priest of him : and he was 
 bred for this, until you perverted him from it, you wicked 
 woman. And I had again hopes of giving an heir to my lord, 
 when he was called awa}^ uuon the King's business, and died 
 fighting gloriously at the Boync water. 
 
 " Should I be disappointed — 1 owed 3-our husband no love, 
 my dear, for he had jilted me in the most scandalous way ; 
 and I thought there would be time to declare the little weaver's 
 son for the true heir. But 1 was carried off to prison, where 
 3'our husband was so kind to me — urging all his friends to 
 obtain my release, and using all his credit in my favor — that 
 I relented towards him, especiall}' as m}' director counselled me 
 to be silent ; and that it was for the good of the King's service 
 that the title of our famil}' sliould continue with your husband 
 the late viscount, wliereb}- his fidelit}' would be always secured 
 to the King. And a proof of this is, that a 3ear before 3'our 
 husband's death, when he thought of taking a place under the 
 Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told him what 
 the state of the matter was, and obliged him to raise a large 
 sum for his Majesty ; and engaged him in the true cause so 
 heartily, that we were sure of his support on any day wlien it 
 should be considered advisable to attack the usur[)er. Then 
 his sudden death came ; and there was a thought of declaring 
 the truth. But 'twas determined to be best for the King's 
 service to let the title still go with the younger branch ; and 
 there's no sacrifice a Castlewood wouldn't make for that cause, 
 m}^ dear. 
 
 "As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth alread}'." 
 (" And then, Harry," my mistress said, " she told me of what 
 had happened at my dear husband's death-bed "). '- He doth 
 not intend to take the title, though it belongs to him. But it 
 eases m}" conscience that 3'ou should know the truth, m3' dear. 
 And your son is lawfull3' Viscount Castlewood so long as his 
 cousin doth not claim the rank." 
 
 This was the substance of the Dowager's revelation. Dean 
 Atterbur3' had knowledge of it. Lady Castlewood said, and 
 Esmond ver3^ well knows how : that divine being the clerg3'man 
 for whom the late lord had sent on his death-bed : and when 
 Lady Castlewood would instantly have written to her son, and 
 
294 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 conveyed the truth to him, the Dean's advice was that a letter 
 should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather ; that the matter 
 should be submitted to his decision, by which alone the rest of 
 the famil}' were bound to abide. 
 
 " And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?" says 
 the Colonel. 
 
 *' It rests with you, Harr}^, as the head of our house." 
 
 " It was settled twelve years since, by m}" dear lord's bed- 
 side," says Colonel Esmond. " The children must know noth- 
 ing of this. Frank and his heirs after him must bear our name. 
 'Tis his rightfully ^ I have not even a proof of that marriage of 
 my father and mother, though my poor lord, on his death-bed, 
 told me that Father Holt had brought such a proof to Castle- 
 wood. I would not seek it when I was abroad. I went and 
 looked at my poor mother's grave in her convent. What mat- 
 ter to her now? No court of law on earth, upon my mere word, 
 would deprive my Lord Viscount and set me up. I am the 
 head of the house, dear lady ; but Frank is Viscount of Castle- 
 wood still. And rather than disturb him, I would turn monk, 
 or disappear in America." 
 
 As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would 
 have been willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice 
 any day, the fond creature flung herself down on her knees 
 before him, and kissed both his hands in an outbreak of pas- 
 sionate love and gratitude, such as could not but melt his heart, 
 and make him feel verj^ proud and thankful that God had given 
 him the power to show his love for her, and to prove it by some 
 little sacrifice on his own part. To be able to bestow benefits 
 or happiness on those one loves is sure the greatest blessing 
 conferred upon a man — and what wealth or name, or gratifi- 
 cation of ambition or vanity, could compare with the pleasure 
 Esmond now had of being able to confer some kindness upon 
 his best and dearest friends? 
 
 "Dearest saint," says he — "purest soul, that has had so 
 much to suffer, that has blest the poor lonely" orphan with such 
 a treasure of love. 'Tis for me to kneel, not for 3'ou : 'tis for 
 me to be thankful that I can make you happj^ Hath my life 
 any other aim ? Blessed be God that I can serve 3'ou ! What 
 pleasure, think 3'ou, could all the world give me compared to 
 that?" 
 
 " Don't raise me," she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who 
 would have lifted her. " Let me kneel — let me kneel, and — 
 and — worship you." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 295 
 
 Before such a partial judge as Esmond's dear mistress owned 
 herself to be, an}' cause which he might plead was sure to be 
 given in his favor ; and aceordingl}' he found little difficulty 
 in reconciling her to the news whereof he was bearer, of hex 
 son's marriage to a foreign lad,y. Papist though she was. Lady 
 Castle wood never could be brought to think so ill of that re- 
 ligion as other people in England thought of it : she held that 
 ours was undoubtedl}' a branch of the Catholic church, but that 
 the Roman was one of the main stems on which, no doubt, 
 many errors had been grafted (she was, for a woman, extraor- 
 dinarily well versed in this controversy, having acted, as a girl, 
 as secretary to her father, the late dean, and written many of 
 his sermons, under his dictation) ; and if Frank had chosen 
 to marry a lady of the church of south Europe, as she would 
 call the Roman communion, there was no need why she should 
 not welcome her as a daughter-in-law : and accordingly she 
 wrote to her new daughter a ver}' pretty, touching letter (as 
 Esmond thought, who had cognizance of it before it went), in 
 which the onl}' hint of reproof was a gentle remonstrance that 
 her son had not written to herself, to ask a fond mother's bless- 
 ing for that step whicli he was about taking. " Castlewood 
 knew ver}' well," so she wrote to her son, ''that she never 
 denied him anything in her power to give, much less would she 
 think of opposing a marriage that was to make his happiness, 
 as she trusted, and keep him out of wild courses, which had 
 alarmed her a good deal : " and she besought him to come 
 quickly to England, to settle down in his familj^ house of 
 Castle wood (''It is his family house," says she, to Colonel 
 Esmond, "though only his own house by your forbearance") 
 and to receive the accompt of her stewardship during his ten 
 years' minority; By care and frugality, she had got the estate 
 into a better condition than ever it had been since the Parlia- 
 mentar}' wars ; and my lord was now master of a pretty, small 
 income, not encumbered of debts, as it had been, during his 
 father's ruinous time. " But in saving my son's fortune," says 
 she, "I fear I have lost a great part of my hold on him.'* 
 And, indeed, this was the case: her ladyship's daughter com- 
 plaining that their mother did all for Frank, and nothing for 
 her ; and Frank himself being dissatisfied at the narrow, simple 
 way of his mother's living at Walcote, where he had been 
 brought up more like a poor parson's son than a 3'oung noble- 
 man that was to make a figure in the world. 'Twas this mistake 
 in his early training, very likely, that set him so eager upon 
 pleasure when he had it in his power ; nor is he the first lad 
 
296 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 that has been spoiled by the over-careful fondness of women. 
 No training is so useful for children, great or small, as the 
 company of their betters in rank or natural parts ; in whose 
 society they lose the overweening sense of their own impor- 
 tance, which stay-at-home people very commonl}^ learn. 
 
 But, as a prodigal that's sending in a schedule of his debts 
 to his friends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure, the 
 rogue keeps back some immense swingeing bill, that he doesn't 
 dare to own ; so the poor Frank had a very heav}' piece of news 
 to break to his mother, and which he hadn't the courage to 
 introduce into his first confession. Some misgivings Esmond 
 might have, upon receiving Frank's letter, and knowing into 
 what hands the boy had fallen ; but whatever these misgivings 
 were, he kept them to himself, not caring to trouble his mistress 
 with any fears that might be groundless. 
 
 However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after 
 Frank had received his mother's letters there, brought back a 
 joint composition from himself and his wife, who could spell no 
 better than her young scapegrace of a husband, full of expres- 
 sions of thanks, love, and duty to the Dowager Viscountess, as 
 my poor lady now was styled ; and along witli this letter (which 
 was read in a family council, namely, the Viscountess, Mistress 
 Beatrix, and the writer of this memoir, and which was pro- 
 nounced to be vulgar by the maid of honor, and felt to be so 
 by the other two), there came a private letter for Colonel 
 Esmond from poor Frank, with another dismal commission for 
 the Colonel to execute, at his best opportunity^ ; and this was 
 to announce that Frank had seen fit, " b}' the exhortation of 
 Mr. Holt, the influence of his Clotilda, and the blessing of 
 heaven and the saints," says my lord, demurely, "to change 
 his rehgion, and be received into the bosom of that church of 
 which his sovereign, man}- of his familj', and the greater part 
 of the civilized world, were members." And his lordship added 
 a postscript, of which Esmond knew the inspiring genius very 
 well, for it had the genuine twang of the Seminar}^ and was 
 quite unlike poor Frank's ordinary style of writing and think- 
 ing ; in which he reminded Colonel Esmond that he too was, 
 by birth, of that church ; and that his mother and sister should 
 have his lordship's pra^^ers to the saints (an inestimable benefit, 
 truly !) for their conversion. 
 
 If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret, he could not ; for 
 a day or two after receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles 
 appeared in the Post-Boy and other prints, announcing that " a 
 young Irish lord, the Viscount C-stlew — d, just come to his 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 297 
 
 majorit3% and who had served the last campaigns with great 
 credit, as aide-de-camp to his Grace the Duke of Marlborough, 
 had declared for the Popish religion at Bruxelles, and had 
 walked in a procession barefoot, with a wax-taper in his hand." 
 The notorious Mr. Holt, who had been emploj'ed as a Jacobite 
 agent during the last reign, and man}^ times pardoned by King 
 William, had been, the Fost-Boy said, the agent of this con- 
 version. 
 
 The Lad}' Castlewood was as much cast down by this news 
 as Miss Beatrix was indignant at it. " So," saj's she, " Castle- 
 wood is no longer a home for us, mother. Frank's foreign wife 
 will bring her confessor, and there will be frogs for dinner ; and 
 all Tusher's and my grandfather's sermons are flung away upon 
 m}^ brother. I used to tell 3'ou that you killed him with the 
 catechism, and that he would turn wicked as soon as he broke 
 from hismamm3''s leading-strings. Oh, mother, 30U would not 
 believe that the young scapegrace was playing 3'ou tricks, and 
 that sneak of a Tusher was not a fit guide for him. Oh, those 
 parsons, I hate 'em all ! " says Mistress Beatrix, clapping her 
 hands together ; " 3'es, whether they wear cassocks and buckles ^ 
 or beards and bare feet. There's a horrid Irish wretch who 
 never misses a Sunda3' at Court, and who pays me compliments 
 there, the horrible man ; and if you want to know what parsons 
 are, 3^ou should see his behavior, and hear him talk of his own 
 cloth. They're all the same, whether the3''re bishops, or bonzes, 
 or Indian fakirs. They try to domineer, and they frighten us 
 with kingdom come ; and they wear a sanctified air in pubhc, 
 and expect us to go down on our knees and ask their blessing ; 
 and they intrigue, and they grasp, and they backbite, and they 
 slander worse than the worst courtier or the wickedest old 
 woman. I heard this Mr. Swift sneering at my Lord Duke of 
 Marlborough's courage the other day. He ! that Teague from 
 DubUn ! because his Grace is not in favor, dares to say this of 
 him ; and he says this that it may get to her Majesty's ear, and 
 to coax and wheedle Mrs. Masham. They say the Elector of 
 Hanover has a dozen of mistresses in his court at Herrenhausen, 
 and if he comes to be king over us, I wager that the bishops 
 and Mr. Swift, that wants to be one, will coax and wiieedle 
 them. Oh, those priests and their grave airs ! I'm sick of their 
 square toes and their rustling cassocks. I should like to go to 
 a country where there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid 
 of 'em ; and I would, only the dress is not becoming, and I've 
 much too pretty a figure to hide it. Haven't I, cousin ? " and 
 here she glanced at her person and the looking-glass, which told 
 
298 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 her rightly that a more beautiful shape and face never were 
 seen. 
 
 " I made that onslaught on the priests," says Miss Beatrix, 
 afterwards, " in order to divert my poor dear mother's anguish 
 about Frank. Frank is as vain as a girl, cousin. Talk of us 
 girls being vain, what are we to 3'ou? It was easy to see that 
 the first woman who chose would make a fool of him, or the 
 first robe — I count a priest and a woman all the same. We 
 are always cabaUing ; we are not answerable for the fibs we 
 tell ; we are alwaj's cajoling and coaxing, or threatening ; and 
 we are alwa3's making mischief, Colonel Esmond — mark m^- 
 word for that, who know the world, sir, and have to make m}- 
 way in it. I see as well as possible how Frank's marriage hath 
 been managed. The Count, our papa-in-law, is always away at 
 the coff'ee-house. The Countess, our mother, is alwaj^s in the 
 kitchen looking after the dinner. The Countess, our sister, is 
 at the spinet. When my lord comes to say he is going on the 
 campaign, the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears, and faints — so ; 
 he catches her in his arms — no, sir, keep your distance, cousin, 
 if you please — she cries on his shoulder, and he says, ' Oh, my 
 divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, are 3'ou sorry to part 
 with me ? ' ' Oh, my Francisco,' says she, ' oh my lord ! ' and at 
 this ver}' instant mamma and a couple of young brothers, with 
 moustaches and long rapiers, come in from the kitchen, where 
 they have been eating bread and onions. Mark ni}^ word, you 
 will have all this woman's relations at Castlewood three months 
 after she has arrived there. The old count and countess, and 
 the 3'oung counts and all the little countesses her sisters. 
 Counts ! ever}' one of these wretches says he is a count. Guis- 
 card, that stabbed Mr. Harvey, said he was a count ; and I 
 believe he was a barber. All Frenchmen are barbers — Fiddle- 
 dee ! don't contradict me — or else dancing-masters, or else 
 priests." And so she rattled on. 
 
 "Who was it taught ^ow to dance, Cousin Beatrix?" saj'S 
 the Colonel. 
 
 She laughed out the air of a minuet, and sw3pt a low curtsy, 
 coming up to the recover with the prettiest little foot in the 
 world pointed out. Her mother came in as she was in this atti- 
 tude ; my lady had been in her closet, having taken poor Frank's 
 conversion in a ver}' serious wa}' ; the madcap girl ran up to her 
 mother, put her arms round her waist, kissed her, tried to make 
 her dance, and said : " Don't be silly, 3'ou kind little mamma, 
 and cry about Frank turning Papist. What a figure he must 
 be, with a white sheet and a candle, walking in a procession 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 290 
 
 barefoot ! " And she kicked off her little slippers (the wonder- 
 fullest little shoes with wonderful tall red heels : Esmond pounced 
 upon one as it fell close beside him), and she put on the droll- 
 est little moue^ and marched up and down the room holding 
 Esmond's cane b}^ wa}" of taper. Serious as her mood was, 
 Lady Castlewood could not refrain from laughing ; and as for 
 Esmond he looked on with that delight with which the sight of 
 this fair creature always inspired him : never had he seen any 
 woman so arch, so brilhant, and so beautiful. 
 
 Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her 
 slipper. The Colonel knelt down : " If 3-0U will be Pope I will 
 turn Papist," says he ; and her Holiness gave him gracious 
 leave to kiss the little stockinged foot before he put the slip- 
 per on. 
 
 Mamma's feet began to pat on the floor during this opera- 
 tion, and Beatrix, whose bright e3^es nothing escaped, saw that 
 little mark of impatience. She ran up and embraced her 
 mother, with her usual cry of, "Oh, you silly httle mamma: 
 your feet are quite as pretty as mine," sa^'s she: "they are, 
 cousin, though she hides 'em ; but the shoemaker will tell you 
 that he makes for both off the same last." 
 
 "You are taller than I am, dearest," saj's her mother, 
 blushing oyer her whole sweet face — "and — and it is your 
 hand, m}' dear, and not 3'our foot he wants you to give him ; " and 
 slie said it with a hysteric laugh, that had more of tears than 
 laughter in it ; laying her head on her daughter's fair shoulder, 
 and hiding it there. The\' made a ver}' prett}^ picture together, 
 and looked like a pair of sisters — the sweet simple matron 
 seeming vounger than her years, and her daughter, if not older, 
 yet somehow, from a commanding manner and grace which she 
 possessed above most women, her mother's superior and pro- 
 tectress. 
 
 "But oh!" cries my mistress, recovering herself after this 
 scene, and returning to her usual sad tone, " 'tis a shame that 
 we should laugh and be making merry on a day when we ought 
 to be down on our knees and asking pardon." 
 
 "Asking pardon for what?" sa3's saucy Mrs. Beatrix — 
 "because Frank takes it into his head to fast on Fridays and 
 worship images? You know if3^ou had been born a Papist, 
 mother, a Papist you would have remained to the end of 3'our 
 days. 'Tis the religion of the King and of some of the best 
 qualitj-. For m3' part, I'm no enem3^ to it, and think Queen 
 Bess was not a penn3^ better than Queen Mar3\" 
 
 " Hush, Beatrix ! Do not jest with sacred things, and 
 
300 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 remember of what parentage 3^011 come," cries my lady. Bea- 
 trix was ordering her ribbons, and adjusting her tucker, and 
 performing a dozen provoking!}' pretty ceremonies, before the 
 glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She never at that 
 time could be brought to think but of the world and her beauty ; 
 and seemed to have no more sense of devotion than some peo- 
 ple have of music, that cannot distinguish one air from another. 
 Esmond saw this fault in her, as he saw man}' others — a bad 
 wife would Beatrix Esmond make, he thought, for any man 
 under the degree of a Prince. She was born to shine in great 
 assemblies, and to adorn palaces, and to command everywhere — 
 to conduct an intrigue of politics, or to glitter in a queen's 
 train. But to sit at a homely table, and mend the stockings 
 of a poor man's children ! that was no fitting duty for her, 
 or at least one that she wouldn't have broke her heart in try- 
 ing to do. She was a princess, though she had scarce a shilling 
 to her fortune ; and one of her subjects — the most abject and 
 devoted wretch, sure, that ever drivelled at a woman's knees — 
 was this unlucky gentleman ; who bound his good sense, and 
 reason, and independence, hand and foot, and submitted them 
 to her. 
 
 And who does not know how ruthlessl}' women will t^'rannize 
 when they are let to domineer? and who does not know how 
 useless advice is ? I could give good counsel to my descend- 
 ants, but I know they'll follow their own way, for all their 
 grandfather's sermon. A man gets his own experience about 
 women, and will take nobody's hearsay ; nor, indeed, is the 
 3^oung fellow worth a fig that would. 'Tis I that am in love 
 with my mistress, not my old grandmother that counsels me : 
 'tis I that have fixed the value of the thing I would have, and 
 know the price I would pa}' for it. It may be worthless to you, 
 but 'tis all my life to me. Had Esmond possessed the Great 
 Mogul's crown and all his diamonds, or all the Duke of Marlbor- 
 ough's money, or all the ingots sunk at Vigo, he would have 
 given them all for this woman. A fool he was, if you will ; but 
 so is a sovereign a fool, that will give half a principality for a 
 little crystal as big as a pigeon's egg, and called a diamond : 
 so is a wealthy nobleman a fool, that will face danger or death, 
 and spend half his life, and all his tranquillity, cabalhng for 
 a blue ribbon ; so is a Dutch merchant a fool, that hath been 
 known to pay ten thousand crowns for a tulip. There's some 
 particular prize we all of us value, and that every man of spirit 
 will venture his life for. With this, it may be to achieve a 
 great reputation for learning ; with that, to be a man of fashion, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 301 
 
 and the admiration of the town ; with another, to consum- 
 mate a great work of art or poetry, and go to immortaUt}^ 
 that way ; and with another, for a certain time of his life, the 
 sole object and aim is a woman. 
 
 Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion, 
 he remembers man}^ a talk he had with his intimates, who used 
 to rally Our Knight of the Rueful Countenance at his devotion, 
 whereof he made no disguise, to Beatrix ; and it was with 
 replies such as the above he met his friends' satire. '' Granted, 
 I am a fool," sa3'S he, " and no better than you ; but you are 
 no better than I. You have your folly you labor for ; give me 
 the charity of mine. What flatteries do 3'ou, Mr. St. John, 
 stoop to whisper in the ears of a queen's favorite ? What 
 nights of labor doth not the laziest man in the world endure, 
 foregoing his bottle, and his boon companions, foregoing Lais, 
 in whose lap he would like to be yawning, that he may prepare 
 a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred stupid countr}'- 
 gentlemen in the House of Commons, and get the hiccupping 
 cheers of the October Club ! What days will 3'ou spend in 
 your jolting chariot." (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, 
 and especiall}^ of later daj's, with the secretar}-.) "What 
 hours will 3'ou pass on 3'our gout3' feet — and how humbly will 
 3'ou kneel down to present a despatch — you, the proudest man 
 in the world, that has not knelt to God since you were a boy, 
 and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore almost, a stupid 
 woman, that's often boozy with too much meat and drink, 
 when Mr. Secretar3" goes for his audience ! If m3' pursuit is 
 vanit3^, sure 3'ours is too." And then the Secretar3' would fly 
 out in such a rich flow of eloquence, as this pen cannot pretend 
 to recall ; advocating his scheme of ambition, showing the 
 great good he would do for his country when he was the undis- 
 puted chief of it ; backing his opinion with a score of pat sen- 
 tences from Greek and Roman authorities (of which kind of 
 learning he made rather an ostentatious displa3"), and scornfully 
 vaunting the very arts and meannesses b3" which fools were to 
 be made to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, 
 doubters converted, and enemies overawed. 
 
 "I am Diogenes," says Esmond, laughing, "that is taken 
 up for a ride in Alexander's chariot. I have no desire to van- 
 quish Darius or to tame Bucephalus. I do not want what 3^ou 
 want, a great name or a high place : to have them would bring 
 me no pleasure. But my moderation is taste, not virtue : and 
 I know that what I do want is as vain as that which you long 
 after. Do not grudge me my vanit}^, if I allow yours ; or 
 
302 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 rather, let ns laugh at both indifferently, and at ourselves, and 
 at each other." 
 
 ''If your charmer holds out," says St. John, "at this rats 
 she may keep you twenty years besieging her, and surrender 
 by the time you are seventy, and she is old enough to be a 
 grandmother. I do not say the pursuit of a particular woman 
 is not as pleasant a pastime as any other kind of hunting," he 
 added; "only, for my part, I find the game won't run long 
 enough. They knock under too soon — that's the fault I find 
 with 'em." 
 
 " The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, 
 and used to being pulled down," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 " But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?" sa3's the other. 
 "Well, honest Harry, go and attack windmills — perhaps thou 
 art not more mad than other people," St. John added, with 
 a sigh. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A PAPER OUT OF THE "SPECTATOR." 
 
 Doth any 3'oung gentleman of my progeny, who ma}^ read 
 his old grandfather's papers, chance to be presently suffering 
 under the passion of Love? There is a humiliating cure, but 
 one that is easy and almost specific for the malady — which is, 
 to try an alibi. Esmond went away from his mistress and was 
 cured a half-dozen times ; he came back to her side, and in- 
 stantl}' fell ill again of the fever. He vowed that he could 
 leave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty 
 well, at least, succeed in quelhng that rage and longing he had 
 whenever he was with her ; but as soon as he returned he was 
 as bad as ever again. Trul}^ a ludicrous and pitiable object, 
 at least exhausting everybody's pity but his dearest mistress's. 
 Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast he reposed all his 
 dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing him and 
 pleading for him. 
 
 Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then 
 again he would be plagued with despair, at some impertinence 
 or coquetry of his mistress. For days they would be like 
 brother and sister, or the dearest friends — she, simple, fond, 
 and charming — he, happ}^ beyond measure at her good be- 
 havior. But this would aU vanish on a sudden. Either he 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 303 
 
 would be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would rebuff 
 him instant!}', and give his vanity a box on the ear ; or he 
 would be jealous, and with perfect good reason, of some new 
 admirer that had sprung up, or some rich young gentleman 
 newly arrived in the town, that this incorrigible flirt would set 
 her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmond remonstrated, the 
 little rebel would say — ' ' Who are 3'ou ? I shall go my own 
 way, sirrah, and that wa}' is towards a husband, and I don't 
 want you on the wa}^ I am for your betters, Colonel, for your 
 betters : do 3'oti hear that? You might do if you had an estate 
 and were 3'ounger ; only eight 3'ears older than I, you say ! 
 pish, 3'ou are a hundred 3'ears older. You are an old, old 
 Graveairs, and I should make you miserable, that would be 
 the onl\' comfort I should have in marrying you. But you 
 have not mone}' enough to keep a cat decently after 3'ou have 
 paid 3'our man his wages, and your landladj^ her bill. Do 3^ou 
 think I am going to live in a lodging, and tur. the mutton at a 
 string whilst your honor nurses the bab3'? Plddlestick, and 
 wh3' did you not get this nonsense knocked out of your head 
 when 3'ou were in the wars ? You are come back more dismal 
 and dreary than ever. You and mamma are fit for each other. 
 You might be Darby and Joan, and play cribbage to the end 
 of 3^our liv^es." 
 
 "At least 3'ou own to 3^our worldhness, my poor Trix," 
 sa3's her mother. 
 
 " Worldhness. Oh, my pretty lady ! Do you think that I 
 am a child in the nursery, and to be frightened by Bogey ! 
 Worldhness, to be sure; and pray, madam, where is' the harm 
 of wishing to be comfortable ? When you are gone, you dearest 
 old woman, or when I am tired of you and have run away from 
 you, where shall I go? Shall I go and be head nurse to my 
 Popish sister-in-law, take the children their physic, and whip 
 'em, and put 'em to bed when they are naughty? Shall I be 
 Castlewood's upper servant, and perhaps marry Tom Tusher? 
 Merci! I have been long enough Fi'ank's humble servant. 
 Why am I not a man? I have ten times his l)rains, and had I 
 worn the — well, don't let your ladyship be frightened — had 
 I worn a sword and periwig instead of this mantle and com- 
 mode to which nature has condemned me — (though 'tis a 
 pretty stuff, too — Cousin Esmond ! you will go to the Ex- 
 change to-morrow, and get the exact counterpart of this ribbon, 
 sir; do you hear?) — I would have made our name talked 
 about. So would Graveairs here have made something out of 
 our name if he had represented it. My Lord Graveairs would 
 
304 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 have done ver}^ well. Yes, you have a very pretty way, and 
 would have made a very decent, grave speaker." And here 
 she began to imitate Esmond's way of carrying himself and 
 speaking to his face, and so ludicrously that his mistress burst 
 out a-laughing, and even he himself could see there was some 
 likeness in the fantastical malicious caricature. 
 
 "Yes," sa3's she, "I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that 
 I want a good husband. Where's the harm of one? My face 
 is my fortune. Who'll come? — buy, buy, buy! I cannot 
 toil, neither can I spin, but I can pla}^ twenty-three games on 
 the cards. I can dance the last dance, I can hunt the stag, 
 and I think I could shoot flying. I can talk as wicked as any 
 woman of ni}^ years, and know enough stories to amuse a sulky 
 husband for at least one thousand and one nights. I have a 
 pretty taste for dress, diamonds, gambling, and old China. I 
 love sugar-plums, Malines lace (that 3'ou brought me, cousin, 
 is ver}^ prett}^), the opera, and everything that is useless and 
 costly. I have got a monkey and a little black bo}' — Pompey., 
 sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to Colonel Graveairs, — 
 and a parrot and a spaniel, and I must have a husband. Cupid, 
 you hear? " 
 
 " Iss, Missis!" sa3^s Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord 
 Peterborrow gave her, with a bird of Paradise in his turbant, 
 and a collar with his mistress's name on it. 
 
 "Iss, Missis!" says Beatrix, imitating the child. "And 
 if husband not come, Pompey must go fetch one." 
 
 And Pompe}' went awa}^ grinning with his chocolate tray as 
 Miss Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her sally of mis- 
 chief in her common wa}^ with a kiss — no wonder that upon 
 paying such a penalty her fond judge pardoned her. 
 
 When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still shat- 
 tered ; and he took a lodging near to his mistresses, at Ken- 
 sington, glad enough to be served by them, and to see them^ 
 day after da}^ He was enabled to see a little compan}^ — and 
 of the sort he liked best. Mr. Steele and Mr. Addison both 
 did him the honor to visit him ; and drank many a glass of 
 good claret at his lodging, whilst their entertainer, through his 
 wound, was kept to diet drink and gruel. These gentlemen 
 were Whigs, and great admirers of my Lord Duke of Marl- 
 borough ; and Esmond was entirel}^ of the other party. But 
 their different views of politics did not prevent the gentlemen 
 from agreeing in private, nor from allowing, on one evening 
 when Esmond's kind old patron, Lieutenant-General Webb, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 305 
 
 with a stick and a crutch, hobbled up to the Colonel's lodging 
 (which Avas prettily situate at Knightsbridge, between London 
 and Kensington, and looking over the Gardens), that the 
 Lieutenant-General was a noble and gallant soldier — and even 
 that he had been hardl}' used in the W3'nendael affair. He 
 took his revenge in talk, that must be confessed ; and if Mr. 
 Addison had had a mind to write a poem about Wjnendael, he 
 might have heard from the commander's own lips the storj- a 
 hundred times over. 
 
 Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to htera- 
 ture for a relaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the 
 prompter's copy lieth in my walnut escritoire, sealed up and 
 docketed, " The Faithful Fool, a Comedy, as it was performed 
 by her Majesty's Servants." 'Twas a verj^ sentimental piece ; 
 and Mr. Steele, who had more of that kind of sentiment than 
 Mr. Addison, admired it, whilst the other rather sneered at 
 the performance ; though he owned that, here and there, it 
 contained some pretty strokes. He was bringing out his own 
 play of ''Cato" at the time, the blaze of which quite extin- 
 guished Esmond's farthing candle ; and his name was never 
 put to the piece, which was printed as by a Person of Quality. 
 Only nine copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, the great critic, 
 praised it, and said 'twas a work of great mei'it ; and Colonel 
 Esmond had the whole impression burned one da}- in a rage, 
 by Jack Lockwood, his man. 
 
 All this comed}- was full of bitter satiric strokes against a 
 certain 3*oung lad}'. The plot of the piece was quite a new 
 one. A 3'oung woman was represented with a great number of 
 suitors, selecting a pert fribble of a peer, in place of the hero 
 (but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilks, the Faithful Fool,) who 
 persisted in admiring her. In the fifth act, Teraminta was 
 made to discover the merits of Eugenio (the F. F.), and to feel 
 a partialit}' for him too late ; for he announced that he had 
 bestowed his hand and estate upon Rosaria, a countr}- lass, en- 
 dowed with every virtue. But it must be owned that the audi- 
 ence yawned through the play ; and that it perished on the 
 third night, with only half a dozen persons to behold its agonies. 
 Esmond and his two mistresses came to the first night, and 
 Miss Beatrix fell asleep ; whilst her mother, who had not been 
 to a pla}^ since King James the Second's time, thought the 
 piece, though not brilliant, had a ver}' prett}^ moral. 
 
 Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose 
 and verse at this time of leisure. When displeased with the 
 conduct of Miss Beatrix, he would compose a satire, in which 
 
 20 
 
306 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 he relieved his mind. When smarting under the faithlessness 
 of women, he dashed off a copy of verses, in which he held the 
 whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one of these moods, he 
 made a little joke, in which (swearing him to secrecy) he got 
 his friend Dick Steele to help him ; and, composing a paper, 
 he had it printed exactly like Steele's paper, and by his printer, 
 and laid on his mistress's breakfast-table the following — 
 
 "SPECTATOR. 
 
 « No. 341. " Tuesday, April 1, 1712. 
 
 Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur. — Horace. 
 Thyself the moral of the Fable see. — Creech. 
 
 " Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and as one oi 
 the most amiable persons of this court and country. She is at home two 
 mornings of the week, and all the wits and a few of the beauties of London 
 flock to her assemblies. Wlien she goes abroad to Tunbridge or the Bath, 
 a retinue of adorers rides the journey with her ; and besides the London 
 beaux, slie has a crowd of admirers at the Wells, the polite amongst the 
 natives of Sussex and Somerset pressing round her tea-tables, and being 
 anxious for a nod from her chair. Jocasta's acquaintance is thus very 
 numerous. Indeed, 'tis one smart writer's work to keep her visiting-book 
 '— a strong footman is engaged to carry it ; and it would require a much 
 stronger liead even than Jocasta's own to remember the names of all her 
 dear friends. 
 
 "Either at Epsom Wells or at Tunbridge (for of this important matter 
 Jocasta cannot be certain) it was iier ladyship's fortune to become ac- 
 quainted with a young gentleman, whose conversation was so sprightly, 
 and manners amiable, that she invited the agreeable young spark to visit 
 her if ever he came to London, where her house in Spring Garden should 
 V)e open to him. Charming as he was, and without any manner of doubt a 
 pretty fellow, Jocasta hath such a regiment of the like continually march- 
 ing round her standard, that 'tis no wonder lier attention is distracted 
 amongst them. And so, though this gentleman made a considerable im- 
 pression upon her, and touched her heart for at least three-and-twenty 
 minutes, it must be owned that she has forgotten his name. He is a dark 
 man, and may be eight-and-twenty years old. His dress is sober, though of 
 rich materials. He has a mole on his forehead over his left eye ; has a blue 
 ribbon to his cane and sword, and wears his own hair. 
 
 "Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer (for that every- 
 body admires who sees her is a point which she never can for a moment 
 doubt) in the next pew to her at St. James's Church last Sunday ; and the 
 manner in which he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon — though 
 from under his fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances of re- 
 spectful rapture towards Jocasta — deeply moved and interested her. On 
 coming out of church, he found his way to her chair, and made her an 
 elegant bow as she stepped into it. She saw him at Court afterwards, 
 where he carried himself with a most distinguished air, though none of her 
 acquaintances knew his name ; and the next night he was at the play, where 
 her ladyship was pleased to acknowledge him from the side-box. 
 
 " During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains so to remem- 
 ber his name that she did not hear a word of the piece : and having the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 307 
 
 happiness to meet him once more in the lobby of the playliouse, ihe went 
 up to him in a Hutter, and bade him remember that slie kept two nights in 
 the weeli, and tiiat she longed to see liim at Spring Garden. 
 
 " He appeared on Tue>.day, in a rich suit, showing a very fine taste 
 both in tlie tailor and wearer ; and though a Icnot of us were gathered round 
 the charming Jocasta, fellows who pretended to know every face upon the 
 town, not one could tell the gentleman's name in reply to Jocasta's eager 
 inquiries, flung to the right and left of her as he advanced up the room 
 with a bow that would become a duke. 
 
 " Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles and curtsies 
 of which that lady hath the secret. She curtsies with a languishing air, 
 as if to say, ' You are come at last. I have been pining for you : ' and then 
 she finishes her victim with a killing look, which declares : '0 Philander! 
 I have no eyes but for you,' Camilla hath as good a curtsy perhaps, and 
 Thalestris much such another look; but the glance and the curtsy together 
 belong to Jocasta of all the English beauties alone. 
 
 " ' Welcome to London, sir,' says she. ' One can see you are from the 
 country by your looks.' !She would have said ' Epsom,' or ' Tun bridge,' 
 had she remembered rightly at which place she had met the stranger ; but, 
 alas ! she had forgotten. 
 
 " The gentleman said, ' he had been in town but three days ; and one of 
 his reasons for coming hither was to have the honor of paying his court to 
 Jocasta.' 
 
 " She said, ' the waters had agreed with her but indifferently.' 
 
 " ' The waters were for the sick,' the gentleman said : ' the young and 
 beautiful came but to make them sparkle. And as the clergyman read the 
 service on Sunday,' he added, 'your ladyship reminded me of the angel 
 that visited the pool.' A murmur of approbation saluted this sally. 
 Manilio, who is a wit when he is not at cards, was in such a rage that he 
 revoked when he heard it. 
 
 "Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters ; but at which of the Bethes- 
 das 1 She was puzzled more and more; and, as her way always is, looked 
 the more innocent and simple, the more artful her intentions were. 
 
 " ' We were discoursing,' says she, ' about spelling of names and words 
 when you came. Why should we say goold and write gold, and call china 
 chayney, and Cavendish Candish, and Cholmondeley Chumley ? If we call 
 Pulteney Poltney, why shouldn't we call poultry pultry — and — ' 
 
 " ' Such an enchantress as your ladyship,' says he, ' is mistress of all 
 sorts of spells.' But this was Dr. Swift's pun, and we all knew it. 
 
 " ' And — and how do you spell your name ? ' says she, coming to the 
 point at length ; for this sprightly conversation had lasted much longer 
 than is here set down, and been carried on through at least three dishes of tea. 
 
 " ' Oh, madam,' says he, ' / spell my name with the y.^ And laying down 
 his dish, my gentleman made another elegant bow, and was gone in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the stranger's 
 disappearance. If balked in anything, she is sure to lose her health and 
 temper ; and we, her servants, suffer, as usual, during the angry fits of our 
 Queen. Can you help us, Mr. Spectator, who know everything, to read 
 this riddle for her, and set at rest all our minds ? We find in her list, 
 Mr. Berty, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler — who may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. 
 Smyth, Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler, for what we know. She hath turned away 
 the clerk of her visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family of children. 
 Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your admirer — 
 CEdipus." 
 
308 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "The Trumpet Coffee-house, "Whitehall. 
 
 " Mr. Spectator, — I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the 
 town, though I have had a university education, and passed some years 
 serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the 
 coffee-house and St. James's. 
 
 " Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the 
 county of Kent ; and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my 
 mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some 
 young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish 
 house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal 
 more good than the best-intentioned man can), 1 was greatly fascinated by 
 a young lady of London, who was the toast of all the company at the 
 Wells. Every one knows Saccharissa's beauty ; and I think, Mr. Spectator, 
 no one better than herself. 
 
 "My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and- 
 twenty sets with her at the Assembly. I treated her to the fiddles twice. 
 I was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a 
 great deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. It was 
 only when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, and 
 from narrowly watching one, who I once thought of asking the most sacred 
 question a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she 
 was to be a country gentleman's wife ; and that this fair creature was but 
 a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to re- 
 turn, and, indeed, incapable of returning them. 'Tis admiration such 
 women want, not love that touches them ; and I can conceive, in her old 
 age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, Avhen her beauty 
 hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither 
 friendship nor religion to console her. 
 
 " Business caUing me to London, I went to St. James's Church last Sun- 
 day, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells. Her behavior 
 during the whole service was so pert, languishing, and absurd ; she flirted 
 her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was obliged 
 to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever I opened them 
 beheld hers (and very bright they are) still staring at me. I fell in with 
 her afterwards at Court, and at the playhouse ; and here nothing w^ould 
 satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowd and speak to me, and 
 invite me to the assembly, which she holds at her house, not very far from 
 Ch-r-ng Cr-ss. 
 
 " Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise ; 
 and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card tables, and 
 a crowd of wits and admirers. I made the best bow I could, and advanced 
 towards her ; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though she 
 tried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name. 
 
 " Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed aright. 
 She turned the conversation most ridiculously upon the spelling of names 
 and words ; and I replied with as ridiculous fulsome compliments as I 
 could pay her : indeed, one in which I compared her to an angel visiting 
 the sick wells, went a little too far ; nor should I have employed it, but 
 that the allusion came from the Second Lesson last Sunday, which we both 
 had heard, and I was pressed to answer her. 
 
 " Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and 
 asked how I spelt my name ? ' Madam,' says I, turning on my heel, ' I spell 
 it with a y.' And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 309 
 
 town-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to look 
 elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader, 
 
 " Cymon Wyldoats." 
 
 " You know ray real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such 
 a letter as hupsUon. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharissa, won- 
 ders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully in- 
 formed the reason y." 
 
 The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now expound 
 the meaning. Jocasta was no other than Miss Esmond, Maid 
 of Honor to her Majesty. She had told Mr. Esmond this little 
 stor}' of having met a gentleman somewhere, and forgetting 
 his name, when the gentleman, with no such malicious inten- 
 tions as those of " Cymon " in the above fable, made the answer 
 simply as above ; and we all laughed to think how little Mis- 
 tress Jocasta-Beatrix had profited by her artifice and precau- 
 tions. 
 
 As for Cymon, he was intended to represent j'ours and her 
 very humble servant, the writer of the apologue and of this 
 story, which we had printed on a " Spectator" paper at Mr. 
 Steele's office, exactly as those famous journals were printed, 
 and which was laid on the table at breakfast in place of the 
 real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had plenty of wit, 
 could not live without her Spectator to her tea ; and this sham 
 Spectator was intended to convey to the young woman that she 
 herself was a flirt, and that C3'mon was a gentleman of honor 
 and resolution, seeing all her faults, and determined to break 
 the chains once and for ever. 
 
 For though enough hath been said about this love-business 
 already — enough, at least, to prove to the writer's heirs what 
 a silly fond fool their old grandfather was, who would like 
 them to consider him as a ver}^ wise old gentleman ; yet not 
 near all has been told concerning this matter, which, if it were 
 allowed to take in Esmond's journal the space it occupied in 
 his time, would weary his kinsmen and women of a hundred 
 years' time be3'ond all endurance ; and form such a diary of 
 foU}^ and drivelling, raptures and rage, as no man of ordinaiy 
 vanity would like to leave behind him. 
 
 The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged 
 him ; whether she smiled or was cold, and turned her smiles on 
 another ; worldly and ambitious, as he knew her to be ; hard 
 and careless, as she seemed to grow with her court life, and 
 a hundred admirers that came to her and left her ; Esmond, 
 do what he would, never could get Beatrix out of his mind ; 
 
310 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 thought of her constantly at home or away. If he read his 
 name in a Gazette, or escaped the shot of a cannon-ball or a 
 greater danger in the campaign, as has happened to him more 
 than once, the instant thought after the honor achieved or the 
 danger avoided, was, " What will she say of it?" " Will this 
 distinction or the idea of this peril elate her or touch her, so 
 as to be better inchned towards me? " He could no more help 
 this passionate fidelity of temper than he could help the eyes 
 he saw with — one or the other seemed a part of his nature ; 
 and knowing every one of her faults as well as the keenest of 
 her detractors, and the folly of an attachment to such a woman, 
 of which the fruition could never bring him happiness for above 
 a weel^, there was yet a charm about this Circe from which the 
 poor deluded gentleman could not free himself; and for a much 
 longer period than Ulysses (another middle-aged officer, who 
 had travelled much, and been in the foreign wars,) Esmond 
 felt himself enthralled and besotted by the wiles of this en- 
 chantress. Quit her ! He could no more quit her, as the 
 Cymon of this story was made to quit his false one, than he 
 could lose his consciousness of 3'esterday. She had but to 
 raise her finger, and he would come back from ever so far; 
 she had but to sa}^ I have discarded such and such an adorer, 
 and the poor infatuated wretch would be sure to come and rSder 
 about her mother's house, willing to be put on the ranks of 
 suitors, though he knew he might be cast off the next week. 
 If he were hke Ul3'Sses in his foil}', at least she was in so far 
 like Penelope that she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day 
 after day and night after night the handiwork of fascination 
 and the web of coquetrj?^ with which she was wont to allure and 
 entertain them. 
 
 Part of her coquetrj' may have come from her position about 
 the Court, where the beautiful maid of honor was the light 
 about which a thousand beaux came and fluttered ; where she 
 was sure to have a ring of admirers round her, crowding to 
 listen to her repartees as much as to admire her beaut}^ ; and 
 where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such as one 
 never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castlcv 
 wood's daughter would have uttered or heard. When in wait- 
 ing at Windsor or Hampton, the Court ladies and gentlemen 
 would be making riding parties together ; Mrs. Beatrix in a 
 horseman's coat and hat, the foremost after the stag-hounds 
 and over the park fences, a crowd of 3'oung fellows at her heels. 
 If the English country ladies at this time were the most pure 
 and modest of any ladies in the world — the English town and 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 311 
 
 court ladies permitted themselves words and behavior that were 
 neither modest nor pure ; and claimed, some of tliem, a freedom 
 which those who love that sex most would never wish to grant 
 them. The gentlemen of my family that follow after me (for 
 I don't encourage the ladies to pursue any such studies), may 
 read in the works of Mr. Congreve, and Dr. Swift and others, 
 what was the conversation and what the habits of our time. 
 
 The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Es- 
 mond returned to this country, a ladj^ of high birth, and though 
 of no fortune to be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit 
 and manners, Beatrix Esmond was now six-and-twent}' ^ears 
 old, and Beatrix Esmond still. Of her hundred adorers she 
 had not chosen one for a husband ; and those who had asked 
 had been jilted b}' her ; and more still had left her. A succes- 
 sion of near ten years' crops of beauties had come up since her 
 time, and had been reaped b}' proper husbandmGn, if we may 
 make an agricultural simile, and had been housed comfortably 
 long ago. Her own contemporaries were sober mothers by this 
 time ; girls with not a tithe of her charms, or her wit, having 
 made good matches, and now claiming precedence over the 
 spinster who but lately had derided and outshone them. The 
 young beauties were beginning to look down on Beatrix as an 
 old maid, and sneer, and call her one of Charles II. 's ladies, 
 and ask whether her portrait was not in the Hampton Court 
 Galler}'? But still she reigned, at least in one man's opinion, 
 superior over all the little, misses that were the toasts of the 
 young lads ; and in Esmond's eyes was ever perfectlj' lovely 
 and young. 
 
 Who knows how manj^ were nearty made happ}- by possess- 
 ing her, or, rather, how many were fortunate in escaping this 
 siren ? 'Tis a marvel to think that her mother was the purest 
 and simplest woman in the whole world, and that this girl 
 should have been born from her. I am inclined to fancy, m}^ 
 mistress, who never said a harsh word to her children (and but 
 twice or thrice only to one person), must have been too fond 
 and pressing with the maternal authority' ; for her son and her 
 daughter both revolted early ; nor after their first flight from 
 the nest could they ever be brought back quite to the fond 
 mother's bosom. Lad}' Castlewood, and perhaps it was as 
 well, knew little of her daughter's life and real thoughts. How 
 was she to apprehend what passes in Queen's ante-chambers 
 and at Court tables? Mrs. Beatrix asserted her own authorit}'' 
 so resolutel}' that her mother quickly gave in. The maid of 
 houor had her own equipage ; went from home and came back 
 
312 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 at her own will : her mother was alike powerless to resist hei 
 or to lead her, or to command or to persuade her. 
 
 She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to he married, 
 Esmond beheved. When he quitted home, it hath been said, 
 she was promised to mj- Lord Ashburnham, and now, on his 
 return, behold his lordship was just married to Lady Mar}^ 
 Butler, the Duke of Ormonde's daughter, and his fine houses, 
 and twelve thousand a 3^ear of fortune, for which Miss Beatrix 
 had rather coveted him, was out of her power. To her Esmond 
 could say nothing in regard to the breaking of this match ; and, 
 asking his mistress about it, all Lady Castlewood answered 
 was : "do not speak to me about it, Harr}^ I cannot tell 3^011 
 how or wh}^ they parted, and I fear to inquire. I have told 
 you before, that with all her kindness, and wit, and generosit}^ 
 and that sort of splendor of nature she has, I can say but little 
 good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at the marriage she 
 will form. Her mind is fixed on ambition only, and making a 
 great figure ; and, this achieved, she will tire of it as she does 
 of everj'tliing. Heaven help her husband, whoever he shall 
 be ! My Lord Ashburnham was a most excellent young man, 
 gentle and 3'et manlv, of ver}^ good parts, so they told me, and 
 as m}^ little conversation would enable me to judge : and a kind 
 temper — kind and enduring I'm sure he must have been, from 
 all that he had to endure. But he quitted her at last, from 
 some crowning piece of caprice or tj^ranu}^ of hers ; and now 
 he has married a 3^oung woman that will make him a thousand 
 times happier than m3' poor girl ever could." 
 
 The rupture, whatever its cause was, (I heard the scandal, 
 but indeed shall not take pains to repeat at length in this diar3^ 
 the trumpery coflTee-house stor3^) caused a good deal of low 
 talk ; and Mr. P^smond was present at m3' lord's appearance at 
 the Birthda3^ with his bride, over whom the revenge that Beatrix 
 took was to look so imperial and lovel3' that the modest down- 
 cast young lad3^ could not appear beside her, and Lord Ash- 
 burnham, who had his reasons for wishing to avoid her, slunk 
 away quite shamefaced, and very early. This time his Grace 
 the Duke of Hamilton, w^hom Esmond had seen about her 
 before, was constant at Miss Beatrix's side : he was one of the 
 most splendid gentlemen of Europe, accomplished b3^ books, 
 by travel, by long command of the best companv, distinguished 
 as a statesman, having been ambassador in King William's 
 time, and a noble speaker in the Scots' Parliament, where he 
 had led the party that was against the Union, and though now 
 five or six and fort3^ years of age, a gentleman so high in 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 313 
 
 stature, accomplished in wit, and favored in person, that he 
 might pretend to the hand of any Princess in Europe. 
 
 '' Should 3'ou like the Duke 'for a cousin?" sajs Mr. Secre- 
 tar}' St. John, whispering to Colonel Esmond in French; "it 
 appears that the widower consoles himself." 
 
 But to return to our little Spectator paper and the conversa- 
 tion which grew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first was quite bit 
 (as the phrase of that daj' was) and did not "smoke" the 
 authorship of the storj' ; indeed Esmond had tried to imitate 
 as well as he could Mr. Steele's manner (as for the other au- 
 thor of the Spectator^ his prose st^ie I think is altogether inimi- 
 table) ; and Dick, who was the idlest and best-natured of men, 
 would have let the piece pass into his journal and go to pos- 
 terity as one of his own lucubrations, but that Esmond did not 
 care to have a lady's name whom he loved sent forth to the 
 world in a light so unfavorable. Beatrix pished and psha'd 
 over the paper ; Colonel Esmond watching with no little interest 
 her countenance as she read it. 
 
 " How stupid 3'our friend Mr. Steele becomes ! " cries Miss 
 Beatrix. " Epsom and Tunbridge ! Will he never have done 
 with Epsom and Tunbridge, and with beaux at church, and 
 Jocastas and Lindamiras ? Why does he not call women Nelly 
 and Betty, as their godfathers and godmothers did for them in 
 their baptism ? " 
 
 "Beatrix, Beatrix!" says her mother, "speak gravely of 
 grave things." 
 
 "Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from heaven, 
 I believe," says Beatrix, with a laugh, " and was brought down 
 by a bishop from a mountain. Oh, how I used to break my 
 heart over it ! Besides, I had a Popish godmother, mamma ; 
 why did 3'ou give me one?" 
 
 " I gave you the Queen's name," says her mother blushing. 
 " And a very pretty name it is," said somebody else. 
 
 Beatrix went on reading — ■ " Spell my name with a y — why, 
 you wretch," says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, " you 
 have been telling mj' story to Mr. Steele — or stop — you have 
 written the paper 3^ourself to turn me into ridicule. For shame, 
 sir ! " 
 
 Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, 
 w^hich was nevertheless an entire falsehood. " Upon my honor," 
 says he, " I have not even read the Spectator of this morning." 
 Nor had he, for that was not the Spectator^ but a sham news- 
 paper put in its place. 
 
 She went on reading : her face rather flushed as she read. 
 
314 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "No," she says, "I think you couldn't have written it. I 
 think it must have been Mr. Steele when he was drunk — and 
 afraid of his horrid vulgar wife. Whenever I see an enormous 
 compliment to a woman, and some outrageous panegyric about 
 female virtue, I always feel sure that the Captain and his better 
 half have fallen out over-night, and that he has been brought 
 home tipsy, or has been found out in — " 
 
 " Beatrix ! " cries the Lady Castle wood. 
 
 "Well, mamma! Do not cry out before you are hurt. I 
 am not going to say anything wrong. I won't give you more 
 annoyance than you can help, you pretty kind mamma. Yes, 
 and your little Trix is a naughty little Trix, and she leaves 
 undone those things which she ought to have done, and does 
 those things which she ought not to have done, and there's — 
 well now— 'I won't go on. Yes, I will, unless you kiss me." 
 And with this the young lady lays aside her paper, and runs 
 up to her mother and performs a variety of embraces with her 
 ladyship, saying as plain as eyes could speak to Mr. Esmond 
 — "There, sir: would not you like to plaj^ the very same 
 pleasant game?" 
 
 " Indeed, madam, I would," says he. 
 
 " Would what?" asked Miss Beatrix. 
 
 " What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking 
 way," answers Esmond. 
 
 " What a confessor ! " cries Beatrix, with a laugh. 
 
 " What is it Henry would like, ni}' dear?" asks her mother, 
 the kind soul, who was always thinking what we would like, 
 and how she could please us. 
 
 The girl runs up to her — " Oh, 3'ou sill}^ kind mamma," she 
 sa5^s, kissing her again, " that's what Harry would like ; " and 
 she broke out into a great jo^'ful laugh ; and Lady Castlewood 
 blushed as bashful as a maid of sixteen. 
 
 "Look at her, Harry," whispers Beatrix, running up, and 
 speaking in her sweet low tones. " Doesn't the blush become 
 her? Isn't she pretty? She looks younger than I am, and I 
 am sure she is a hundred million thousand times better." 
 
 Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrjdng her blushes 
 away with her. 
 
 " If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that," con- 
 tinues Beatrix, with her laugh, "what wouldn't we do to pre- 
 serve 'em? We'd clip their stalks and put 'em in salt and water. 
 But those flowers don't bloom at Hampton Court and Windsor, 
 Henry." She paused for a minute, and the smile fading away 
 from her April face, gave place to a menacing shower of tears ; 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 315 
 
 '' Oh, how good she is, Harry," Beatrix went on to say. '' Oh, 
 what a saint she is ! Her goodness frightens me. I'm not fit 
 to Hve with her. I should be better I think if she were not so 
 perfect. She has had a great sorrow in her life, and a great 
 secret ; and repented of it. It could not have been my father's 
 death. She talks freely about that ; nor could she have loved 
 him very much — though who knows what we women do love, 
 and why ? " 
 
 " What, and why, indeed," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "No one knows," Beatrix went on, without noticing this 
 interruption except by a look, " what my mother's Ufe is. She 
 hath been at early prayer this morning : she passes hours in 
 her closet ; if 3^ou were to follow her thither, you would find 
 her at prayers now. She tends the poor of the place — the 
 horrid dirty poor! She sits through the curate's sermons — 
 oh, those drear}^ sermons ! And 3'ou see on a beau dire ; but 
 good as they are, people like her are not fit to commune with 
 us of the world. There is always, as it were, a third person 
 present, even when I and my mother are alone. She can't be 
 frank with me quite ; who is always thinking of the next world, 
 and of her guardian angel, perhaps that's in company. Oh, 
 Harry, I'm jealous of that guardian angel ! " here broke out 
 Mistress Beatrix. "It's horrid, I know; but my mother's 
 life is all for heaven, and mine — all for earth. We can never 
 be friends quite ; and then, she cares more for Frank's little 
 finger than she does for me — I know she does : and she loves 
 you, sir, a great deal too much ; and I hate 3'Ou for it. I would 
 have had her all to myself; but she wouldn't. In my child- 
 hood, it was m}^ father she loved — (oh, how could she? I re- 
 member him kind and handsome, but so stupid, and not being 
 able to speak aifter drinking wine). And then it was Frank ; 
 and now, it is heaven and the clergyman. How I would have 
 loved her ! From a child I used to be in a rage that she loved 
 an^'body but me ; but she loved 3"ou all better — all, I know 
 she did. And now, she talks of the blessed consolation of 
 rehgion. Dear soul ! she thinks she is happier for believing, 
 as she must, that we are all of us wicked and miserable sin- 
 ners ; and this world is onl}- a pied-a-terre for the good, where 
 they stay for a night, as we do, coming from Walcote, at that 
 great, dreary, uncomfortable Hounslow Inn, in those horrid 
 beds — oh, do you remember those horrid beds? — and the 
 chariot comes and fetches them to heaven the next morning." 
 
 " Hush, Beatrix," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 "Hush, indeed. You are a hypocrite, too, Henr}^ with 
 
316 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 your grave airs and jour glum face. We are all hj'pocrites. 
 O dear me! We are all alone, alone, alone," saj's poor Bea- 
 trix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh. 
 
 " It was I that writ ever}' line of that paper, m}' dear," saj'S 
 Mr. Esmond. " You are not so worldh^ as you think yourself, 
 Beatrix, and better than we believe you. The good we have 
 in us we doubt of; and the happiness that's to our hand we 
 throw away. You bend your ambition on a great marriage 
 and establishment — and whj' ? You'll tire of them when you 
 win them ; and be no happier with a coronet on your coach — " 
 
 '' Than riding pillion with Lubin to market," saj^s Beatrix. 
 ''Thank you, Lubin!" 
 
 " I'm a dismal shepherd, to be sure," answers Esmond, with 
 a blush ; " and require a nymph that can tuck ni}^ bed-clothes 
 up, and make me water-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood can do 
 that. He took me o'lt of the fire upon his shoulders, and 
 nursed me through m}- illness as love will scarce ever do. 
 Onl}' good wages, and a hope of my clothes, and the contents 
 of ni}' portmanteau. How long was it that Jacob served an 
 apprenticeship for Rachel?" 
 
 " For mamma?" sajs Beatrix. " It is mamma your honor 
 wants, and that I should have the happiness of calling you 
 papa?" 
 
 Esmond blushed again. " I spoke of a Rachel that a shep- 
 herd courted five thousand years ago ; when shepherds were 
 longer lived than now. And my meaning was, that since I saw 
 you first after our separation — a child you were then ..." 
 
 " And I put on my best stockings to captivate a^ou, I re- 
 member, sir . . . " 
 
 " Y^ou have had my heart ever since then, such as it was ; 
 and such as you were, I cared for no other woman. What 
 little reputation I have won, it was that you might be pleased 
 with it : and indeed, it is not much ; and I think a hundred 
 fools in the army have got and deserved quite as much. Was 
 there something in the air of that dismal old Castlewood that 
 made us all gloom}', and dissatisfied, and lonely under its ruined 
 old roof? We were all so, even when together and united, as 
 it seemed, following our separate schemes, each as we sat 
 round the table." 
 
 " Dear, dreary old place ! " cries Beatrix. " Mamma hath 
 never had the heart to go back thither since we left it, when — 
 never mind how many years ago." And she flung back her 
 curls, and looked over her fair shoulder at the mirror superbly, 
 as if she said, " Time, I defy you." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 317 
 
 ''Yes," sa3's Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of 
 divining many of her thoughts. " You can afford to look in 
 the glass still ; and only be pleased by the truth it tells you. 
 As for me, do you know what mj' scheme is? I think of ask- 
 ing Frank to give me the Virginian estate King Charles gave 
 our grandfather. (She gave a superb curts}', as much as to 
 say, ' Our grandfather, indeed ! Thank you, Mr. Bastard.') 
 Yes, I know you are thinking of m}^ bar-sinister, and so am I. 
 A man cannot get over it in this countr}^ ; unless, indeed, he 
 wears it across a king's arms, when 'tis a highl}' honorable coat ; 
 and I am thinking of retiring into the plantations, and building 
 myself a wigwam in the woods, and perhaps, if I want com- 
 pany, suiting m\'self with a squaw. We will send your lady- 
 ship furs over for the winter ; and, when you are old, we'll 
 provide you with tobacco. I am not quite clever enough, or 
 nQt rogue enough — 1 know not which — for the Old World. 
 I may make a place for m3'self in the New, which is not so 
 full ; and found a family- there. When you are a mother 3 our- 
 self, and a great lad}', perhaps I shall send you over from the 
 plantation some day a little barbarian that is half Esmond half 
 Mohock, and 3'ou will be kind to him for his father's sake, who 
 was, after all, 3-our kinsman ; and whom you loved a little." 
 
 '' What folly you are talking, Harry," says Miss Beatrix, 
 looking with her great eyes. 
 
 " 'Tis sober earnest," says Esmond. And, indeed, the 
 scheme had been dwelling a good deal in his mind for some 
 time past, and especiall}' since his return home, when he found 
 how hopeless, and even degrading to himself, his passion was. 
 " No," says he, then : "I have tried half a dozen times now. 
 I can bear being away from you well enough ; but being with 
 3^ou is intolerable " (another low curtsy on Mistress Beatrix's 
 part), "and I will go. I have enough to buy axes and guns 
 for my men, and beads and blankets for the savages ; and I'll 
 go and live amongst them." 
 
 ^^ Mon ami,'' she says quite kindly, and taking Esmond's 
 hand, with an air of great compassion, "you can't think that 
 in our position anything more than our present friendship is 
 possible. You are our elder brother — as such w^e view you, 
 pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with it. Why, you 
 are old enough and grave enough to be our father. I always 
 thought 3^ou a hundred years old, Harry, with your solemn face 
 and grave air. I feel as a sister to you, and can no more. 
 Isn't that enough, sir?" And she put her face quite close to 
 his — who knows with what intention ? 
 
318 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 *'Tt's too much," says Esmond, turning away. "I can't 
 bear this life, and shall leave it. I shall sta}', I think, to see 
 you married, and then freight a ship, and call it the ' Beatrix,' 
 and bid you all . . . " 
 
 Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his 
 Grace the Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back with 
 something hke an imprecation on his lips, as the nobleman en- 
 tered, looking splendid in his star and green ribbon. He gave 
 Mr. Esmond just that gracious bow which he would have given 
 to a lackey who fetched him a chair or took his hat, and seated 
 himself by Miss Beatrix, as the poor Colonel went out of the 
 room with a hang-dog look. 
 
 Esmond's mistress was in the lower room as he passed down 
 stairs. She often met him as he was coming away from Bea- 
 trix ; and she beckoned him into the apartment. 
 
 '' Has she told you, Harry? " Lady Castle wood said. 
 
 " She has been very frank — very," says Esmond. 
 
 *' But — but about what is going to happen?" 
 
 " What is going to happen? " says he, his heart beating. 
 
 *' His Grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her," 
 says m}^ lady. "He made his offer yesterday. They will 
 marry as soon as his mourning is over ; and you have heard 
 his Grace is appointed Ambassador to Paris ; and the Ambas- 
 sadress goes with him." 
 
 CHAPTER ly. 
 
 Beatrix's new suitor. 
 
 The gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be sure, 
 twenty years older than the Colonel, with whom she quarrelled 
 for being too old ; but this one was but a nameless adventurer, 
 and the other the greatest duke in Scotland, with pretensions 
 even to a still higher title. My Lord Duke of Hamilton had, 
 Indeed, every merit belonging to a gentleman, and he had had 
 the time to mature his accomplishments fullj', being upwards of 
 fifty 3"ears old when Madam Beatrix selected him for a bride- 
 groom. Duke Hamilton, then Earl of Arran, had been edu- 
 cated at the famous Scottish universitj' of Glasgow, and, coming 
 to London, became a great favorite of Charles the Second, who 
 made him a lord of his bedchamber, and afterwards appointed 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 319 
 
 him ambassador to tlie French king, under whom the Earl 
 served two campaigns as his Majesty's aide-de-camp ; and he 
 was absent on this service wlien King Charles died. 
 
 King James continued m}' lord's promotion — made him 
 Master of the Wardrobe and Colonel of the Royal Regiment of 
 Horse ; and his lordship adhered firml}^ to King James, being 
 of the small company that never quitted that unfortunate mon- 
 arch till his departure out of England ; and then it was, in 
 1688 namel}', that he made the friendship with Colonel Francis 
 Esmond, that had always been, more or less, maintained in the 
 two families. 
 
 The Earl professed a great admiration for King William 
 alwa3's, but never could give him his allegiance ; and was en- 
 gaged in more than one of the plots in the late great King's 
 reign which alwaj's ended in the plotters' discomfiture, and 
 generally in their pardon, by the magnanimity of the King. 
 Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the Tower during this reign, 
 undauntedlv sa3'ing, when offered his release, upon parole not 
 to engage against King William, that he would not give his 
 word, because " he was sure he could not keep it ; " but, never- 
 theless, he was both times discharged without any trial ; and 
 the King bore this noble enemy so little malice, that when his 
 mother, the Duchess of Hamilton, of her own right, resigned 
 her claim on her husband's death, the Earl was, by patent 
 signed at Loo, 1690, created Duke of Hamilton, Marquis of 
 Clydesdale, and Earl of Arran, with precedency from the origi- 
 nal creation. His Grace took the oaths and his seat in the 
 Scottish parliament in 1700 : was famous there for his patriot- 
 ism and eloquence, especially in the debates about the Union 
 Bill, which Duke Hamilton opposed with all his strength, 
 though he would not go the length of the Scottish gentrj^, who 
 were for resisting it b}' force of arms. 'Twas said he withdrew 
 his opposition all of a sudden, and in consequence of letters 
 from the King at St. Germains, who entreated him on his alle- 
 giance not to thwart the Queen his sister in this measure ; and 
 the Duke, being alwa3's bent upon effecting the King's return 
 to his kingdom through a reconciliation between his Majest}^ 
 and Queen Anne, and quite averse to his landing with arms 
 and French troops, held aloof, and kept out of Scotland during 
 the time when the Chevalier de St. George's descent from Dun- 
 kirk was projected, passing his time in England in his great 
 estate in Staffordshire. 
 
 When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the Queen began 
 to show his Grace the very greatest marks of her favor. He 
 
320 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 was created Duke of Brandon and Baron of Button in England ; 
 having the Thistle already originally bestowed on him by King 
 James the Second, his Grace was now promoted to the honor 
 of the Garter — a distinction so great and illustrious, that no 
 subject hath ever borne them hitherto together. When this 
 objection was made to her Majesty, she was pleased to say, 
 " Such a subject as the Duke of Hamilton has a pre-eminent 
 claim to every mark of distinction which a crowned head can 
 confer. I will henceforth wear both orders m3'self." 
 
 At the Chapter held at Windsor in October, 1712, the Duke 
 and other knights, including Lord-Treasurer, the new-created 
 Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, were installed ; and a few days 
 afterwards his Grace was appointed Ambassador-Extraordinary 
 to France, and his equipages, plate, and liveries commanded, 
 of the most sumptuous kind, not only for his Excellency the 
 Ambassador, but for her Excellency the Ambassadress, who 
 was to accompany him. Her arms were already quartered on 
 the coach panels, and her brother was to hasten over on the 
 appointed da}' to give her away. 
 
 His lordship was a widower, having married, in 1698, Eliza- 
 beth, daughter of Digby Lord Gerard, by which marriage great 
 estates came into the Hamilton familj- ; and out of these es- 
 tates came, in part, that tragic quarrel which ended the Duke's 
 career. 
 
 From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there's no 
 pang that is not bearable. The apprehension is much more 
 cruel than the certainty ; and we make up our mind to the mis- 
 fortune when 'tis irremediable, part with the tormentor, and 
 mumble our crust on t'other side of the jaws. I think Colonel 
 Esmond was relieved when a ducal coach and six came and 
 whisked his charmer away out of his reach, and placed her in a 
 higher sphere. As you have seen the nj^mph in the opera- 
 machine go up to the clouds at the end of the piece where 
 Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, and all the divine company of Olym- 
 pians are seated, and quaver out her last song as a goddess : 
 so when this portentous elevation was accomplished in the 
 Esmond famil}-, I am not sure that every one of us did not 
 treat the divine Beatrix with special honors ; at least the saucy 
 little beauty carried her head with a toss of supreme authority, 
 and assumed a touch-me-not air, which all her friends very 
 good-humoredly bowed to. 
 
 An old arm}^ acquaintance of Colonel Esmond's, honest Tom 
 Trett, who had sold his company, married a wife, and turned 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 321 
 
 merchant in the city, was dreadfully gloomy for a long time, 
 though Hving in a fine house on the river, and carrying on a 
 great trade to all appearance. At length Esmond saw his 
 friend's name in the Gazette as a bankrupt ; and a week after 
 this circumstance my bankrupt walks into Mr. Esmond's lodg- 
 ing with a face perfectly radiant with good-humor, and as jolly 
 and careless as when they had sailed from Southampton ten 
 years before for Vigo. "This bankruptcy," says Tom, "has 
 been hanging over my head these three years ; the thought 
 hath prevented m}' sleeping, and I have looked at poor Polly's 
 head on t'other pillow, and then towards my razor on the table, 
 and thought to put an end to myself, and so give my woes the 
 sUp. But now we are bankrupts : Tom Trett pays as many 
 shillings in the pound as he can ; his wife has a little cottage 
 at Fulham, and her fortune secured to herself. I am afraid 
 neither of bailiff nor of creditor : and for tlie last six nights 
 have slept easy." So it was that when Fortune shook her 
 wings and left him, honest Tom cuddled himself up in his 
 ragged virtue, and fell asleep. 
 
 Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story applied 
 to Esmond too ; but he laughed at it, and used it ; and having 
 fairly struck his docket in this love transaction, determined to 
 put a cheerful face on his bankruptc}'. Perhaps Beatrix was a 
 little offended at his gayet}'. " Is this the wa3% sir, that you 
 receive the announcement of j^our misfortune," says she, " and 
 do you come smiling before me as if you were glad to be rid 
 of me?" 
 
 Esmond would not be put off from his good-humor, but 
 told her the stor^^ of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. " I have 
 been hankering after the grapes on the wall," sa^^s he, " and 
 lost my temper because they were beyond m}' reach ; was there 
 any wonder? They're gone now, and another has them — a 
 taller man than your humble servant has won them." And 
 the Colonel made his cousin a low bow. 
 
 " A taller man, Cousin Esmond ! " says she. " A man of 
 spirit would have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them ! A 
 man of courage would have fought for 'em, not gaped for 'em." 
 
 " A Duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth," 
 says Esmond, with another low bow. 
 
 " Y^es, sir," says she, " a Duke u a taller man than 3'ou. 
 And why should I not be grateful to one such as his Grace, 
 who gives me his heart and his great name ? It is a great 
 gift he honors me with ; I know 'tis a bargain between us ; and 
 1 accept it, and will do my utmost to perform my part of it. 
 
 21 
 
322 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 'Tis no question of sighing and philandering between a noble- 
 man of his Grace's age and a girl who hath little of that 
 softness in her nature. Why should I not own that I am am- 
 bitious, Harr^^ Esmond ; and if it be no sin in a man to covet 
 honor, why should a woman too not desire it? Shall I be 
 frank with you, Harry, and say that if you had not been down 
 on your knees, and so humble, you might have fared better 
 with me ? A woman of mj^ spirit, cousin, is to be won by gal- 
 lantrj', and not by sighs and rueful faces. All the time 3'ou 
 are worshipping and singing hymns to me, I know ver^^ well I 
 am no goddess, and grow weary of the incense. 80 would 
 you have been weary of the goddess too — when she was called 
 Mrs. Esmond, and got out of humor because she had not pin- 
 money enough, and was forced to go about in an old gown. 
 Eh ! cousin, a goddess in a mob-cap, that has to make her hus- 
 band's gruel, ceases to be divine — I am sure of it. I should 
 have been sulky and scolded ; and of all the proud wretches 
 in the world Mr. Esmond is the proudest, let me tell him 
 that. You never fall into a passion ; but you never forgive, I 
 think. Had you been a great man, you might have been 
 good-humored ; but being nobody, sir, 3^ou are too great a 
 man for me; and I'm afraid of you, cousin — there! and I 
 won't worship you, and ^^ou'll never be happ}- except with a 
 woman who will. Why, after I belonged to you, and after 
 one of my tantrums, you would liave put tha pillow over my 
 head some night, and smothered me, as the black man does 
 the woman in the play that 3'ou're so fond of. What's the 
 creature's name? — Desdemoua. You would, you little black- 
 dyed Othello I " 
 
 *•' I think I should, Beatrix," sa3^s the Colonel. 
 
 " And I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a 
 hundred, and to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and to 
 play cards ever3^ night of m3^ life till the 3'ear eighteen hun- 
 dred. And I like to be the first of m3' compan3', sir ; and 
 I like flatter3' and compliments, and you give me none ; and 
 I like to be made to laugh, sir, and who's to laugh at your 
 dismal face, I should like to know? and I like a coach-and 
 six or a coach-and-eight ; and I like diamonds, and a new 
 gown every week ; and people to sa3^ — 'That's the Dn chess 
 • — How well her Grace looks — Make way for Madame I'Am- 
 bassadrice d'Angleterre — Call her Excellenc3''s people ' — that's 
 what I like. And as for 3^ou, 3"0U want a woman to bring 
 3^our slippers and cap, and to sit at 3^our feet, and cry, ' O 
 caro ! O bravo ! ' whilst you read your Shakespeares and Mil- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 323 
 
 tons and stuff. Mamma would have been the wife for you, 
 had you been a little older, though 3-ou look ten years older 
 than she does — 3'ou do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded little 
 old man ! You might have sat, like Darby and Joan, and 
 flattered each olher ; and billed and cooed like a pair of old 
 pigeons on a perch. I want my wings and to use them, 
 sir." And she spread out her beautiful arms, as if indeed 
 she could fly off* like the pretty " Gawrie," whom the man in 
 the storj^ was enamored of. 
 
 "And what will your Peter Wilkins sa}' to 3-our flight?" 
 says Esmond, who never admired this fair creature more than 
 when she rebelled and laughed at him. 
 
 " A duchess knows her place," says she, with a laugh. 
 " Wh}', I have a son alread}^ made for me, and thirty years old 
 (my Lord Arran) , and four daughters. How they will scold, 
 and what a rage they will be in, when I come to take the head 
 of the table ! But I give them onl}' a month to be angry ; at 
 the end of that time they shall love me every one, and so shall 
 Lord Arran, and so shall all his Grace's Scots vassals and fol- 
 lowers in the Highlands. I'm bent on it ; and when I take a 
 thing in my head, 'tis done. His Grace is the greatest gen- 
 tleman in Europe, and 111 tr}' and make him happ}' ; and, 
 when the King comes back, you may count on my protection, 
 Cousin Esmond — for come back the King will and shall ; 
 and I'll bring him back from Versailles, if he comes under my 
 hoop." 
 
 " I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix," sa3's Es- 
 mond, with a sigh. "* Y'ou'll be Beatrix till 3'ou are mj' Lady 
 Duchess — will 3'ou not? I shall then make ^our Grace my 
 very lowest bow." 
 
 *' None of these sighs and this satire, cousin," she sa^'s. *' I 
 take his Grace's great bonnt}' thankfuUj' — yes, thankfully ; and 
 will wear his honors becomingly. I do not say he hath touched 
 my heart; but he has my gratitude, obedience, admiration — I 
 have told him that, and no more ; and with that his noble heart 
 is content. I have told him all — even the story of that poor 
 creature that I was engaged to — and that I could not love ; 
 and I gladl}' gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to 
 get back my own. I am twent^'-five years old." 
 
 " Twenty-six, my dear," says Esmond. 
 
 *' Twenty-five, sir — I choose to be twent3^-five ; and in eight 
 years no man hath ever touched my heart. Yes — you did 
 once, for a little, Harr3^, when you came back after Lille, and 
 engaging with that murderer Mohun, and saving Frank's life. 
 
324 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOK^D. 
 
 I thought I could like 3'ou ; and mamma begged me hard, on 
 her knees, and I did — for a day. But the old chill came over 
 me, Henry, and the old fear of you and your melancholy ; and 
 1 was glafl when you went away, and engaged with my Lord 
 Ashburnham, that I might hear no more of you, that's the 
 truth. You are too good for me, somehow. I could not make 
 you happy, and should break my heart in trying, and not being 
 able to love you. But if 3'ou had asked me when we gave 3'ou 
 the sword, you might have had me, sir, and we both should 
 have been miserable by this time. I talked with that silly lord 
 all night just to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded, didn't 
 I ? How frankly we can talk of these things ! It seems a 
 thousand years ago : and, though we are here sitting in the 
 same room, there is a great wall between us. My dear, kind, 
 faithful, gloomy old cousin ! I can like now, and admire you 
 too, sir, and say that you are brave, and verj' kind, and very 
 true, and a fine gentleman for all — for all 3'our little mishap at 
 your birth," says she, wagging her arch head. 
 
 ''And now, sir," says she, with a curtsy, "we must have 
 no more talk except when mamma is by, as his Grace is with 
 us ; for he does not half like you, cousin, and is jealous as the 
 black man in your favorite play." 
 
 Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Es- 
 mond with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the 
 wound 1)3' any look of his (as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned 
 to him), but said, with a perfect command of himself and an 
 eas3" smile, " The interview must not end 3'et, my dear, until I 
 have had m3^ last word. Sta3^ here comes 3'our mother" (in- 
 deed she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and Esmond 
 going up kissed her hand respectfull3') . " M3' dear lad3' may 
 hear, too, the last words, which are no secrets, and are onl3' a 
 parting benediction accompanying a present for your marriage 
 from an old gentleman 3'our guardian ; for I feel as if I was the 
 guardian of all the family, and an old old fellow that is fit to be 
 the grandfather of you all ; and in this character let me make my 
 Lady Duchess her wedding present. The3' are the diamonds 
 m3^ father's widow left me. I had thought Beatrix might have 
 had them a year ago ; but the3^ are good enough for a duchess, 
 though not bright enough for the handsomest woman in the 
 world." And he took the case out of his pocket in which the 
 jewels were, and presented them to his cousin. 
 
 She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very 
 handsome, and of great value ; and the next minute the neck- 
 lace was where Belinda's cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable poem, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 325 
 
 and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly-shaped neck 
 in all England. 
 
 The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was so great, 
 that after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the effect 
 they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded, 
 Beatrix was running back with her arms extended, and was 
 perhaps for paying her cousin with a price, that he would have 
 liked no doubt to receive from those beautiful rosy lips of hers, 
 but at this moment the door opened, and his Grace the bride- 
 groom elect was announced. 
 
 He looked ver}^ black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made 
 a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in his 
 most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from the 
 palace hard bj', and wore his two stars of the Garter and the 
 Thistle. 
 
 "Look, my Lord Duke," says Mistress Beatrix, advancing 
 to him, and showing the diamonds on her breast. 
 
 " Diamonds," ssijs his Grace. " Hm ! thej' seem prett}'." 
 
 " The}' are a present on my marriage," says Beatrix. 
 
 " From her Majesty ? " asks the Duke. " The Queen is very 
 good." 
 
 "From my cousin Henry — from our cousin Henry" — cry 
 both the ladies in a breath. 
 
 " I have not the honor of knowing the gentleman. 1 thought 
 that my Lord Castlewood had no brother : and that on your 
 ladyship's side there were no nephews." 
 
 "From our cousin. Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord," sa3'S 
 Beatrix, taking the Colonel's hand very bravelj', — "who was 
 left guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred times 
 shown his love and friendship for our family." 
 
 "The DuchesS of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from 
 her husband, madam," says the Duke — "may I pray j^ou to 
 restore these to Mr. Esmond ? " 
 
 "Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman 
 and benefactor, m}- Lord Duke," sa^'s Lady Castlewood, with 
 an air of great dignity. " She is my daughter yet : and if her 
 mother sanctions the gift — no one else hath the right to ques- 
 tion it." 
 
 " Kinsman and benefactor ! " sa3's the Duke. " I know of 
 no kinsman : and I do not choose that my wife should have for 
 benefactor a — " 
 
 " My lord ! " says Colonel Esmond. 
 
 "I am not here to band}^ words," says his Grace : " frankly 
 I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and 
 
326 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 that I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from 
 gentlemen that bear a name the^^ have no right to." 
 
 ''My lord!" breaks out Lady Castle wood, "Mr. Esmond 
 hath the best right to that name of any man in the world : and 
 'tis as old and as honorable as your Grace's." 
 
 My Lord Duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood 
 was mad, that was so talking to him. 
 
 " If I called him benefactor," said m}' mistress, " it is 
 because he has been so to us — yes, the noblest, the truest, the 
 bravest, the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my 
 husband's life from Mohun's sword. He did save my boy's, 
 and defended him from that villain. Are those no bene- 
 fits?" 
 
 "I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon," says his Grace, if pos- 
 sible more haughty than before. " I would sa}' not a word that 
 should give him offence, and thank him for his kindness to your 
 ladyship's family. My Lord Mohun and I are connected, 3'ou 
 know, by marriage — though neither by blood nor friendship ; 
 but I must repeat what 1 said, that my wife can receive no 
 presents from Colonel Esmond." 
 
 "M}' daughter maj' receive presents from the Head of our 
 House : my daughter may thankfull}^ take kindness from her 
 father's, her mother's, her brother's dearest friend ; and be 
 grateful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe 
 him," cries Lady Esmond. "What is a string of diamond 
 stones compared to that affection he hath given us — our dearest 
 preserver and benefactor? We owe him not onl}' Frank's life, 
 but our all — 3'es, our all," says m}- mistress, with a heightened 
 color and a trembling voice. " The title we bear is his, if he 
 would claim it. 'Tis we who have no right to our name : not 
 he that's too great for it. He sacrificed his name at m}^ fl3'ing 
 lord's bedside — sacrificed it to my orphan chiklren ; gave up 
 rank and honor because he loved us so nobly. His father was 
 Viscount of Castlewood and Marquis of Esmond before him ; 
 and he is his father's lawful son and true heir, and we are the 
 recipients of his bounty-, and he the chief of a house that's as 
 old as 3'our own. And if he is content to forego his name that 
 my child may bear it, we love him and honor him and bless him 
 under whatever name he bears " — and here the fond and affec- 
 tionate creature would have knelt to Esmond again, but that he 
 prevented her ; and Beatrix, running up to her with a pale 
 face and a cr}' of alarm, embraced her and said, " Mother, what 
 is this?" 
 
 "'Tis a family secret, my Lord Duke," says Colonel Es- 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 327 
 
 mond : ' ' poor Beatrix knew nothing of it ; nor did my lad}' till 
 a year ago. And I have as good a right to resign my title as 
 your Grace's mother to abdicate hers to you." 
 
 '^ 1 should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton," 
 said m}' mistress, " had his Grace applied to me for my daugh- 
 ter's hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken with you 
 this very day in private, my lord, had not 3'our words brought 
 about this sudden explanation — and now 'tis fit Beatrix should 
 hear it ; and know, as I would have all the world know, what 
 we owe to our kinsman and patron." 
 
 And then in her touching wa^', and having hold of her daugh- 
 ter's hand, and speaking to her rather than my Lord Duke, 
 Lad}" Castlewood told the story which you know already — ■ 
 lauding up to the skies her kinsman's behavior. On his side 
 Mr. Esmond explained the reasons that seemed quite sufficiently 
 cogent with him, wh3"the succession in the family, as at present 
 it stood, should not be disturbed ; and he should remain as he 
 was, Colonel Esmond. 
 
 ''And Marquis of Esmond, my lord," says his Grace, with 
 a low bow. "Permit me to ask your lordship's pardon for 
 words that were uttered in ignorance ; and to beg for the favor 
 of your friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be an honor 
 under whatever name 3'ou are known " (so his Grace was 
 pleased to say) ; " and in return for the splendid present you 
 make mj^ wife, 3'Our kinswoman, I hope 3'ou will please to com- 
 mand an3" service that James Douglas can perform. I shall 
 never be easy until I repay you a part of my obligations at 
 least ; and ere very long, and with the mission lier Majesty hath 
 given me," says the Duke, " that may perhaps be in my power. 
 I shall esteem it as a favor, my lord, if Colonel Esmond will 
 give awa3" the bride." 
 
 "And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he 
 is welcome," says Beatrix, stepping up to' him ; and, as Esmond 
 kissed her, she whispered, " Oh, why didn't I know 3"ou 
 before ? " 
 
 My Lord Duke was as hot a^ a flame at this salute, but said 
 never a word : Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and the two 
 ladies quitted the room together. 
 
 " When does your Excellency go for Paris?" asks Colonel 
 Esmond. 
 
 "As soon after the ceremony as may be," his Grace an- 
 swered. "'Tis fixed for the first of Decenpber : it cannot be 
 sooner. The equipage will not be ready till then. The Queen 
 intends the embassy should be very grand — and I have law 
 
328 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 
 
 business to settle. That ill-omened Mohun has come, or is 
 coming, to London again i we are in a lawsuit about my late 
 Lord Gerard's property ; and he hath sent to me to meet 
 him." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MOHUN APPEARS FOR THE LAST TIME IN THIS HISTORY. 
 
 Besides mj' Lord Duke of Hamiltc^n and Brandon, who for 
 famih' reasons had kindlj' promised his protection and patron- 
 age to Colonel Esmond, he had other great friends in power 
 now, both able and willing to assist him, and he might, witli 
 such alUes, look forward to as fortunate advancement in civil 
 life at home as he had got rapid promotion abroad. His Grac<i 
 was magnanimous enough to offer to take Mr. Esmond as sec 
 retary on his Paris embassy, but no doubt he intended that pro- 
 posal should be rejected ; at any rate, Esmond could not bear 
 the thoughts of attending his mistress farther than the church- 
 door after her marriage, and so declined that offer which his 
 generous rival made him. 
 
 Other gentlemen in power were liberal at least of compli- 
 ments and promises to Colonel Esmond. Mr. Harle}-, now 
 become m}' Lord Oxford and Mortimer, and installed Knight 
 of the Garter on the same day as his Grace of Hamilton had 
 received the same honor, sent to the Colonel to say that a seat 
 in Parliament should be at his disposal presently, and Mr. St. 
 John held out many flattering hopes of advancement to the 
 Colonel when he should enter the House. Esmond's friends 
 were all successful, and the most successful and triumphant of 
 all was his dear old commander. General Webb, who was now 
 appointed Lieutenant-General of the Land Forces, and received 
 with particular honor b}'' the Ministr}', b}' the Queen, and the 
 people out of doors, who huzza'd the brave chief when the}^ 
 used to see him in his chariot going to the House or to the 
 Drawing-room, or hobbling on foot to his coach from St. Ste- 
 phen's upon his glorious old crutch and stick, and cheered him 
 as loud as they had ever done Marlborough. 
 
 That great Duke was utterly disgraced ; and honest old 
 Webb dated all his Grace's misfortunes from Wynendael, and 
 vowed that Fate served the traitor right. Duchess Sarah had 
 also gone to ruin ; she had been forced to give up her keys, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 329 
 
 and her places, and her pensions: — "Ah, ah!" sa^'s Webb, 
 " she would have locked up three millions of French crowns 
 with her ke3's had I but been knocked on the head, but I stopped 
 that convoy at Wj'nendael." Our enemy Cardonnel was turned 
 out of the Flouse of Commons (along with Mr. Walpole) for 
 malversation of public mone3\ Cadogan lost his place of Lieu- 
 tenant of the Tower. Marlborough's daughters resigned their 
 posts of ladies of the bedchamber ; and so complete was the 
 Duke's disgrace, that his son-in-law, Lord Bridgewater, was 
 absolutel}' obliged to give up his lodgings at St. James's, and 
 had his half- pension, as Master of the Horse, taken away. But 
 I think the lowest depth of Marlborough's fall was when he 
 humbly sent to ask General Webb when he might wait upon 
 him ; he who had commanded the stout old General, who had 
 injured him and sneered at him, who had kept him dangling in 
 his ante-chamber, who could not even after his great service 
 condescend to write him a letter in his own hand. The nation 
 was as eager for peace as ever it had been hot for war. The 
 Prince of Savoy came amongst us, had his audience of the 
 Queen, and got his famous Sword of Honor, and strove with all 
 his force to form a Whig party together, to bring over the 
 3^oung Prince of Hanover — to do anything which might prolong 
 the war, and consummate the ruin of the old sovereign whom he 
 hated so implacably. But the nation was tired of the struggle : 
 so completely wearied of it that not even our defeat at Denain 
 could rouse us into any anger, though such an action so lost 
 two years before would have set all England in a ftny. 'Twas 
 eas}' to see that the great Marlborough was not with the arm}^ 
 Eugene was obliged to fall back in a rage, and forego the daz- 
 zling revenge of his life. 'Twas in vain the Duke's side asked, 
 "Would we suffiir our arms to be insulted? Would we not 
 send back the only champion who could repair our honor?" 
 The nation had had its bellyful of fighting ; nor could taunts 
 or outcries goad up our Britons au}^ more. 
 
 For a statesman that was always prating of liberty, and had 
 the grandest philosophic maxims in his mouth, it must be owned 
 that Mr. St. John sometimes rather acted like a Turkish than 
 a Greek philosopher, and especially fell foul of one unfortunate 
 set of men, the men of letters, with a tyranny a little extraor- 
 dinary in a man who professed to respect their calling so 
 much. The literar}' controversy at this time was very bitter, 
 the Government side was the winning one, the popular one, 
 and I think might have been the merciful one. 'Twas natural 
 that the opposition should be peevish and cry out : some men 
 
330 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 did so from their hearts, admiring the Duke of Marlborough's 
 prodigious talents, and deploring the disgrace of the greatest 
 general the world ever knew : 'twas the stomach that caused 
 other patriots to grumble, and such men cried out because they 
 were poor, and paid to do so. Against these my Lord Boling- 
 broke never showed the slightest mere}', whipping a dozen into 
 prison or into the pillory without the least commiseration. 
 
 From having been a man of arms Mr. Esmond had now 
 come to be a man of letters, but on a safer side than that in 
 which the above-cited poor fellows ventured their hberties and 
 ears. There was no danger on ours, which was the winning 
 side ; besides, Mr. Esmond pleased himself by thinking that 
 he writ like a gentleman if he did not always succeed as a 
 wit. 
 
 Of the famous wits of that age, who have rendered Queen 
 Anne's reign illustrious, and whose works will be in all English- 
 men's hands in ages yet to come, Mr. Esmond saw man3% but 
 at public places chie% ; never having a great intimac}^ with 
 any of them, except with honest Dick Steele and Mr. Addison, 
 who parted company with Esmond, however, when that gentle- 
 man became a declared Tory, and lived on close terms with the 
 leading persons of that party. Addison kept himself to a few 
 friends, and very rarely opened himself except in their com- 
 pany. A man more upright and conscientious than he it was 
 not possible to find in public life, and one whose conversation 
 was so various, easy, and delightful. Writing now in my 
 mature years, I own that 1 think Addison's politics were the 
 right, and were my time to come over again, I would be a 
 Whig in PZngJand and not a Tory ; but with people that take a 
 side in politics, 'tis men rather than principles that commonly 
 bind them. A kindness or a slight puts a man under one flag 
 or the other, and he marches with it to the end of the campaign. 
 Esmond's master in war was injured b}' Marlborough, and hated 
 him : and the lieutenant fought the quarrels of his leader. Webb 
 coming to London was used as a weapon b}^ Marlborough's 
 enemies (and true steel he was, that honest chief) ; nor was his 
 aide-de-camp, Mr. Esmond, an unfaithful or unworth}' partisan. 
 'Tis strange here, and on a foreign soil, and in a land that is 
 independent in all but the name, (for that the North American 
 colonies shall remain dependants on yonder little island for 
 twenty years more, I never can think,) to remember how the 
 nation at home seemed to give itself up to the domination of 
 one or other aristocratic party, and took a Hanoverian king, or 
 a French one, according as either prevailed. And while the 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 331 
 
 Tories, the October Club gentlemen, the High Church parsons 
 that held by the Church of England, were for having a Papist 
 king, for whom many of their Scottish and English leaders, firm 
 churchmen all, laid down their lives with admirable lo^^alty and 
 devotion ; they were governed by men who liad notoriously no 
 religion at all, but used it as they would use any opinion for the 
 purpose of forwarding their own ambition. The Whigs, on the 
 other hand, who professed attachment to religion and liberty 
 too, were compelled to send to Holland or Hanover for a mon- 
 arch around whom the}- could rally. A strange series of com- 
 promises is that English History ; compromise of principle, 
 compromise of part}^, compromise of worship ! The lovers of 
 English fi'eedom and independence submitted their religious 
 consciences to an Act of Parliament ; could not consolidate 
 their liberty without sending to Zell or the Hague for a king to 
 live under ; and could not find amongst the proudest people in 
 the world a man speaking their own language, and understand- 
 ing their laws, to govern them. The Tory and High Church 
 patriots were ready to die in defence of a Papist familj' that had 
 sold us to France ; the great Whig nobles, the sturdy republican 
 recusants who had cut off Charles Stuart's head for treason, 
 were fain to accept a king whose title came to him through a 
 royal grandmother, whose own royal grandmother's head had 
 fallen under Queen Bess's hatchet. And our proud English 
 nobles sent to a petty German town for a monarch to come and 
 reign in London ; and our prelates kissed the ugly hands of his 
 Dutch mistresses, and thought it no dishonor. In England you 
 can but belong to one party or t'other, and you take the house 
 you live in with all its encumbrances, its retainers, its antique 
 discomforts, and ruins even ; 3'ou patch up, but you never build 
 up anew. Will we of the new world submit much longer, even 
 nominally, to this ancient British superstition? There are signs 
 of the times which make me think that ere long we shall care 
 as little about King George here, and peers temporal and 
 peers spiritual, as we do for King Canute or the Druids. 
 
 This chapter began about the wits, my grandson ma^^ sa}^ 
 and hath wandered very far from their company. The pleasant- 
 est of the wits I knew were the Doctors Garth and Arbuthnot, 
 and Mr. Gay, the author of "Trivia," the most charming kind 
 soul that ever laughed at a joke or cracked a bottle. Mr. Prior 
 I saw, and he was the earthen pot swimming with the pots of 
 brass down the stream, and always and justl}^ frightened lest he 
 should break in the voyage. I met him both at London and 
 Paris, where he was performing piteous congees to the Duke of 
 
332 THE HISTOHY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Shrewsbury, not having courage to support the dignity which 
 his undeniable genius and talent had won him, and writing 
 coaxing letters to Secretary St. John, and thinking about his 
 plate and his place, and what on earth should become of him 
 should his party go out. The famous Mr. Congreve I saw a 
 dozen of times at Button's, a splendid wreck of a man, mag- 
 nificently attired, and though gouty, and almost blind, bearing 
 a brave face against fortune. 
 
 The great Mr. Pope (of whose prodigious genius I have no 
 words to express my admiration) was quite a puny lad at this 
 time, appearing seldom in public places. There were hun- 
 dreds of men, wits, and pretty fellows frequenting the theatres 
 and coffee-houses of that day — whom " nunc perscribere longum 
 est." Indeed I think the most brilliant of that sort I ever saw 
 was not till fifteen years afterwards, when I paid my last visit 
 in England, and met young Harry Fielding, son of the Fielding 
 that served in Spain and afterwards in Flanders with us, and 
 who for fun and humor seemed to top them all. As for the 
 famous Dr. Swift, I can say of him, " Vidi tantum." He was 
 in London all these years up to the death of the Queen ; and in 
 a hundred pubhc places where I saw him, but no more ; he 
 never missed Court of a Sunda}-, where once or twice he was 
 pointed out to your grandfather. He would have sought me 
 out eagerly enough had I been a great man with a title to m^' 
 name, or a star on my coat. At Court the Doctor had no eyes 
 but for the ver}^ greatest. Lord Treasurer and St. John used 
 to call him Jonathan, and the}' paid him with this cheap coin 
 for the service they took of him. He writ their lampoons, 
 fought their enemies, flogged and bullied in their service, and it 
 must be owned with a consummate skill and fierceness. 'Tis 
 said he hath lost his intellect now, and forgotten his wrongs and 
 his rage against mankind. I have always thought of him and 
 of Marlborough as the two greatest men of that age. I have 
 read his books (who doth not know them ?) here in our calm 
 woods, and imagine a giant to myself as I think of him, a lonel}' 
 fallen Prometheus, groaning as the vulture tears him. Prome- 
 theus I saw, but when first I ever had any words with him, the 
 giant stepped out of a sedan chair in the Poultry, whither he 
 had come with a tipsy Irish servant parading before him, who 
 announced him, bawling out his Reverence's name, whilst his 
 master below was as 3'et haggling with the chairman. I dis- 
 liked this Mr. Swift, and heard many a stor}' about him, of his 
 conduct to men, and his words to women. He could flatter the 
 great as much as he could bull}' the weak ; and Mr. Esmond, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 333 
 
 being younger and hotter in that day than now, was deter- 
 mined, should he ever meet this dragon, not to run away from 
 his teeth and his fire. 
 
 Men have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards in 
 life, and are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be of 
 distinction, from a hundred different causes. There was one 
 comrade of Esmond's, an honest little Irish lieutenant of Handy- 
 side's, who owed so much money to a camp sutler, that he be- 
 gan to make love to the man's daughter, intending to pa}- his 
 debt that way ; and at the battle of Malplaquet, flying away 
 from the debt and lady too, he rushed so desperately on the 
 French lines, that he got his compan}' ; and came a captain out 
 of the action, and had to marry the sutler's daughter after all, 
 who brought him his cancelled debt to her father as poor Roger's 
 fortune. To run out of the reach of bill and marriage, he ran 
 on the enemy's pikes ; and as these did not kill him he was 
 thrown back upon t'other horn of his dilemma. Our great Duke 
 at the same battle was fighting, not the French, but the Tories 
 in England ; and risking his life and the army's, not for his 
 country but for his pay and places ; and for fear of his wife at 
 home, that only being in life whom he dreaded. I have asked 
 about men in my own company, (new drafts of poor country 
 boys were perpetuall3' coming over to us during the wars, and 
 brought from the ploughshare to the sword,) and found that a 
 half of them under the flags were driven thither on account of 
 a woman : one fellow was jilted bj' his mistress and took the 
 shilling in despair; another jilted the girl, and fled from her and 
 the parish to the tents where the law could not disturb him. 
 Why go on particularizing? What can the sons of Adam and 
 Eve expect, but to continue in that course of love and trouble 
 their father and mother set out on? Oh, my grandson ! I am 
 drawing nigh to the end of that period of my history, when I 
 was acquainted with the great world of England and Europe ; 
 my years are past the Hebrew poet's limit, and I say unto thee, 
 all my troubles and joys too, for that matter, have come from 
 a woman ; as thine will when thy destined course begins. 'Twas 
 a woman that made a soldier of me, that set me intriguing 
 afterwards ; I believe I would have spun smocks for her had she 
 so bidden me ; what strength I had in my head I would have 
 given her ; hath not every man in his degree had his Omphale 
 and Delilah ? Mine befooled me on the banks of the Thames, 
 and in dear old England ; thou mayest find thine own by Rap- 
 pahannock. 
 
 To please that woman then I tried to distinguish myself as 
 
334 THE HISTORY OF HENKY ESMOND. 
 
 a soldier, and afterwards as a wit and a politician ; as to please 
 another I would have put on a black cassock and a pair of bands, 
 and had done so but that a superior fate intervened to defeat 
 that project. And I sa}', I think the world is like Captain 
 Esmond's com pan}' I spoke of anon ; and could 3'ou see every 
 man's career in life, you would find a woman clogging him ; or 
 clinging round his march and stopping him ; or cheering him 
 and goading him : or beckoning him out of her chariot, so that 
 he goes up to her, and leaves the race to be run without him ; 
 or bringing him the apple, and saying " Eat ; " or fetching him 
 the daggers and whispering " Kill ! yonder lies Duncan, and a 
 crown, and an opportunit3\" 
 
 Your grandfather fought with more effect as a politician than 
 as a wit : and having private animosities and grievances of his 
 own and his General's against the great Duke in command of 
 the army, and more information on military matters than most 
 writers, who had never seen beyond the fire of a tobacco-pipe 
 at " Wills's," he was enabled to do good service for that cause 
 which he embarked in, and for Mr. St. John and his party. 
 But he disdained the abuse in which some of the Torj'^ writers 
 indulged ; for instance. Dr. Swift, who actually chose to doubt 
 the Duke of Marlborough's courage, and was pleased to hint 
 that his Grace's militar}" capacit}^ was doubtful ; nor were 
 Esmond's performances worse for the effect the}' were intended 
 to produce, (though no doubt they could not injure the Duke of 
 Marlborough nearl}^ so much in the pubhc eyes as the malignant 
 attacks of Swift did, which were carefully directed so as to 
 blacken and degrade him,) because they were writ openly and 
 fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made no disguise of them, who was 
 now out of the arm}^ and who never attacked the prodigious 
 courage and talents, onl}- the selfishness and rapacity, of the 
 chief. 
 
 The Colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory 
 journals, called the Post- Boy ^ (a letter upon Bouchain, that the 
 town talked about for two whole days, when the appearance of 
 an Italian singer supplied a fresh subject for conversation,) and 
 having business at the Exchange, where Mistress Beatrix wanted 
 a pair of gloves or a fan ver}' likel3% Esmond went to correct 
 his paper, and was sitting at the printer's, when the famous 
 Doctor Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that used to 
 walk before his chair, and bawled out his master's name with 
 great dignit}^ 
 
 Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife had 
 gone to the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime engaged in 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 335 
 
 drawing a picture of a soldier on horseback for a dirt}' little 
 prett}' boy of the printer's wife, whom she had left behind her. 
 
 "I presume 3'ou are the editor of the Post-Boy^ sir?" says 
 the Doctor, in a grating voice that had an Irish twang ; and he 
 looked at the Colonel from under his two bushy eyebrows with 
 a pair of very clear blue eyes. His complexion was muddy, 
 his figure rather fat, his chin double. He wore a shabby cas- 
 sock, and a shabby- hat over his black wig, and he pulled out a 
 great gold watch, at which he looks very fierce. 
 
 " I am but a contributor. Doctor Swift," saj's Esmond, with 
 the little bo}' still on his knee. He was sitting with his baik in 
 the window, so that the Doctor could not see him. 
 
 "Who told you I was Dr. Swift?" says the Doctor, eying 
 the other ver}' haughtil}^ 
 
 "Your Reverence's valet bawled out your name," says the 
 Colonel. " I should judge 3'ou brought him from Ireland ? " 
 
 "And pra}', sir, what right have 3^ou to judge whether m}' 
 servant came from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your 
 emplo3er, Mr. Leach. I'll thank ye go fetch him." 
 
 "Where's your papa. Tommy?" asks the Colonel of the 
 child, a smutty little wretch in a frock. 
 
 Instead of answering, the child begins to cry ; the Doctor's 
 appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp. 
 
 " Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do 
 what I bid ye, sir," says the Doctor. 
 
 " I must finish the picture first forTomm}^," says the Colo- 
 nel, laughing. " Here, Tomm}', will you have 3 our Fandour 
 with whiskers or without?" 
 
 " Whisters," says Tomm}^ quite intent on the picture. 
 
 " Who the devil are ye, sir? " cries the Doctor ; " are j'e a 
 printer's man or are 3'e not?" he pronounced it hke naught. 
 
 " Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am," 
 says Colonel Esmond. " Did 3'ou ever hear of Doctor Faustus, 
 little Tommy? or Friar Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and 
 set the Tiiames on fire ? " 
 
 Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. " I did not 
 intend an3' offence, sir," sa3's he. 
 
 "I dare say, sir, 3'ou offended without meaning," sa3'S the 
 other, dryly. 
 
 " Who arc 3-e, sir? Do 3"0U know who I am, sir? You are 
 one of the pack of Grub Street scribblers that my friend Mr. 
 Secretary hath laid by the heels. How dare 3^e, sir, speak to 
 me in this tone?" cries the Doctor, in a great fume. 
 
 " I beg your honor's humble pardon if I have offended your 
 
336 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 honor," says Esmond in a tone of great humilit}', "Rather 
 than be sent to the Compter, or be put m the pillory, there's 
 nothing I wouldn't do. But Mrs. Leach, the printer's lady, 
 told me to mind Tommy whilst she went for her husband to the 
 tavern, and I daren't leave the child lest he sliould fall into 
 the fire ; but if your Reverence will hold him — " 
 
 " I take the little beast!" says the Doctor, starting back. 
 "I am engaged to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that 
 when he makes an appointment with Dr. Swift he had best keep 
 it, do ye hear? And keep a respectful tongue in your head, 
 sir, when 3-ou address a person like me." 
 
 "I'm but a poor broken-down soldier," says the Colonel, 
 " and I've seen better days, though I am forced now to turn 
 my hand to writing. We can't help our fate, sir." 
 
 "You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of, 
 I presume. Have the goodness to speak civilly when 3'ou are 
 spoken to — and tell Leach to call at my lodgings in Bury Street, 
 and bring the papers with him to-night at ten o'clock. And 
 the next time you see me, you'll know me, and be civil, Mr. 
 Kemp." 
 
 Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of 
 the war, and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post- Boy ^ 
 and now took honest Mr. Leach's pa}^ in place of her Majesty's. 
 Esmond had seen this gentleman, and a very ingenious, hard- 
 working honest fellow he w^as, toiling to give bread to a great 
 famih', and watching up many a long winter night to keep the 
 wolf from his door. And Mr. St. John, who had libert}' always 
 on his tongue, had just sent a dozen of the opposition writers 
 into prison, and one actually into the pillor}^ for what he called 
 libels, but libels not half so violent as those writ on our side. 
 With regard to this YQry piece of tyranny, Esmond had remon- 
 strated strongly with the Secretary, who laughed and said the 
 rascals were served quite right ; and told Esmond a joke of 
 Swift's regarding the matter. Naj^ more, this Irishman, when 
 St. John was about to pardon a poor wretch condemned to death 
 for rape, absolutely prevented the Secretar}* from exercising 
 this act of good-nature, and boasted that he had had the man 
 hanged ; and great as the Doctor's genius might be, and splen- 
 did his ability, Esmond for one would affect no love for him, 
 and never desired to make his acquaintance. The Doctor was 
 at Court every Sunday assiduously enough, a place the Colonel 
 frequented but rarely, though he had a great inducement to go 
 there in the person of a fair maid of honor of her Majesty's ; 
 ajid the airs and patronage Mr. Swift gave himself, forgetting 
 
THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND. 337 
 
 gentlemen of his country whom he knew perfectl}^ his loud 
 talk at once insolent and servile, nay, perhaps his very intimacy 
 with Lord Treasurer and the Secretar}^ who indulged all his 
 freaks and called him Jonathan, you ma}' be sure, were re- 
 marked by many a person of whom the proud priest himself 
 took no note, during that time of his vanity and triumph. 
 
 'Twas but three daj's after the loth of November, 1712 (Es- 
 mond minds him well of the date) , that he went by invitation 
 to dine with his General, the foot of whose table he used to 
 take on these festive occasions, as he had done at many a 
 board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign. This was 
 a great feast, and of the latter sort ; the honest old gentleman 
 loved to treat his friends splendidly : his Grace of Ormonde, 
 before he joined his army as generalissimo, my Lord Viscount 
 Bolingbroke, one of her Majest3''s Secretaries of State, my 
 Lord Orkney, that had served with us abroad, being of the 
 part}*. His Grace of Hamilton, Master of the Ordnance, and 
 in whose honor the feast had been given, upon his approaching 
 departure as Ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to 
 General Webb at two o'clock, but an hour before the dinner : 
 nothing but the most immediate business, his Grace said, 
 should have prevented him having the pleasure of drinking 
 a parting glass to the health of General Webb. His absence 
 disappointed Esmond's old chief, who suffered much from his 
 wounds besides ; and though the compan}^ was grand, it was 
 ratlier gloom}-. St. John came last, and brought a friend with 
 him : " I'm sure," says my General, bowing very politely, " my 
 table hath always a place for Dr. Swift." 
 
 Mr. Esmond went up to the Doctor with a bow and a smile : 
 — "I gave Dr. Swift's message," says he, "to the printer: 
 I hope he brought your pamphlet to your lodgings in time." 
 Indeed poor Leach had come to his house very soon after the 
 Doctor left it, being brought away rather tipsy from the tavern 
 by his thrifty wife ; and he talked of Cousin Swift in a maud- 
 lin way, though of course Mr. Esmond did not allude to this 
 relationship. The Doctor scowled, blushed, and was much 
 confused, and said scarce a word during the whole of dinner. 
 A very little stone will sometimes knock down these Goliaths 
 of wit ; and this one was often discomfited when met by a man 
 of any spirit ; he took his place sulkily, put water in his wine 
 that the others drank plentifully, and scarce said a word. 
 
 The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about 
 persons than affairs : my Lady Marlborough's fury, her daugh- 
 ters in old clothes and mob-caps looking out from their windows 
 
 22 
 
338 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 and seeing the compan}^ pass to the Drawing-room ; the gen^ 
 tleman-usher's horror when the Prince of Savoy was introduced 
 to her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man out of a full-bottomed 
 periwig ever having kissed the Roj^al hand before ; about the 
 Mohawks and the damage they were doing, rushing through 
 the town, killing and murdering. Some one said the ill-omened 
 face of Mohun had been seen at the theatre the night be- 
 fore, and Macartney and Meredith with him. Meant to be a 
 feast, the meeting, in spite of drink and talk, was as dismal 
 as a funeral. Every topic started subsided into gloom. His 
 Grace of Ormonde went away because the conversation got 
 upon Denain, where we had been defeated in the last campaign. 
 Esmond's General was affected at the allusion to this action 
 too, for his comrade of Wynendael, the Count of Nassau Wou- 
 denbourg, had been slain there. Mr. Swift, when Esmond 
 pledged him, said he drank no wine, and took his hat from the 
 peg and went away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke to follow 
 him ; but the other bade him take his chariot and- save bis 
 coach-hire — he had to speak with Colonel Esmond ; and when 
 the rest of the company withdrew to cards, these two remained 
 behind in the dark. 
 
 Bolingbroke alwa3's spoke freely when he had drunk freely. 
 His enemies could get any secret out of him in that condition ; 
 women were even employed to pl}^ him, and take his words 
 down. I have heard that my Lord Stair, three years after, 
 when the Secretary fled to France and became the Pretender's 
 Minister, got all the information he wanted by putting female 
 spies over St. John in his cups. He spoke freely- now : — 
 *' Jonathan knows nothing of this for certain, though he sus- 
 pects it, and by George, Webb will take an Archbishopric, 
 and Jonathan a — no, — damme — Jonathan will take an Arch- 
 bishopric from James, I warrant me, gladly enough. Your 
 Duke hath the string of the whole matter in his hand," the 
 Secretary went on. "We have that which will force Marl- 
 borough to keep his distance, and he goes out of London in 
 a fortniglit. Prior hath his business ; he left me this morning, 
 and mark me, Harry, should fate carry off our august, our 
 beloved, our most gouty and plethoric Queen, and Defender 
 of the Faith, la bonne cause triomphera. A la sante de la 
 bonne cause ! Everything good comes from France. Wine 
 comes from France ; give us another bumper to the bonne 
 cause." We drank it together. 
 
 ' ' Will the bonne cause turn Protestant ? " asked Mr. Es- 
 mond. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 339 
 
 *'No, hang it," says the other, "he'll defend our Faith as 
 in duty bound, but he'll stick b}^ his own. The Hind and the 
 Panther shall run in the same car, by Jove. Righteousness 
 and peace shall kiss each other : and we'll have Father Mas- 
 sillon to walk down the aisle of St. Paul's, cheek by jowl with 
 Dr. Sacheverel. Give us more wine ; here's a health to the 
 bonne cause, kneehng — damme, let's drink it kneeling." He 
 was quite flushed and wild with wine as he was talking. 
 
 " And suppose," sa3's Esmond, who alwa3^s had this gloomy 
 apprehension, "the bonne cause should give us up to the 
 French, as his father and uncle did before him ? " 
 
 " Give us up to the French ! " starts up Bolingbroke ; " is 
 there any P^nglish gentleman that fears that? You who have 
 seen Blenheim and RamiUies, afraid of the French ! Your 
 ancestors and mine, and brave old Webb's yonder, have met 
 them in a hundred fields, and our children will be ready to do 
 the like. Who's he that wishes for more men from England? 
 My Cousin Westmoreland? Give us up to the French, 
 pshaw ! " 
 
 " His uncle did," says Mr. Esmond. 
 
 ' ' And what happened to his grandfather ? " broke out St. 
 John, filling out another bumper. " Here's to the greatest 
 monarch England ever saw ; here's to the Englishman that 
 made a kingdom of her. Our great King came from Hunting- 
 don, not Hanover; our fathers didn't look for a Dutchman to 
 rule us. Let him come and we'll keep him, and we'll show 
 him Whitehall. If he's a traitor let us have him here to deal 
 with him ; and then there are spirits here as great as any that 
 have gone before. There are men here that can look at dan- 
 ger in the face and not be frightened at it. Traitor ! treason ! 
 what names are these to scare you and me? Are all Oliver's 
 men dead, or his glorious name forgotten in fifty j'ears? Are 
 there no men equal to him, think j'ou, as good — a}^, as good? 
 God save the King ! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save 
 the British Repubhc ! " 
 
 He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained 
 it wildly, just as the noise of rapid carriage-wheels approaching 
 was stopped at our door, and after a hurried knock and a 
 moment's interval, Mr. Swift came into the hall, ran up stairs 
 to the room we were dining in, and entered it with a perturbed 
 face. St. John, excited with drink, was making some wild 
 quotation out of Macbeth, but Swift stopped him. 
 
 " Drink no more, ni}" lord, for God's sake!" says he. ''I 
 come with the most dreadful news." 
 
340 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 "Is the Queen dead?" cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on 
 a water-glass. 
 
 "No, Duke Hamilton is dead: he was murdered an hour 
 ago by Mohun and Macartne}^ ; they had a quarrel this morn- 
 ing ; the}' gave him not so much time as to write a letter. He 
 went for a couple of his friends, and he is dead, and Mohun, 
 too, the blood}^ villain, who was set on him. They fought in 
 H^^de Park just before sunset ; the Duke killed Mohun, and 
 Macartne}^ came up and stabbed him, and the dog is fled. I 
 have 3'our chariot below ; send to every part of the countr^ 
 and apprehend that villain ; come to the Duke's house and 
 see if any life be left in him." 
 
 " Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix," thought Esmond, " and here ends 
 my poor girl's ambition ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 POOR BEATRIX. 
 
 There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity 
 of a separation between him and Beatrix : Fate had done that 
 completel}^ ; and I think from the very moment poor Beatrix 
 had accepted the Duke's offer, she began to assume the majestic 
 air of a Duchess, na}^. Queen Elect, and to carr}' herself as one 
 sacred and removed from us common people. Her mother and 
 kinsman both fell into her ways, the latter scornfully perhaps, 
 and uttering his usual gibes at her vanity and his own. There 
 was a certain charm about this girl of which neither Colonel 
 Esmond nor his fond mistress could forego the fascination ; in 
 spite of her faults and her pride and wilfulness, the}^ were forced 
 to love her ; and, indeed, might be set down as the two chief 
 flatterers of the brilliant creature's court. 
 
 Who, in the course of his life, hath not been so bewitclied, 
 and worshipped some idol or another? Y'ears after this passion 
 hath been dead and buried, along with a thousand other worldl}'' 
 cares and ambitions, he who felt it can recall it out of its grave, 
 and admire, almost as fondly as he did in his 3^outh, that lovel}^ 
 queenly creature. I invoke that beautiful spiric from the shades 
 and love lier still ; or rather I should sa}^ such a past is alwaj^s 
 present to a man ; such a passion once felt forms a part of his 
 whole being, and cannot be separated from it ; it becomes a 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 341 
 
 portion of the man of to-day, just as an}- great faith or convic- 
 tion, the discovery of poetry, the awakening of religion, ever 
 afterwards influence him ; just as the wound I had at Blenheim, 
 and of which I wear the scar, hath become part of my frame 
 and influenced my whole body, nay, spirit subsequently, though 
 'twas got and healed fort}^ years ago. Parting and forgetting ! 
 What faithful heart can do these? Our great thoughts, our 
 great affections, the Truths of our life, never leave us. Surely, 
 they cannot separate from our consciousness ; shall follow it 
 whithersoever that shall go ; and are of their nature divine and 
 immortal. 
 
 With the horrible news of this catastrophe, which was con- 
 firmed by the weeping domestics at the Duke's own door, 
 Esmond rode homewards as quick as his lazy coach would 
 carry him, devising all the time how he should break the intel- 
 hgence to the person most concerned in it ; and if a satire upon 
 human vanity could be needed, that poor soul afforded it in the 
 altered company and occupations in which Esmond found her. 
 For days before, her chariot had been rolling the street from 
 mercer to toyshop — from goldsmith to laceman : her taste was 
 perfect, or at least the fond bridegroom had thought so, and had 
 given her entire authority over all tradesmen, and for all the 
 plate, furniture and equipages, with w^hich his Grace the Am- 
 bassador wished to adorn his splendid mission. She must have 
 her picture b}" Kneller, a duchess not being complete without a 
 portrait, and a noble one he made, and actually sketched in, on 
 a cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear. She vowed 
 she would wear it at King James the Third's coronation, and 
 never a princess in the land would have become ermine better. 
 Esmond found the ante-chamber crowded with miUiners and 
 toyshop women, obsequious goldsmiths with jewels, salvers, 
 and tankards ; and mercers' men with hangings, and velvets, 
 and brocades. My Lady Duchess elect was giving audience 
 to one famous silversmith from Exeter Change, who brought 
 with him a great chased salver, of which he was pointing out 
 the beauties as Colonel Esmond entered. " Come," sa^'s she, 
 " cousin, and admire the taste of this prett}^ thing." I think 
 Mars and Venus were lying in the golden bower, that one gilt 
 Cupid carried off" the war-god's casque — another his sword — 
 another his great buckler, upon which my Lord Duke Hamil- 
 ton's arms with ours were to be engraved — and a fourth was 
 kneeling down to the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet 
 in her hands, God help us ! The next time Mr. Esmond saw 
 that piece of plate, the arms were changed, the ducal coronet 
 
342 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 had been replaced by a viscount's ; it formed part of the fortune 
 of the thrift}^ goldsmith's own daughter, when she married my 
 Lord Viscount Squanderfield two 3'ears after. 
 
 " Isn't this a beautiful piece?" says Beatrix, examining it, 
 and she pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine 
 carving of the languid prostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as he 
 thought of the warrior dead in his chamber, his servants and 
 children weeping around him ; and of this smiling creature 
 attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial death-bed. " 'Tis 
 a pretty piece of vanitj'," saj'S he, looking gloomily at the 
 beautiful creature : there were flambeaux in the room lighting 
 up the brilliant mistress of it. She lifted up the great gold 
 salver with her fair arms. 
 
 " Vanit}' ! " sa3^s she, haughtily. " What is vanity in you, 
 sir, is propriety in me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. 
 Graves ; but have it I will, if only to spite Mr. Esmond." 
 
 " Oh, Beatrix, la}- it down ! " ssiys Mr. Esmond. " Hero- 
 dias ! 3'ou know not what 3"ou carry in the charger." 
 
 She dropped it with a clang ; the eager goldsmith running to 
 seize his fallen ware. The lad3''s face caught the fright from 
 Esmond's pale countenance, and her e3'es shone out like beacons 
 of alarm : — " What is it, Henry ! " sa3's she, running to him, 
 and seizing both his hands. " What do 3'ou mean 53'' 3'our pale 
 face and gloom3^ tones ? " 
 
 " Come awa3', come awa3^ ! " says Esmond, leading her : she 
 clung frightened to him, and he supported her upon his heart, 
 bidding the scared goldsmith leave them. The man went into 
 the next apartment, staring with surprise, and hugging his 
 precious charger. 
 
 "Ob, m3^ Beatrix, m3' sister!" sa3's Esmond, still holding 
 in his arms the pallid and affrighted creature, " 3'Ou have the 
 greatest courage of an3' woman in the world ; prepare to show 
 it now, for 3'ou have a dreadful trial to bear." 
 
 She sprang awa3' from the friend who would have protected 
 her : — " Hath he left me? " sa3^s she. " We had words this 
 morning : he was very gloom3', and I angered him : but he 
 dared not, he dared not ! " As she spoke a burning blush 
 flushed over her whole face and bosom. Esmond saw it 
 reflected in the glass b\^ which she stood, with clenched hands, 
 pressing her swelling heart. 
 
 " He has left you," sa3^s Esmond, wondering that rage 
 rather than sorrow was in her looks. 
 
 '' And he is alive," cried Beatrix, " and you bring me this 
 commission ! He has left me, and 3'ou haven't dared to avenge 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 343 
 
 me ! You, that pretend to be the champion of our house, have 
 let me suffer this insult ! Where is Castlewood ? I will go to 
 tnj brother." 
 
 " The Duke is not alive, Beatrix," said Esmond. 
 
 She looked at her cousin wildl}', and fell back to the wall as 
 though shot in the breast: — ''And you come here, and — 
 and — you killed him ? " 
 
 *' No ; thank heaven ! " her kinsman said. " The blood of 
 that noble heart doth not stain my sword ! In its last hour 
 it was faithful to thee, Beatrix Esmond. Vain and cruel 
 woman ! kneel and thank the awful heaven which awards life 
 and death, and chastises pride, that the noble Hamilton died 
 true to 3'ou ; at least that 'twas not 3'our quarrel, or your pride, 
 or 3^our wicked vanity, that drove him to his fate. He died by 
 the blood^y sword which already had drank your own father's 
 blood. O woman, O sister ! to that sad field where two corpses 
 are lying — for tlie murderer died too by the hand of the man 
 he slew — can you bring no mourners but 3'our revenge and 
 3'our vanity? God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as he brings 
 this awful punishment to your hard and rebellious heart." 
 
 Esmond had scarce done speaking, when his mistress came 
 in. The colloquy between him and Beatrix had lasted but a 
 few minutes, during which time Esmond's servant had carried 
 the disastrous news through the household. The army of Van- 
 it3^ Fair, waiting without, gathered up all their fripperies and 
 fled aghast. Tender Lady Castlewood had been in talk above 
 with Dean Atterbur3', the pious creature's almoner and director ; 
 and the Dean had entered with her as a physician whose place 
 was at a sick-bed. Beatrix's mother looked at Esmond and 
 ran towards her daughter, with a pale face and open heart and 
 hands, all kindness and pit3\ But Beatrix passed her b3', nor 
 would she have any of the medicaments of the spiritual physi- 
 cian. " I am best in m3' own room and b3^ m3'self," she said. 
 Her e3'es were quite dr3^ ; nor did Esmond ever see them other- 
 wise, save once, in respect to that grief. She gave him a cold 
 hand as she went out: "Thank you, brother," she said, in a 
 low voice, and with a simplicit3^ more touching than tears ; ''all 
 you have said is true and kind, and I will go away and ask par- 
 don." The three others remained behind, and talked over the 
 dreadful story. It affected Dr. Atterbury more even tlian us, 
 as it seemed. The death of Mohun, her husband's murderer, 
 was more awful to my mistress than even the Duke's unhappy 
 end. Esmond gave at length what particulars he knew of their 
 quarrel, and the cause of it. The two noblemen had long been 
 
344 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 at war with respect to the Lord Gerard's propert}^, whose two 
 daughters my Lord Duke and Mohun had married. The}^ had 
 met by appointment that day at the lawyer's in Lincohi's Inn 
 Fields ; had words which, though they appeared very trifling to 
 those who heard them, were not so to men exasperated by long 
 and previous enmity. Mohun asked my Lord Duke where he 
 could see his Grace's friends, and within an hour had sent two 
 of his own to arrange this deadly duel. It was pursued with 
 such fierceness, and sprung from so trifling a cause, that all 
 men agreed at the time that there was a part}', of which these 
 three notorious brawlers were but agents, who desired to take 
 Duke Hamilton's life away. They fought tliree on a side, as 
 in that tragic meeting twelve years back, which hath been re- 
 counted already, and in which Mohun performed his second 
 murder. They rushed in, and closed upon each other at once 
 without any feints or crossing of swords even, and stabbed one 
 at the other desperately, each receiving many wounds ; and 
 Mohun having his death- wound, and my Lord Duke lying by 
 him. Macartney came up and stabbed his Grace as he lay on 
 the ground, and gave him the blow of which he died. Colonel 
 Macartney denied this, of which the horror and indignation of 
 the whole kingdom would nevertheless have him guilt}', and fled 
 the country, whither he never returned. 
 
 What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton's death ? — a 
 paltry quarrel that might easil}' have been made up, and with 
 a ruffian so low, base, profligate, and degraded with former 
 crimes and repeated murders, that a man of such renown and 
 princely rank as my Lord Duke might have disdained to sully 
 his sword with the blood of such a villain. But his spirit was 
 so high that those who wished his death knew that his courage 
 was like his charity, and never turned any man away ; and he 
 died by the hands of Mohun, and the other two cut-throats that 
 were set on him. The Queen's ambassador to Paris died, the 
 lo3'al and devoted servant of the House of Stuart, and a Roj^al 
 Prince of Scotland himself, and carrying the confidence, the 
 repentance of Queen Anne along with his own open devotion, 
 and the good- will of millions in the country more, to the Queen's 
 exiled brother and sovereign. 
 
 That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the benefit 
 of his service, and now were well rid of such a ruffian. He, 
 and Meredith, and Macartney, were the Duke of Marlborough's 
 men ; and the two colonels had been broke but the jear before 
 for drinking perdition to the Tories. His Grace was a Whig 
 now and a Hanoverian, and as eager for war as Prince Eugene 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 345 
 
 himself. I sa}' not that he was privy to Duke Hamilton's 
 death, I say that his party profited by it ; and that three des- 
 perate and bloody instruments were found to effect that murder. 
 As Esmond and the Dean walked awa}" from Kensington 
 discoursing of this tragedy, and how fatal it was to the cause 
 which the}' both had at heart, the street-criers were already out 
 with their broadsides, shouting through the town the full, true, 
 and horrible account of the death of Lord Mohun and Duke 
 Hamilton in a duel. A fellow had got to Kensington, and was 
 cr^'ing it in the square there at very early morning, when Mr. 
 Esmond happened to pass by. He drove the man from under 
 Beatrix's very window, whereof the casement had been set open. 
 The sun was shining though 'twas November : he had seen the 
 market-carts rolling into London, the guard relieved at the pal- 
 ace, the laborers trudging to their work in the gardens between 
 Kensington and the City — the wandering merchants and hawk- 
 ers fining the ^ir with their cries. The world was going to its 
 business again, although dukes lay dead and ladies mourned for 
 them ; and kings, very likely, lost their chances. So night and 
 day pass awa}-, and to-morrow comes, and our place knows us 
 not- Esmond thought of the courier, now galloping on the 
 North road to inform him, who was Earl of Arran yesterday, 
 that he was Duke of Hamilton to-day, and of a thousand great 
 schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the gallant heart, 
 beating a few hours since, and now in a little dust quiescent. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I VISIT CASTLE WOOD ONCE MORE. 
 
 Thus, for a third time, Beatrix's ambitious hopes were cir- 
 cumvented, and she might well believe that a special malignant 
 fate watched and pursued her, tearing her prize out of her hand 
 just as she seemed to grasp it, and leaving her with only rage 
 and grief for her portion. Whatever her feelings might have 
 been of anger or of sorrow, (and I fear me that the former 
 emotion was that which most tore her heart,) she would take 
 no confidant, as people of softer natures would have done under 
 such a calamity : her mother and her kinsman knew that she 
 would disdain their pity, and that to offer it would be but to 
 
346 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 infuriate the cruel wound which fortune had inflicted. We 
 knew that her pride was awfully humbled and punished by this 
 sudden and terrible blow ; she wanted no teaching of ours to 
 point out the sad moral of her stor}'. Her fond mother could 
 give but her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful friendship 
 and patience to the unhappy, stricken creature ; and it was 
 only by hints, and a word or two uttered months afterwards, 
 that Beatrix showed she understood their silent commiseration, 
 and on her part was secretly thankful for their forbearance. 
 The people about the Court said there was that in her manner 
 which frightened away scoffing and condolence : she was above 
 their triumph and their pity, and acted her part in that dread- 
 ful tragedy greatly and courageously ; so that those who liked 
 her least were yet forced to admire her. We, who watched 
 her after her disaster, could not but respect the indomitable 
 courage and majestic calm with which she bore it. "I would 
 rather see her tears than her pride," her mother said, who was 
 accustomed to bear her sorrows in a very different way, and to 
 receive them as the stroke of God, with an awful submission 
 and meekness. But Beatrix's nature was different to that 
 tender parent's ; she seemed to accept her grief and to defy it ; 
 nor would she allow it (I believe not even in private and in her 
 own chamber) to extort from her the confession of even a tear 
 of humiliation or a cry of pain. Friends and children of our 
 race, who come after me, in which way will you bear your tri- 
 als ? I know one that prays God will give 3^ou love rather than 
 pride, and that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble 
 place. Not that we should judge proud spirits otherwise than 
 charitably. 'Tis nature hath fashioned some for ambition and 
 dominion, as it hath formed others for obedience and gentle 
 submission. The leopard follows his nature as the lamb does, 
 and acts after leopard law ; she can neither help her beauty, nor 
 her courage, nor her cruelty ; nor a single spot on her shining 
 coat ; nor the conquering spirit which impels her ; nor the shot 
 which brings her down. 
 
 During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the 
 Queen should forsake their Hanoverian Prince, bound by oaths 
 and treaties as she was to him, and recall her brother, who was 
 allied to her by yet stronger ties of nature and duty ; the Prince 
 of Savoy, and the boldest of that party of the Whigs, were for 
 bringing the .young Duke of Cambridge over, in spite of the 
 Queen, and the outcry of her Tory servants, arguing that the 
 Electoral Prince, a Peer and Prince of the Blood-Royal of this 
 Realm too, and in the line of succession to the crown, had a 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 347 
 
 right to sit in the Parliament whereof he was a member, and to 
 dwell in the country which he one day was to govern. Nothing 
 but the strongest ill will expressed by the Queen, and the 
 people about her, and menaces of the Royal resentment, should 
 this scheme be persisted in, prevented it from being carried 
 into effect. 
 
 The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having our 
 Prince into the country. The undoubted inheritor of the right 
 divine ; the feelings of more than half the nation, of almost all 
 the clerg}^, of the gentry of England and Scotland with him ; 
 entirel}' innocent of the crime for which his father suffered — 
 brave, young, handsome, unfortunate — who in England would 
 dare to molest the Prince should he come among us, and fling 
 himself upon British generosity, hospitality, and honor? An 
 invader with an army of Frenchmen behind him. Englishmen 
 of spirit would resist to the death, and drive back to the shores 
 whence he came ; but a Prince, alone, armed with his right 
 only, and relying on the loyalty of his people, was sure, many 
 of his friends argued, of welcome, at least of safet}^ among us. 
 The hand of his sister the Queen, of the people his subjects, 
 never could be raised to do him a wrong. But the Queen was 
 timid by nature, and the successive Ministers she had, had 
 private causes for their irresolution. The bolder and honester 
 men, who had at heart the illustrious 3'oung exile's cause, had 
 no scheme of interest of their own to prevent them from seeing 
 the right done,^ and, provided only he came as an Englishman, 
 were read}^ to venture their all to welcome and defend him. 
 
 St. John and Harley both had kind words in plenty for the 
 Prince's adherents, and gave him endless promises of future 
 support ; but hints and promises were all they could be got to 
 give ; and some of his friends were for measures much bolder, 
 more efficacious, and more open. With a part}^ of these, some 
 of whom are yet alive, and some whose names Mr. Esmond has 
 no right to mention, he found himself engaged the year after 
 that miserable death of Duke Hamilton, which deprived the 
 Prince of his most courageous ally in this country. Dean 
 Atterbur}' was one of the friends whom Esmond ma^' mention, 
 as the brave bishop is now beyond exile and persecution, and 
 to him, and one or two more, the Colonel opened himself of a 
 scheme of his own, that, backed by a little resolution on the 
 Prince's part, could not fail of bringing about the accomplish- 
 ment of their dearest wishes. 
 
 My young Lord Viscount Castlewood had not come to Eng- 
 land to keep his majority, and had now been absent from the 
 
348 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 countr}^ for several 3'ears. The year when his sister was to be 
 married and Duke Hamilton died, m^^ lord was kept at Brux- 
 elles by his wife's Ij'ing-in. The gentle Clotilda could not bear 
 her husband out of her sight ; perhaps she mistrusted the A'oung 
 scapegrace should he ever get loose from her leading-strings ; 
 and she kept him by her side to nurse the baby and administer 
 posset to the gossips. Many a laugh poor Beatrix had had 
 about Frank's uxoriousness : his mother would have gone to 
 Clotilda when her time was coming, but that the mother-in-law 
 was already in possession, and the negotiations for poor Bea- 
 trix's marriage were begun. A few months after the horrid 
 catastrophe in Hyde Park, my mistress and her daughter retired 
 to Castle wood, where my lord, it was expected, would soon join 
 them. But, to say truth, their quiet household was httle to his 
 taste ; he could be got to come to Walcote but once after his 
 first campaign ; and then the young rogue spent more than half 
 his time in London, not appearing 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 Esmond 
 (whereby his innocent kinsman got more than once into 
 trouble) ; and so under various pretexts, and in pursuit of all 
 sorts of pleasures, until he phmged into the lawful one of mar- 
 riage, Frank Castlewood had remained away from this country, 
 and was unknown, save amongst the gentlemen of the army, 
 with whom he had served abroad. The fond heart of his 
 mother was pained by this long absence. 'Twas all that Henry 
 Esmond could do to soothe her natural mortification, and find 
 excuses for his kinsman's levit^^ 
 
 In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought of 
 returning home. His first child had been a daughter ; Clotilda 
 was in the way of gratifying his lordship with a second, and the 
 pious youth thought that, by bringing his wife to his ancestral 
 home, b}' prayers to St. Philip of Castlewood, and what not, 
 heaven might be induced to bless him with a son this time, for 
 whose coming the expectant mamma was very anxious. 
 
 The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at 
 the end of March ; and France was open to us. Just as Frank's 
 poor mother had made all things ready for Lord Castlewood's 
 reception, and was eagerly 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. 
 
 Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its 
 ancient gray towers and well-remembered woods for nearly 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 349 
 
 fourteen j^ears, and since he rode thence with rn}^ lord, to whom 
 his mistress with her young children bj^ her side waved an adieu. 
 What ages seemed to have passed since then, what years of 
 action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster ! The children 
 were grown up now, and had stories of their own. As for Es- 
 mond, he felt to be a hundred 3-ears 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 mj' late 
 lord used, the ver}^ flagon he drank from. Esmond's mistress 
 knew he would like to sleep in the little room he used to occupy ; 
 'twas made read}' for him, and wall-flowers and sweet herbs set 
 in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain's room. 
 
 In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission 
 to the awful X)ispenser of death and life, of good and evil for- 
 tune, Mr. Esmond passed a part of that first night at Castlewood, 
 lying awake for man} 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 sur- 
 veying himself on the distant bank yonder, a sad little melan- 
 choly bo}' 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. Hadiie kept that fond boyish promise? Yes, before 
 heaven ; yes, praise be to God ! His life had been hers ; his 
 blood, his fortune, his name, his whole heart ever since had 
 been hers and her children's. All night long he was dreaming 
 his boyhood over again, and waking fitfull}^ ; he half fancied he 
 heard Father Holt calling to him from the next chamber, and 
 that he was coming in and out of from the mysterious window. 
 
 Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, 
 where the air was heavy with the odor of the wall-flowers ; 
 looked into the brazier where the papers had been burnt, into 
 the old presses where Holt's books and papers had been kept, 
 and tried the spring and whether the window worked still. The 
 spring had not been touched for 3'ears, but yielded at length, 
 and the whole fabric of the window sank down. He lifted it 
 and it relapsed into its frame ; no one had ever passed thence 
 since Holt used it sixteen years ago. 
 
 Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day 
 of his life, that Holt used to come in and out of the house like 
 a ghost, and knew that the Father liked these mysteries, and 
 practised such secret disguises, entrances and exits : this was 
 
350 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 the way the ghost came and went, his pupil had alwaj'S con- 
 jectured. Esmond closed the casement up again as the dawn 
 was rising over Castlewood village ; he could hear the clinking 
 at the blacksmith's forge j^onder among the trees, across the 
 green, and past the river, on which a mist still lay sleeping. 
 
 Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork 
 of the mantel-piece, big enough to hold a man, and in which Mr. 
 Holt used to keep sundr}^ secret properties of his. The two 
 swords he remembered so well as a bo}', lay actually there still, 
 and Esmond took them out and wiped them, with a strange 
 curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle of papers here, too, 
 which no doubt had been left at Holt's last visit to the place, in 
 m}^ Lord Viscount's life, that very day when the priest had 
 been arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free 
 with these papers, and found treasonable matter of King Wil- 
 liam's reign, the names of Charnock and Perkins, Sir John Fen- 
 wick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood and Lodwick, Lords 
 Montgomery and Ailesbury, Clarendon and Yarmouth, that had 
 all been engaged in plots against the usurper ; a letter from the 
 Duke of Berwick too, and one from the King at St. Germains, 
 offering to confer upon his trusty and well-beloved Francis Vis- 
 count Castlewood the titles of Earl and Marquis of Esmond, 
 bestowed b}' patent royal, and in the fourth year of his reign, 
 upon Thomas Viscount Castlewood and the heirs-male of his 
 body, in default of which issue the ranks and dignities were to 
 pass to Francis aforesaid. 
 
 This was the paper, whereof my lord had spoken, which 
 Holt showed him the very day he was arrested, and for an 
 answer to which he would come back in a week's time. I put 
 these papers hastily into the crypt whence I had taken them, 
 being interrupted by a tapping of a hght finger at the ring of 
 the chamber-door : 'twas my kind mistress, with her face full 
 of love and welcome. She, too, had passed the night wake- 
 fuly, no doubt ; but neither asked the other how the hours had 
 been spent. There are things we divine without speaking, and 
 know though they happen out of our sight. This fond lady 
 hath told me that she knew both days when I was wounded 
 abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how 
 truly love can prophesy? " I looked into your room," was all 
 she said ; "the bed was vacant, the little old bed ! I knew I 
 should find you here." And tender and blushing faintly with a 
 benediction in her eyes, the gentle creature kissed him. 
 
 They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court, and 
 to the terrace-walir.^ where the grass was glistening with dew, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 351 
 
 And the birds in the green woods above were singing their deli- 
 cious choruses under the bhishing morning sky. How well all 
 things were remembered ! The ancient towers and gables of the 
 hall darkling against the east, the purple shadows on the green 
 slopes, the quaint devices and carvings of the dial, the forest- 
 crowned heights, the fair yellow plain cheerful with crops and 
 corn, the shining river rolling through it towards the pearly 
 hills beyond ; all these were before us, along with a thousand 
 beautiful memories of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real 
 and vivid in our minds as that fair and always-remembered 
 scene our eyes beheld once more. We forget nothing. The 
 memory sleeps, but wakens again ; I often think how it shall be 
 when, after the last sleep of death, the reveilUe shall arouse us 
 for ever, and the past in one flash of self-consciousness rush 
 back, like thesoul revivified. 
 
 The house would not be up for some hours yet, (it was July, 
 and the dawn was only just awake,) and here Esmond opened 
 himself to his mistress, of the business he had in hand, and 
 what part Frank was to play in it. He knew he could confide 
 anything to her, and that the fond soul would die rather than 
 reveal it ; and bidding her keep the secret from all, he laid it 
 entirely before his mistress (always as staunch a little lo3^alist 
 as any in the kingdom), and indeed was quite sure that any 
 plan of his was-secure of her applause and sympathy. Never 
 was such a glorious scheme to her partial mind, never such a 
 devoted knight to execute it. An hour or two ma}^ have passed 
 whilst they were having their colloqu}'. Beatrix came out to 
 them just as their talk was over ; her tall beautiful form robed 
 in sable (which she wore without ostentation ever since last 
 3'ear's catastrophe), sweeping over the green terrace, and cast- 
 ing its shadows before her across the grass. 
 
 She made us one of her grand curtsies smiling, and called us 
 " the young people." She was older, paler, and more majestic 
 than in the year before ; her mother seemed the 3'oungest of the 
 two. She never once spoke of her grief, Lady Castlewood told 
 Esmond, or alluded, save b}^ a quiet word or two, to the death of 
 her hopes. 
 
 When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to visiting 
 all the cottages and all the sick. She set up a school of chil- 
 dren, and taught singing to some of them. We had a pair of 
 beautiful old organs in Castlewood Church, on which she plaj^ed 
 admirably, so that the music there became to be known in the 
 eountr}^ for many miles round, and no doubt people came to 
 see the fair organist as well as to hear her. Parson Tusher and 
 
352 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 his wife were established at the vicarage, but his wife had brought 
 him no children wherewith Tom might meet his enemies at the 
 gate. Honest Tom took care not to have many such, his great 
 shovel-hat was in his hand for everybody. He was profuse of 
 bows and compliments. He behaved to Esmond as if the 
 Colonel had been a Commander-in-Chief; he dined at the hall 
 that da^', being Sunda}^, and would not partake of pudding 
 except under extreme pressure. He deplored my lord's per- 
 version, but drank his lordship's health very devoutly ; and an 
 hour before at church sent the Colonel to sleep, with a long, 
 learned, and refreshing sermon. 
 
 Esmond's visit home was but for two days ; the business he 
 had in hand calling him away and out of the country. Ere 
 he went, he saw Beatrix but once alone, and then she sum- 
 moned him out of the long tapestr}^ room, where he and his 
 mistress were sitting, quite as in old times, into the adjoining 
 chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel's sleeping apart- 
 ment, and where Esmond perfectly well remembered seeing the 
 old lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning 
 when the troop of guard came to fetch her. The most beauti- 
 ful woman in England lay in that bed now, whereof the great 
 damask hangings were scarce faded since Esmond saw them 
 last. 
 
 Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in her 
 hand ; 'twas that which Esmond had given her before her mar- 
 riage, stamped with a coronet which the disappointed girl was 
 never to wear ; and containing his aunt's legacy of diamonds. 
 
 " You had best take these with 3'ou, Harry," says she ; "I 
 have no need of diamonds any more." There was not the 
 least token of emotion in her quiet low voice. She held out 
 the black shagreen case with her fair arm, that did not shake 
 in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet bracelet on 
 it, with m}' Lord Duke's picture in enamel ; he had given it her 
 but three days before he fell. 
 
 Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to 
 turn off that proffered restoration with a laugh : " Of what 
 good," says he, "are the}^ to me? The diamond loop to his 
 hat did not set off Prince Eugene, and will not make mj- 3^el- 
 low face look any handsomer." 
 
 "You will give them to your wife, cousin," says she. 
 " My cousin, j^our wife has a lovel}' complexion and shape." 
 
 " Beatrix," Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it 
 would at times, " will you wear those trinkets at 3^our mar- 
 riage ? You whispered once you did not know me : you know 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 353 
 
 me better now : how I sought, what I have sighed for, for ten 
 years, what foregone ! " 
 
 " A price for your constancy, my lord ! " says she ; " such 
 a preux chevalier wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin I " 
 
 " Again," Esmond spoke out, " if I do something you have 
 at heart ; something worthy of me and 3'ou ; something that 
 shall make me a name with which to endow you ; will you take 
 it? There was a chance for me once, you said; is it impos- 
 sible to recall it? Never shake your head, but hear me ; say 
 you will hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and 
 bring you fame, will that please you ? If I do what 3'ou desire 
 most — what he who is dead desired most — w411 that soften 
 you?" 
 
 "What is it, Henry?" says she, her face hghting up; 
 " what mean you?" 
 
 ''Ask no questions," he said; "wait, and give me but 
 time ; if I bring back that you long for, that I have a thou- 
 sand times heard you pray for, will 3'ou have no reward for 
 him who has done jon that service? Put awa}' those trin- 
 kets, keep them : it shall not be at my marriage, it shall not 
 be at yours ; but if man can do it, I swear a day shall come 
 when there shall be a feast in 3^our house, and you shall be 
 proud to wear them. I say no more now ; put aside these 
 words, and lock away yonder box until the da3' when I shall 
 remind you of both. All I pra3^ of 3^ou now is, to wait and to 
 remember." 
 
 "You are going out of the country?" sa3's Beatrix, in 
 some agitation. 
 
 "Yes, to-morrow," sa3's Esmond. 
 
 " To Lorraine, cousin?" says Beatrix, la3ing her hand on 
 his arm ; 'twas the hand on which she wore the Duke's bracelet. 
 " Stay, Harry ! " continued she, with a tone that had more 
 despondenc3^ in it than she was accustomed to show. " Hear 
 a last word. I do love 3'ou. I do admire you — who would 
 not, that has known such love as 3^ours has been for us all? 
 But I think I have no heart ; at least I have never seen the 
 man that could touch it ; and, had I found him, I would have 
 followed him in rags had he been a private soldier, or to sea, 
 like one of those buccaneers 3"ou used to read to us about 
 when we were children. I would do anything for such a man, 
 bear anything for him : but I never found one. You were ever 
 too much of a slave to win m3' heart ; even my Lord Duke 
 could not command it. I had not been happ3^ had I mar- 
 ried him. I knew that three months after our engagement — 
 
 23 
 
354 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 and was too vain to break it. Oh, Hariy ! I cried once or 
 twice, not for him, but with tears of rage because I could not 
 be sorry for him. I was frightened to find I was glad of his 
 death ; and were T joined to 3'ou, I should have the same sense 
 of servitude, the same longing to escape. We should both be 
 unhappy, and you the most, who are as jealous as the Duke 
 was himself. I tried to love him ; I tried, indeed I did : 
 affected gladness when he came : submitted to hear when 
 he was by me, and tried the wife's part I thought I 
 was to play for the rest of my days. But half an hour 
 of that complaisance wearied me, and what would a lifetime 
 be ? My thoughts were away when he was speaking ; and 
 I was thinking, Oh that this man would drop my hand, and 
 rise up from before my feet ! I knew his great and noble 
 qualities, greater and nobler than mine a thousand times, as 
 yours are, cousin, I tell 3'ou, a million and a million times bet- 
 ter. But 'twas not for these I took him. I took him to have 
 a great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, and do not 
 deplore him — and I often thought, as I listened to his fond 
 vows and ardent words. Oh, if I yield to this man, and meet 
 the other ^ I shall hate him and leave him ! I am not good, 
 Harrj' : ray mother is gentle and good like an angel. I won- 
 der how she should have had such a child. She is weak, but she 
 would die rather than do a wrong ; I am stronger than she, but 
 I would do it out of defiance. I do not care for what the par- 
 sons tell me with their droning sermons : I used to see them 
 at court as mean and as worthless as the meanest woman there. 
 Oh, I am sick and weary of the world ! I wait but for one 
 thing, and when 'tis done, I will take Frank's religion and 3'our 
 poor mother's, and go into a nunner}', and end hke her. Shall 
 I wear the diamonds then? — they say the nuns wear their best 
 trinkets the day the}' take the veil. I will put them awa}' as 
 3'ou bid me ; farewell, cousin : mamma is pacing the next 
 room racking her little head to know what we have been sa}"- 
 ing. She is jealous, all women are. I sometimes think that is 
 the onl}' womanly qualit}^ I have." 
 
 ^' Farewell. Farewell, brother." She gave him her cheek 
 as a brotherly privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble. 
 
 Esmond's mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he 
 returned to the room where she was. She had schooled her- 
 self so as to look quite inscrutably^, when she had a mind. 
 Amongst her other feminine qualities she had that of being a 
 perfect dissembler. 
 
 He rode away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was 
 
THE HISTORY OF HE^^RY ESMOND. 355 
 
 bound on, and stand or fall by it; in truth his state of mind 
 was such, that he was eager for some outward excitement to 
 counteract that gnawing malady which he was inwardly en- 
 during:. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 I TRAVEL TO FRANCE AND BRING HOME A PORTRAIT OF RIGAUD. 
 
 Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to 
 inform all the world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that 
 he was al)out -to quit England ; and chose to depart in the most 
 private manner possible. He procured a pass as for a French- 
 man, through Dr. Atterbury, who did that business for him, 
 getting the signature even from Lord Bolingbroke's office, 
 without any personal apphcation to the Secretar}'. Lockwood, 
 his faithful servant, he took with him to Castlewood, and left 
 behind there : giving out ere he left London that he himself 
 was sick, and gone to Hampshire for country air, and so de- 
 parted as silently as might be upon his business. 
 
 As Frank Castk^wood's aid was indispensable for Mr. Es- 
 mond's scheme, his first visit was to Bruxelles (passing by way 
 of Antwerp, where the Duke of Marlborough was in exile), 
 and in the first-named place Harry found his dear young Bene- 
 dict, the married man, who appeared to be rather out of humor 
 with his matrimonial chain, and clogged with the obstinate 
 embraces which Clotilda kept round his neck. Colonel Esmond 
 was not presented to her ; but Monsieur Simon was, a gentle- 
 man of the Royal Cravat (Esmond bethought him of the regi- 
 ment of his honest Irishman, whom he had seen that day after 
 Malplaquet, when he first set eyes on the 3'oung King) ; and 
 Monsieur Simon was introduced to the Viscountess Castlewood, 
 nee Comptesse Wertheim ; to the numerous counts, the Lady 
 Clotilda's tall brothers ; to her father the chamberlain ; and to 
 the lady his wife, Frank's mother-in-law, a tall and majestic 
 person of large proportions, such as became the mother of 
 such a company of grenadiers as her warlike sons formed. The 
 whole race were at free quarters in the little castle nigh to 
 Bruxelles which Frank had taken ; rode his horses ; drank his 
 wine ; and lived easil}^ at the poor lad's charges. Mr. Esmond 
 had always maintained a perfect fluency in the French, which 
 was his mother tongue ; and if this famil}^ (that spoke French 
 
356 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 with the twang which the Flemings use) discovered anj^ inac- 
 curac}' in Mr. Simon's pronunciation, 'twas to be attributed to 
 the latter's long residence in England, where he had married 
 and remained ever since he was taken prisoner at Blenheim. 
 His story was perfectly pat ; there were none there to doubt 
 it save honest Frank, and he was charmed with his kinsman's 
 scheme, when he became acquainted with it ; and, in truth, 
 always admired Colonel Esmond with an affectionate fidelity-, 
 and thought his cousin the wisest and best of all cousins and 
 men. Frank entered heart and soul into the plan, and hked it 
 the better as it was to take him to Paris, out of reach of his 
 brothers, his father, and his mother-in-law, whose attentions 
 rather fatigued him. 
 
 Castle wood, I have said, was born in the same 3- ear as the 
 Prince of Wales ; had not a little of the Prince's air, height, 
 and figure ; and, especially since he had seen the Chevalier de 
 St. George on the occasion before-named, took no small pride 
 in his resemblance to a person so illustrious ; which likeness 
 he increased b}' all means in his power, wearing fair brown 
 periwigs, such as the Prince wore, and ribbons, and so forth, 
 of the Chevalier's color. 
 
 This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on which 
 Mr. Esmond's scheme was founded ; and having secured Frank's 
 secrecy and enthusiasm, he left him to continue his journe}^ 
 and see the other personages on whom its success depended. 
 The place whither Mr. Simon next travelled was Bar, in 
 Lorraine, where that merchant arrived with a consignment of 
 broadcloths, valuable laces from Malines, and letters for his 
 correspondent there. 
 
 Would 3'ou know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes, 
 and descended from a line of kings, whose race seemed to be 
 doomed like the Atridse of old — would you know how he was 
 employed, when the envoy who came to him through danger 
 and difficulty beheld him for the first time ? The young king, 
 in a flannel jacket, was at tennis with the gentlemen of his 
 suite, crying out after the balls, and swearing like the meanest 
 of his subjects. The next time Mr. Esmond saw him, 'twas 
 when Monsieur Simon took a packet of laces to Miss Ogle- 
 thorpe : the Prince's ante-chamber in those days, at which 
 ignoble door men were forced to knock for admission to his 
 Majesty. The admission was given, the envoy found the King 
 and the mistress together ; the pair were at cards and his 
 Majest}' was in liquor. He cared more for three honors than 
 three kingdoms ; and a half-dozen glasses of ratafia made him 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 357 
 
 forget all his woes and his losses, his father's crown, and his 
 grandfather's head. 
 
 Mr. Esmond did not open himself to the Prince then. His 
 Majesty was scarce in a condition to hear him ; and he doubted 
 whether a King who drank so much could keep a secret in his 
 fuddled head ; or whether a hand that shook so, was strong 
 enough to grasp at a crown. However, at last, and after tak- 
 ing counsel with the Prince's advisers, amongst whom were 
 man}^ gentlemen, honest and faithful, Esmond's plan was laid 
 before the King, and her actual Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in 
 council. The Prince liked the scheme well enough ; 'twas easy 
 and daring, and suited to his reckless gayety and lively youth- 
 ful spirit. In the morning after he had slept his wine off, he 
 was verj' ga}', lively, and agreeable. His manner had an ex- 
 treme charm of archness, and a kind simplicit\^ ; and, to do 
 her justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, resolute, 
 and of good counsel ; she gave the Prince much good advice 
 that he was too weak to follow, and loved him with a fidelity 
 which he returned with an ingratitude quite Royal. 
 
 Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should it 
 ever be fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts as to the benefit 
 which might accrue to the countrj' by bringing a tipsy 3'oung 
 monarch back to it. Colonel Esmond had his audience of leave 
 and quiet. Monsieur Simon took his departure. At any rate 
 the youth at Bar was as good as the older Pretender at Han- 
 over ; if the worst came to the worst, the Englishman could be 
 dealt with as eas}' as the German. Monsieur Simon trotted on 
 that long journey from Nancy to Paris, and saw that famous 
 town, stealthily and like a sp}^ as in truth he was ; and where, 
 sure, more magnificence and more misery is heaped together, 
 more rags and lace, more filth and gilding, than in any cit\' in 
 this world. Here he was put in communication with the King's 
 best friend, his half brother, the famous Duke of Berwick ; 
 Esmond recognized him as the stranger who had visited Castle- 
 wood now near twenty 3'ears ago. His Grace opened to him 
 when he found that Mr. Esmond was one of Webb's brave 
 regiment, that had once been his Grace's own. He was the 
 sword and buckler indeed of the Stuart cause : there was no 
 stain on his shield except the bar across it, wdiich Marlborough's 
 sister left him. Had Berwick been his father's heir, James 
 the Third had assuredl}^ sat on the English throne. He could 
 dare, endure, strike, speak, be silent. The fire and genius, 
 perhaps, he had not (that were given to baser men), but except 
 these he had some of the best qualities of a leader. His Grace 
 
358 THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 knew Esmond's father and history ; and hinted at the latter 
 in such a wa}' as made the Colonel to think he was aware of 
 the particulars of that stor}'. But Esmond did not choose to 
 enter on it, nor did the Duke press him. Mr. Esmond said, 
 " No doubt he should come b}^ his name if ever greater people 
 came by theirs." 
 
 What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of 
 Berwick knew of his case was, that when the Colonel went 
 to pay his (hity at St. Germains, her Majesty once addressed 
 him b}' the title of Marquis. He took the Queen the dutiful 
 remembrances of her goddaughter, and the lady whom, in the 
 days of her prosperity, her Majesty had befriended. The Queen 
 remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had heard of my 
 Lord Castiewood's conversion, and was much edified b}^ that 
 act of heaven in his favor. She knew that others of that family 
 had been of the only true church too : ' ' Your father and your 
 mother, M. le Marquis," her Majest}^ said (that was the only 
 time she used the phrase). Monsieur Simon bowed very low, 
 and said he had found other parents than his own, who had 
 taught him differently ; but these had only one king : on which 
 her Majesty was pleased to give him a medal blessed by the 
 Pope, which had been found very efficacious in cases similar to 
 his own, and to promise she would offer up prayers for his con- 
 version and that of the family : which no doubt this pious lady 
 did, though up to the present moment, and after twenty-seven 
 years, Colonel Esmond is bound to say that neither the medal 
 nor the prayers have had the slightest known effect upon his 
 religious convictions. 
 
 As for the splendors of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the 
 merchant, only beheld them as a humble and distant spectator, 
 seeing the old King but once, when he went to feed his carps ; 
 and asking for no presentation at his Majesty's Court. 
 
 By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to Paris, 
 where, as the London prints presently announced, her lad3'ship 
 was brought to bed of a son and heir. For a long while after- 
 wards she was in a delicate state of health, and ordered b}' the 
 physicians not to travel ; otherwise 'twas well known that 
 the Viscount Castlewood proposed returning to England, and 
 taking up his residence at his own seat. 
 
 Whilst he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had his 
 picture done by the famous French painter. Monsieur Rigaud, 
 a present for his mother in London ; and this piece Monsieur 
 Simon took back with him when he returned to that city, which 
 he reached about May, in the year 1714, very soon after which 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 359 
 
 time my Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and their kinsman. 
 Colonel Esmond, who had been at Castlewood all this time, 
 likewise returned to London ; her ladyship occupying her house 
 at Kensington, Mr. Esmond returning to his lodgings at Knights- 
 bridge, neai-er the town, and once more making his appearance 
 at all public places, his health greatly improved by his long 
 sta}' in the countr}'. 
 
 The portrait of my lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was hung 
 up in the place of honor in her lad3'ship's drawing-room. His 
 lordship was represented in his scarlet uniform of Captain of 
 the Guard, with a light brown periwig, a cuirass under his 
 coat, a blue ribbon, and a fall of Bruxelles lace. Many of 
 her ladyship's friends admired the piece beyond measure, and 
 flocked to see it ; Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly, good old Mr. 
 Collier, and others amongst the clergy, were delighted with the 
 performance, and many among the first quality examined and 
 praised it ; only I must ow^n that Doctor Tusher happening to 
 come up to London, and seeing the picture, (it was ordinarily 
 covered by a curtain, but on this day Miss Beatrix happened to 
 be looking at it wiien the Doctor arrived,) the Vicar of Castle- 
 wood vowed he could not see any resemblance in the piece to 
 his old pupil, except, perhaps, a little about the chin and the 
 periwig ; but we all of us convinced him that he had not seen 
 Frank for five jears or more ; that he knew no more about the 
 Fine Arts than a ploughboy, and that he must be mistaken ; 
 and we sent him home assured that the piece was an excellent 
 likeness. As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who honored her lady- 
 ship with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond showed 
 him the picture he burst out laughing, and asked what devilry 
 he was engaged on? Esmond owned simply that the portrait 
 was not that of Viscount Castlew^ood ; besought the Secretary 
 on his honor to keep the secret ; said that the ladies of the 
 house were enthusiastic Jacobites, as was well known ; and 
 confessed that the picture was that of the Chevalier St. 
 George. 
 
 The truth is, that Mr. Simon, w-aiting upon Lord Castlew^ood 
 one da}' at Monsieur Rigaud's whilst his lordship was sitting 
 for his picture, affected to be much struck with a piece repre- 
 senting the Chevalier, whereof the head onh' was finished, and 
 purchased it of the painter for a hundred crowais. It had been 
 intended, the artist said, for Miss Oglethorpe, the Prince's 
 mistress, but that young lady quitting Paris, had left the w^ork 
 on the artist's hands ; and taking this piece home, wdien my 
 lord's portrait arrived, Colonel Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon, 
 
360 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 had copied the uniform and other accessories from my lord's 
 picture to fill up Rigaud's incomplete canvas : the Colonel all 
 his life having been a practitioner of painting, and especiall}" 
 followed it during his long residence in tlie cities of Flanders, 
 among the masterpieces of Van D3'ck and Rubens. My grand- 
 son hath the piece, sucli as it is, in Virginia now. 
 
 At the commencement of tlie month of June, Miss Beatrix 
 Esmond, and my Lady Viscountess, her mother, arrived from 
 Castlewood ; the former to resume her services at Court, which 
 had been interrupted by the fatal catastrophe of Duke Hamilton's 
 death. She once more took her place, then, in her Majesty's 
 suite and at the Maids' table, being always a favorite with 
 Mrs. Masham, the Queen's chief woman, partly perhaps on 
 account of their bitterness against the Duchess of Marlborough, 
 whom Miss Beatrix loved no better than her rival did. The 
 gentlemen about the Court, my Lord BoUngbroke amongst 
 others, owned that the young ladj- had come back handsomer 
 than ever, and that the serious and tragic air which her face 
 now involuntarily wore became her better than her former 
 smiles and archness. 
 
 All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington 
 Square were changed ; the old steward that had served the 
 family any time these five-and-twenty years, since the birth of 
 the children of the house, was despatched into the kingdom 
 of Ireland to see my lord's estate there : the housekeeper, who 
 had been m}' lady's woman time out of mind, and the attendant 
 of the young children, was sent away grumbling to Walcote, to 
 see to the new painting and preparing of that house, which m}^ 
 Lady Dowager intended to occupy for the future, giving up 
 Castlewood to her daughter-in-law that might be expected daily 
 from France. Another servant the Viscountess had was dis- 
 missed too — with a gratuity — on the pretext that her iad}^- 
 ship's train of domestics must be diminished ; so, finally, there 
 was not left in the household a single person who had belonged 
 to it during the time my 3'oung Lord Castlewood was yet at 
 home. 
 
 For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the 
 stroke he intended, 'twas necessar}" that the ver}' smallest num- 
 ber of persons should be put in possession of his secret. It 
 scarce was known, except to three or four out of his family, 
 and it was kept to a wonder. 
 
 On the 10th of June, 1714, there came b}- Mr. Prior's mes- 
 senger from Pans a letter from my Lord Viscount Castlewood 
 to his mother, sa3ing that he had been foolish in regard of 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 361 
 
 money matters, that he was ashamed to own he had lost at 
 play, and by other extravagances ; and that instead of having 
 great entertainments as he had hoped at Castlewood this year, 
 he must live as quiet as he could, and make ever}' effort to be 
 saving. So far ever}^ word of poor Frank's letter was true, 
 nor was there a doubt that he and his tall brothers-in-law had 
 spent a great deal more than they ought, and engaged the 
 revenues of the Castlewood property, which the fond mother 
 had husbanded and improved so carefulty during the time of 
 her guardianship. 
 
 His "Clotilda," Castlewood went on to say, "was still 
 delicate, and her physicians thought her lying-in had best take 
 place at Paris. He should come without her ladyship, and be 
 at his mother's house about the 17th or 18th day of June, pro- 
 posing to take horse from Paris immediatel}', and bringing but 
 a single servant with him ; and he requested that the lawyers 
 of Gray's Inn might be invited to meet him with their account, 
 and the land-steward come from Castlewood with his, so that 
 he might settle with them speedil}', raise a sum of money 
 whereof he stood in need, and be back to his viscountess by 
 the time of her l3ing-in." Then his lordship gave some of the 
 news of the town, sent his remembrance to kinsfolk, and so 
 the letter ended. 'Twas put in the common post, and no doubt 
 the French police and the English there had a copy of it, to 
 which they were exceeding welcome. 
 
 Two days after another letter was despatched by the public 
 post of France, in the same open way, and this, after giving 
 news of the fashion at Court there, ended by the following 
 sentences, in which, but for those that had the key, 'twould be 
 difficult for any man to find any secret lurked at all : — 
 
 "(Tlie King will take) medicine on Thursday. Ilis Majesty is better 
 than he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion from his too 
 great appetite. Madame Maintenon continues well. They have performed 
 a play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr. The Duke of Shrewsbury and Mr. 
 Prior, our envoy, and all the English nobility here were present at it. 
 (Tlie Viscount Castlewood's passports) were refused to him, 'twas said; 
 his lordship being sued by a goldsmith for Vaissdle plate, and a pearl neck- 
 lace supplied to Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy. 'Tis a pity 
 such news should get abroad (and travel to England) about our young 
 nobility here. Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort TEvesque ; 
 they say she has ordered not only plate, but furniture, and a chariot and 
 horses (under that lord's name), of which extravagance his unfortunate 
 Viscountess knows nothing. 
 
 "(His Majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next birthday. 
 The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast. Mr, Prior is in a 
 gad way about their refusing at home to send him his plate. All here ad- 
 
362 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 mired my Lord Viscount's portrait, and said it was a masterpiece of Rigaud. 
 Have you seen it? It is (at the Lady Castlewood's house in Kensington 
 Square). I think no English painter could produce such a juece. 
 
 " Our poor friend the Abbe liatli been at the Bastile, but is now trans- 
 ported to the Conciergerie (where liis friends may visit liim. They are to 
 ask for) a remission of his sentence soon. Let us hope the poor rogue will 
 have repented in prison. 
 
 " (The Lord Castlevvood) has had the affair of the plate made up, and 
 departs for England. 
 
 _ *' Is not this a dull letter 1 I have a cursed headache with drinking 
 with Mat and some more over-night, and tipsy or sober am 
 
 " Thine ever ." 
 
 All this letter, save some dozen of words which I have put 
 above between brackets, was mere idle talk, though the sub- 
 stance of the letter was as important as any letter well could 
 be. It told those that had the key, that The King will take 
 the Viscount Castlewood's passports and travel to England under 
 that lord's name. Bis Majesty will be at the Lady Castlewood's 
 house in Kensington Square^ where his friends may visit him ; 
 they are to ask for the Lord Castlewood. This note may have 
 passed under Mr. Prior's eyes, and those of our new allies the 
 French, and taught them nothing; though it explains suffl- 
 cientl}' to persons in London what the event was which was 
 about to happen, as 'twill show those who read my memoirs a 
 hundred 3'ears hence, what was that errand on which Colonel 
 Esmond of late had been busy. Silently and swiftly to do 
 that about which others were conspiring, and thousands of 
 Jacobites all over the countr^' clumsil}- caballing ; alone to 
 effect that which the leaders here were only talking about; 
 to bring the Prince of Wales into the country openly in the 
 face of all, under Bolingbroke's verj- eyes, the walls placarded 
 with the proclamation signed with the Secretary's name, and 
 offering five hundred pounds reward for his apprehension : this 
 w^as a stroke, the playing and winning of which might well give 
 any adventurous spirit pleasure : the loss of the stake might 
 involve a heav^' penalty, but all our family were eager to risk 
 that for the glorious chance of winning the game. 
 
 Nor shall it be called a game, save perhaps with the chief 
 plaj'er, who was not more or less sceptical than most public 
 men with whom he had acquaintance in that age. (Is there 
 ever a public man in England that altogether believes in his 
 party? Is there one, however doubtful, that will not fight for 
 it?) Young Frank was ready to fight without much thinking, 
 he was a Jacobite as his father before him was ; all the Es- 
 monds were Royahsts. Give him but the word, he would cry, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 363 
 
 " God save King James ! " before the palace guard, or at the 
 Maypole in the Strand ; and with respect to the women, as is 
 usual with them, 'twas not a question of party but of faith ; 
 their belief was a passion ; either Esmond's mistress or her 
 daughter would have died for it cheerfully. I have laughed 
 often, talking of King William's reign, and said I thought 
 Lad}^ Castlewood was disappointed the King did not pei'secute 
 the family more ; and those who know the nature of w^omen 
 may fancy for themselves, what needs not here be written 
 down, the rapture with which these neophytes received the 
 mystery when made known to them ; the eagerness with which 
 they looked forward to its completion ; the reverence which 
 they paid the minister who initiated them into that secret Truth, 
 now known only to a few, but presently to reign over the world. 
 Sure there is no bound to the trustingness of women. Look 
 at Arria worshipping the drunken clodpate of a husband who 
 beats her ; look at Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her mater- 
 nal heart the oaf her son ; I have known a woman preach 
 Jesuit's bark, and afterwards Dr. Berkele3's tar-w^ater, as 
 though to swallow them were a divine decree, and to refuse 
 them no better than blasphem3\ 
 
 On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at 
 the head of this little knot of fond conspirators. No death or 
 torture he knew would frighten them out of their constancy. 
 When he detailed his plan for bringing the King back, his 
 elder mistress thought that that Restoration was to be attrib- 
 uted under heaven to the Castlewood family and to its chief, 
 and she worshipped and loved Esmond, if that could be, more 
 than ever she had done. She doubted not for one moment of 
 the success of his scheme, to mistrust which would have seemed 
 impious in her eyes. And as for Beatrix, when she became 
 acquainted with the plan, and joined it, as she did with all her 
 heart, she gave Esmond one of her searching bright looks. 
 "Ah, Harry," says she, "why were you not the head of our 
 house ? You are the only one fit to raise it ; wh}' do you give 
 that silly boy the name and the honor? But 'tis so in the 
 world ; those get the prize that don't deserve or care for it. I 
 wish I could give 30U your silly prize, cousin, but I can't; 
 I have tried, and I can't." And she went away, shaking her 
 head mournfully, but alwa3^s, it seemed to Esmond, that her 
 liking and respect for him was greatly increased, since she 
 knew what capability he had both to act and bear ; to do and 
 to forego. 
 
364 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT COMES TO ENGLAND. 
 
 *TwAS announced in the famil}'^ that my Lord Castle wood 
 would arrive, having a confidential French gentleman in his 
 suite, who acted as secretary to his lordship, and who, being a 
 Papist, and a foreigner of a good family, though now in rather 
 a menial place, would have his meals served in his chamber, 
 and not with the domestics of the house. The Viscountess 
 gave up her bedchamber contiguous to her daughter's, and 
 having a large convenient closet attached to it, in which a bed 
 was put up, ostensibly for Monsieur Baptiste, the Frenchman ; 
 though, 'tis needless to sa}', when the doors of the apartments 
 were locked, and the two guests retired within it, the young 
 viscount became the servant of the illustrious Prince whom he 
 entertained, and gave up gladl}^ the more convenient and airy 
 chamber and bed to his master. Madam Beatrix also retired 
 to the upper region, her chamber being converted into a sitting- 
 room for my lord. The better to csiYvy the deceit, Beatrix 
 affected to grumble before the servants, and to be jealous that 
 she was turned out of her chamber to make wa}' for m}' lord. 
 
 No small preparations were made, you ma}' be sure, and no 
 slight tremor of expectation caused the hearts of the gentle 
 ladies of Castlewood to flutter, before the arrival of the person- 
 age'^ who were about to honor their house. The chamber was 
 ornamented with flowers ; the bed covered with the very finest 
 of linen ; the two ladies insisting on making it themseWes, and 
 kneeling down at the bedside and kissing the sheets out of re- 
 spect for the web that was to hold the sacred person of a King. 
 The toilet was of silver and crystal ; there was a copy of 
 " Eikon Basilike" laid on the writing-table ; a portrait of the 
 martyred King hung always over the mantel, having a sword of 
 my poor Lord Castlewood underneath it, and a little picture or 
 emblem which the widow loved always to have before her eyes 
 on waking, and in which the hair of her lord and her two chil- 
 dren -was worked together. Her books of private devotions, as 
 they were all of the English Church, she carried away with her 
 to the upper apartment, which she destined for herself. The 
 ladies showed Mr. Esmond, when the}" were completed, the 
 fond preparations the}' had made. 'Twas then Beatrix knelt 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 365 
 
 down and kissed the linen sheets. As for her mother, Lady 
 Castlewood made a curtsy at the door, as she would have done 
 to the allar on entering a church, and owned that she considered 
 the chamber in a manner sacred. 
 
 The compan3^ in the servants' hall never for a moment sup- 
 posed that these preparations were made for any other person 
 than the young viscount, the lord of the house, whom his fond 
 mother had been for so man}' 3'ears without seeing. Both 
 ladies were perfect housewives, having the greatest skill in the 
 making of confections, scented waters, &c., and keeping a 
 notable superintendence over the kitchen. Calves enough were 
 killed to feed an arm}' of prodigal sons, Esmond thought, and 
 laughed when he came to wait on the ladies, on the day when 
 the guests were to arrive, to find two pairs of the finest and 
 roundest arms to be seen in England (my Lad}' Castlewood 
 was remarkable for this beauty of her person), covered with 
 flour up above the elbows, and preparing paste, and turning 
 rolling-pins in the housekeeper's closet. The guest would not 
 arrive till supper-time, and my lord would prefer having that 
 meal in his own chamber. You may be sure the brightest plate 
 of the house was laid out there, and can understand why it was 
 that the ladies insisted that they alone would wait upon the 
 young chief of the family. 
 
 Taking horse. Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Eochester, 
 and there awaited the King in that very town where his father 
 had last set his foot on the English shore. A room had been 
 provided at an inn there for my Lord Castlewood and his 
 servant ; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride so well that he 
 had scarce been half an hour in the place, and was looking over 
 the balcony into the yard of the inn, when two travellers rode 
 in at the inn gate, and the Colonel running down, the next 
 moment embraced his dear young lord. 
 
 My lord's companion, acting the part of a domestic, dis- 
 mounted, and was for holding the viscount's stirrup ; but Colo- 
 nel Esmond, calling to his own man, who was in the court, 
 bade him take the horses and settle with the lad who had ridden 
 the post along with the two travellers, crying out in a cavalier 
 tone in the French language to my lord's companion, and 
 affecting to grumble that my lord's fellow was a Frenchman, 
 and did not know the money or habits of the country : — " My 
 man will see to the horses, Baptiste," says Colonel Esmond : 
 ' ' do you understand English ? " " Very leetle ! " " So, follow 
 my lord and wait upon him at dinner in his own room." The 
 landlord and his people came up presently bearing the dishes ; 
 
366 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 'twas well the}' made a noise and stir in the gallery, or they 
 might have found Colonel Esmond on his knee before Lord 
 Castlewood's servant, welcoming his Majesty to his kingdom, 
 and kissing the hand of the King. We told the landlord that 
 the Frenchman would wait on his master ; and Esmond's man 
 was ordered to keep sentry in the gallery without the door. 
 The Prince dined with a good appetite, laughing and talking 
 very gayly, and condescendingl}^ bidding his two companions 
 to sit with him at table. He was in better spirits than poor 
 Frank Castlewood, who Esmond thought might be woe-begone 
 on account of parting with his divine Clotilda ; but the Prince 
 wishing to take a short siesta after dinner, and retiring to an 
 inner chamber where there was a bed, the cause of poor Frank's 
 discomfiture came out ; and bursting into tears, with many 
 expressions of fondness, friendship, and humiliation, the faith- 
 ful lad gave his kinsman to understand that he now knew all 
 the truth, and the sacrifices which Colonel Esmond had made 
 for him. 
 
 Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that secret, 
 Mr. Esmond had entreated his mistress also not to reveal it to 
 her son. The Prince had told the poor lad all as the}' were 
 riding from Dover: "I had as lief he had shot me, cousin," 
 Frank said : " I knew you were the best, and the bravest, and 
 the kindest of all men " (so the enthusiastic 3'oung fellow went 
 on); "but I never thought I owed you what I do, and can 
 scarce bear the weight of the obligation." 
 
 " I stand in the place of your fatlier," says Mr. Esmond, 
 kindly, " and sure a father may dispossess himself in favor of 
 his son. I abdicate the twopenny crown, and invest 3'ou with 
 the kingdom of Brentford ; don't be a fool and cry ; you make 
 a much taller and handsomer viscount than ever I could." But 
 the fond boy, with oaths and protestations, laughter and in- 
 coherent outbreaks of passionate emotion, could not be got, 
 for some little time, to put up with Esmond's raillery ; wanted 
 to kneel down to him, and kissed his hand ; asked him and 
 implored him to order something, to bid Castlewood give his 
 own life or take somebody else's ; anything, so that lie might 
 show his gratitude for the generosity Esmond showed him. 
 
 " The K , he laughed," Frank said, pointing to the door 
 
 where the sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone. " I don't 
 think he should have laughed as he told me the story. As we 
 rode along from Dover, talking in French, he spoke about you, 
 and 3'our coming to him at Bar ; he called 3'ou ' le grand 
 serieux,' Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don't know what 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 367 
 
 names ; mimicking j'our manner " (here Castlewood laughed 
 himself) — "and he did it very well. He seems to sneer at 
 everything. He is not like a king : somehow Hariy, I fancy 
 3'ou are like a king. He does not seem to think what a stake 
 we are all pla3'ing. He would have stopped at Canterburj^ to 
 run after a barmaid there, had I not implored him to come on. 
 He hath a house at Chaillot, where he used to go and bury 
 himself for weeks away from the Queen, and with all sorts of 
 bad compau}','' says Frank, with a demure look; "you may 
 smile, but I am not the wild fellow I was ; no, no, I have been 
 taught better," says Castlewood devoutl}', making a sign on his 
 breast. 
 
 "Thou art my dear brave boy," says Colonel Esmond, 
 touched at the young fellow's simplicity, " and there will be a 
 noble gentleman at Castlewood so long as my Frank is there." 
 
 Tlie impetuous young lad was for going down on his knees 
 again, with another explosion of gratitude, but that we heard 
 the voice from the next chamber of the august sleeper, just 
 waking, calling out: — "Eh, La-Fleur, un verre d'eau ! " 
 His Majesty came out 3'awning : — ''A pest," says he, " upon 
 your English ale, 'tis so strong that, ma foi^ it hath turned my 
 head." 
 
 The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses, and we 
 rode very quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall. 
 Mr. Esmond's servant was left behind at Rochester, to take 
 care of the tired horses, whilst we had fresh beasts provided 
 along the road. And galloping by the Prince's side the Colonel 
 explained to the Prince of Wales what his movements had been ; 
 who the friends were that knew of the expedition ; whom, as 
 Esmond conceived, the Prince should trust ; entreating him, 
 above all, to maintain the ver}' closest secrecy until the time 
 should come when his Roj^al Flighness should appear. The 
 town swarmed with friends of the Prince's cause ; there were 
 scores of correspondents with St. Germains ; Jacobites known 
 and secret ; great in station and humble ; about the Court and 
 the Queen ; in the Parliament, Church, and among the mer- 
 chants in the City. The Prince had friends numberless in the 
 army, in the Privy Council, and the Officers of State. The 
 great object, as it seemed, to the small band of persons who 
 had concerted that bold stroke, who had brought the Queen's 
 brother into his native country, was, that his visit should re- 
 main unknown till the proper time came, when his presence 
 sliould surprise friends and enemies alike ; and the latter should 
 bj found so unprepared and disunited, that they should not find 
 
368 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 time to attack him. We feared more from his friends than 
 from his enemies. The lies and tittle-tattle sent over to St. 
 Germains b}^ the Jacobite agents about London, had done an 
 incalculable mischief to his cause, and wofuU}^ misguided him, 
 and it was from these especially, that the persons engaged in 
 the present venture were anxious to defend the chief actor 
 in it.* 
 
 The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their horses 
 at the Posting-House over against Westminster, and being fer- 
 ried over the water, where Lady Esmond's coach was already 
 in waiting. In another hour we were all landed at Kensington, 
 and the mistress of the house had that satisfaction which her 
 heart had 3'earned after for many years, once more to embrace 
 her son, who, on his side, with all his waywardness, ever re- 
 tained a most tender affection for his parent. 
 
 She did not refrain from this expression of her feehng, 
 though the domestics were b}^, and my Lord Castlewood's at- 
 tendant stood in the hall. Esmond had to whisper to him in 
 French to take his hat off. Monsieur Baptiste was constantly 
 neglecting his part with an inconceivable levity : more than 
 once on the ride to London, little observations of the stranger, 
 light remarks, and words betokening the greatest ignorance of 
 the countr}' the Prince came to govern, had hurt the suscepti- 
 bility of the two gentlemen forming his escort ; nor could either 
 help owning in his secret mind that the}^ would have had his 
 behavior otherwise, and that the laughter and the lightness, not 
 to sa}' license, wdiich characterized his talk, scarce befitted such 
 a great Prince, and such a solemn occasion. Not but that 
 he could act at proper times with spirit and dignit3\ He had 
 behaved, as we all knew, in a ver}^ courageous manner on the 
 field. Esmond had seen a copy of the letter the Prince had 
 wTit with his own hand when urged by his friends in England 
 to abjure his religion, and admired that manly and magnani- 
 mous reply by which he refused to yield to the temptation. 
 Monsieur Baptiste took off his hat, blushing at the hint Colonel 
 Esmond ventured to give him, and said: — " Tenez, elle est 
 jolie, la petite mere. Foi de Chevalier ! elle est charmante ; 
 mais I'autre, qui est cette nymphe, cet astre qui brille, cette 
 
 * The managers were the Bishop, who cannot be hurt by having his 
 name mentioned, a very active and loyal Nonconformist Divine, a lady in 
 the highest favor at Court, with whom Beatrix Esmond had communica- 
 tion, and two noblemen of the greatest rank, and a member of the House 
 of Commons, who was implicated in more transactions than one in behalf 
 of the Stuart family. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 369 
 
 Diane qui descend sur nous?" And he started back, and 
 pushed forward, as Beatrix was descending the stair. She 
 was in colors for the first time at her own house ; she wore the 
 diamonds P^smond gave her ; it had been agreed between them, 
 that she should wear these brilliants on the da}' when the King 
 should enter the house, and a Queen she looked, radiant in 
 charms, and magnificent and imperial in beauty. 
 
 Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and splen- 
 dor ; he stepped back and gazed at his sister as though he had 
 not been aware before (nor was he very likely) how perfectly 
 lovel}' she was, and I thought blushed as he embraced her. 
 The Prince could not keep his eyes off her ; he quite forgot his 
 menial part, though he had been schooled to it, and a little 
 light portmanteau prepared expressly that he should carry it. 
 He pressed forward before my Lord Viscount. 'Twas lucky the 
 servants' eyes were bus}' in other directions, or they must have 
 seen that Ihis was no servant, or at least a very insolent and 
 rude one. 
 
 Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, "Baptiste," 
 in a loud imperious voice, " have a care to the valise ; " at 
 which hint the wilful young man ground his teeth together with 
 something very like a curse between them, and then gave a 
 brief look of anything but pleasure to his Mentor. Being re- 
 minded, however, he shouldered the little portmanteau, and 
 carried it up the stair, Esmond preceding him, and a servant 
 with lighted tapers. He flung down his burden sulkily in the 
 bedchamber: — "A Prince that will wear a crown must wear 
 a mask," says Mr. Esmond in French. 
 
 " Ah peste ! I see how it is," says Monsieur Baptiste, con- 
 tinuing the talk in French. " The Great Serious is seriously " 
 — "alarmed for Monsieur Baptiste," broke in the Colonel. 
 Esmond neither liked the tone with which the Prince spoke of 
 the ladies, nor the eyes with which he regarded them. 
 
 The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the closet 
 and the apartment which was to be called my lord's parlor, 
 were already lighted and awaiting their occupier ; and the col- 
 lation laid for my lord's supper. Lord Castlewood and his 
 mother and sister came up the stair a minute afterwards, and, 
 so soon as the domestics had quitted the apartment, Castlewood 
 and Esmond uncovered, and the two ladies went down on their 
 knees before the Prince, who graciously gave a hand to each. 
 He looked his part of Prince much more naturally than that of 
 servant, which he had just been trying, and raised them both 
 with a great deal of nobility, as well as kindness in his air. 
 
 24 
 
370 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 *' Madam," sa3's he, " m}^ mother will thank 3'Our ladyship for 
 your hospitality to her son ; for you, madam," turning to 
 Beatrix, "'I cannot bear to see so much beauty in such a 
 posture. Y^ou will betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to 
 him ; sure 'tis his place rather to kneel to 3'ou." 
 
 A light shone out of her eyes ; a gleam bright enough to 
 kindle passion in any breast. There were times when this 
 creature was so handsome, that she seemed, as it were, like 
 Venus revealing herself a goddess in a flash of brightness. 
 She appeared so now ; radiant, and with eyes bright with a 
 wonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage and jealousy, shot 
 through Esmond's heart, as he caught the look she gave the 
 Prince ; and he clenched his hand involuntarily and looked 
 across to Castlewood, whose eyes answered his alarm-signal, 
 and were also on the alert. The Prince gave his subjects an 
 audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies and Colonel 
 Esmond quitted the chamber. Lad\^ Castlewood pressed his 
 hand as the}^ descended the stair, and the three went down to 
 the lower rooms, where they waited awhile till the travellers 
 above should be refreshed and read^^ for their meal. 
 
 Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her 
 beautiful neck. ''I have kept my word," saj's he: "And I 
 mine," says Beatrix, looking down on the diamonds. 
 
 "Were I the Mogul Emperor," says the Colonel, '*you 
 should have all that were dug out of Golconda." 
 
 "These are a great deal too good for me," ssivs Beatrix, 
 dropping her head on her beautiful breast, — "so are 3'ou all, 
 all ! " And when she looked up again, as she did in a moment, 
 and after a sigh, her eyes, as they gazed at her cousin, wore 
 that melanchol}^ and inscrutable look which 'twas always im- 
 possible to sound. 
 
 When the time came for the supper, of which we were 
 advertised b}^ a knocking overhead. Colonel Esmond and the 
 two ladies went to the upper apartment, where the Prince 
 already was, and by his side the 3'oung Viscount, of exactly 
 the same age, shape, and with features not dissimilar, though 
 Frank's were the handsomer of the two. The Prince sat down 
 and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen remained standing: 
 there was, indeed, but one more cover laid at the table : — 
 " Which of 3'ou will take it? " says he. 
 
 "The head of our house," sa3^s Lady Castlewood, taking 
 her son's hand, and looking towards Colonel Esmond with a 
 bow and a great tremor of the voice ; " the Marquis of Esmond 
 will have the honor of serving the King." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 371 
 
 " I shall have the honor of waiting on his Royal Highness," 
 saj'S Colonel Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion 
 of that day was, he presented it to the King on his knee. 
 
 " I drink to my hostess and her family," sa3'S the Prince, 
 with no very weU-pleased air ; but the cloud passed immedi- 
 ateh^off his face, and he talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling 
 strain, quite undisturbed by poor Mr. Esmond's yellow coun- 
 tenance, that, I dare say, looked ver^^ glum. 
 
 When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched home- 
 wards to his lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the road that 
 night, walking to a cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining 
 on his handsome serene face : — " What cheer, brother? " sa3^s 
 Addison, laughing: '' I thought it was a footpad advancing in 
 the dark, and beliold 'tis an old friend. We may shake hands, 
 Colonel, in- the dark, 'tis better fhan fighting by daylight. 
 Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art a 
 Tory? Turn tli}^ steps and walk with me to Fulham, where 
 there is a nightingale still singing in the garden, and a cool 
 bottle in a cave I know of; you shall drink to the Pretender if 
 you like, and I will drink m}^ liquor my own wa}^ : I have had 
 enough of good liquor? — no, never! There is no such word 
 as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt not come? 
 Come any day, come soon. You know I remember Simois and 
 the Sigeia tellus^ and the prcelia mixta mero^ mixta mero" he 
 repeated, with ever so slight a touch of merum in his voice, 
 and walked back a little way on the road with Esmond, bidding 
 the other remember he was always his friend, and indebted to 
 him for his aid in the "Campaign" poem. And very likely 
 Mr. Under-Secretary would have stepped in and taken t'other 
 bottle at the Colonel's lodging, had the latter invited him, but 
 Esmond's mood was none of the gaj^est, and he bade his friend 
 an inhospitable good-night at the door. 
 
 " I have done the deed," thought he, sleepless, and looking 
 out into the night; "he is here, and I have brought him ; he 
 and Beatrix are sleeping under the same roof now. Whom did 
 I mean to serve in bringing him? Was it tlie Prince? was it 
 Henry Esmond? Had I not best have joined the manly creed 
 of Addison yonder, that scouts the old doctrine of right divine, 
 that boldly declares that Parliament and people consecrate the 
 Sovereign, not bishops, nor genealogies, nor oils, nor corona- 
 tions." The eager gaze of the young Prince, watching every 
 movement of Beatrix, haunted Esmond and pursued him. The 
 Prince's figure appeared before him in his feverish dreams 
 many times that night. He wished the deed undone for which 
 
372 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 he had labored so. He was not the first that has regretted his 
 own act, or brought about his own undoing. Undoing? Should 
 he write that word in his late years? No, on his knees before 
 heaven, rather be thankful for what then he deemed his mis- 
 fortune, and which hath caused the whole subsequent happiness 
 of his life. 
 
 Esmond's man, honest John Lockwood, had served his master 
 and the family all his life, and the Colonel knew that he could 
 answer for John's fidelity as for his own. John returned with 
 the horses from Rochester betimes the next morning, and the 
 Colonel gave him to understand that on going to Kensington, 
 where he was free of the servants' hall, and indeed courting 
 Miss Beatrix's maid, he was to ask no questions, and betray no 
 surprise, but to vouch stoutly that the young gentleman he 
 should see in a red coat there was my Lord Viscount Castle- 
 wood, and that his attendant in gray was Monsieur Baptiste 
 the Frenchman. He was to tell his friends in the kitchen such 
 stories as he remembered of my Lord Viscount's 3'outh at Castle- 
 wood ; what a wild boy he was ; how he used to drill Jack and 
 cane him, before ever he was a soldier ; everything, in fine, he 
 knew respecting m}' Lord Viscount's early da3's. Jack's ideas 
 of painting had not been much cultivated during his residence 
 in Flanders with his master ; and, before m}^ young lord's re- 
 turn, he had been easil}' got to believe that the picture brought 
 over from Paris, and now hanging in Itady Castlewood's draw- 
 ing-room, was a perfect likeness of her son, the 3^oung lord. 
 And the domestics having all seen the picture many times, and 
 catdiing but a momentary imperfect glimpse of the two stran- 
 gers on the night of their arrival, never had a reason to doubt 
 the fidelity of the portrait ; and next day, when they saw the 
 original oi' the piece habited exactly as he was represented in 
 the painting, with the same periwig, ribbons, and uniform of 
 the Guard, quite naturally addressed the gentleman as my 
 Lord Castlewood, my Lady Viscountess's son. 
 
 The secretary of the night previous was now the viscount ; 
 the viscount wore the secretary's gray frock ; and John Lock- 
 wood was instructed to hint to the world below stairs that my 
 lord being a Papist, and very devout in that religion, his at- 
 tendant might be no other than his chaplain from Bruxelles ; 
 h.ence, if he took his meals in my lord's company there was 
 little reason for surprise. Frank was further cautioned to 
 speak English with a foreign accent, which task he performed 
 indifferently well, and this caution was the more necessary be- 
 cause the Prince himself scarce spoke our language like a native 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 373 
 
 of the island : and John Lockwood laughed with the folks 
 below stairs at the manner in which my lord, after five years 
 abroad, sometimes forgot his own tongue, and spoke it like a 
 Frenchman. ''I warrant," says he, "that with the English 
 beef and beer, his lordship will soon get back the proper use of 
 his mouth ; " and, to do his new lordship justice, he took to 
 beer and beef ver}' kindly. 
 
 The Prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent 
 in his talk after his drink, that Esmond often trembled for him. 
 His meals were served as much as possible in his own chamber, 
 though frequently he made his appearance in Lady Castlewood's 
 parlor and drawing-room, calling Beatrix "sister," and her 
 ladj'ship "mother," or "madam" before the servants. And, 
 choosing to act entirely up to the part of brother and son, the 
 Prince sometimes saluted Mrs. Beatrix and Lady Castlewood 
 with a freedom which his secretary did not like, and which, for 
 his part, set Colonel Esmond tearing with rage. 
 
 The guests had not been three days in the house when poor 
 Jack Lockwood came with a rueful countenance to his master, and 
 said : " My Lord — that is the gentleman — has been tamper- 
 ing with Mrs. Lucy (Jack's sweetheart), and given her guineas 
 and a kiss." I fear that Colonel Esmond's mind was rather 
 relieved than otherwise when he found that the ancillary beauty 
 was the one whom the Prince had selected. His royal tastes 
 were known to he that way, and continued so in after life. 
 The heir of one of the greatest names, of the greatest kingdoms, 
 and of the greatest misfortunes in Europe, was often content to 
 lay the dignity of his birth and grief at the wooden shoes of a 
 French chambermaid, and to repent afterwards (for he was 
 ver}' devout) in ashes taken from the dust-pan. 'Tis for mor- 
 tals such as these that nations suffer, that parties struggle, that 
 warriors fight and bleed. A year afterwards gallant heads were 
 falling, and Nithsdale in escape, and Derwentwater on the 
 scaflfold ; whilst the heedless ingrate, for whom the}' risked 
 and lost all, was tippling with his seraglio of mistresses in his 
 petite, maisoji of Chaillot. 
 
 Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond had 
 to go to the Prince and warn him that the girl whom his High- 
 ness was bribing was John Lockwood's sweetheart, an honest 
 resolute man, who had served in six campaigns, and feared 
 nothing, and who knew that the person calling himself Lord 
 Castkwood was not his young master ; and the Colonel be- 
 sought the Prince to consider what the effect of a single man's 
 jealous}^ might be, and to think of other designs he had in 
 
374 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOIS'D. 
 
 hand, more important than the seduction of a waiting-maid, 
 and the humiliation of a brave man. 
 
 Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many da3's, Mr. Es- 
 mond had to warn the royal young adventurer of some impru- 
 dence or some freedom. He received these remonstrances very 
 testily, save perhaps in this affair of poor Lockwood's, when he 
 deigned to burst out a-laughing, and said, " What ! the souhrette 
 has peached to the amoureux^ and Crispin is angr3% and Crispin 
 has served, and Crispin has been a corporal, has he? Tell him 
 we will reward his valor with a pair of colors, and recompense 
 his lidehty." 
 
 Colonel Esmond ventured to utter sqme other words of en- 
 treaty, but the Prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, " Assez, 
 milord : je m'ennuye a la preche ; I am not come to London to 
 go to the sermon." And he complained afterwards to Castle- 
 w^ood, that " le petit jaune, le noir Colonel, le Marquis Misan- 
 thrope" (by which facetious names his Roj^al Highness was 
 pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), "• fatigued him with his 
 grand airs and virtuous homilies." 
 
 The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in 
 the transaction which had brought the Prince over, waited upon 
 his Royal Highness, constantl}^ asking for m^' Lord Castlewood 
 on their arrival at Kensington, and being openly conducted to 
 his Royal Highness in that character, who received them either 
 in my lady's drawing-room below, or above in his own apart- 
 ment ; and all implored him to quit the house as little as possi- 
 ble, and to wait there till the signal should be given for him 
 to appear. The ladies entertained him at cards, over which 
 amusement he spent many hours in each day and night. He 
 passed many hours more in drinking, during which time he 
 would rattle"^ and talk very agreeably, and especially if the 
 Colonel was absent, whose presence always seemed to frighten 
 him; and the i)oor " Colonel Noir" took that hint as a com- 
 mand accordingly, and seldom intruded his black face upon 
 the convivial hours of this august young prisoner. Except for 
 those few persons of whom the porter had the list. Lord Castle- 
 wood was denied to aU friends of the house who waited on his 
 lordship. The wound he had received had broke out again 
 from his journey on horseback, so the world and the domestics 
 
 were informed. And Doctor A ,* his physician (I shall 
 
 not mention his name, but he was physician to the Queen, of 
 the Scots nation, and a man remarkable for his benevolence as 
 
 * There can be very little doubt that the Doctor mentioned by my dear 
 liather was the famous Dr. Arbuthnot. — R. E. W. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 375 
 
 well as his wit), gave orders that he should be kept perfectly 
 quiet until the wound should heal. With this gentleman, who 
 was one of the most active and influential of our party, and the 
 others before spoken of, the whole secret lay ; and it was kept 
 with so much faithfulness, and the story we told so simple and 
 natural, that there was no likelihood of a discovery except from 
 the imprudence of the Prince himself, and an adventurous lev- 
 ity that we had the greatest difficult}^ to control. As for Lad^^ 
 Castle wood, although she scarce spoke a word, 'twas easy to 
 gather from her demeanor, and one or two hints she dropped, 
 how deep her mortification was at finding the hero whom she 
 had chosen to worship all her life (and whose restoration had 
 formed almost the most ssicred part of her prayers), no more 
 than a man, and not a good one. She thought misfortune 
 might have chastened him ; but that instructress had rather 
 rendered him callous than humble. His devotion, which was 
 quite real, kept him from no sin he had a mind to. His talk 
 showed good-humor, gayety, even wit enough ; but there was a 
 levit}' in his acts and words that he had brought from among 
 those libertine devotees with whom he had been bred, and that 
 shocked the simplicitj" and purity of the English lady, whose 
 guest he was. Esmond spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty freely 
 about the Prince, getting her brother to put in a word of warn- 
 ing. Beatrix was entirely of their opinion ; she thought he was 
 very light, very light and reckless ; she could not even see the 
 good looks Colonel P^smond had spoken of. The Prince had 
 bad teeth, and a decided squint. How could we say he did not 
 squint? His eyes were fine, but there was certainly a cast in 
 them. She rallied him at table with wonderful wit ; she spoke 
 of him invariably as of a mere bo}' ; she was more fond of Es- 
 mond than ever, praised him to her brother, praised him to the 
 Prince, when his Royal Highness was pleased to sneer at the 
 Colonel, and warml}^ espoused his cause: "And if 3'our Maj- 
 esty does not give him the Garter his father had, when the 
 Marquis of Esmond comes to your Majesty's court, I will hang 
 myself in my own garters, or will cry my e3^es out." " Rather 
 than lose those," says the Prince, "he shall be made Arch- 
 bishop and Colonel of the Guard" (it was Frank Castlewood 
 who told me of this conversation over their supper) . 
 
 "Yes," cries she, with one of her laughs — I fanc}^ I hear 
 it now. Thirt}' 3'ears afterwards I hear that delightful music. 
 "Yes, he shall be Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of 
 Canterbury." 
 
376 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 '' And what will your ladyship be? " says the Prince ; " you 
 have but to choose your place." 
 
 "I," sa3^s Beatrix, "will be mother of the maids to the 
 Queen of his Majesty King James* the Third — Vive le Roy ! " 
 and she made him a great curtsy, and drank a part of a glass 
 of wine in his honor. 
 
 "The Prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last 
 drop of it," Castle wood said, " and my mother, looking very 
 anxious, rose up and asked leave to retire. But that Trix is 
 my mother's daughter, Harry," Frank continued, "I don't 
 know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I wish — I wish 
 this business were over. You are older than I am, and wiser, 
 and better, and I owe you ever^^thing, and would die for you 
 — before George I would ; but I wish the end of this were 
 come." 
 
 Neither of us ver}^ likely passed a tranquil night ; horrible 
 doubts and torments racked Esmond's soul : 'twas a scheme of 
 personal ambition, a daring stroke for a selfish end — he knew 
 it. What cared he, in his heart, who was King? Were not 
 his very sympathies and secret convictions on the other side — 
 on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom? And here was 
 he, engaged for a Prince that had scarce heard the word lib- 
 erty ; that priests and women, t3^rants by nature, both made 
 a tool of. The misanthrope was in no better humor after hear- 
 ing that story, and his grim face more black and yellow than 
 ever. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTINGUISHED GUEST AT KENSINGTON. 
 
 Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter 
 end of Queen Anne's time, or any historian be inclined to fol- 
 low it, 'twill be discovered, I have little doubt, that not one of 
 the great personages about the Queen had a defined scheme 
 of policy, independent of that private and selfisli interest which 
 each was bent on pursuing : St. John was for St. John, and 
 Harley for Oxford, and Marlborough for John Churchill, 
 alwaj's ; and according as they could get help from St. Ger- 
 mains or Hanover, the}^ sent over proflTers of allegiance to tlie 
 Princes there, or betrayed one to the other : one cause, or one 
 sovereign, was as good as another to thein, so that they could 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 377 
 
 hold the best place under him ; and like Lockit and Peachem, 
 the Newgate chiefs in the "Rogues' Opera," Mr. Gay wrote 
 afterwards, had each in his hand documents and proofs of trea- 
 son which would hang the other, onl3" he did not dare to use 
 the weapon , for fear of that one which his neighbor also carried 
 in his pocket. Think of the great Marlborough, the greatest 
 subject in all the world, a conqueror of princes, that had 
 marched victorious over Germany, Flanders, and France, that 
 had given the law to sovereigns abroad, and been worshipped 
 as a divinity at home, forced to sneak out of England — his 
 credit, honors, places, alL taken from him ; his friends in the 
 army broke and ruined ; and flying before Harley, as abject 
 and powerless as a poor debtor before a baihff with a writ. A 
 paper, of which Harley got possession, and showing be3'ond 
 doubt that the Duke was engaged with the Stuart family, was 
 the weapon with which the Treasurer drove Marlborough out 
 of the kingdom. He fled to Antwerp, and began intriguing 
 instantly' on the other side, and came back to England, as all 
 know, a AVhig and a Hanoverian. 
 
 Though the Treasurer turned out of the arm}' and oflSce every 
 man, military or civil, known to be the Duke's friend, and gave 
 the vacant posts among the Tor}' party ; he, too, was playing 
 the double game between Hanover and St. Germains, await- 
 ing the expected catastrophe of the Queen's death to be Master 
 of the State, and ofl^er it to either family that should bribe him 
 best, or that the nation should declare for. Whichever the 
 King was, Harley's object was to reign over him ; and to this 
 end he supplanted the former famous favorite, decried the ac- 
 tions of the war which had made Marlborough's name illustrious, 
 and disdained no more than the great fallen competitor of his, 
 the meanest arts, flatteries, intimidations, that would secure his 
 power. If the greatest satirist the world ever hath seen had 
 writ against Harley, and not for him, what a history had he left 
 behind of the last years of Queen Anne's reign ! But Swift, 
 that scorned all mankind, and himself not the least of all, had 
 this merit of a faithful partisan, that he loved those chiefs who 
 treated him well, and stuck by Harlej' bravel}' in his fall, as he 
 gallantly had supported him in his better fortune. 
 
 Incomparabh' more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accom- 
 plished than his rival, the great St. John could be as selfish as 
 Oxford was, and could act the double part as skilfully as ambi- 
 dextrous ChurchiH. He whose talk was always of liberty, no 
 more shrunk from using persecution and the pillory against his 
 opponents than if he had been at Lisbon and Grand Inquisitor. 
 
378 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 This lofty patriot was on his knees at Hanover and St. Germains 
 too ; notoriously of no religion, he toasted Church and Queen 
 as boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and laughed 
 at ; and to serve his turn, and to overthrow his enemj^ he could 
 intrigue, coax, bully, wheedle, fawn on the Court favorite and 
 creep up the back-stair as silently as Oxford, who supplanted 
 Marlborough, and whom he himself supplanted. The crash of 
 my Lord Oxford happened at this very time whereat my history 
 is now arrived. He was come to the ver}' last days of his power, 
 and the agent whom he emplo3'ed to overthrow the conqueror of 
 Blenheim, was now engaged to upset the conqueror's conqueror, 
 and hand over the staff of government to Bolingbroke, who had 
 been panting to hold it. 
 
 In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the 
 Irish regiments in the French service were all brought round 
 about Boulogne in Picardy, to pass over if need were with the 
 Duke of Berwick ; the soldiers of France no longer, but subjects 
 of James the Third of England and Ireland King. The fidelity 
 of the great mass of the Scots (though a most active, resolute, 
 and gallant Whig part3S admirably and energeticall}^ ordered 
 and disciplined, was known to be in Scotland too) was notori- 
 ously unshaken in their King. A A^ery great bod}' of Tory 
 clerg3^, nobilit}^ and gentr}^ were public partisans of the exiled 
 Prince ; and the indifferents might be counted on to cry King 
 George or King James, according as either should prevail. The 
 Queen, especiallv in her latter da3's, inclined towards her own 
 family. The Prince was l3ing actually in London, within a 
 stone's cast of his sister's palace ; the first Minister toppling to 
 his fall, and so tottering that the weakest push of a woman's 
 finger would send him down ; and as for Bolingbroke, his suc- 
 cessor, we know on whose side his power and his splendid 
 eloquence would be on the day when the Queen should appear 
 openl3^ before her Council and sa3^ : — " This, m3^ lords, is my 
 brother ; here is my father's heir, and mine after me." 
 
 During the whole of the previous year the Queen had had 
 man3' and repeated fits of sickness, fever, and letharg3', and 
 her death had been constantl3' looked for b3'^ all her attendants. 
 The Elector of Hanover had wished to send his son, the Duke 
 of Cambridge — to pay his court to his cousin the Queen, the 
 Elector said ; — in truth, to be on the spot when death should 
 close her career. Frightened perhaps to have such a memenfA 
 mori under her royal e3'es, her Majest3^ had angrily forbidden 
 the 3'oung Prince's coming into England. Either she desired 
 to keep the chances for her brother open yet ; or the people 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 379 
 
 about her did not wish to close with the Whig candidate till 
 they could make terms with him. The quarrels of her Ministers 
 before her face at the Council board, the pricks of conscience 
 very likely, the importunities of her Ministers, and constant 
 turmoil and agitation round about her, had weakened and irri- 
 tated the Princess extremely ; her strength was giving way 
 under these continual trials of her temper, and from day to day 
 it was expected she must come to a speedy end of them. Just 
 before Viscount Castlewood and his companion came from 
 France, her Majesty was taken ill. The St. Anthony's fire 
 broke out on the royal legs ; there was no hurry for the presen- 
 tation of the young lord at Court, or that person who should 
 appear under his name ; and my Lord Viscount's wound break- 
 ing out opportunel,y, he was kept conveniently in his chamber 
 until such time as his physician would allow him to bend his 
 knee before the Queen. At the commencement of July, that 
 influential lady, with whom it has been mentioned that our party 
 had relations, came frequent^ to visit her 3'oung friend, the 
 Maid of Honor, at Kensington, and my Lord Viscount (the real 
 or supposititious), who was an invalid at Lady Castlewood's 
 house. 
 
 On the 27th day of Jul}^ the lady in question, who held the 
 most intimate post about the Queen, came in her chair from 
 the Palace hard by, bringing to the little party in Kensington 
 Square intelligence of the ver}' highest importance. The final 
 blow had been struck, and my Lord of Oxford and Mortimer 
 was no longer Treasurer. The staff'was as yet given to no suc- 
 cessor, though my Lord Bolingbroke would undoubtedly be the 
 man. And now the time was come, the Queen's Abigail said : 
 and now my Lord Castlewood ought to be presented to the 
 Sovereign. 
 
 After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and de- 
 scribed to his cousin, who passed such a miserable night of 
 mortification and jealousy as he thought over the transaction, 
 no doubt the three persons who were set by nature as protectors 
 over Beatrix came to the same conclusion, that she must be 
 removed from the presence of a man wdiose desires towards her 
 were expressed only too clearly ; and who was no more scrupu- 
 lous in seeking to gratify them than his father had been before 
 him. I suppose Esmond's mistress, her son , and the Colonel him- 
 self, had be8n all secretly debating this matter in their minds, 
 for when Frank broke out, in his blunt way, with : — "I think 
 Beatrix had best be anywhere but here," — Lady Castlewood 
 said : — ''I thank you, Frank, I have thought so, too ; " and 
 
380 THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Mr. Esmond, though he only remarked that it was not for him 
 to speak, showed plainly, by the dehght on his countenance, how 
 very agreeable that proposal was to him. 
 
 " One sees that you think with us, Henry," says the viscount- 
 ess, with ever so little of sarcasm in her tone : " Beatrix is best 
 out of this house whilst we have our guest in it, and as soon as 
 this morning's business is done, she ought to quit London." 
 
 "What morning's business?" asked Colonel Esmond, not 
 knowing what had been arranged, though in fact the stroke 
 next in importance to that of bringing the Prince, and of having 
 him acknowledged by the Queen, was now being performed at 
 the very moment we three were conversing together. 
 
 The Court-lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who 
 was a chief agent in it, the Court physician, and the Bishop of 
 Rochester, who were the other two most active participators in 
 our plan, had held many councils in our house at Kensington 
 and elsewhere, as to the means best to be adopted for present- 
 ing our 3'oung adventurer to his sister the Queen. The simple 
 and easy plan proposed by Colonel Esmond had been agreed 
 to by all parties, which was that on some rather private day, 
 when there were not mau}^ persons about the Court, the Prince 
 should appear there as my Lord Castlewood, should be greeted 
 by his sister in waiting, and led by that other lady into the 
 closet of the Queen. And according to her Majesty's health or 
 humor, and the circumstances that might arise during the inter- 
 view, it was to be left to the discretion of those present at it, 
 and to the Prince himself, whether he should declare that it 
 was the Queen's own brother, or the brother of Beatrix Esmond, 
 who kissed her Ro3'al hand. And this plan being determined 
 on, we were all waiting in very much anxiet}^ for the day and 
 signal of execution. 
 
 Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day of 
 Jul}^ the Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castle 
 wood and her famil3% and the meal scarce over. Doctor A.'s 
 coach drove up to our house at Kensington, and the Doctor 
 appeared amongst the part}^ there, enlivening a rather gloomy 
 compau}' ; for the mother and daughter had had words in the 
 morning in respect to the transactions of that supper, and 
 other adventures perhaps, and on the day succeeding. Beatrix's 
 haughty spirit brooked remonstrances from no superior, much 
 less from her mother, the gentlest of creatures, whom the girl 
 commanded rather than obeyed. And feeling she was wrong, 
 and that b}^ a thousand coquetries (which she could no more 
 help exercising on every man that came near her, than the sun 
 
THE HISTOKY OF HENRY ESMOND. 381 
 
 can help shining on great and small) she had provoked the 
 Prince's dangerons admiration, and allured him to the expression 
 of it, she was only the more wilful and imperious the more she 
 felt her error. 
 
 To this part}^, the Prince being served with chocolate in his 
 bedchamber, where he lay late, sleeping away the fumes of his 
 wine, the Doctor came, and by the urgent and startling nature of 
 his news, dissipated instantl}' that private and minor unpleasan- 
 try under which the famil}^ of Castlewood was laboring. 
 
 He asked for the guest ; the guest was above in his own 
 apartment : he bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to his master in- 
 stantly, and requested that My Lord Viscount Castlewood would 
 straightwa}^ put liis uniform on, and come awa}^ in the Doctor's 
 coach now at the door. 
 
 He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the 
 comedy was to be : — "In half an hour," sa3^s he, " her Maj- 
 esty and her favorite lady will take the air in the Cedar-walk 
 behind the new Banqueting-house. Her Majesty will be drawn 
 in a garden-chair. Madam Beatrix Esmond and her brother^ my 
 Lord Viscount Castlewood^ will be walking in the private garden, 
 (here is Lady Masham's ke}',) and will come unawares upon 
 the Ro3'al party. The man that draws the chair will retire, 
 and leave the Queen, the favorite, and the maid of honor and 
 her brother together ; Mistress Beatrix will present her brother, 
 and then ! — and then, my Lord Bishop will pray for the result 
 of the interview, and his Scots clerk will say Amen ! Quick, 
 put on 3^our hood. Madam Beatrix ; wh}' doth not his Majesty 
 come down ? Such another chance may not present itself for 
 months again." 
 
 tThe Prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost 
 that chance through his indolence. The Queen was actually 
 about to leave the garden just when the party reached it ; the 
 Doctor, the Bishop, the maid of honor and her brother went off 
 together in the physician's coach, and had been gone half an 
 hour when Colonel Esmond came to Kensington Square. 
 
 The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of 
 course for a moment put all thoughts of private jealousy out 
 of Colonel Esmond's head. In half an hour more the coach 
 returned ; the Bishop descended from it first, and gave his arm 
 to Beatrix, who now came out. His lordship went back into 
 the carriage again, and the maid of honor entered the house 
 alone. We were all gazing at her from the upper window, trj^- 
 ing to read from her countenance the result of the interview 
 from which she had just come. 
 
382 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOJ^D. 
 
 She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very- 
 pale ; she asked for a glass of water as her mother went to 
 meet her, and after drinking that and putting off her hood, she 
 began to speak : — " We may all hope for the best," saj^s she ; 
 "■ it has cost the Queen a fit. Her Majesty was in her chair in 
 the Cedar-walk, accompanied only by Lady , when we en- 
 tered by the private wicket from the west side of the garden, 
 and turned towards her, the Doctor following us. They waited 
 in a side walk hidden b}^ the shrubs, as we advanced towards 
 the chair. M}^ heart throbbed so I scarce could speak ; but 
 my Prince whispered, ' Courage, Beatrix,' and marched on with 
 a steady step. His face was a little flushed, but he was not 
 afraid of the danger. He who fought so bravely at Malplaquet 
 fears nothing." Esmond and Castlewood looked at each other 
 at this compliment, neither liking the sound of it. 
 
 ''The Prince uncovered," Beatrix continued, "and I saw 
 the Queen turning round to Lady Masham, as if asking who these 
 two were. Her Majesty looked very pale and ill, and then 
 flushed up ; the favorite made us a signal to advance, and I 
 went up, leading my Prince by the hand, quite close to the 
 chair : ' Your Majesty will give my Lord Viscount your hand 
 to kiss,' says her lad3', and the Queen put out her hand, which 
 the Prince kissed, kneehng on his knee, he who should kneel 
 to no mortal man or woman. 
 
 " ' You have been long from England, my lord,' says the 
 Queen : ' why were you not here to give a home to your mother 
 and sister?' 
 
 " 'I am come, Madam, to sta}^ now, if the Queen desires 
 me,' says the Prince, with another low bow. 
 
 " 'You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign 
 religion ; was not that of England good enough for you ? ' 
 
 " ' In returning to m}^ father's church,' saj's the Prince, ' I 
 do not love my mother the less, nor am I the less faithful ser- 
 vant of 3'our majesty.' 
 
 " Here," says Beatrix, " the favorite gave me a little signal 
 with her hand to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear 
 what should pass ; and whispered something to the Queen, 
 which made her Majesty start and utter one or two words in 
 a hurried manner, looking towards the Prince, and catching 
 hold with her hand of the arm of her chair. He advanced still 
 nearer towards it ; he began to speak very rapidly ; I caught 
 the words, ' Father, blessing, forgiveness,' — and then presently 
 the Prince fell on his knees ; took from his breast a paper he 
 had there, handed it to the Queen, who, as soon as she saw 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 383 
 
 it, flung up both her arms with a scream, and took away that 
 hand nearest the Prince, and which he endeavored to kiss. 
 He went on speaking with great animation of gesture, now 
 clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening them as 
 though to say : ' I am here, your brother, in your power.' 
 Lad}^ Masham ran round on the other side of the chair, kneel- 
 ing too, and speaking with great energy. She clasped the 
 Queen's hand on her side, and picked up the paper her Majesty 
 had let fall. The Prince rose and made a further speech as 
 though he would go ; the favorite on the other hand urging 
 her mistress, and then, running back to the Prince, brought 
 him back once more close to. the chair. Again he knelt down 
 and took "the Queen's hand, which she did not withdraw, kiss- 
 ing it a hundred times ; my lady all the time, with sobs and sup- 
 phcations, speaking over the chair. This while the Queen sat 
 with a stupefied look, crumpling the paper with one hand, as 
 my Prince embraced the other ; then of a sudden she uttered 
 several piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit of h3'steric 
 tears and laughter. ' Enough, enough, sir, for this time,' I 
 heard Lad}' Masham say : and the chairman, who had with- 
 drawn round the Banqueting-room, came back, alarmed by 
 the cries. 'Quick,' says Lady Masham, 'get some help,' and 
 I ran towards the Doctor, who, with the Bishop of Rochester, 
 came up instantly. Lady Masham whispered the Prince he 
 might hope for the very best ; and to be ready to-morrow ; and 
 he hath gone away to the Bishop of Rochester's house, to meet 
 several of his friends there. And so the great stroke is struck," 
 says Beatrix, going down on her knees, and clasping her hands. 
 "God save the King : God save the King ! " 
 
 Beatrix's tale told, and the .young lady herself calmed some- 
 what of her agitation, we asked with regard to the Prince, who 
 was absent with Bishop Atterbury, and were informed that 
 'twas likeh' he might remain abroad the whole day. Bea- 
 trix's three kinsfolk looked at one another at this intelligence : 
 'twas clear the same thought was passing through the minds 
 of all. 
 
 But who should begin to break the news ? Monsieur Bap- 
 tiste, that is Frank Castlewood, turned very red, and looked 
 towards Esmond ; the Colonel bit his lips, and fairly beat a 
 retreat into the window : it was Lady Castlewood that opened 
 upon Beatrix with the news which we knew would do anything 
 but please her. 
 
 " We are glad," saj^s she, taking her daughter's hand, and 
 speaking in a gentle voice, " that the guest is away." 
 
384 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at ns 
 three, and as if divining a danger. ''Why glad?" sa3^s she, 
 her breast beginning to heave; "are you so soon tired of 
 him?" 
 
 "We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him," cries 
 out Frank Castlewood. 
 
 "And which is it — 3'ou, my lord, or is it mamma, who is 
 jealous because he drinks my health? or is it the head of 
 the family " (here she turned with an imperious look towards 
 Colonel Esmond) , ' ' who has taken of late to preach the King 
 sermons?" 
 
 "We do not say j^ou are too free with his Majesty." 
 
 "I thank you, madam," says Beatrix, with a toss of the 
 head and a curtse3^ 
 
 But her mother continued, with verj^ great calmness and 
 dignity — "At least we have not said so, though we might, 
 were it possible for a mother to say such words to her own 
 daughter, your father's daughter." 
 
 '■' Uh? mon pere,'' breaks out Beatrix, " was no better than 
 other persons' fathers." And again she looked towards the 
 Colonel. 
 
 We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French 
 words ; her manner was exactly imitated from that of our for- 
 eign guest. 
 
 ' ' You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Bea- 
 trix," says her mother, sadly, "nor to speak ill of your fa- 
 ther." 
 
 Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, 
 for she blushed crimson : "I have learnt to honor the King,'* 
 says she, drawing up, " and 'twere as well that others suspected 
 neither his Majest}' nor me." 
 
 " If you respected 3^our mother a little more," Frank said, 
 " Trix, ,you would do yourself no hurt." 
 
 "lam no child," sa3^s she, turning round on him; "we 
 have lived verj"^ well these five j^ears without the benefit of .your 
 advice or example, and I intend to take neither now. Why 
 does not the head of the hbuse speak? " she went on ; " he rules 
 ever3'thing here. When his chaplain has done singing the 
 psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of the 
 psalms." The Prince had used almost the very same words in 
 regard to Colonel J^smond that the imprudent girl repeated in 
 her wrath. 
 
 " You show 3^ourself a ver3^ apt scholar, madam," says the 
 Colonel ; and, turning to his mistress, " Did your guest use these 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 385 
 
 ?vorcls in your lacljship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private 
 that he was pleased to impart his opinion regarding my tire- 
 some sermon?" 
 
 ''Have you seen him alone?" cries my lord, starting up 
 with an oath : " b}" God, have 3^ou seen him alone?" 
 
 "' Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me ; no, you 
 would not dare ! " cries Frank's sister. '' Keep your oaths, mi- 
 lord, for your wife ; we are not used here to such language. Till 
 you came, there used to be kindness between me and mamma, 
 and 1 cared for her when 3-ou never did, when you were away 
 for years with your horses and j^our mistress, and your Popish 
 wife." 
 
 " By — — ," says my lord, rapping out another oath, " Clo- 
 tilda is an angel ; how dare you say a word against Clotilda? " 
 
 Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how 
 eas}' Frank's attack was drawn off by that feint: — "I fancy 
 Clotilda is not the subject in hand," sa3's Mr. Esmond, rather 
 scornfuU}^ ; " her ladyship is at Paris, a hundred leagues off, 
 preparing bab3^-linen. It is about my Lord Castlewood's sister, 
 and not his wife, the question is." 
 
 "He is not my Lord Castlewood," savs Beatrix, "and he 
 knows he is not ; he is Colonel Francis Esmond's son, and no 
 more, and he wears a false title ; and he lives on another man's 
 land, and he knows it." Here was another desperate sally of 
 the poor beleaguered garrison, and an alerte in another quarter. 
 " Again, I beg your pardon," says Esmond. " If there are no 
 proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If my father acknowl- 
 edged no heir, 3'ours was his lawful successor, and m3^ Lord 
 Castlewood hath as good a right to his rank and small estate 
 as any man in England. But that again is not the question, 
 as you know very well ; let us bring our talk back to it, as 
 you will have me meddle in it. And I will give you frankly 
 my opinion, that a house where a Prince lies all day, who 
 respects no woman, is no house for a 3^oung unmarried lady ; 
 that you were better in the country than here ; that he is here 
 on a great end, from which no folly should divert him ; and 
 that having nobly done your part of this morning, Beatrix, 3^ou 
 should retire off the scene awhile, and leave it to the other 
 actors of the play." 
 
 As the Colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness, 
 such as 'tis to be hoped he hath always shown to women,* his 
 
 * My dear father saith quite truly, that his manner towards our sex 
 was uniformly courteous. From my infancy upwards, he treated me with 
 an extreme gentleness, as though I was a little lady. I can scarce re- 
 
 25 
 
386 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 mistress stood b}- him on one side of the table, and Frank 
 Castlewood on the other, hemming in poor Beatrix, that was 
 behind it, and, as it were, surrounding her with our approaches. 
 
 Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, as 
 I expected, tried the ultima ratio of women, and had recourse 
 to tears. Her beautiful e^'es filled with them ; I never could 
 bear in her, nor in any woman, that expression of pain : — "I 
 am alone," sobbed she; "you are three against me — my 
 brother, my mother, and you. What have 1 done, that you 
 shoukl speak and look so unkindly at me? Is it my fault that 
 the Prince should, as you say, admire me? Did I bring him 
 here? Did I do aught but what you bade me, in making him 
 welcome? Did you not tell me that our duty was to die for 
 him? Did you not teach me, mother, night and morning to 
 pray for the King, before even ourselves? What would you 
 have of me, cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy 
 against me; I know you are, sir, and that my mother and 
 brother are acting but as you bid them ; whither would you have 
 me go ? " 
 
 "I would but remove from the Prince," says Esmond, 
 gravely, " a dangerous temptation ; heaven forbid I should say 
 you would yield ; I would only have him free of it. Your honor 
 needs no guardian, please God, but his imprudence doth. He 
 is so far removed from all women by his rank, that his pursuit 
 of them cannot but be unlawful. We would remove the dear- 
 est and fairest of our family from the chance of that insult, and 
 that is why we would have 3'ou go, dear Beatrix." 
 
 "Harry speaks like a book," says Frank, with one of his 
 
 oaths, "and, b}' , every word he saith is true. You can't 
 
 help being handsome, Trix ; no more can the Prince help fol- 
 lowing you. M3- counsel is that ^-ou go out of harm's way ; for, 
 b}' the Loi'd, were the Prince to pla}- any tricks with 30U, King 
 as he is, or is to be, Harry Esmond and I would have justice of 
 him." 
 
 member (though I tried him often) ever hearing a rough word from him, 
 nor was he less grave and kind in his manner to the liuniblest ncgresses on 
 his estate. He was familiar witli no one except my motlier, and it was de- 
 lightful to witness up to the very last days the confidence between them. 
 He was obeyed eagerly by all under him ; and my mother and all her 
 household lived in a constant emulation to please him, and quite a terror 
 lest in any way they should offend him. He was the humblest man with 
 all this ; the least exacting, the more easily contented ; and Mr. Benson, our 
 minister at Castlewood, who attended him at the last, ever said — "I know 
 not what Colonel Esmond's doctrine was, but his life and death were those 
 of a devout Christian."— R. E. W. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 387 
 
 *' Are not two such champions enough to guard me?" saj's 
 Beatrix, sometliing sorrowfully: ''sure, with 3'ou two watch- 
 ing, no evil could happen to me." 
 
 "In faith, I think not, Beatrix," says Colonel Esmond; 
 *' nor if the Prince knew us would he tr}'." 
 
 "But does he know you?" interposed Lad3^ Castlewood, 
 very quiet : " he comes of a country wliere the pursuit of kings 
 is thought no dishonor to a woman. Let us go, dearest Bea- 
 trix. Shall we go to Walcote or to Castlewood? We are best 
 away from the citj' ; and when the Prince is acknowledged, and 
 our champions have restored him, and he hath his own house 
 at St. James's or Windsor, we can come back to ours here. 
 Do 3^00 not think so, Harry and Frank?" 
 
 Frank and Harry thought with' her, 3'ou ma}^ be sure. 
 
 "We will go, then," saj^s Beatrix, turning a little pale; 
 *' Lady Masham is to give me warning to-night how her Majesty 
 is, and ^to-morrow — " 
 
 "I think we had best go to-day, my dear," sa^'s m}^ Lad^' 
 Castlewood; " we might have the coach and sleep at Houns- 
 low, and reach home to-morrow. *Tis twelve o'clock ; bid the 
 coach, cousin, be ready at one." 
 
 " For shame ! " burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and 
 mortification. " You disgrace me by 3'our cruel precautions; 
 m^^ own mother is the first to suspect me, and would take me 
 awa}' as my gaoler. I will not go with you, mother ; I will go 
 as no one's prisoner. If I wanted to deceive, do 3'ou think I 
 could find no means of evading you? My family suspects me. 
 As those mistrust me that ought to love me most, let me leave 
 them ; I will go, but I will go alone : to Castlewood, be it. I 
 have been unhappy there and lonely enough ; let me go baok, 
 but spare me at least the humiliation of setting a watch over 
 my misery, which is a trial I can't bear. Let me go when you 
 will, but alone, or not at all. You three can stay and triumph 
 over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I have borne it be- 
 fore. Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the coach that is to take 
 me away. I thank 3'ou, Henry Esmond, for your share in the 
 conspiracy. All my life long I'll thank you, and remember 
 you, and you, brother, and you, mother, how shall I show my 
 gratitude to you for your careful defence of my honor? " 
 
 She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, fling- 
 ing glances of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of 
 the field, but scared, and almost ashamed of our victory. It 
 did indeed seem hard and cruel that we three should have con- 
 spired the banishment and humiliation of that fair creatui'e. 
 
388 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 We looked at each other in silence : 'twas not the first stroke 
 by man}' of our actions in that unluck}' time, which, being clone, 
 we wished undone. We agreed it was best she should go alone, 
 speaking stealthily to one another, and under our breaths, like 
 persons engaged in an act they felt ashamed in doing. 
 
 In a half- hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, 
 her countenance wearing the same defiant air which it had 
 borne when she left us. She held a shagreen-case in her hand ; 
 Esmond knew it as containing his diamonds which he had given 
 to her for her marriage with Duke Hamilton, and which she 
 had worn so splendidl}' on the inauspicious night of the Prince's 
 arrival. "I have brought back," says she, "to the Marquis 
 of Esmond the present he deigned to make me in days when he 
 trusted me better than now. I will never accept a benefit or 
 a kindness from Henr}' Esmond more, and I give back these 
 family diamonds, which belonged to one king's mistress, to the 
 gentleman that suspected I would be another. Have you been 
 upon your message of coach-caller, my Lord Marquis? Will 
 you send your valet to see that I do not run away ? " We were 
 right, yet, by her manner, she had put us all in the wrong ; we 
 were conquerors, yet the honors of the daj' seemed to be with 
 the poor oppressed girl. 
 
 That luckless box containing the stones had first been orna- 
 mented with a baron's coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to 
 the 3'oung gentleman from whom she parted, and afterwards 
 the gilt crown of a duchess figured on the cover, which also 
 poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady Castlewood 
 opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she 
 did; and behold, besides the diamonds, Esmond's present, 
 there lay in the box the enamelled miniature of the late Duke, 
 which Beatrix had laid aside with her mourning when the King 
 came into the house ; and which the poor heedless thing very 
 likety had forgotten. 
 
 "Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?" says her mother, 
 taking the miniature out, and with a cruelty she did not very 
 often show ; but there are some moments when the tenderest 
 women are cruel, and some triumphs which angels can't 
 forego.* 
 
 Having delivered this stab. Lady Castlewood was fright- 
 ened at the effect of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix's 
 
 * This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuousl}'- even the best 
 of men will sometimes judge of our sex. Lady Castlewood had no inten- 
 tion of triumphing over her daughter; but from a sense of duty alone 
 pointed out her deplorable wrong. — R. E. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 389 
 
 heart : she flushed up and passed a handkerchief across her 
 e^-es, and kissed the muiiature, and put it into her bosom : — 
 "- 1 had forgot it," says she ; " my injury made me forget my 
 grief: my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother ; 
 I think I never can forgive you ; something hath l^roke between 
 us that no tears nor years can repair. I always said I was 
 alone; 3-0U never loved me, never — and were jealous of me 
 from the time I sat on my father's knee. Let me go away, the 
 sooner the better : I can bear to be wdth you no more." 
 
 "Go, child," says her mother, still very stern; "go and 
 bend your proud knees and ask forgiveness ; go, pray in soli- 
 tude for humility and repentance. 'Tis not your reproaches 
 that make me unhappy, 'tis your ha\'d heart, my poor Beatrix ; 
 may God soften it, and teach you one day to feel for your 
 mother." 
 
 If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got 
 to own^ as much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix's ; 
 and, if the girl had a proud spirit, I very much fear it came to 
 her by inheritance. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH. 
 
 Beatrix's departure took place within an hour, her maid 
 going with her in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the 
 coach-box to prevent any danger of the road. Esmond and 
 Frank thought of escorting the carriage, but she indignandy 
 refused their company, and another man was sent to follow the 
 coach, and not to leave it till it had passed over Hounslow 
 Heath on the next day. And these two forming the whole of 
 Lady Castle wood's male domestics, Mr. Esmond's faithful John 
 Lockwood came to wait on his mistress during their absence, 
 though he would have preferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his sweet- 
 heart, on her journej' into the countr3\ 
 
 We had a gloom}^ and silent meal ; it seemed as if a dark- 
 ness was over the house, since the bright face of Beatrix had 
 been withdrawn from it. In the afternoon came a message 
 from the favorite to relieve us somewhat from this despondency. 
 " The Queen hath been much shaken," the note said ; " she is 
 better now, and all things w\\\ go w^ell. Let w?^ Lord Castle- 
 wood be ready against w^e send for him." 
 
390 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 At night there came a second billet: "There hath been a 
 great battle in Council ; Lord Treasurer hath broke his staff, 
 and hath fallen never to rise again ; no successor is appointed. 
 
 Lord B receives a great Whig compan3' to-night at Golden 
 
 Square. If he is trimming, others are true ; the Queen hath 
 no more fits, but is a-bed now, and more quiet. Be ready 
 against morning, when I still hope all will be well." 
 
 The Prince came home shortly after the messenger who 
 bore this billet had left the house. His Royal Highness was so 
 much the better for the Bishop's liquor, that to talk affairs to 
 him now was of little service. He was helped to the Ro^'al 
 bed ; he called Castlewood familiarly by his own name ; he 
 quite forgot the part upon the acting of which his crown, his 
 safety, depended. 'Twas lucky that my Lady Castlewood's 
 servants were out of the way, and onl}' those heard him who 
 would not betray him. He inquired after the adorable Bea- 
 trix, with a royal hiccup in his A^oice ; he was easil}' got to bed, 
 and in a minute or two plunged in that deep slumber and for- 
 getfulness with which Bacchus rewards the votaries of that god. 
 We wished Beatrix had been there to see him in his cups. We 
 regretted, perhaps, that she was gone. 
 
 One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to 
 ride to Hounslow that night, coram latronihus^ and to the inn 
 which the famil}^ used ordinaril}- in their journe3'S out of London. 
 Esmond desired my landlord not to acquaint Madam Beatrix 
 with his coming, and had the grim satisfaction of passing b}' 
 the door of the chamber where she lay with her maid, and of 
 watching her chariot set forth in the earl^' morning. He saw 
 her smile and shp mone}^ into the man's hand who was ordered 
 to ride behind the coach as far as Bagshot. The road being 
 open, and the other servant armed, it appeared she dispensed 
 with the escort of a second domestic ; and this fellow, bidding 
 his young mistress adieu with many bows, went and took a 
 pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in company with his 
 brother servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back to 
 London. 
 
 They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two worthies 
 stopped for more drink, and here the}' were scared b}^ seeing 
 Colonel Esmond gallop b}^ them. The man said in reply to 
 Colonel Esmond's stern question, that his 3'oung mistress had 
 sent her duty ; only that, no other message : she had had a 
 ver}^ good night, and would reach Castlewood hy nightfall. 
 The Colonel had no time for further colloquy, and galloped on 
 swiftl}^ to London, having business of great importance there, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 391 
 
 as my reader very well knoweth. The thought of Beatrix riding 
 away from the danger soothed his mind not a little. His horse 
 was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple knew the way thither 
 well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night was awake 
 and sober. 
 
 The account of the previous evening was known all over the 
 town earl}' next day. A violent altercation had taken place 
 before the Queen in the Council Chamber ; and all the coffee- 
 houses had their version of the quarrel. The news brought my 
 Lord Bishop earl}' to Kensington Square, where he awaited the 
 waking of his Royal master above stairs, and spoke confi- 
 dentl}' of having him proclaimed as Prince of Wales and heir 
 to the throne before that day was over. The Bishop had enter- 
 tained on the previous afternoon certain of the most influential 
 gentlemen of tlie true British party. His Rojal Highness had 
 charmed all, both Scots and English, Papists and Churchmen : 
 " Even Quakers," sa3's he, " were at our meeting ; and, if the 
 stranger toolv a little too much British punch and ale, he will 
 soon grow more accustomed to those liquors ; and my Lord 
 Castle wood," says the Bishop witli a laugh, '•'must bear the 
 cruel charge of having been for once in his life a little tipsy. 
 He toasted your lovely sister a dozen times, at which we all 
 laughed," says the Bishop, "admiring so much fraternal affec- 
 tion. — Where is that charming nymph, and why doth she not 
 adorn 3^our lad^yship's tea-table with her bright eyes?" 
 
 Her ladyship said, dryly, that Beatrix was not at home that 
 morning ; my Lord Bishop was too bL\sy with great affairs to 
 trouble himself much about the presence or absence of an}' lad}', 
 however beautiful. 
 
 We were yet at table when Dr. A came from the Palace 
 
 with a look of great alarm ; the shocks the Queen had had the 
 day before had acted on her severely ; he had been sent for, 
 and had ordered her to be blooded. The surgeon of Long Acre 
 had come to cup the Queen, and her Majesty was now more 
 easy and breathed more freely. What made us start at the 
 name of Mr. Ayme? "II faut etre aimable pour etre aime," 
 says the merry Doctor; Esmond pulled his sleeve, and bade 
 him hush. It was to Ayme's house, after his fatal duel, that 
 my dear Lord Castlewood, Frank's father, had been carried 
 to die. 
 
 No second visit could be paid to the Queen on that day at 
 any rate ; and when our guest above gave his signal that he 
 was awake, the Doctor, the Bishop, and Colonel P2smond waited 
 upon the Prince's levee, and brought him their news, cheerful 
 
392 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 or dubious. The Doctor had to go awa}- presentlj^, but prom- 
 ised to keep the Prince constantly' acquainted with what was 
 taking place at the Palace hard b3\ His counsel was, and the 
 Bishop's, that as soon as ever the Queen's malady took a favor- 
 able turn, the Prince should be introduced to her bedside ; th'B 
 Council summoned ; the guard at Kensington and St. James's, 
 of which two regiments were to be entirely relied on, and one 
 known not to be hostile, would declare for the Prince, as the 
 Queen would before the Lords of her Council, designating hira 
 as the heir to her throne. 
 
 With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, 
 the Prince and his Lordship of Rochester passed many hours 
 of this day, composing Proclamations and Addresses to the 
 Country, to the Scots, to the Clergy, to the People of London 
 and England ; announcing the arrival of the exile descendant 
 of three sovereigns, and his acknowledgment by his sister as 
 heir to the throne. Every safeguard for their liberties, the 
 Church and People could ask, was promised to them. The 
 Bishop could answer for the adhesion of very man}- prelates, 
 who besought of their flocks and brother ecclesiastics to recog- 
 nize the sacred right of the future sovereign, and to purge the 
 countr}^ of the sin of rebellion. 
 
 During the composition of these papers, more messengers 
 than one came from the Palace regarding the state of the august 
 patient there lying. At mid-day she was somewhat better ; at 
 evening the torpor again seized her, and she wandered in her 
 
 mind. At night Dr. A was with us again, with a report 
 
 rather more favorable : no instant danger at an^^ rate was 
 apprehended. In the course of the last two years her Majestj^ 
 had had many attacks similar, but more severe. 
 
 B}' this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations, 
 (the wording of them so as to offend no parties, and not to give 
 umbrage to Whigs or Dissenters, required very great caution,) 
 and the 3^oung Prince, who had indeed shown, during a long 
 da3^'s labor, both alacrit}' at seizing the information given him, 
 and ingenuit}' and skill in turning the phrases which were to 
 go out signed b}' his name, here exhibited a good-humor and 
 thoughtfulness that ought to be set down to his credit. 
 
 '' Were these papers to be mislaid." sa3's he, '^ or our schema 
 to come to mishap, m3' Lord Esmond's writing would bring him 
 to a place where I heartil3^ hope never to see him ; and so, b}' 
 3'our leave, I will cop3" the papers m3'self, though I am not 
 very strong in spelling ; and if the3' are found the3' will impli- 
 cate none but the person the}' most concern ; " and so, having 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 393 
 
 careful!}^ copied the Proclamations out, the Prince burned those 
 in Colonel Esmond's handwriting : " And now, and now, gentle- 
 men," says he, "let us go to supper, and drink a glass with 
 the ladies. My Lord Esmond, 3'OU will sup with us to-night ; 
 you have given us of late too little of your company." 
 
 The Prince's meals were commonly served in the chamber 
 which had been Beatrix's bedroom, adjoining that in which he 
 slept. And the dutiful practice of his entertainers was to wait 
 until their Royal guest bade them take their places at table 
 before they sat down to partake of the meal. On this night, 
 as you may suppose, onl}' Frank Castlewood and his mother 
 were in waiting when the supper was announced to receive the 
 Prince ; Who had passed the whole of the day in his own apart- 
 ment, with the Bishop as his Minister of State, and Colonel 
 Esmond officiating as Secretary of his Council. 
 
 The Prince's countenance wore an expression b}^ no means 
 pleasant ; when looking towards the little company assembled, 
 and waiting for him, he did not see Beatrix's bright face there 
 as usual to greet him. He asked Lady Esmond for his fair 
 introducer of yesterda}' : her ladyship onl}' cast her eyes down, 
 and said quietl}^ Beatrix could not be of the supper that night ; 
 nor did she show the least sign of confusion, whereas Castle- 
 wood turned red, and Esmond was no less embarrassed. I 
 think women have an instinct of dissimulation ; the}^ know by 
 nature how to disguise then- emotions far better than the most 
 consummate male courtiers can do. Is not the better part of 
 the life of man}' of them spent in hiding their feelings, in cajol- 
 ing their tyrants, in masking over with fond smiles and artful 
 ga3'et3^ their doubt, or their grief, or their terror? 
 
 Our guest swallowed his supper very sulkily ; it was not till 
 the second bottle his Highness began to rail}'. When Lad}^ 
 Castlewood asked leave to depart, he sent a message to Beatrix, 
 hoping she would be present at the next day's dinner, and ap- 
 plied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards, for which there 
 was subject in plenty. 
 
 The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington 
 that the Queen was somewhat better, and had been up for 
 an hour, though she was not well enough 3'et to receive any 
 visitor. 
 
 At dinner a single cover was laid for his Royal Highness ; 
 and the two gentlemen alone waited on him. We had had a 
 consultation in the morning with Lady Castlewood, in which 
 it had been determined that, should his Highness ask further 
 
394 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 questions about Beatrix, he should be answered bj' the gentle- 
 men of the house. 
 
 He was evidently disturbed and uneas}', looking towards the 
 door constantl}', as if expecting some one. There came, how- 
 ever, nobod}^, except honest John Lockwood, when he knocked 
 with a dish, which those within took from him ; so the meals 
 were always arranged, and I believe the council in the kitchen 
 were of opinion that my young lord had brought over a priest, 
 who had converted us all into Papists, and that Papists were 
 like Jews, eating together, and not choosing to take tbeir meals 
 in the sight of Christians. 
 
 The Prince tried to cover his displeasure ; he was but a 
 clumsy dissembler at that time, and when out of humor could 
 with difficult}' keep a serene countenance ; and having made 
 some foolish attempts at trivial talk, he came to his point pres- 
 ently, and in as easy a manner as he could, saying to Lord 
 Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his lordship's mother and 
 sister would be of the supper that night. As the time hung 
 heavy on him, and he must not go abroad, would not Miss 
 Beatrix hold him company at a game of cards? 
 
 At this, looking up at P^smond, and taking the signal from 
 him. Lord Castlewood informed his Royal Highness* that his 
 sister Beatrix was not at Kensington ; and that her famih^ had 
 thought it best she should quit the town. 
 
 " Not at Kensington ! " says he ; "is she ill? she was well 
 yesterday ; wherefore should she quit the town ? Is it at 3'our 
 orders, my lord, or Colonel Esmond's, who seems the master 
 of this house ? " 
 
 "Not of this, sir," says Frank very nobh^, " onl}^ of our 
 house in the country, which he hath given to us. This is my 
 mother's house, and Walcote is my father's, and the Marquis 
 of Esmond knows he hath but to give his word, and I return 
 his to him." 
 
 " The Marquis of Esmond ! — the Marquis of Esmond," saj^s 
 the Prince, tossing off a glass, " meddles too much with my 
 affairs, and presumes on the service he hath done me. If you 
 want to carry 3'our suit with Beatrix, my lord, by blocking 
 her up in gaol, let me tell you that is not the way to win a 
 woman." 
 
 "I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to 
 Madam Beatrix to your Royal Highness." 
 
 "Bah, bah. Monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see 
 
 * In London we addressed tlie Prince as Royal Highness invariably , 
 though the women persisted in giving him the title of lung. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 395 
 
 that. It makes itself seen at all moments. You are jealous, 
 my lord, and the maid of honor cannot look at another face 
 without 3'ours beginning to scowl. That which you do is un- 
 worthy, Monsieur; is inhospitable — is, is lache, yes, lache : " 
 (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with 
 each phrase :) ^' I come to 3'our house ; I risk my life ; I pass 
 it in ennui ; I repose myself on your fidelity ; I have no com- 
 pany but your lordship's sermons or the conversations of that 
 adorable young lady, and you take her from me, and you, you 
 rest ! Merci, Monsieur ! I shall thank you when I have the 
 means ; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little impor- 
 tunate, my lord — a little importunate. For a month past your 
 airs of protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You deign 
 to ofler me the crown, and bid me take it on my knees hke 
 King John — eh ! I know my histor}'. Monsieur, and mock 
 myself of frowning barons. I admire your mistress, and 3'ou 
 send her to a Bastile of the Province ; 1 enter your house, and 
 you mistrust me. 1 will leave it, Monsieur; from to-night I 
 will leave it. I have other friends whose loyalt3^ will not be so 
 ready to question mine. If I have garters to give awaj-, 'tis to 
 noblemen who are not so read}' to think evil. Bring me a coach 
 and let me quit this place, or let the fair Beatrix return to it. 
 I will not have 3'our hospitality at the expense of the freedom 
 of that fair creature." 
 
 This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulation such as 
 the French use, and in the language of that nation. The Prince 
 striding up and down the room ; his face flushed, and his hands 
 trembling with anger. He was ver}- thin and frail from re- 
 peated illness and a life of pleasure. Either Castlewood or 
 Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in half a 
 minute's struggle put an end to him ; and here he was insult- 
 ing us both, and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose 
 honor it most concerned, the passion he felt for the young lady 
 of our family. M}- Lord Castlew^ood replied to the Prince's 
 tirade ver}- nobly and simply. 
 
 " Sir," says he, "your Royal Highness is pleased to forget 
 that others risk their lives, and for your cause. Very few Eng- 
 lishmen, please God, would dare to lay hands on your sacred 
 person, though none would ever think of respecting ours. Our 
 family's lives are at your service, and everything we have ex- 
 cept our honor." 
 
 ''Honor ! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honor? " 
 says the Prince with a peevish air. 
 
 " We hnplore your Royal Highness never to think of hurt- 
 
396 THE HISTORY OF HENllY ESMOND. 
 
 ing it," says Lord Castlewood with a low bow. The night 
 being warm, the windows were open both towards the Gardens 
 and the Square. Colonel Esmond heard through the closed 
 door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, in the square 
 on the other side. He opened the door communicating with 
 the Prince's room ; Martin, the servant that had rode with 
 Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going out of the chamber as 
 Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was gone, and the 
 watchman again sang his cr}' of " Past ten o'clock, and a star- 
 light night," Esmond spoke to the Prince in a low voice, and 
 said — " Your Po3'al Highness hears that man." 
 
 '' Apres, Monsieur?" says the Prince. 
 
 "I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him 
 fifty yards, and he returns with a guard of men, and I delivcT 
 up to him the bod}^ of the person calhng himself James the 
 Third, for whose capture Parliament hath offered a reward of 
 500/., as 3^our Royal Highness saw on our ride from Rochester. 
 I have but to say the word, and, by the heaven that made me, 
 I woukl sa}^ it if I thought the Prince, for his honor's sake, 
 would not desist from insulting ours. But the first gentleman 
 of England knows his dut}^ too well to forget himself with the 
 humblest, or peril his crown for a deed that were shameful if it 
 were done." 
 
 " Has your lordship anything to say," says the Prince, turn- 
 ing to Frank Castlewood, and quite pale with anger; "any 
 threat or any insult, with which you would like to end this 
 agreeable night's entertainment ? " 
 
 " I follow the head of our house," says Castlewood, bowing 
 gravely. "At what time shall it please the Prince that we 
 should wait upon him in the morning?" 
 
 "You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will 
 bid him bring his coach hither ; and prepare an apartment for 
 me in his own house, or in a place of safet}'. The King will 
 reward you handsomely, never fear, for all you have done in 
 his behalf. I wish you a good night, and shall go to bed, un- 
 less it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call his colleague, the 
 watchman, and that I should pass the night with the Kensing- 
 ton guard. Fare 3'ou well, be sure I will remember 3-ou. M3^ 
 Lord Castlewood, I can go to bed to-night without need of a 
 chamberlain." And the Prince dismissed us with a grim bow, 
 locking one door as he spoke, that into the supping-room, and 
 the other through which we passed, after us. It led into the 
 small chamber which Frank Castlewood or Monsieur Baptiste 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 397 
 
 occupied, and by which Martin entered when Colonel Esmond 
 but now saw him in the chamber. 
 
 At an earl}^ hour next morning the Bishop arrived, and was 
 closeted for some time with his master in his own apartment, 
 where the Prince laid open to his counsellor the wrongs which, 
 according to his version, he had received from the gentlemen 
 of the Esmond family. The worthy prelate came out from the 
 conference with an air of great satisfaction ; he was a man full 
 of resources, and of a most assured fidelit}', and possessed of 
 genius, and a hundred good qualities ; but captious and of a 
 most jealous temper, that could not help exulting at the down- 
 fall of any favorite ; and he was pleased in spite of himself to 
 hear that the Esmond Ministry was at an end. 
 
 ^'1 have soothed 3'our guest,'" says he, coming out to the 
 two gentlemen and the widow, who had been made acquainted 
 with somewhat of the dispute of the night before. (By the ver- 
 sion we gave her, the Prince was only made to exhibit anger be- 
 cause we doubted of his intentions in respect to Beatrix ; and 
 to leave us, because we questioned his honor.) " But I think, 
 all things considered, 'tis as well he should leave this house ; 
 and then, my Lady Castlewood," says the Bishop, " my prett}^ 
 Beatrix may come back to it." 
 
 " She is quite as well at home at Castlewood," Esmond's 
 mistress said, " till everything is over." 
 
 " You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you," 
 says the good Bishop, assuming the airs of a Prime Minister. 
 ''The Prince hath expressed himself most nobly in regard of 
 the little difference of last night, and I promise you he hath 
 listened to my sermon, as well as to that of other folks," says 
 the Doctor, archl}^ ; " he hath ever}^ great and generous qual- 
 ity, with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs to his 
 famih', and hath been known in scores of popular sovereigns 
 from King David downwards." 
 
 '' My lord, my lord I " breaks out Lady Esmond, " the levit}^ 
 with which you speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks 
 me, and what 3'ou call weakness I call deplorable sin." 
 
 " Sin it is, my dear creature," says the Bishop, with a 
 shrug, taking snuff; "but consider what a sinner King Solo- 
 mon was, and in spite of a thousand of wives too." 
 
 ''Enough of this, my lord," says Lady Castlewood, with a 
 fine blush, and walked out of the room very stately. 
 
 The Prince entered it presently with a smile on his face, 
 and if he felt any offence against us on the previous niglit, at 
 present exhibited none. He ofl'ered a hand to each gentle- 
 
398 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 man with great courtesy. " If all your bishops preach so well 
 as Doctor Atterburj-," says he, "I don't know, gentlemen, 
 what may happen to me. I spoke very hastily, my lords, last 
 night, and ask pardon of both of you. But I must not stay 
 an}' longer," says he, "giving umbrage to good friends, or 
 keeping pretty girls away from their homes. M3' Lord Bishop 
 hath found a safe place for me, hard by at a curate's house, 
 whom the Bishop can trust, and whose wife is so ugly as to be 
 be3'ond all dauger ; we will decamp into those new quarters, 
 and 1 leave you, thanking you for a hundred kindnesses here. 
 Where is my hostess, that I may bid her farewell ; to welcome 
 her in a house of my own, soon, I trust, where my friends shall 
 have no cause to quarrel with me." 
 
 Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great 
 grace, and tears filling her eyes as the Prince graciously saluted 
 her. She looked so charming and young, that the doctor, in 
 his bantering way, could not help speaking of her beautj' to the 
 Prince ; whose compliment made her blush, and look more 
 charmins: still. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A GREAT SCHEME, AND WHO BALKED IT. 
 
 As characters Written with a secret ink come out with the 
 application of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper 
 white, as soon as it is cool ; a hundred names of men, high in 
 repute and favoring the Prince's cause, that were writ in our 
 private lists, would have been visible enough on the great roll 
 of the conspirac}', had it ever been laid open under the sun. 
 What crowds would have pressed forward, and subscribed their 
 names and protested their loyalt}^, when the danger was over ! 
 What a number of Whigs, now high in place and creatures of 
 the all-powerful Minister, scorned Mr. Walpole then ! If evej* 
 a match was gained by the manliness and decision of a few at 
 a moment of danger ; if ever one was lost b}' the treachery and 
 imbecility of those that had the cards in their hands, and might 
 have played them, it was in that momentous game which was 
 enacted in the next three daj's, and of which the noblest crown 
 in the world was the stake. 
 
 From the conduct of m}^ Lord Bolingbroke, those who were 
 interested in the scheme we had in hand, saw pretty well that 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 399 
 
 he was not to be trusted. Should the Prince prevail, it was 
 his lordship's gracious intention to declare for him : should the 
 Hanoverian party bring in their sovereign, who more ready to 
 go on his knee, and cry, " God Save King George?" And he 
 betrayed the one Prince and the other ; but exactly at the 
 wrong time. When he should have struck for King James, he 
 faltered and coquetted with the Whigs ; and having committed 
 himself by the most monstrous professions of devotion, which 
 the Elector rightly scorned, he proved the justness of their 
 contempt for him by flying and taking renegade service with 
 St. Germains, just when he should have kept aloof: and that 
 Court despised him, as the. manly and resolute men who estab- 
 lished the Elector in England had before done. He signed his 
 own name to every accusation of insincerity his enemies made 
 against him ; and the King and the Pretender alike coukl show 
 proofs of St. John's treacher}' under his own hand and seal. 
 
 Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as 
 on those of the brave and hearty Whig party, that made little 
 concealment of theirs. They would have in the Elector, and 
 used every means in their power to eflTect their end. My Lord 
 Marlborough was now with them. His expulsion from power 
 by the Tories had thrown that great captain at once on the 
 Whig side. We heard he was coming from Antwerp ; and, in 
 fact, on the day of the Queen's death, he once more landed on 
 English shore. A great part of the arm^^ was always with 
 their illustrious leader ; even the Tories in it were indignant at 
 the injustice of the persecution which the Whig officers were 
 made to undergo. The chiefs of these were in London, and at 
 the head of them one of the most intrepid men in the world, 
 the Scots Duke of Argyle, whose conduct on the second da}' 
 after that to wliich I have now brought down my histor3% ended, 
 as such honesty and braverj' deserved to end, by establisliing 
 the present Royal race on the English throne. 
 
 Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion amongst 
 the councillors surrounding the Prince, as to the plan his High- 
 ness should pursue. His female Minister at Court, fancying 
 she saw some amelioration in the Queen, was for waiting a few 
 days, or hours it might be, until he could be brought to her bed- 
 side, and acknowledged as her heir. Mr. Esmond was for having 
 him march thither, escorted by a couple of troops of Horse 
 Guards, and openly presenting himself to the Council. During 
 the whole of the night of the 29th-30th July, the Colonel was 
 engaged with gentlemen of the military profession, whom 'tis 
 needless here to name ; suffice it to say that several of them 
 
400 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 had exceeding high rank in the army, and one of them in 
 especial was a General, who, when he heard the Duke of Marl- 
 borough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch over 
 his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should march out 
 and engage him. Of the three Secretaries of State, we knew 
 that one was devoted to us. The Governor of the Tower was 
 ours ; the two companies on duty at Kensington barrack were 
 safe ; and we had intelligence, ver}- speedy and accurate, of all 
 that took place at the Palace within. 
 
 At noon, on the 30th of Jul}', a message came to the Prince's 
 friends that the Committee of Council was sitting at Kensington 
 Palace, their Graces of Ormonde and Shrewsbur}', the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury and the three Secretaries of State, being 
 there assembled. In an hour afterwards, hurried news was 
 brought that the two great Whig Dukes, Arg3-le and Somerset, 
 had broke into the Council-chamber without a summons, and 
 taken their seat at table. After holding a debate there, the 
 whole party proceeded to the chamber of the Queen, who was 
 lying in great weakness, but still sensible, and the Lords recom- 
 mended his Grace of Shrewsbury as the fittest person to take 
 the vacant place of Lord Treasurer ; her Majesty gave him 
 the staff, as all know. " And now," writ my messenger from 
 Court, "' now or never is the time J' 
 
 Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the Whig 
 Dukes, our side had still the majority in the Council, and 
 Elsmond, to whom the message had been brought, (the person- 
 age at Court not being aware that the Prince had quitted his 
 lodging in Kensington Square,) and Esmond's gallant young 
 aide-de-camp, Frank Castlewood, putting on sword and uniform, 
 took a brief leave of their dear lady, who embraced and blessed 
 them both, and went to her chamber to pray for the issue of 
 the great event which was then pending. 
 
 Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the cap- 
 tain of the Guard there ; and then went to the '' King's Arms " 
 tavern at Kensington, where our friends were assembled, having 
 come b}' parties of twos and threes, riding or in coaches, and 
 were got together in the upper chamber, fifty-three of them ; 
 their servants, who had been instructed to bring arms likewise, 
 being below in the garden of the tavern, where they were served 
 with drink. Out of this garden is a little door that leads into 
 the road of the Palace, and through this it was arranged that 
 masters and servants were to march ; when that signal was 
 given, and that Personage appeared, for whom all were waiting. 
 There was in our company the famous officer n&xt in command 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESM0:N'D. 401 
 
 to the Captain- General of the Forces, his Grace the Duke of 
 Ormonde, who was within at the Council. There were with 
 him two more lieutenant-generals, nine major-generals and 
 brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven Peers of Parliament, and 
 twenty-one members of the House of Commons. The Guard 
 was with us within and without the Palace : the Queen was 
 with us ; the Council (save the two Whig Dukes, that must 
 have succumbed) ; the day was our own, and with a beating 
 heart Esmond walked rapidlj^ to the Mall of Kensington, where 
 he had parted with the Prince on the night before. For three 
 nights the Colonel had not been to bed : the last had been 
 passed summoning the Prince's friends together, of whom the 
 great ms^jority had no sort of inkling of the transaction pending 
 until they were told that he was actually on the spot, and were 
 summoned to strike the blow. The night before and after the 
 altercation with the Prince, my gentleman, having suspicions 
 of his Royal Highness, and fearing lest he should be minded to 
 give us the slip, and fly off after his fugitive beauty, had spent, 
 if the truth must be told, at the "Greyhound" tavern, over 
 against my Lady Castle wood's house in Kensington Square, 
 with an eye on the door, lest the Prince should escape from it. 
 The night before thit he had passed in his boots at the ' ' Crown " 
 at Hounslow, where he must watch forsooth all night, in order 
 to get one moment's glimpse of Beatrix in the morning. And 
 fate had decreed that he was to have a fourth night's ride and 
 wakefulness before his business was ended. 
 
 He ran to the curate's house in Kensington Mall, and asked 
 for Mr. Bates, the name the Prince went by. The curate's 
 wife said Mr. Bates had gone abroad very early in the morning 
 in his boots, sajang he was going to the Bishop of Rochester's 
 house at Chelsey. But the Bishop had been at Kensington 
 himself two hours ago to seek for Mr. Bates, and had returned 
 in his coach to his own house, when he heard that the gentle- 
 man was gone thither to seek him. 
 
 This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's delay 
 might cost a kingdom ; Esmond had nothing for it but to has- 
 ten to the " King's Arms," and tell the gentlemen there assem- 
 bled that Mr. George (as we called the Prince there) was not 
 at home, but that Esmond would go fetch him ; and taking a 
 General's coach that happened to be there, Esmond drove 
 across the country to Chelsey, to the Bishop's house there. 
 
 The porter said two gentlemen were with his lordship, and 
 Esmond ran past this sentr}^ up to the locked door of the 
 Bishop's study, at which he rattled, and was admitted pres- 
 
 26 
 
402 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 eiitly. Of the Bishop's guests one was a brother prelate, and 
 the other the Abbe G . 
 
 " Where is Mr. George?" says Mr. Esmond ; " now is the 
 time." The Bishop looked scared: " I went to his lodging," 
 he said, " and they told me he was oome hither. I returned as 
 quick as coach would carry me ; and he hath not been here." 
 
 The Colonel burst out with an oath ; that was all he could 
 say to their reverences ; ran down the stairs again, and bidding 
 the coachman, an old friend and fellovf -campaigner, drive as if 
 he was charging the French with his master at Wj-nendael — 
 they were back at Kensington in half an hour. 
 
 Again Esmond went to the curate's house. Mr. Bates had 
 not returned. The Colonel had to go with this blank errand 
 to the gentlemen at the ''King's Arms," that were grown 
 very impatient by this time. 
 
 Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the gar- 
 den wall, you can see the green before Kensington Palace, 
 the Palace gate (round which the Ministers' coaches were 
 standing) , and the barrack building. As we were looking out 
 from this window in gloom}^ discourse, we heard presently 
 trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the window of the 
 front-room, looking into the High Street of Kensington, and 
 saw a regiment of Horse coming. 
 
 " It's Ormonde's Guards," sa3^s one. 
 
 "No, b}^ God, it's Argyle's old regiment!" saj^s my Gen- 
 eral, clapping down his crutch. 
 
 It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from 
 Westminster, and that took the place of the regiment at Ken- 
 sington on which we could rel3^ 
 
 "Oh, Hany ! " saj's one of the generals there present, 
 " you were born under an unlucky star ; I begin to think that 
 there's no Mr. George, nor Mr. Dragon either. 'Tis not the 
 peerage I care for, for our name is so ancient and famous, that 
 merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me no good'; but 
 'tis the chance 3'ou promised me of fighting Marlborough." 
 
 As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a 
 disturbed air. 
 
 " What news, Frank?" says the Colonel. " Is Mr. George 
 coming at last?" 
 
 "Damn him, look here! " says Castlewood, holding out a 
 paper. "I found it in the book — the what you call it, 
 ' Eikum Basilikum,' — that villain Martin put it there — he said 
 his 3^oung mistress bade him. It was directed to me, but it 
 was meant for him I know, and I broke the seal and read it." 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 403 
 
 The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away 
 before Esmond's e3'es as he read the paper ; all that was 
 written on it was : — " Beatrix Esmond is sent away to prison, 
 to Castlewood, where she will pra}^ for happier days." 
 
 "Can you guess where he is?" says Castlewood. 
 
 "Yes," says Colonel Esmond. He knew fall well, Frank 
 knew full well : our instinct told whither that traitor had fled. 
 
 He had courage to turn to the company and say, " Gentle- 
 men, I fear Aery much that Mr. George will not be here to-day ; 
 something hath happened — and — and — I very much fear 
 some accident may befall him, which must keep him out of the 
 way. Having had j'our noon's draught, you had best pay the 
 reckoning and go home ; there can be no game where there is 
 no one to play it." 
 
 Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others 
 called to pay their duty to her Majesty and ask for her health. 
 The little army disappeared into the darkness out of which it 
 had been called ; there had been no writings, no paper to im- 
 plicate any man. Some few officers and Members of Parlia- 
 ment had been invited over night to breakfast at the " King's 
 Arms," at Kensington ; and they had called for their bill and 
 gone home. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 AUGUST 1st, 1714. 
 
 " Does my mistress know of this ? " Esmond asked of Frank, 
 as the}^ walked along. 
 
 " My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet- 
 table. She had writ it ere she had left home," Frank said. 
 " Mother met her on the stairs, with her hand upon the door, 
 trying to enter, and never left her after that till she went away. 
 He did not think of lool^ing at it there, nor had Martin the 
 chance of telling him. I believe the poor devil meant no harm, 
 though I half killed him ; he thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother 
 he was bringing the letter." 
 
 Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having 
 brought the villain amongst us. As we knocked at the door 
 I said, "When will the horses be ready?" Frank pointed 
 with his cane, they were turning the street that moment. 
 
404 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 We went up and bade adieu to our mistress ; she was in a 
 dreadful state of agitation b}^ this time, and that Bishop was 
 with her whose compan}^ she was so fond of. 
 
 " Did you tell him, my lord," says Esmond, " that Beatrix 
 was at Castle wood ? " The Bishop blushed and stammered : 
 ''Well," says he, " I . . ." 
 
 " You served the villain right," broke out Mr. Esmond, 
 " and he has lost a crown by what j^ou told him." 
 
 My mistress turned quite white, "Henry, Henry," says 
 she, " do not kill him." 
 
 " It may not be too late," sa3^s Esmond ; "he may not have 
 gone to Castle wood ; pray God, it is not too late." The Bishop 
 was breaking out with some banale phrases about loyaltj^, and 
 the sacredness of the Sovereign's person ; but Esmond sternly 
 bade him hold his tongue, burn all papers, and take care of 
 Lady Castlewood ; and in five minutes he and Frank were in 
 the saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards Castle- 
 wood at a rapid pace. 
 
 We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but 
 old Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John's father, 
 walking by the side of the Hexton flying-coach, who slept the 
 night at Alton. Lockwood said his young mistress had arrived 
 at home on Wednesday night, and this morning, Friday, had 
 despatched him with a packet for my lad}' at Kensington, say- 
 ing the letter was of great importance. 
 
 We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared 
 with wonder, and cried out his " Lord bless me's," and " Who'd 
 a thought it's," at the sight of his young lord, whom he had 
 not seen these seven 3^ears. 
 
 The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance 
 at all. It was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make 
 light of her captivity. She asked whether she might have 
 leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk be3'ond the court and 
 the garden wall. She gave news of the peacocks, and a fawn 
 she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns 
 and smocks by old Lockwood ; she sent her dut}^ to a certain 
 Person, if certain other persons permitted her to take such a 
 freedom ; how that, as she was not able to pla}^ cards with 
 him, she hoped he would read good books, such as Doctor 
 Atterburv-'s sermons and ' ' Eikon Basilike : " she was going to 
 read good books ; she thought her pretty mamma would like 
 to know she was not crjing her eyes out. 
 
 "Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?" says the 
 Colonel. 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 405 
 
 " There be the launclrj-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam 
 Beatrix's maid, the man from London, and that be all ; and he 
 sleepeth in my lodge away from the maids," says old Lock- 
 wood. 
 
 Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving 
 it to the old man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We 
 knew why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a sudden, and why 
 she spoke of " Eikon Basilike." She wTit this letter to put 
 the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the wa}^ 
 
 "We have a fine moonlight night for riding on," saj^s 
 Esmond; "Frank, we may reach Castle wood in time yet." 
 All the way along they made inquiries at the post-houses, 
 when a tall young gentleman in a gray suit, with a light brown 
 periwig, just the color of m}^ lord's, had been seen to pass. 
 He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the 
 afternoon. He rode almost as quickl}^ as we had done ; he 
 was seven hours a-head of us still when we reached the last 
 stage. 
 
 We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of 
 dawn. We passed the very spot where the car was upset four- 
 teen years since, and Mohun lay. The village was not up yet, 
 nor the forge lighted, as we rode through it, passing by the 
 elms, where the rooks were still roosting, and by the church, 
 and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the bridge and 
 walked up to the gate. 
 
 " If she is safe," says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes 
 filling with tears, "a silver statue to Our Lady!" He was 
 going to rattle at the great iron knocker on the oak gate ; but 
 Esmond stopped his kinsman's hand. He had his own fears, 
 his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs, too ; but he spoke 
 not a word of these to his companion, or showed any signs of 
 emotion. 
 
 He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's 
 lodge, gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars. 
 
 "Who's there?" says he, looking out; it was the servant 
 from Kensington. 
 
 " My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond," we said, from 
 below. " Open the gate and let us in without an}^ noise." 
 
 " My Lord Castlewood?" says the other ; " my lord's here, 
 and in bed." 
 
 " Open, d — n you," says Castlewood, with a curse. 
 
 "I shall open to no one," says the man, shutting the glass 
 window as Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired at the 
 por-ter, but Esmond again held his hand. 
 
406 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOxVD. 
 
 "There are more ways than one," ssijs he, "of entering 
 such a great house as this." Frank grumbled that the west 
 gate was half a mile round. " But I know of a way that's not 
 a hundred yards off," says Mr. Esmond ; and leading his kins- 
 man close along the wall, and by the shrubs which had now 
 grown thick on what had been an old moat about the house, 
 the}^ came to the buttress, at the side of which the little window 
 was, which was Father Holt's private door. Esmond climbed 
 up to this easily, broke a pane that had been mended, and 
 touched the spring inside, and the two gentlemen passed in 
 that way, treading as lightly as they could ; and so going 
 through the passage into the court, over which the dawn was 
 now reddening, and where the fountain plashed in the silence. 
 
 They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the fellow 
 had not fastened his door that led into the court ; and pistol 
 in hand came upon the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent. 
 Then they asked him (Esmond's head reeled, and he almost 
 fell as he spoke) when Lord Castlewood had arrived? He said 
 on the previous evening, about eight of the clock. — "And 
 what then ? " — His lordship supped with his sister. — ' ' Did 
 the man wait?" Yes, he and my lady's maid both waited: 
 the other servants made the supper ; and there was no wine, 
 and they could give his lordship but milk, at which he grumbled ; 
 and — and Madam Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the room 
 with her. And there being a bed across the court in the Chap- 
 lain's room, she had arranged my lord was to sleep there. 
 Madam Beatrix had come down stairs laughing with the maids, 
 and had locked herself in, and my lord had stood for a while 
 talking to her through the door, and she laughing at him. 
 And then he paced the court awhile, and she came again to 
 the upper window ; and m}- lord implored her to come down 
 and walk in the room ; but she would not, and laughed at him 
 again, and shut the window ; and so my lord, uttering what 
 seemed curses, but in a foreign language, went to the Chap- 
 lain's room to bed. 
 
 " Was this all ! " — " All," the man swore upon his honor ; 
 all as he hoped to be saved. — "Stop, there was one thing 
 more. My lord, on arriving, and once or twice during supper, 
 did kiss his sister, as was natural, and she kissed him." At 
 this Esmond ground his teeth with rage, and wellnigh throttled 
 the amazed miscreant who was speaking, whereas Castlewood, 
 seizing hold of his cousin's hand, burst into a great fit o' 
 laughter. 
 
 "K it amuses thee," says Esmond in French, "that your 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 407 
 
 sister should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear 
 poor Beatrix will give thee plenty of sport." — Esmond darkly 
 thought, how Hamilton, Ashburnham, had before been masters 
 of those roses that the young Prince's lips were now feeding on. 
 He sickened at that notion. Her cheek was desecrated, her 
 beauty tarnished ; shame and honor stood between it and him. 
 The love was dead within him ; had she a crown to bring him 
 with her love, he felt that both would degrade him. 
 
 But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feel- 
 ings of the Colonel against the man who had been the occasion 
 if not the cause of the evil. Frank sat down on a stone bench 
 in the court-yard, and fairly fell asleep, while Esmond paced 
 up and down the court, debating what should ensue. What 
 mattered how much or how little had passed between the Prince 
 and the poor faithless girl ? They were arrived in time perhaps 
 to rescue her person, but not her mind ; had she not instigated 
 the young Prince to come to iier ; suborned servants, dismissed 
 others, so that she might communicate with him ? The treach- 
 erous heart within her had surrendered, though the place was 
 safe ; and it was to win this that h6 had given a life's struggle 
 and devotion ; this, that she was ready to give away for the 
 bribe of a coronet or a wink of the Prince's eye. 
 
 When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor 
 Frank from his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been 
 dreaming of Clotilda. "You must back me," says Esmond, 
 '' in what I am going to do. I have been thinking that yonder 
 scoundrel may have been instructed to tell that stor3% and that 
 the whole of it may be a lie ; if it be, we shall find it out from 
 the gentleman who is asleep 3'onder. See if the door leading 
 to my lady's rooms," (so we called the rooms at the north-west 
 angle of the house,) "see if the door is barred as he saith." 
 We tried ; it was indeed as the lackey had said, closed within. 
 
 " It may have been opened and shut afterwards," says poor 
 Esmond ; " the foundress of our family let our ancestor in in 
 that way." 
 
 " What will 3^ou do, Harr}^, if — if what that fellow saith 
 should turn out untrue?" The young man looked scared and 
 frightened into his kinsman's face ; I dare sa}^ it wore no very 
 pleasant expression. 
 
 "Let us first go see whether the two stories agree," says 
 Esmond ; and went in at the passage and opened the door into 
 what had been his own chamber now for wellnigh five-and- 
 twent}^ years. A candle was still burning, and the Prince 
 asleep dressed on the bed — Esmond did not care for making a 
 
408 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 noise. The Prince started up in his bed, seeing two men in 
 his chamber. " Qui est la? " says he, and took a pistol from 
 under his pillow. 
 
 " It is the Marquis of Esmond," says the Colonel, "come 
 to welcome his Majesty- to his house of Castlewood, and to report 
 of what hath happened in London. Pursuant to the King's 
 orders, I passed the night before last, after leaving his Majesty, 
 in waiting upon the friends of the King. It is a pity that his 
 Majesty's desire to see the country and to visit our poor house 
 should have caused the King to quit London without notice 
 yesterda}', when the opportunit}' happened which in all human 
 probability may not occur again ; and had the King not chosen 
 to ride to Castlewood, the Prince of Wales might have slept at 
 St. James's." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! gentlemen," ssljs the Prince, starting off his bed, 
 whereon he was lying in his clothes, " the Doctor was with me 
 yesterday morning, and after watching by my sister all night, 
 told me I might not hope to see the Queen." 
 
 " It would have been otherwise," says Esmond with another 
 bow ; " as, by this time, the Queen maybe dead in spite of the 
 Doctor. The Council was met, a new Treasurer was appointed, 
 the troops were devoted to the King's cause ; and fifty loyal gen- 
 tlemen of the greatest names of this kingdom were assembled to 
 accompany the Prince of Wales, who might have been the ac- 
 knowledged heir of the throne, or the possessor of it by this 
 time, had 3^our Majesty not chosen to take the air. We were 
 ready ; there was only one person that failed us, your Majesty's 
 gracious — " 
 
 " Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty," said 
 the Prince, who had now risen up and seemed to be looking to 
 one of us to help him to his coat. But neither stirred. 
 
 "We shall take care," says Esmond, " not much oftener to 
 offend in that particular." 
 
 " What mean you, my lord? " says the Prince, and muttered 
 something about a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up. 
 
 " The snare, Sir," said he, "was not of our la3ing ; it is not 
 we that invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, 
 the dishonor of our family." 
 
 "Dishonor! Morbleu, there has been no dishonor," says 
 the Prince, turning scarlet, " only a little harmless playing." 
 
 " That was meant to end seriousty." 
 
 "I swear," the Prince broke out impetuously, " upon the 
 honor of a gentleman, my lords — " 
 
 " That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 409 
 
 Frank," saj-s Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castle- 
 wood, who stood at the door as the talk was going on. " See ! 
 here is a paper whereon his Majest}^ has deigned to commence 
 some verses in honor, or dishonor, of Beatrix. Here is ' Ma- 
 dame' and ' Flamme,' 'Cruelle'and ' Rebelle," and 'Amour' 
 and ' Jour ' in the Royal writing and spelling. Had the Gra- 
 cious lover been happy, he had not passed his time in sighing." 
 In fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond cast his e3'es 
 down towards the table, and saw a paper on which my young 
 Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to finish his 
 charmer on the morrow. 
 
 " Sir," sa3^s the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed 
 his Royal coat unassisted by this time), " did I come here to 
 receiA^e insults?!' 
 
 "To confer them, majMt please 3'our Majesty," saj^s the 
 Colonel, with a very low bow, "and the gentlemen of our 
 family are come to thank you." 
 
 " Malediction r^ says the young man, tears starting into his 
 eyes with helpless rage and mortification. "What will 3'ou 
 with me, gentlemen?" 
 
 " If your Majest3^ will please to enter the next apartment,'* 
 says Esmond, preserving his grave tone, " I have some papers 
 there which I would gladl3' submit to 3"ou, and b3^ your per- 
 mission I will lead the wa3^ ; " and, taking the taper up, and 
 backing before the Prince with very great ceremon3% Mr. Es- 
 mond passed into the little Chaplain's room, through which we 
 had just entered into the house : — " Please to set a chair for 
 his Majest3', Frank," sa3's the Colonel to his companion, who 
 wondered almost as much at this scene, and was as much puz- 
 zled b3'^ it, as the other actor in it. Then going to the cr3^pt 
 over the mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, and drew thence 
 the papers which so long had lain there. 
 
 "Here, ma3" it please 3'our Majest\%" says he, "is the 
 Patent of Marquis sent over b3^ your Royal Father at St. Ger- 
 mains to Viscount Castlewood, m3^ father : here is the witnessed 
 certificate of m3^ father's marriage to m3^ mother, and of m3^ birth 
 and christening ; I was christened of that religion of which your 
 sainted sire gave all through life so shining example. These 
 are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with them : here 
 go Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate and the 
 August Sign-Manual, with which 3^our predecessor was pleased 
 to honor our race." And as Esmond spoke he set the papers 
 burning in the brazier. "You will please, sir, to remember,'* 
 he continued, " that our family hath ruined itself by fidelity to 
 
410 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 yours : that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave his 
 blood and his son to die for your service ; that my dear lord's 
 grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title 
 too) died for the same cause ; that my poor kinswoman, my 
 father's second wife, after giving away her honor to your wicked 
 perjured race, sent all her wealth to the King ; and got in re- 
 turn, that precious title that lies in ashes, and this inestimable 
 yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at your feet and stamp upon 
 it : I draw this sword, and break it and denj' you ; and, had 
 you completed the wrong you designed us, by heaven I would 
 have driven it through your heart, and no more pardoned 3'ou 
 than your father pardoned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, 
 won't you, cousin ? " 
 
 Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the 
 papers, as they flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword 
 and broke it, holding his head down : — "I go with my cousin," 
 says he, giving Esmond a grasp of the hand. " Marquis or 
 
 not, by , I stand by him an}^ day. I beg 5^our Majesty's 
 
 pardon for swearing ; that is — that is — I'm for the Elector 
 of Hanover. It's all your Majest3''s own fault. The Queen's 
 dead most likely by this time. And you might have been 
 King if you hadn't come danghng after Trix." 
 
 "Thus to lose a crown," says the young Prince, starting up, 
 and speaking French in his eager way ; ' ' to lose the loveliest 
 woman in the world ; to lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, 
 is not this, my lords, enough of humiliation ? — Marquis, if I go 
 on my knees will 3'ou pardon me? — No, I can't do that, but 
 I can oflfer you reparation, that of honor, that of gentlemen. 
 Favor me b}^ crossing the sword with mine : 3'ours is broke — 
 see, 3^onder in the armoire are two ; " and the Prince took them 
 out as eager as a bo}^, and held them towards Esmond : — " Ah ! 
 you will? Merci, monsieur, merci ! " 
 
 Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension 
 and repentance for wrong done. Colonel Esmond bowed down 
 so low as almost to kiss the gracious young hand that conferred 
 on him such an honor, and took his guard in silence. The 
 swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood knocked up Es- 
 mond's with the blade of his own, which he had broke off short 
 at the shell ; and the Colonel falHng back a step dropped his 
 point with another very low bow, and declared himself perfectly 
 satisfied. 
 
 ''Eh bien, Vicomte ! " says the 3^oung Prince, who was a 
 boy, and a French bo}^ " il ne nous reste qu'une chose k faire : " 
 he placed his sword upon the table, and the fingers of his two 
 
THE HISTORY OF' HENRY ESMOND. 411 
 
 hands upon his breast: — "We have one more thing to do," 
 says he ; " you do not divine it?" He stretched out his arms : 
 — ''''Embrassons nous ! " 
 
 The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room : — 
 What came she to seek there? She started and turned pale at 
 the sight of her brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken 
 sword-blades, and papers 3^et smouldering in the brazier. 
 
 " Charming Beatrix," says the Prince, with a blush which 
 became him very well, "these lords have come a-horseback 
 from London, where my sister lies in a despaired state, and 
 where her successor makes himself desired. Pardon me for my 
 escapade of last evening. I had been so long a prisoner, that 
 I seized the occasion of a promenade on horseback, and m}^ 
 horse naturally bore i^ae towards you. I found you a Queen in 
 your little court, where you deigned to entertain me. Present 
 my homages to your maids of honor. I sighed as you slept, 
 under the window of your chamber, and then retired to seek 
 rest in my own. It was there that these gentlemen agreeably 
 roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a happ}^ day that makes 
 a Prince acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with such a 
 noble heart as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle, 
 may we take your coach to town ? I saw it in the hangar, and 
 this poor Marquis must be dropping with sleep." 
 
 " Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?" was 
 all Beatrix could sa}'. The roses had shuddered out of her 
 cheeks ; her eyes were glaring ; she looked quite old. She 
 came up to Esmond and hissed out a word or two : — " If I did 
 not love you before, cousin," says she, " think how I love you 
 now." If words could stab, no doubt she would have killed 
 Esmond ; she looked at him as if she could. 
 
 But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond ; his 
 heart was too hard. As he looked at her, he wondered that he 
 could ever have loved her. His love of ten years was over ; it 
 fell down dead on the spot, at the Kensington Tavern, where 
 Frank brought him the note out of " Eikon Basilike." The 
 Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and quitted 
 the chamber. I have never seen her from that da}^ 
 
 Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My 
 lord rode outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he 
 was no sooner in the carriage than he fell asleep, and never 
 woke till night, as the coach came into Alton. 
 
 As we drove to the " Bell " Inn comes a mitred coach with 
 our old friend Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady 
 Castlewood and the Bishop were inside ; she gave a little 
 
412 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 scream when she saw us. The two coaches entered the inn 
 almost together ; the landlord and people coming out with 
 lights to welcome the visitors. 
 
 We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw 
 the dear lady, and above all, the Doctor in his cassock. What 
 was the news ? Was there 3'et time ? Was the Queen alive ? 
 These questions were put hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting 
 before his noble guests to bow them up the stair. 
 
 " Is she safe? " was what Lady Castle wood whispered in a 
 flutter to Esmond. 
 
 " All's well, thank God," says he, as the fond lady took his 
 hand and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. 
 She wasn't thinking of Queens and crowns. 
 
 The Bishop's news was reassuring : at least all was not lost ; 
 the Queen y^t breathed, or was alive when they left London, 
 six hours since. ("It was Lady Castlewood who insisted on 
 coming," the Doctor said.) Arg3de had marched up regiments 
 from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more ; the Whigs were 
 on the alert, a pest on them, (I am not sure but the Bishop 
 swore as he spoke,) and so too were our people. And all might 
 be saved, if only the Prince could be at London in time. We 
 called for horses, instantly to return to London. We never 
 went up poor crestfallen Boniface's stairs, but into our coaches 
 again. The Prince and his Prime Minister in one, Esmond in 
 the other, with onty his dear mistress as a companion. 
 
 Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the 
 Prince's friends and warn them of his coming. We travelled 
 through the night. Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the 
 events of the last twent^^-four hours ; of Castlewood's ride and 
 his ; of the Prince's generous behavior and their reconciliation. 
 The night seemed short enough ; and the starlit hours passed 
 away serenely in that fond compan3^ 
 
 So we came along the road ; the Bishop's coach heading 
 ours ; and, with some delays in procuring horses, we got to 
 Hammersmith about four o'clock on Sunday morning, the first 
 of August, and half an hour after, it being then bright day, we 
 rode by my Lady Warwick's house, and so down the street of 
 Kensington. 
 
 Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street, and 
 man}^ people moving to and fro. Round the gate leading to 
 the Palace, where the guard is, there was especially a great 
 crowd. And the coach ahead of us stopped, and the Bishop's 
 man got down to know what the concourse meant? 
 
 There presently came from out of the gate — Horse Guards 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 413 
 
 with their trumpets, and a company of heralds with their ta- 
 bards. The trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came 
 forward and proclaimed George, by the Grace of God, of 
 Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the 
 Faith. And the people shouted God save the King ! 
 
 Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught 
 sight of one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen 
 under many disguises. It was no other than poor Mr. Holt's, 
 who had slipped over to England to witness the triumph of the 
 good cause ; and now beheld its enemies victorious, amidst the 
 acclamations of the English people. The poor fellow had 
 forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbors in the 
 crowd remarked his want of lo^'alty, and cursed him for a 
 Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to 
 cheer. Sure he Was the most unlucky of men : he never played 
 a game but he lost it ; or engaged in a conspirac}^ but 'twas 
 certain to end in defeat. I saw him in Flanders after this, 
 whence he went to Rome to the head-quarters of his Order ; 
 and actuall}' reappeared among us in America, very old, and 
 busy, and hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume the 
 hatchet and moccasins there ; and, attired in a blanket and 
 war-paint, skulk about a missionary amongst the Indians. He 
 lies buried in our neighboring province of Maryland now, with 
 a cross over him, and a mound of earth above him ; under 
 which that unquiet spirit is for ever at peace. 
 
 With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the vain 
 hopes of the weak and foolish young Pretender were blown 
 away ; and with that music, too, I ma}' say, the drama of my 
 own life was ended. That happiness, which hath subsequently 
 crowned it, cannot be written in words ; 'tis of its nature sacred 
 and secret, and not to be spoken of, though the heart be 
 ever so full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and the One Ear 
 alone — to one fond being, the truest and tenderest and purest 
 wife ever man was blessed with. As I think of the immense 
 happiness which was in store for me, and of the depth and in- 
 tensit}' of that love which, for so many years, hath blessed 
 me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a 
 boon — nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart 
 capable of feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value 
 of the gift which God hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love 
 vincit omnia ; is immeasurabl}^ above all ambition, more precious 
 than wealth, more noble than name. He knows not life who 
 knows not that : he hath not felt the highest faculty of the soul 
 
414 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 
 
 who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of my wife I write the 
 completion of hope, and the summit of happiness. To have 
 such a love is the one blessing, in comparison of which all 
 earthly joy is of no value ; and to think of her, is to praise 
 God. 
 
 It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure 
 of our plot — our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the 
 way — that the great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, 
 and that my dear mistress became my wife. We had been so 
 accustomed to an extreme intimacy and confidence, and had 
 lived so long and tenderly together, that we might have gone 
 on to the end without thinking of a closer tie ; but circumstances 
 brought about that event which so prodigiousl}' multiplied 
 my happiness and hers (for which I humbly thank Heaven) , 
 although a calamity befell us, which, I blush to think, hath 
 occurred more than once in our house. I know not what 
 infatuation of ambition urged the beautiful and wayward woman, 
 whose name hath occupied so many of these pages, and who 
 was served by me with ten years of such constant fidelity and 
 passion ; but ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued 
 her, she persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and 
 left us, and escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. 
 Nor was her son's house a home for my dear mistress ; my poor 
 Frank was weak, as perhaps all our race hath been, and led by 
 women. Those around him were imperious, and in a terror of 
 his mother's influence over him, lest he should recant, and deny 
 the creed which he had adopted by their persuasion. The 
 difference of their religion separated the son and the mother : 
 my dearest mistress felt that she was severed from her children 
 and alone in the world — aione uut for one constant servant 
 on whose fidelity, praised be Heaven, she could count. 'Twas 
 after a scene of ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank's wife and 
 mother (for the poor lad had been made to marry the whole of 
 that German family with whom he had connected himself) , that 
 I found my mistress one day in tears, and then besought her to 
 confide herself to the care and devotion of one who, by God's 
 help, would never forsake her. And then the tender matron, 
 as beautiful in her Autumn, and as pure as virgins in their 
 spring, with blushes of love and "eyes of meek surrender," 
 yielded to my respectful importunity, and consented to share 
 my home. Let the last words I write thank her, and bless her 
 who hath blessed it. 
 
 By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, 
 and every obstacle against our return to England, was removed ; 
 
THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND. 415 
 
 and my son Frank's gallantry in Scotland made his peace with 
 the King's government. But we two cared no longer to live in 
 England : and Frank formally and joyfully yielded over to us 
 the possession of that estate which we now occupy, far away 
 from Europe and its troubles, on the beautiful banks of the 
 Potomac, where we have built a new Castlewood, and think 
 with grateful hearts of our old home. In our Transatlantic 
 country we have a season, the calmest and most delightful of 
 the year, which we call the Indian summer : I often say the 
 autumn of our life resembles that happy and serene weather, 
 and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine. Heaven 
 hath blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for her 
 resemblance to the other. Our diamonds are turned into 
 ploughs and axes for our plantations ; and into negroes, the 
 happiest and merriest, I think, in all this country : and the 
 only jewel by which my wife sets any store, and from which 
 she hath never parted, is that gold button she took from my 
 arm on the day when she visited me in prison, and which she 
 wore ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in the 
 world. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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