Zhc Xafte jenglisb Classics THE •>;.;:"••■•:' HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, Esq, BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE BY WILLIAM LYON PHELPS M.A. [Harvard], Ph.D. fYale] LAMPSON PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATTJBB, YALE UNIVERSITY OF TH6 UMIVERS CHICAGO SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPAlTSr ROBERT O LAV/ COM PRINTERS AND BINDERS, CI rK6 PREFACE The text of this edition is taken, by the kind permission of Messrs. Harper and Brothers, from the Biographical Edition of Tliackeray's works. With the exception of some half-dozen typo- graphical errors, I have followed that standard text verhatim et literatim. The Introduction is intended to furnish the necessary biographical information, with just enough literary criticism to arouse and stimulate, rather than to answer and settle, inquiry and discussion. It is hoped that the "Suggestions for Studying Esmond'^ will not seem an impertinence; to those who dislike such remarks, they can cause only a temporary irritation, while it is possible that in some cases they may prove useful. After thorough consideration, I have decided to furnish no notes; anything approaching complete annotation would swell the volume to thrice its present size, while meagre and scattering bits of explanation are, to the judicious instructor, an annoyance. Esmond is, after all, a romance rather than a text-book; and yet, those students who are able to spend considerable time upon it may, by looking up for themselves its frequent historical and literary allusions, find in this great work of fiction the gateway to a valuable knowledge of eighteenth century life and literature. Yale University, W. L. P. June 14, 1903. 20^530 L CONTENTS Preface Introduction Life . 1 Works .12 "Esmond" . 19 Suggestions for Studying "Esmond" 24 A Few Works Helpful in Studying "Esmond" ... 27 Author's Preface 31 BOOK I THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HI? LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE IN CAMBRIDGE CHAP. PAGI I. An Account of the Family of Esmond of Castlewood Hall .......... 41 II. Relates How Francis, Fourth Viscount Arrives at Castlewood 47 III. Whither, in the Time of Thomas, Third Viscount, I Had Preceded Him as Page to Isabella , . .56 IV. I am Placed Under a Popish Priest, and Bred to that Religion — Viscountess Castlewood .... 68 V. My Superiors are Engaged in Plots for the Restoration of King James the Second 75 VI. The Issue of the Plots— The Death of Thomas, Third Viscount of Castlew^ood ; and the Imprisonment of His Viscountess 87 VII. I am Left at Castlewood, an Orphan, and Find Most Kind Protectors There 108 VHI. After Good Fortune Comes Evil 112 IX. I Have the Small-Pox, and Prepare to Leave Castlewood 122 X. I Go to Cambridge, and Do But Little Good There . 143 XL I Come Home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and Find a Skeleton in the House 151 XII, My Lord Mohun Comes Among Us for No Good . . 165 XIIL My Lord Leaves Us and His Evil Behind Him . .176 XIV. We Ride After Him to London 190 vii viii CO^'TEyTS BOOK II CONTAINS MR ESMOND'S MILITARY LIFE AND OTHER MATTERS APPERTAINING TO THE ESMOND FAMILY CHAP. PAGB I. I am in Prison, and Visited, but Not Consoled There 207 II. I Come to the End of My Captivity, but Not of My Trouble 218 III. f I Take the Queen's Pay in Quin's Regiment . . . 228 IV. Recapitulations . 239 V. I Go On the Vigo Bay Expedition, Taste Salt Water, and Smell Powder 2-16 VI. The 29th December 258 VII. I am Made Welcome at Walcote 266 VIII. Family Talk 277 IX. I Make the Campaign of 1704 . . . . . .285 X. An Old Story About a Fool and a AVoman . . . 295 XL The Famous Mr. Joseph Addison 305 XII. I Get a Company in the Campaign of 1706 . . . 317 XIII. I Meet an Old Acquaintance in Flanders, and Find My Mother's Grave and My Own Cradle There . . 323 XIV. The Campaign of 1707, 1708 337 XV. General Webb Wins the Battle of Wynendael . 346 BOOK III CONTAINING THE END OF MR. ESMOND'S ADVENTURES IN ENGLAND I. I Come to an End of My Battles and Bruises . . . 374 II. I Go Home and Harp on the Old String , . . .389 III. A Paper Out of the "Spectator" 404 IV. Beatrix's New Suitor 425 V. Mohun Appears for the Last Time in this History . 437 VI. Poor Beatrix 452 VII. I Visit Castlewood Once More 459 VIII. I Travel to France and Bring Home a Portrait of Rigaud 471 IX. The Original of the Portrait Comes to England . . 482 X. We Entertain a Very Distinguished Guest at Kensing- ton 497 XL Our Guest Quits Us as Not Being Hospitable Enough . 512 J^IL A Great Scheme, and Who Balked It ... . 523 XIIL August 1st, 1714 ....... 530 INTKODUCTION LIFE William Makepeace Thackeray was born at Calcutta, India, July 18, 1811, two years after the birth of Tennyson, Gladstone, and Darwin, and only a year before that of Browning, Ancestors. and the novelist's great rival, Charles Dickens. It is somewhat remarkable that a group of Englishmen endowed with such extraordinary genius in literature, politics, and science should have all entered the world within a period of four years. Thackeray came from a Yorkshire family, one of whom in the eighteenth century was successively Head-Master of Harrow, and Archdeacon of Surrey. William Makepeace, the youngest of his sixteen children, went to the Orient to make his living under the East India Company. Besides showing a distinct apti- tude for political manipulation, he enjoyed a wide reputation as an elephant hunter. In 1776 he was married to a daughter of Colonel Richmond Webb, a relative of the distinguished gen- eral whose praises are sounded so frequently in the pages of Esmond. In this same year, having made a comfortable sum by selling elephants, he returned to England. Six of his sons followed their father's example, and sought their fortune by going to India. In 1810 one of them, Richmond Thackeray, was married to a Calcutta belle, and an only child, the future novelist, received the same name as his grandfather and his uncle. William Make- peace. Richmond was a lover of art, both pictorial and musical, and for the benefit of those who delight in tracing the qualities of a genius back to his ancestry, we may observe that perhaps the 1 2 INTRODUCTION great ^'''"iter derivad h^'s artistic ability from his father, his courage from his elephant-hunting grandfather, and his predilection for teaching and preaching from his great-grandfather, who was a burning and a shining light in the wide fields of education and the Church. In 1816 Richmond Thackeray died, and the next year the boy was sent to England. During the voyage the ship stopped at St. Helena and the grandchild of the Manager of Ele- Early Years, phants gazed on the features of the Manager of Men, Napoleon Bonaparte. Thackeray first went to school in Hampshire, where so many of the scenes in Esmond are laid, then at Chiswick, while from 1822 to 1828 he was a pupil at the Charterhouse, a famous school where boys so different as John Wesley and George Grote had preceded him, and where Colo- nel Newcome was to die. Young Thackeray seemed in no way precocious, and did not injure his health by overstudy, though even at that time he amused himself by the composition of playful verses. The most distinct impression made upon him during his school days was by one of his mates, V enables, who broke his nose in a fight. Thackeray always regarded English school life as rough and brutal, and he was able to refresh his memory of it at aijv time by glancing in a mirror. Thackeray's mother had married again, and in 1828 the youth went from the Charterhouse to live with her and his step-father in Devonshire, near Ottery St. Mary, already CoUege i.ife. famous as the birth-place of Coleridge. Here again his impressionable mind unconsciously absorbed material, to appear later on in Pendennis, where the above-men- tioned town is thinly disguised as Clavering St. Mary. Mr. Leslie Stephen believes that the county paper, which printed the boy's parody on Moore, had the honor of containing Thackeray's first publication. In February 1829, he went to the University of Cam- bridge, entering Trinity College. Here his life conformed some- what to the pattern pictured in Pendennis. He was too indolent to study diligently, his preparation in Greek and Latin was meagre, LIFE OF THACKERAY 8 and, like most literary geniuses, he disliked mathematics. His social qualities, however, developed rapidly; and in this highly important phase of college life he appeared to most advantage. At that time an extraordinary body of young men were at Cambridge, including Tennyson, Edward FitzGerald, Spedding, and Monckton Milnes. Thackeray did much desultory reading in poetry, and in the novels of Henry Fielding ; and wrote bits of nonsense for the S)iob, a college paper. To this mock journal he contributed a parody on the subject announced for the prize in poetry — Timbjictoo. Both subject and parody would to-day be forgotten, had not the prize finally been won by Thackeraj^'s college mate, Alfred Tennyson. Thackeray's rooms at Cambridge were in the great court of Trinity, on the ground floor, not far from the gateway. Sir Isaac Newton had occupied the room just above, and the young student playfully prophesied to his mother that future visitors would come to see the place where "Newton and Thackeray" lodged. This prophecy has certainly been realised, for the thousands of Ameri- can tourists who wander through Cambridge every summer, invar- iably visit this corner of Trinity, and are probably more impressed by the memory of Thackeray than by that of the great scientist. Not long before Thackeray's undergraduate days, another man had roomed close by, who has helped also to draw pilgrims — Lord Macaulay. In 1830 the young man quitted Cambridge without a degree. He suspected he was losing valuable time, and he knew he was losing money, which he spent freely. His father had left him about one hundred thousand dollars, and disregarding the advice of his relatives, who urged him to become a lawyer, and not feeling a strong desire to become any- thing else, he decided to improve his mind by Continental travel. Before the year was out, he had visited Cologne and arrived at Weimar, the home of the greatest literary genius of modern times, Goethe. The poet was over eighty, and had only two years to live. Thackeray had the rare opportunity of observing (to quote Carlyle) "that great mind, beaming in mildest mellow splendour, beaming, 4 INTRODUCTION if also trembling, like a great sun on the verge of the horizon, near now to its long farewell." That the light of this glorious sunset was an inspiration to the young Englishman, we may see from his own words, in a letter to G. H. Lewes, April 38, 1855: Of course I remember very well the perturbation of spirit with which, as a lad of nineteen, I received the long-expected intimation that the Herr Geheimrath would see me on such a morning. This notable audience took place in a little ante-chambei- of his private apartments, covered all round with antique casts and bas-reliefs. He was habited in a long grey or drab redingote, with a white neckcloth and a red ribbon in his Ijutton-hole. He kept his hands behind his back, just as in Ranch's statuette. His coia- plexion was very bright, clear, and rosy. His eyes extraordinarily dark, piercing, and brilliant. I felt quite afraid before them, and recollect comparing them to the eyes of the hero of a certain romance called "Melmoth the Wanderer," which used to alarm us boys thirty years agO; eyes of an individual wlio had made a bar- gain with a Certain Person, and at an extreme old age retained these eyes in all their awful splendour. I fancy Goethe must have been still more handsome as an old man than even in the days of his youth. His voice was very rich and sweet. He asked me ques- tions about myself, which I answered as best I could. I recollect I was at first astonished, and then somewhat relieved, when I found he spoke French with not a good accent. Vidi tantum. I saw him but three times. Once walking in the garden of his house in the Frauenplan; once going to step into his chariot on a sunshiny day, wearing a cap and a cloak with a red collar. He was caressing at the time a beautiful little golden- haired granddaughter, over whose sweet fair face the earth has long since closed too. ... I can fancy nothing more serene, majes- tic, and healthy-looking than the grand old Goethe. This sojourn at Weimar included possibly the happiest weeks of Thackeraj-'s life. He increased his knowledge of German, made pretty translations, and his pencil was ever active in caricatures. At the close of the letter quoted above, he wrote: With a five-and-twenty years' experience since those happy daj's of which I write, and an acquaintance with an immense variety of human kind, I think I have never seen a society more simple, charitable, courteous, gentleman-like, than that of the dear little Saxon city where the good Schiller and the great Goethe lived and lie buried. Thackeray spent much ot his time there lying on a sofa and indulging in day-dreams; but the day-dreams of some men are more productive than the energy of others. LIFE OF THACKERAY » Rather suddenly he made up his mind, after all, to study law, and in 1831 he returned to England, and entered the Middle Tem- ple. This seems to have been an attempt, equally honest and mistaken, to force his genius into the wrong channel; for all he got out of this experience was material for future novels. We can hardly imagine a man less fitted for the legal profession. He stuck to his studies, however, until they became wholly unpalatable, and even before the end, he had more than once to go to Paris to take the taste of the Temple out of his mouth. By 1833 Thackeray; was becoming, in a mild way, something of a literary Bohemian, and his acquaintance among literary men was steadily increasing. He made one desperate Journalism' , , . , . plunge, by smking — an appropriate word — some of liis capital in a paper, of which he was Editor and Proprietor, Fiaancially, the result was unfortunate, and early in 1834 the journal died. The money lost in this venture, combined with fail- ures in investments, and ill luck at gambling, produced an entire change in his assets, and he suddenly discovered, that like most children of Adam, he must eat his bread in the sweat of his face. He therefore determined to become an artist, and to take the usual preparatory course in Paris. Thither he went, worked hard, and enjoyed life, partially supporting himself by journalism. In 1836 he became the Paris correspondent of the Constitu- tional, a radical paper. Although his salary was small, he supposed he had at last obtained regular employment. On the twentieth of August of this year he was married at Paris to Miss Isabella Gethin Creagh Shawe, of Cork County, Ireland, to whom lie had been engaged for a few months. His courage in taking this step may be estimated by noting that the marriage took place nearly a month before the first number of the Constitutional appeared, and that the bridegroom's salar}- was to be only about forty dollars a week. In less than a year, the Constitu- tional went under, and in 1837 Thackeray was once more struggling forali'/ing in London. He did all kinds of work. On the third of 6 INTRODUCTION August, his review of Carlyle's French Revolution appeared in the London Times, and it is interesting to compare the language of this review with the waj^ in which the novelist speaks of the great Scotsman in the Virginians. The book had been out only two months, and Thackeray, like many others, had not overcome his bewilderment at the strange style of the new writer. Still, the review was distinct h' favorable, and in places enthusiastic. The following passage, characteristic of Thackeray, must have pleased Carlyle: The reader will see in the above extracts most of the faults and a few of tlie merits, of this book. ^ He need not be told tliat it is written in an eccentric prose, here and there disfigured by grotesque conceits and images; but. for all this, it betrays most extraordinary powers, — learning, observation, and humour. Above all. it has no cant. . . . Clev^er critics . . . cried down Mr. Carlyle"s history, opening upon it a hundred little piddling sluices of small wit, destined to wash the book sheer away; and lo! the book remains, it is only the poor wit which has run dry. Carlyle remarked, after reading the review, that the author was "one Thackeray, a half-monstrous Cornish giant, kind of painter, Cambridge man, and Paris newspaper correspondent, who is now writing for his life in London." Besides reviewing, he wrote many things for Fraser's Magazine, some of which, like the Yelloir-Plush Correspondence, belong among his more enduring works. This Correspondence enjoys the distinction of being the first publication of Thackeray's in book form, and curiously enough, the first edition came from the press of an Ameri- can firm, Messrs. Carey and Hart, of Philadelphia. Two years before (1836) Thackeray had published at London and Paris, Flore et Zephyr, but this was merely a set of drawings. For a few short years, Thackeray's marriage resulted in undis- turbed happiness, but in 1840 came the great tragedy of his life. After the birth of her third daughter, his wife became ill, and steadily grew worse, suffering from a singular disease of the brain, a malady that convinced "the great assay of art."' By 1842 she was in a hopeless condition, and had at last to be placed in charge, her mental powers having entirely LIFE OF THACKERAY 7 vanished. Tliis unspeakable calamity Thackeray endured with the highest courage and nobility, though of course it destroyed the possibility of home life and domestic happiness. His two daughters — one had died in infancy — went to live with their grandparents in Paris; and with the unfortunate vitality of those whose lives are worse than worthless, his wife survived her reason fifty years. Her death in 1892 was a strange shock to the world, as it brought np so vividly memories of her great husband. Nobler words have never issued from a suffering man than those which, in 1852, Thackeray wrote to a friend: "Though my marriage was a wreck, I would do it over again, for behold love is the crown and completion of all earthly good." In 1841 he wrote portions of Vault u Fair, and the next year saw the first of his contributions to Punch, which was only eleven months old. Before long he became one of its most Success in important and valuable contributors, and a volume Literature. might be written on his connection with this famous sheet. Here he had the opportunity to indulge himself in one of his greatest amusements, the double employment of pen and pencil, and his genius for pure fun had a steady outlet. Punch printed nearly four hundred sketches by Thackeray; the Snob Papers brought him for the first time a wide circle of readers, and his reputation increased apace. His literary success showed itself financially; in 1846 he took a house, and fulfilled one of his dearest wishes by having his children live with him. Better than creature comforts, he was now in a position where he could write real liter- ature, and satisfy an ambition which had steadily grown into a life purpose. In January 1847, the first installment of Vanity Fair appeared ; and before the publication of the last number in July 1848, Thackeray's place among English novelists was assured. In 1851, Thackeray delivered, with marked success, his lec- tures on the English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century. "On October 30, 1852, he sailed for Boston, touching at Halifax on the way, and began his American tour. Two other distinguishe 1 men of letters were his shipmates, James Russell Lowell, and the poet 8 INTRODUCTION Clough. We can easily imagine how intimate the three must have become during the long voyage. Thackeray's success in the United States was so pronounced that in 1855 he came again, and delivered for the first time his lectures on the Four Georges, Lectures. , . , t . n » . . which were prepared especially for American consumption, though i\\Qj were afterwards repeated in Great Britain. He became acquainted with nearly all of our literary men, to one of whom he paid a splendid compliment in the opening paragraph of the Virginians. He learned to know America better than most Englishmen have known it before or since, for he spoke in Boston, Savannah, and St. Louis, and in many towns included in that vast triangle. He understood and sympathized with the sentiments of both North and South, and though he was naturally homesick at times, he immensely enjoyed his travels and appre- ciated the kindness with which he was everywhere received. Dickens had aroused the anger of the whole nation by the way he had recorded his impressions after reaching home, and those wlio looked for a similar result from Thackeray's visit were agreeably disappointed. A writer in Putnam s Magazine remarked, "He cer- tainly knit more closely our sympathy with Englishmen." The people who packed the halls where he spoke naturally went to see the great author, rather than to hear what he had to say about Swift and Addison. It is curiosity rather than a zeal for knowl- edge which draws the crowd. Still, in Thackeray's case, those who came to see remained to hear, for his eloquent words, combined with his refined and unpretentious manner, charmed all his lis- teners. The literary and financial results of these lectures were highly important ; it was his preparation for the Humourists that caused and enabled him to write his greatest book, Esmond, and it was the composition of the Four Georges, with the American experience he gained by travelling, that gave birth to the Vir- ginians. But his real aim in taking the platform was not a literary ■ one ; it was simply to provide money for his children. It is pleas- ant to remember that the financial results exceeded his highest anticipations. LIFE OF THACKERAY 9 Thackeray's political career was amusingly brief. He came, saw, and was conquered. England differs from the United States in nothing more than in the qualities which cause the nomination of a man for a political office. No sooner does one achieve a literary reputation in England than ho is talked of for Parliament, whereas in this country, certain other and quite different qualifications seem most necessary for a Con- gressional candidacy. Whatever may be the merits of the question in general, Thackeray himself was as little fitted for a Parliamentary career as he was for the law ; and we all have reason to rejoice in his defeat, which happened in 1857, when he stood as a Liberal for the city of Oxford. Both before and after the contest was settled, he preserved his good temper and an admirable courtesy toward his opponent. The now famous Cornhill Magazine was started in 1860, with Thackeray as Editor-in-chief. His name immediately established the success of the periodical, giving it great vogue, Editor. and making possible a notable list of contributors, including Tennyson. He found the position, however, very trying and exacting, and was'glad to relinquish it at the end of two years of service. It necessitated two things which Thackeray instinc- tively had always disliked; methodical habits of work, against which his whole nature rebelled, and the infliction of pain on worthy persons by refusing their contributions. He was forced once or twice to decline articles signed by names of high commer- cial value, one by Anthony Trollope and one by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the latter (mirabile dictu) on the ground of its indeli- cacy ! Trollope said Thackeray was not a good editor ; a natural complaint by the man of Method against the man of Inspiration. It is difficvilt to find a better comparison of the results of Industry and the results of Genius, than is afforded by the novels of Trollope when placed alongside the novels of Thackeray. In August 1901, the Cornhill Magazine printed its five-hun- dredth number, and, after quoting Thackeray's words, "On our first day out, I asked leave to speak for myself, whom I regarded as 10 INTRODUCTION the captain of a great ship," Mr. Austin Dobson celebrated the occasion with a ^OEdeau, the first part of which runs as follows: For two-score years the tumbling spray Has fallen from our bows away; — What change of skij)per and of crew, Since first the Cornhill sailed the blue, Grain-laden, Master, Thackeray! On the night of December 23, 1803, Thackeray felt ill, and went to his room early. The next morning, he was found dead in his bed. On the thirtieth, he was buried at Kensal Green, in which cemetery, his mother, who died the next year, also rests. Two daughters survived him; the elder, Anne Isabella, is now the well-known writer, Mrs. Ritchie; the younger became the wife of the famous critic, Leslie Stephen, and died in 18T5. A bust of the great novelist, erected by subscription, stands in Westminster Abbey. Thackeray's personal appearance was distinguished and impres sive, in spite of his broken nose. lie stood considerably over six feet high, and his head was so large that when a child Appearance ^^® could wear his uncle's hat. During his last years and Character, hig black hair turned perfectly white, and his face had a dignified and aristocratic expression, to which his many portraits bear witness. In character, it is not stretching the truth to say that he was one of the best men of the age. His enemies started and repeated the now familiar accusa- tion of snobbery, but those who knew him well have given the most convincing testimony to the contrary. Nor do we need their advocacy to learn the truth; the real man appears most sincerely in his life-svork, his printed books. The two great qualities of Sympathy and Enthusiasm, which made up so large a part of his nature, are simply incompatible with Snobbery and Cynicism. Nay, his sympathy for humanity so biased his judgment that he was unable fairly to appreciate the character of the great satirist, Jonathan Swift. He has been charged with a lack of moral earnestness; but in reality he looked at everything from the moral point of view, often to the detriment of his art. His unfail- LIFE OF THACKERAY 11 ing kindness and unlimited generosity made him one of the most lovable men in the history of English Literature; and the way he spoke of his contemporaries may be learned b}- two passages which are worth quoting. At the end of a lecture called Charity and Humour, first delivered before a New York audience, he discussed at length the works of his great rival, Dickens, closing as follows: I may quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a thousand and a thousand times. I delight and wonder at his genius ; I recognise in it — I speak with awe and reverence — a commission from that Divine Bene- ficence, whose blessed task we know it will one day be to wipe every tear from every eye. Thankfully I take my share of the feast of love and kindness which this gentle, and generous, and charitable soul has contributed to the happiness of the world. And of Thomas Carlyle's forthcoming Frederick the Great, he said, in the opening words of the sixty-second chapter of the Virginians: These prodigious actions will presently be related in other volumes, wiiich I and all the world are eager to behold. Would you have this history compete with yonder book? Could my jaunty yellow park-phaeton run counter to that grim chariot of thunder- ing war? Could my meek little jog-trot Pegasus meet the shock of yon steed of foaming bit and flaming nostril? Dear kind reader (with whom I love to talk from time to time, stepping down from the stage where our figures are performing, attired in the habits and using the parlance of past ages), — my kind patient reader! it is a mercy for both of us that Harry Warrington did not follow the King of the Borussians, as he was minded to do, for then I should have had to describe battles which Carlyle is going to paint: and I don't wish you should make odious comparisons between me and that master. Two pages later in the same book Thackeray gives us an excel- lent description of himself in the language used by Theo in describ- ing George : Indeed. Mr. George has a lofty way with him, which"! don't see in other people; and in reading books, I find he cliooses the fine noble things always, and loves them in spite of all his satire. He certainly is of a satirical turn, but then he is only bitter against mean things and people. No gentleman hath a more tender heart, I am sure; and but yesterday, after he had been talking so bitterly as you said, I happened to look out of window, and saw him stop and treat a whole crowd of little children to apples at the stall at the corner. Thackeray's religious belief cannot be stated in tenns of exact dosma, for he could not so state it hijnself ; but he believed in God, 12 INTRODUCTION and tried to keep his commandments. In a letter to his daughter, he said : To my mind, scripture only means a writing, and Bible means a book. It contains Divine truths and the history of a Divine Character ; but imperfect, but not containing a thousandth part of Him ; and it would be an untruth before God were I to hide my feelings from my dearest children ; as it would be a sin if, having other opinions, and believing literallj' in the Mosaic writings, in the six days' cosmogony, in the serpent and apple and consequent damnation of the human race. I should hide them, and not try to make those I loved best adopt opinions of such immense impor- tance to them. And so God bless mj' darlings and teach us the truth. Everj^ one of us in every fact, book, circramstance of life .sees a different meaning and moral, and so it must be about religion. But we can all love eacli other and say, "Our Father." Thackeray prayed well because he loved well, and after he was gone many of those whom he had secretly helped by word and deed regarded the things he had done in the body as such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. II WORKS The complete works of Thackeray, in the latest and best edition, ftill thirteen fat volumes. The majority of these are novels; 'the remainder consist of a large variety of literary work— poems, essays, notes of travel, humorous sketches, book reviews, personal essays, and lectures. Although Thackeray has absolutely no claim to be ranked among tlie English poets, he vv-as certainly a clever writer of verses; and some of his rimed pieces, notably the popular Wliite Squall, are done with great .spirit. His sketches and personal essays are simply charming. Like Stevenson, Thackeray was very fond of the open fire and easy-chair style of writing, where author and reader draw close together and discuss the humors, sorrows, and foibles of the world in a delightfully con- WORKS OF THACKERAY 13 fidential manner. Thackeray has a way of putting the reader entirely at his ease, cheating him into the belief that he is indulging in an actual conversation with the great man, instead of merely reading cold type. Whether the topic of these entertaining dis- courses be grave or gay, the touch is wonderfully light and dex- terous, without ever becoming puerile. They always leave the impression of a spacious mind and a large personality. Thackeray's title to fame, however, rests on his long novels^ and if there were any way of getting at an intelligent consensus of opinion, it is not improbable that he would b© The Novels, declared the greatest of alJLEnglish novelists. He has never had so wide a^ circle of readers as his great contemporary, Dickens ; and not one of his books ever created the sensation aroused by Tlie Pickivick Papers and Nicholas Nickleby. On the other hand, he has never received the hostile criticism that much of Dickens's work receives to-day, nor would any person have the audacity to say that it is possible to outgrow Thackeray. At its best, his art is impeccable and he appeals to his readers in a thousand different w^ays. V^hQn^Vanity Fair was coming out, Mrs. Carlyle wrote to her husband, "He beats Dickens out of the world." Every intelligent reader recognised at once the immense £aiver of this extraordinary book, with its wgalth„of characters, its keen humor and true pathos, its passages of noble eloquence, and the marvellous skill shown in its satirical pictures of society. After Vanity Fair came J^eiidennis, the mere mention of which inevita- bly calls up the pleasant hours spent in its perusal. This novel, like most of Thackeray's, appeared in monthly numbers, beginning in November 1848, and ending in December 1850. This method of pub- lication kept the interest of readers at a tension, in the same man- ner as does the modern custom of printing a long story in the pages of a monthly magazine. Each issue is eagerly awaited by thousands of niipatient people, and the novel is a constant and fruitful source for discussion as it proceeds on its leisurely way. Pendennis has an especial interest, because Thackeray put into its pages so much of his own life — both the life of experience and the life of ideas. 14 INTRODUCTION One feels in reading it, that it does not belong to fiction, but rather to biography and history, the sense of reality is so strong. In 1853 Esmond was published, and in October 1853, the first number of Tlie Ne ivcoi BfS appeared, its publication being continued in monthly numbers, until August 1855. Although this novel was written in his natural vein, dealt with phases of life that he thoroughly under- stood, and included only material that he had stored up and had ready for use, it on the whole lacks inspiration and seems to have been written for cash rather t han for love . At the beginning of its composition, he wrote to a friend, "I am about a new story, but don't know as yet if it will be any good. It seems to me I am too old for story-telling; but I want money, and shall get twenty thou- sand dollars for this, of which (D. V.) I'll keep fifteen.*' There are many places in this book where its author seems to have gone stale, and did it not contain the one immortal character of Colonel Newcome, it would have to be ranked as distinctly inferior to Tliack- eray's other work in fiction. It lacks the vitality of Vanity Fair, the freshness and sparkle of Esmond, and the warm humanity of Pend£nnis. As stated, Thackeray's studies in preparation for the lec- tures on the Four Georges, and his travels in America, gave him the material and the spur for the composition of TlieSFirginians, which appeared in monthly numbers extending from November 1857, to October 1859. This book was in the nature of a sequel to Esmond, containing the history of the same family two generations farther along. It is about twice as long as Esmond, but by no means twice as good. Delightfully entertaining as it is, and valu- able as are its pictures of eighteenth century life and customs, it impresses one as spun out in the middle and hurried up at the end. Curiously enough, as George Warrington insisted that his brother Harry was a far more interesting character than himself, it is cer- tainly true that the first part of the story, which deals with the adventures of Harry, liolds one's attention much closer than the second part, which narrates the experiences of George. Yet, with Di'ite evident faults. The^Yirginians is a great book; to appreciate WORKS OF THACKERAY 15 how great, one has only to compare it with its feeble imitation, Richard Cai^el. No one wlio has ever read Tom Jones or Joseph Andrews would need Thackeray's own testimony to be convinced of the great debt owed by the man of 1850 to the man of 1750. Thack- Fieidin? and gray's master was undoubtedly Henry Fielding. Thackeray. We do not mean that Fielding is responsible for Thackeray's novels; still less do we mean that Thackeray imitated Fielding, for he was never under the necessity of imitating anybody. But it does seem true to say that Field- ing inspired Thackeray, and that the later novelist in a large measure learned his art at the feet of the earlier. The lives of the two men were different to the outward view, for Thackeray was a respectable citizen and Fielding was not ; yet in temperament, in the hatred of hypocrisy and falsehood, in the desire to represent human nature as it is, and above all, in the point of view, in the way in which the human comedy presented itself to them, the two men are very much alike. Fielding's coarseness is partly the fault of his age, partly the excrescence of his astonishing vigor, and partly a species or bravado, like that of Gautier; but leaving out objectionable passages, the resemblances between Tom Jones and Pendennis are striking and significant. Thackeray owed much of his skill to his prolonged and intelligent stud}- of Fielding, and the greater range and depth of his nature enabled him to write books of even richer content than those of his predecessor. It is rather curious that a writer like Thackeray, who exhibited such gifts in the production of caricature and burlesque, should have excelled also in writing that form of fiction Master of both known as the historical romance. The author of Satire and Komance. ^'^® contributions to Piuich was the natural author of Vaniti/ Fair; but Esmond and The Virginians belong to a totally different kind of litei'ature. The touch of bur- lesque is ordinarily fatal to romance ; for tha romantic writer must 16 INTRODUCTION take his heroes and heroines seriously. In our own day, the clever author of the Dolly Dialogues finds it difficult to convince his readers, at least the more thoughtful among them, of the sincerity of his romances; even in the wildest adventures and the most senti- mental language of the characters in the Prisoner of Zenda, one suspects that the author is laughing in his sleeve. No such sus- picion ever enters the mind of Thackeray's readers. That a gifted j writer can succeed both in historical romances and in realistic ;■ novels has been repeatedly made evident ; a striking illustration of the fact may be seen at this moment in the works of Sienkiewicz, who has written with apparently equal ease Tlie Deluge and With- out Dogma; but that the greatest satirist of his age should have written the noblest historical romance in the language — this is truly a matter for wonder, and shows the immense range of the man's genius. Thackeray was undoubtedly a great artist; yet to many of ua to-day, most ofl^liis novels are marred by the constant introduction of soliloquies, reflective philosophising, and down- *? t'^*^'* right preaching by the author] just as the artistic value of the novels of Dickens is lessened by the •author's habit of making stump speeches. It is true that Thackeray 'is sometimes at his very best when he stops the flow of the narrative and takes the reader into his confidence; yet, while some of these little sermons add to our appreciation of the man, they subtract something from the artistic beauty of his work. Every novel, as : Thomas Hardy has remarked, should be an artistic whole, a living * organism; we should enjoy its unity and symmetry very much as we enjoy the outline of a perfect statue. Eyerytliing that does not contribute to the evolution of the story is therefore an excrescence. It is for this reason that we rank Turgenev, as an artist, higher than Tolstoi. The latter is more comprehensive in his view of life, and his novels contain a larger accumulation of intellectual riches : but he crams his stories with matter, some of which would more properly belong in a philosophical trreatise, some in a sermon from the pulpit, some in a literary essay, and some in a newspaper WORKS OF THACKERAY 17 editorial, while he occasionally puts in things that properly belong nowhere. We forgive him everything, because he is a man of gen- ius, and has taught us so much ; but we cannot be blind to gross offenses against art, and even while admitting that Anna Karenina is a more valuable book than anything written by Turgenev, we cannot help seeing how slovenly is its construction when we com- pare it with Fathers and Children, or Rudin. And after all, returning to the consideration of Thackeray's novels, what are the passages that we remember the most vividly? Are they his sentimental soliloquies on youthful love, or are they the great dramatic scenes that glow with genius? The death of George Osborne at Waterloo, told in a single line with no moral reflection appended, is worth a hundred pages of advice addressed to the "kind, patient reader." Nay, it is not only higher art, it is of surer moral value ; for when a great genius represents with consum- mate art the tragedy and comedy of life as they really are, he can safely leave their ethical significance to the spectator. Furthermore, the habit of preaching is a habit that grows with tremendous speed > and could Thackeray ever have seen an edition of Tlie Virginians or The Newcomes with the narrative all left out, he would doubtless have been surprised at the dimensions of what remained. He recognised his failing in this direction, although liis confession was not meant to be taken as sincere. In one of his most delightful essays, De Finibns, he said: Among the sins of commission which novel-writers not seldom perpetrate is the sin of grandiloquence, or tall-talking, against wliioh, for my part, I will offer up a special libera me. This is the sin of schoolmasters, governesses, critics, sermoners, and instructors of young or old people. Nay (for I am making a clean breast, and liberating my soul), perhaps of all the novel-spinners now extant, the present speaker is the most addicted to preaching. Does he not stop perpetually in his story and begin to preach to you? When he ought to be engaged with business, is he not forever taking the Muse by the sleeve and plaguing her with some of his cynical ser- mons? I cry Peccavi loudly and heartily. I tell you I would like to be able to write a story which should show no egotism whatever — in which there should be no reflections, no cynicism, no vulgarity (and so forth), but an incident in every other page, a villain, a bat- tle, a mystery in every chapter. I should like to be able to feed & 18 INTRODUCTION reader so spicily as to leave him hungering and thirsting for more at the end of every monthly meal. In the mild contempt with which Tliackeray treats his readers in this last sentence, he seems to mistake the real natm-e of the charge to which he playfully cries Peccavi. We do not object to his commentaries because they interrupt an exciting scene ; we do not, unless, to borrow Professor Moulton's expression, we are read- ing the story with only our sporting interest aroused, just to see how it is going to end. There are, indeed, many authors who delight in thus torturing a 'reader, until the victim can only say, "Leave your damnable faces and begin." We object to Thack- eray's sermonising because it destroys the artistic contour of his novels, and makes a blemish where we should prefer to see no flaw. Perhaps its preaching is simply the result of his English blood; for most English writers and readers cannot bear to let a work of art carry its own lesson, like the lilies of the field ; they must forsooth bespatter it with moral mottoes, even as the walking delegates of religion befoul the fair face of nature with signposts of damnation. But apart from this fault, there is little to blame, and countless things to praise, in Thackeray's art as a novelist. There is a charm about -his style that age cannot wither nor custom stale. To have read any one of his books is to have gained valuable additions to the circle of our literary acquaintances, and to have seen our common life illumined and made significant by the touch of a mas- ter. When we read any one of the innumerable scenes of jo}" and grief and passion that crowd his pages, we feel like repeating his own irrepressible shout — "That's Gejiius!"' Taking everything into consideration, it seems as if the highest place among Englisii .aavelists will eventually be assigned to Thackeray. In the history of British fiction, there lUaoI^amJng ^^'^ ^nly eight writers whom we can unhesitatingly EneriJsh place in the front rank: Defoe, Richardson, Fielding, Scott, Jane Austen, Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot. In comparing Thackeray with these great rivals, one should consider the amount, variety, and excellence of the work produced. ES2I0XD 19 the number of great characters created, the skill shown in the con- struction of plots, the purity and beauty of the prose style, and the intellectual value of the sentiments, observations, and ideas. Sur- veying the held in an unprejudiced manner, it will be found diffi- cult to place any novelist in this list above Thackeray. Ill ESMOND From a letter bj^ Edward FitzGerald, we learn that Thackeray finished Esmond at the end of May 1852. "Thackeray I saw for ten minutes; he was just in the agony of finishing a Origin and ^Qygi which lias arisen out of the reading necessary Publication. ^ '' for his lectures, and relates to those times — of Queen Anne, I mean. He will get £1,000 for his novel; he was wanting to finish it and rush off to the Continent to shake off the fumes of it." The composition of this story occupied only a few months, for its author was at the zenith of his powers, and his mind and heart were full of the subject. Leslie Stephen says that the manuscript shows very few corrections, not nearly as many as occur in the earlier ones. It was published in the autumn of 1853, the full title being The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., a Colonel in the service of Her Majesty Q. Anne. Written by Himself. Unlike all his other long novels, it did not appear in numbers, but as a single complete work. This was the result of a deliberate decision, for Thackeray said the book was "much too grave and sad" to come out as a serial. The melancholy ofjbhe^tory sfeem.s to have given its author a great deal of unneces.sary trouble, for while much of it is in the minor key, it is not nearly so depressing as Vanity Fair and The Newcomes. Thackeray had always been more or less interested in the liter- ature of the eighteenth centuiy, and had read .'to advantage i*iany authors besides Fielding. But he would in all probability never have written Esmond, had he not been forced to study tlig_Qu^^ Anne period thoroughly in preparation for his course of lee- 20 INTRODUCTION tures on the Engliah Humourists. Thackeray himsv^lf liaJ much in common with the wits of the Augustan age; the social life of those bygone days made a powerful appeal to his imagination ; he admired immensely the writings of Congreve and Addison, and tlie genius of Pope; the greatness of Swift impressed him deeply, though he did not like and failed to understand the inan's character; for Dick Steele he had the warmest sympathy. It was only natural that out of the materials he had collected, the inspiration should have come to recreate the men and manners of the age of Anne in a historical romance. I It is difficult to avoid superlatives in talking about Esmond. It seems to be not only the best book Thackeray ever wrote, but the best historical romance in the English language. His Master- jn^jg^^j many intelligent critics regard it as the piece. ^ o o finest work of fiction ever written b}^ an English- man. It is better than Thackeray's other books, because the noble style is so splendidly sustained; because the characters are so impossible to forget ; and beca use it is so perfect a work of art, ^ being fortunately free from the eternal preaching and sentimental footnotes that mar the text of his other books. Its artistic perfection may be partially accounted for by the following reasons: the story is told in the first person, a method that adds vividness to the narrative ; again, as the hero, and not the author is talking, Thack- eray was compelled to oixut the introduction of his own philosophy of life ; the publication in book form necessitated greaterjinity and coherence ; and the small size of the work, when compared with his other famous novels, was a distinct gain in the same direction, for novelists, like petitioners, are not heard for their much speaking. At the dawn of the twentieth century, the most conspicuous object on the horizon of fiction is the historical romance. The reaction against the realism of the earl}- eighties;^ A'Historioai combined with the powerful influence and notable Kuiiiance. example of Stevenson, have together wrought a completet^'hange in literary fashions. A large majority of the stories that fill the bookshops in 1901 are romances, the scenes of ( ESMOND which are laid in bygone times. Although many of these sell and circulate by the hundred thousand, most of them are absolutely void of literary value. Their setting is grossly inaccurate, their characters resemble nothing human, and their style is totally lack- ing in distinction. ; Among such books, Esmond is a giant sur- rounded by pigmies. The causes are not far to seek. pTn the first . place, Thackeray not only studied the period lie selec ted with the | utmost assiduity, but by his sympathetic imagination he gave the Y^r2;_a^„and^Jb_Qdx jof J>hat time_^^ In one of his letters he said that the eighteenth century occupied him almost to the exclusion of the nineteenth. By extensive reading_in_Sa:iit .and. Addi^on^jie^ caught the, trick... _Ql.±h©WM style; Henry Esmond speaks and writes Qugen. Amie. English. But it is not simply that the details of his work are so good; it is the spirit that quickeneth, and it is the_spirit that makes this wonderful romance so_Jull_of life. Thackeray had something of Ben Jonson's accuracy and • something of Shakspere's vitality', and ^e scenes of^,,£'si?io?M., are drawn vyitli the same conscientious carejexhibited in the tragedy of Catiline, while the persons live and move and have tlieir being like the characters in Julius Caesar. Hampshire and Kensington were familiar ground to the last inch ; and in the author's imagination, they were full of memories of Laily Castlewood, Beatrix, Frank, and Henry. . As often happens in the historical romance, the historical characters are not nearly so convincing as the fictitious ones. In the portraits of Swift, and \ Steele, and Marlborough, we find much to blame; but who can ever forget the strong men and the lovely women who are wliolly tlie creations of Thackeray's genius? No novelist ever created \\ wonisiip more truly womanly in \un- tojuli-; nf-s^, murt' •■--cut iai'y ]iii!^.lft^^ Ifcr lauifs"and"irtues, and more absolutely irresistible lh;-M ' Castlewood. ,i)A>^1i(-.]i the memory; as the first meeting of the little boy '^\"i.t,^iH?f?wWjV ''''^'^' tress: the howling mob about the wheels of the c«fe'^?-'rhVl*i^'eiiiug when Harry brought the small-pox to ^^'ist^^'^^^d^'^^e duel in ^2 INTRODUCTION Leicester Field: the descent of the staircase by Beatrix: the breaking of the swords before the Pretender's face. And through- out all these wonderful scenes the style is always adequate, the language always exactly what it should be. » As a specimen of a narrative style that has real distinction, and that makes a historical romance truly great, we cannot forbear quoting the spirited pas- sage where the languid nobleman unconscioush' asserts his love for his child: 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, where they can shut the gates on us, and keep out this canaille.'' The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout; the man laughed, a great big saddler's apprentice of the town. "Ah! you d httle yelling Popish bastard," lie said, and stooped to pickup 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 boy out of the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had hold of the potato thrower's collar in an instant, and the next moment the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell on the stones with a thump. "You hulking coward!" says he; "you pack of screaming blackguards! how dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at that carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord 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 ray Lord Viscount. "Make way there," says he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but ^vjk^ith a great air of authority). "Make way, and let her Ladyship's i^Pte.n-iage pass." The men that were between the coach and the r rfate of the "Bell'' actually did make way, and the horses went in. i iftVfiOrd walking after them with his hat on his head. - f,, ^ihe WHS just going in at the gate, through which the coach Hfcl.^Pb. rolled, another cry begins of "No Popery— no Papists!" My-Lor(n:r.rns round and faces them once more. \riiiGf(o,'^.^y<' the King!" says he at the highest pitch of his voice. '■\Vw]TffelFeY'4'>nse tlie King's religion? You, you d d psalni- siiigW§*^Ht^^lW,' as sure asl'in a magistrate of this county, I'll com- mit v<'^:^',riTUl'i$eliow shrank back, and my Lord retreated with all the i'Ott[3lJAi-.ir*f tiu^ dnj. But when th.e little flurry caused by the scene ^v,l.^^Ver,"k^^t^lle flush passed off his face, he relapsed into ESMOND 23 ids usual languor, trifled with his little dog, and yawned when my Lady spoke to him. Esmond seems to have been the favorite work of its author, and just as Congreve and Steele seemed to him more like real per- sons than most of his contemporarie*, so Lady Cas- imai tie wood and Henry Esmond lie regarded with more Success. "^ ® paternal affection than Becky Sharp or Rawdon Crawley. lie used to point out in Kensington the place where his fair heroine lived, and he followed Esmond's footsteps on the Con- tinent with keen delight. He told TroUope that he had intended Esmond to be his best work, but that in the judgment of the pub- lic, he had failed. It is true that this novel did not bring him in nearly so much money as Tlie Nen'comes, nor did it have anything like the circulation and vogue of Vanity Fair and Pendennis. But copyright receipts, pleasant as the}^ are, make absolutely no cri- terion of the permanent literary value of a book ; and although the mob of gentlemen who read with ease did not care for Esmond, its worth was immediately recognised by those best qualified to judge, and the passing of the years has added steadily to its lustre. Dur- ing these fifty years, this novel has grown rapidly in reputation, and many books that outsold it in 1852 are now completely forgot- ten. The late Mr. Horace Scudder has stated its proper position among Thackeray's works in the following admirable words: His great novels, Vanity Fair, Pendennis, The Newcomes, and \ The Virginians, were all composed and published in the twelve '; years between 1847 and 1859, when their author was from thirty-six • to forty-eight years of age. It is not a mere mathematical calcula- tion which places The History of Henry Esmond, Esq., in the centre • of the group, and makes it represent the culmination of Thackeraj^'s j genius. In this novel meet all the forces of his literary nature: l His studies in books and his studies in life blend in it, and its -very form indicates how conscious of his art he was when he penned it. He stepped aside often enough, in his earlier novels and stories, to chat vv'ith tlie reader, for he, the reader, and his characters were all contemporaries |_r-but in this novel his firmness of touch, his con tration of character and action, disclose the attitude which he tal tov/ard his worJ<»\iIe is here emphatically an artist, oblivious bystanders, re.solut"e only to make his painting a true nd self-centred work of art. r 24 INTRODUCTION IV SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDYING ESMOND It is asssumed that the student will first read the book through merely for the pleasure of the story, without bothering his head about any details of history and criticism. He will Literary then be ready for a more minute and thoughtful study Comparisons. of the book as a literary masterpiece^ a study which should in the end greatly increase the amount of pleasure to be obtained from it. In the first place, other works of Thackeray should be read, to become thoroughly familiar with his style and art; one of the modern realistic novels, say Vanitif Fair, will serve as a good illustration of Thackeray's versatility ; but, at any rate, the student should read The Virginians and the English Humourists, because the former is a kind of sequel to Esmond, and the latter is the mine containing the ore he used. It is especially important to read the Humourists along with Esmond, for there are many characters common to both books, and there are certain scenes, like the sobs of Steele over his father's coffin, which are repeated in a manner instructive to the student of Thackeray. Besides comparing Esmond with other works by the same author, the student has at present an excellent opportunity to judge of the real value of this book as a historical romance. If, immediately after reading it, he will take up three or four of the most popular stories published within the last two years, and com- pare them in plot, style, and characters, with Esmond, the com- parison should assist him in detecting genuine merit, as distin- guished from superficial glamour, and thus increase his appreciation of what is good, his dislike for what is tawdry, and in general develop his critical powers; and the development of one's critical powers should be the ambition of everybody who loves reading. It is interesting, though not exhilarating, to compare the value of the novels that appeared in England and America between 1850 and 18G0 inclusive, with the output in the same countries betwee^i the years 1890 and 1900. In the former decade, for example, wer^ i /i SUGGESTIONS FOR STUDYING ESiMOND 2~y issued in England David Copperfield, Bleak House, Peg Woffington, Esmond, Hypatia, Christie Johnstone, The Newcomes, Little Dorrit, Westward Ho, The Professor, The Warden, Tom Browns School Bays, It Is Never too Late to Mend, Pendennis, 2d vol., TJie Vir- ginians, Barchester Towers, Scenes of Clerical Life, Doctor Thome, A Tale of Two Cities, Adam Bede, The Woman in Wliite, Great E.cpectations, Tlie Mill on the Floss, The Cloister and the Hearth; ill America appeared, among other things. The Scarlet Letter, TJie House of the Seven Gables, Uncle Tom's Cabin. There have cer- tainly been more novels published in 1890-1900 than in 1850-1860; as to the quality, the student had better examine the question by himself — for a printed list would be depressing. As Esmond is a historical romance, the student should become familiar with the historical facts and with the literature of the reign of Queen Anne. Gardiner's Student's History of History. ^^ ^ England is a comprehensive, accurate, and very use- ful book to have at one's elbow for any emergency ; and the portion from 1660 to 1750 should be read and mastered. As Thackeray has shown great skill in the imitation of the Augustan manner of writing English, and has even given a clever imitation of a number of the Spectator, the student should find out for himself what that famous style was, that he may be able to form an independent judg- ment of Thackeray's ability to imitate it. The only way to do this is to read something by Swift, Addison, Steele, and others.^ Furthermore, as Thackeray has essayed the difficult feat of bring- ing these men back to life in the pages of Esmond, it is well to know whether his portraits are or are not correct. Was Jonathan S\s'ift the kind of man that Thackeray represents him to be? How is it with the great Duke of Marlborough? Are his battles accu- rately described, and was he such a cold-blooded scoundrel? Was Dick Steele chronically drunk, and were his relations with Addison and other literary men precisely as our author represents them? Was the. Pretender brought over from France in the manner ' A list of useful books is appended to this Introduction. 2G INTRODUCTION described, or was that the work of Thackeray's imagination? Infor- mation should be obtained about minor characters in the story. Who was Bishop Atterbury, and General Webb, and the Earl of Oxford? In short a thorough and intelligent study of this book, a study that should leave the reader informed on every reference, allusion, and proper name, would give him a most enviable knowl- edge of the history of England during the reign of Anne : of the social life, as shown in the coffee-houses ; of literature as shown in the poems and prose of the great Augustans, and • on the boards of the theatres; of foreign wars, and internal politics. Such a result is of course ideal, rather than practical. But it does no harm to aim high, and if the student is intelligent and ambitious, Esmond will be much more than a good story; it will be the gateway to eighteenth century life and literature. Again, how many college undergraduates know the names and location of any ten counties in England? And yet a knowl- edge of literary geography is all - important to an intelligent comprehension of English poems, novels, and essays. When a pupil is told that although Castlewood is plainly stated to be in Hampshire and many of the scenes in the novel are laid in that part of England, the model that the author had in mind for the estate and the building was Clevedon Court in Somerset, has lie any idea what that means? Does he know the direction of Somerset from Hants, does he know whether Somerset is a shire or a town? If he is like the majority of Americans, he does not. Therefore the student should add to the little private library which it is hoped he is collecting, a good map of England, and should learn the location of all the prominent counties, and follow the direction of Esmond when he goes from Loudon to Castlewood, or over to Winchester. A little knowledge about so important a town as Winchester will not be a serious injury. For example at the end of Chapter 7, Book II, Esmond looks out from his window toward the "great grey towers of the ' 'ithedral." Is that a correct expression to apply to the architec- t are of Winchester Cathedral? WORKS HELPFUL IN STUDYING ESMO.YD 27 A FEW WORKS HELPFUL IN STUDYING ESMOND Addison. Selections, edited by T. Arnold. Brooke, S. Primer of English Literature. Craik. English Prose, Vol. III. Gardiner, S. R. A Student's History of England. Hare, A. J. C. Walks in London. Literary Map of England, published by Ginn & Co. Melville, L. Life of Thackeray. Merivale and Marzials. Life of Thackeray. Perry, T. S. English Literature in the Eighteenth Century, Pope. Selections, edited by E. B. Reed. Steele. Selections, edited by G. R. Carpenter. Swift. Selections, edited by Craik. Sydney, W. C. England and the English in the Eighteenth Cen- tury. Thackeray. Works, Biographical edition. Thackeray. The English Humourists. Annotated Edition, pub- lished by Holt. Ward, T. H. The English Poets, Vol. IIL Whibley, C. Thackeray. ill! (1 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND, Esq. A COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAJESTY QUEEN ANNE WRITTEN BY HIMSELF SERVETUR AD IMUM QUALIS AB INCERTO PROCESSERIT, ET SIBI CONSTET \ 29 TO THE EIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON My Dear Lord, — The writer of a book which copies the manners and language of Queen Anne's time, must not omit the Dedication to the Patron ; and I ask leave to inscribe this volume to your Lord- ship, 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 wel- comed in America because I am Your obliged friend and servant, W. M. THACKERAY. London: October IS, 1852. ^ OF UNIVERSi OF PREFACE THE ESMONDS OF VIRGINIA The estate of Castlewood, in Virginia, which was given to our ancestors by King Charles the First, as some return for the sacri- fices made in His Majesty's cause by the Esmond family, lies in Westmoreland county, between the rivers Potomac and Rappahan- noc, and was once as great as an English Principality, though in the early times its revenues were but small. Indeed, for near eighty years after our forefathers possessed them, our plantations were in the hands of factors, who enriched themselves one after another, though a few scores of hogsheads of tobacco were all tlie produce that, for long after the Restoration, our family received from their Virginian estates. My dear and honoured father. Colonel Henry Esmond, whose history, written by himself, is contained in the accompanying vol- ume, came to Virginia in the year 1718, built his house of Castle- wood, and here permanently settled. After a long stormy life in England, he passed the remainder of his many years in peace and honour in this country; how beloved and respected by all his fellow-citizens, how inexpressibly dear to his family, I need not say. His whole life was a benefit to all who were connected with him. He gave the best example, the best advice, the most bounte- ous hospitality to his friends ; the tenderest care to his dependants ; and bestowed on those of his immediate family such a blessing of fatherly love and protection as can never be thought of, by us at least, without veneration and thankfulness ; and my sons' children, whether established here in our Republic, or at home in the always beloved mother country, from which our late quarrel hath sepa- • rated us, may surely be proud to be descended from one who in all ways was so truly noble. 31 32 PREFACE 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 m}' children never saw. "When it pleased Heaven, in the bloom of his youth, and after but a few months of a most happy union, to remove him from me, I owed my recovery from the grief which tliat calamity caused me, mainly to mj^ dearest father's tenderness, and then to Ihe 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 wear- ing the King's colours or the Republic's, I am sure that they love me and one another, and him above all, my father and theirs, the dearest friend of their childhood, the noble gentleman who bred them from their infancy in the practice and knowledge of Truth, and Tx)ve, and Honour. 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 eyebrows 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 liis image I He was of rather low stature, not being above five feet seven inches in heiglit ; he used to laugh at my sons, whom he called his crutches, and say they were grown too tall for him to lean upon. But small as he was, he had a perfect grace and majesty of deportment, such as I have never seen in this country, except perhaps in our friend 'Mr. Wash- ington, and commanded respect wherever he appeared. In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraordinary quickness and agility. Of fencing he was especially fond, and made my two boys proficient in that art ; so much so that when the French came to this country with Monsieur Rochambeau, not one of his officers was superior to my Henry, and he was not the equal PREFACE 38 of my poor George, who had taken the King's side in our lamentable but glorious War of Independence. Neither my father nor my mother ever wore powder in their hair; both their heads were as white as silver, as I can remember them. My dear mother possessed to the last an extraordinary brightness and freshness of complexion; nor would people believe that she did not wear rouge. At sixty years of age-she still looked young, and was quite agile. It was not until after that dreadful siege of our house by the Indians, which left me a widow ere I was a mother, that my dear mother's health broke. She never recov- ered her terror and anxiety of those days, which ended so fatally for me, then a bride scarce six months married, and died in my father's arms ere my own year of widowhood was over. From that day, until the last of his dear and honoured life, it was ni}' 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 understand the extreme devotion with which she regarded him — a devotion so paS' sionate 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 atfection to any but herself; and in tlie most fond and beautiful words of affection and admonition, she bade me never to leave him, and to supply the place which she was quitting. With a clear conscience, and a heart inexpressibly thankful, I think I can say that I fulfilled those dying commands, and that until bis last hour my dearest father never had to complain that his daughter's love and fidelity failed him. And it is since I knew him entirely — for during my mother's life he never quite opened himself to me — since I knew the value and 34 PREFi^CE splendour of that affection which he bestowed upon me, that I have come to understand and pardon what, I own, used to angei- me in my mother's lifetime, her jealousy respecting her husband's love. 'Twas a gift so precious, that no wonder she who had it was for keeping it all, and could part with none of it, even to her daughter. Though I never heard my father use a rough word, 'twas extra- ordinary with how much awe his people regarded him; and the servants on our plantation, both those assigned from England and the purchased negroes, obeyed him with an eagerness such as the most severe taskmasters round about us could never get from their people. He was never familiar, though perfectly simple and natu- ral ; he was the same with the meanest man as with the greatest, and as courteous to a black slave girl as to the Governor's wife. No one ever thought of taking a liberty with him (except once a tipsy gentleman from York, and I am bound to own that my papar never forgave him): he set the humblest people at once on their ease with him, and brought down the most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which made persons exceedingly afraid of him. His courtesy was not put on like a Sunday suit, and laid b}- when the company went away; it was always the same; as he was always dressed the same, whether for a dinner by ourselves or for a great entertainment. They say he liked to be tlie 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 Lon- don with my half-brother, my Lord Castlewood and his second lady, I saw at Her Majesty's Court some of the most famous gen- tlemen of those days; and I thought, to myself none of these are better than my papa ; and the famous Lord Bolingbroke, who came to us from Dawley, said as much and that the men of that time were not like those of his youth: — "Were your father, madam," he said, "to go into the woods, the Indians would elect him Sachem;*' and his Lordship was pleased to call me Pocahontas. I did not see our other relative, Bishop Tusher's lady, of whom so much is said in my paj)a's memoirs — although my mamma PREFACE 35 went to visit her in the country. I have no pride (as I showed by complying with my mother's request, and marrying a gentleman who was but the younger son of a Suffolk Baronet), yet I own to a decent respect for my name, and wonder how one who ever bore it should change it for that of Mrs. Thomas Tusher. I pass over as odious and unworthy of credit those reports (which I heard in Europe, and was then too young to 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 tliere; how she came to England and married this Mr. Tusher, and became a great favourite of King George the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a Dean, and then a Bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to remain at her palace all the time we were in London; but after visiting her, my poor mamma said she had lost all her good looks, and warned me not to set too much store by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. She grew exceedingly stout; and I remember my brother's wife, Lady Castle wood, saying: "No wonder she became a favourite, for the King likes them old and ugly, as his father did befoie him." On which Papa said: "All women were alike ; that there was never one so beautiful as that one; and that we could forgive her everything but her beauty." And hereupon my mamma looked vexed, and my Lord Castlewood began to laugh ; and I, of course, being a young creature, could not understand what was the subject of their conversation After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these Memoirs, my father and mother both went abroad, being advised by their friends to leave the country in consequence of the transac- tions which are recounted at the close of the volume of the Memoirs. But my brother, liearing 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 enraged against him that he asked leave to serve as a volunteer, and join the Duke of Argyle's 36 PREFACE army in Scotland, which the Pretender never had the courage to face; and thenceforth my Lord was quite reconciled to the present reigning family, from whom he hath even received promotion. Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pretender as any of her relations could be, and used to boast, as I have heard, that she not only brought back my Lord to the Church of England but procured the English peerage for him, which the junior branch of our family at present enjoys. She was a great friend of Sir Robert Walpole, and would not rest until her husband slept at Lambeth, my papa used laughing to sa}'. 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: Novembei^ 3, 1778. THE HISTOEY OF HENRY ESMOND BOOK I THE EARLY YOUTH OF HENRY ESMOND, UP TO THE TIME OF HIS LEAVING TRINITY COLLEGE, IN CAMBRIDGE The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their iambics to a tune, speaking from under a mask, and wearing stilts and a great head-dress. 'Twas thought tlie dignity of the Tragic Muse required these appurtenances, and that she was not to move except to a measure and cadence. So Queen Medea slew her children to a slow music: and King Agamemnon perished in a dying fall (to use Mr. Dryden's words) : the Chorus standing by in a set attitude, and rhythmically and decorously bewailing the fates of those great crowned persons. Tlie Muse of History hath encumbered herself with ceremony as well as her Sister of the Theatre. She too wears the mask and the cothurnus, and speaks to measure. She too, in our age, busies herself with the affairs only of kings; waiting on them obsequiously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of court ceremonies, and had nothing to do with the registering of the affairs of the common people. I have seen in his very old age and decrepitude tlie old French King Lewis the Fourteenth, the type and model of kinghood — who never moved but to measure, who lived and died according to the laws of his Court-marshal, persist- ing in enacting through life the part of Hero; and, divested of poetry, this was but a little wrinkled old man pock-marked, and 8? 38 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND with a great periwig and red heels to make him look tall-~a hero for a book if you like, or for a brass statue or a painted ceiling, a god in a Roman shape, but what more than a man for Madame Maintenon, or the barber who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, his surgeon? I wonder shall History ever pull off her periwig and cease to be court-ridden? Shall w^e see something of France and England besides Versailles and Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag-hounds, and driving her one-horse chaise — a hot, red-faced woman, not in the least resembling that statue of her which turns its stone back upon St. Paul's, and faces the coaches struggling up Ludgate Hill. She was neither better bred nor wiser than you and me, though we knelt to hand her a letter or a washhand basin. Why shall History go on kneeling to the end of time? I am for having her rise up off her knees, and take a natural posture : not to be for ever perform- ing cringes and congees like a court-chamberlain, and shuffling backwards out of doors in the presence of the sovereign. In a word, I would have History familiar rather than heroic : and think that Mr. Hogarth and Mr. Fielding will give our children a much better idea of the manners of the present age in England, than the Court Gazette and the newspapers which we get thence. There was a German officer of Webb's, with whom we used to joke, and of whom a story (whereof I myself was the author) was got to be believed in the army, that he was eldest son of the hered- itary Grand Bootjack of the Empire, and the heir to that honour of which his ancestors liad been very proud, having been kicked for twenty generations by one imperial foot, as they drew the boot from the other. I have heard that the old Lord Castlewood, of part of w-hose family these present volumes are a chronicle, though he came of quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served (and who as regards mere lineage are no better than a dozen English and Scottish houses I could name), was prouder of his post about the Court than of his ancestral honours, and vakied his dignity (as Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset) so highly, that lie cheerfully ruined himself for the thankless and THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 39 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 b}^ Ireton. where his brother Thomas capitulated (after- ward making terms with the Commonwealth, for which the elder brother never forgave him) and where his second brother Edward, who had embraced the ecclesiastical profession, was slain on 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 battered down, escaped abroad with his only son, then a boy, to return and take a part in Worcester fight. On that fatal field Eustace Esmond was killed, and Castlewood fled from it once more into exile, and henceforward, and after the Restoration, never was away from the Court of the monarch (for whose return we offer thanks in the Prayer-Book) who sold his country and who took bribes of the French king. What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in exile? Who is more worthy of respect than a brave man in misfor- tune? Mr. Addison has painted such a figure in his noble piece of *'Cato." Bat suppose fugitive Cato fuddling himself at a tavern with a wench on each knee, a dozen faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord calling out for his bill ; and the dignity of misfortune is straightway lost. The Historical Muse turns away shamefaced from the vulgar scene, and closes the door — on which the exile's unpaid drink is scored up — upon him and his pots and his pipes, and the tavern-chorus which he and his friends are sing- ing. Such a man as Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris to paint him. Your Knellers and Le Bruns only deal in clumsy and impossible allegories: and it hath always seemed to me blasphemy to claim Olympus for such a wine-drabbled divinity as that. About the King's follower, the Viscount Castlewood — orphaned of his son, ruined by his fidelity, bearing many wounds and marks of bravery, old and in exile — his kinsmen I suppose should be silent; nor if this patriarch fell down in his cups, call fie upon him, and fetc'h passers-by to laugh at his red face and white hairs. What ! 40 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND I, 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 rever- ence 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 my little part with my neighbours on foot, that they should not gape with too much wojider, 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 journey to Tyburn? I look into my heart and think that I am as good as my Lord Mayor, and know I am as bad as Tyburn Jack, Give me a chain and red gown and a pudding before me, and I could play the part of Alder- man very well, and sentence Jack after dinner. Starve me, keep me from books and honest people, educate me to love dice, gin, and pleasure, and put me on Hounslow Heath, with a purse before me, and I will take it. "And I shall be deservedly hanged," say you, wishing to put an end to this prosing. I don't say No. I can't but accept the world as I find it, including a rope's end, as long as it is in fashion. I CHAPTER I I AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD HALL When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, and presently after to take possession of his house of Castlewood, County Hants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant of the place besides the domestics was a lad of twelve years of age, of whom no one seemed to take any note until my Lady Viscountess lighted upon him, going over the house w4th the housekeeper on the day of her arrival. The boy was in the room known as the Book-room^ or Yellow Gallery, where the portraits of the family used to hang, that fine piece among others of Sir Antonio Van Dyck of George, second Viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson of my Lord the third Viscount, just deceased, which it seems his lady and wn'dow did not think fit to carry away, when she sent for and carried off to her house at Chelsey, near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely, in which her Ladyship was represented as a huntress of Diana's court. The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely, little 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 w^as it that that hand! would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to protect grief; and ill-fortune? "And this is our kinsman, " she said ; "and what" is your name, kinsman?" "My name is Henry Esmond," said the lad, looking up at her in, a sort of delight and wonder, for she had come upon him as a Dea certe, and appeared the most charming object he had ever looked on. Her goMen hair was shining in the gold of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom ; her lips smiling, and her eyes 41 43 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND beaming with a kindness which made Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise. i^His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my Lady," says Mrs. Worksop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry Esmond plagued more than he hated), and the old gentlewoman looked significantly towards the late lord's picture, as it uov.- is in tlie family, noble and severe-looking, with his hand on his sword, and his order on his cloak, which he had from the Emperor during the war on the Danube against the Turk. Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between his portrait and tlie lad, the new Viscountess, who had still hold of tlie boy's hand as she looked at the picture, blushed and dropped the hand quickly, and walked down the gallery, followed, by Mrs. Worksop. When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in the same spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when he dropped it on his black coat. Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed, she hath since owned as much), at the notion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal, great or small ; for, when she returned, she had sent away the housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the farther end of the gallery ; and, coming back to the lad, with a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and saying some M'ords to him, which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy, who had never looked upon so -much beauty before, felt as if the touch of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground, and kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on one knee. To the very last hour of his life, Esmond remembered the lad}- 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 lialo round her hair. As the boy was yet in this attitude of humility, enters behind him a portly gentleman, with a little girl of four j^ears old in his hand. The gentleman burst into a great laugh at the lady and h THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 43 adorer, with his little queer figure, his sallow face and long black hair. The ladj^ blushed, and seemed to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal to her husband, for it was my Lord Viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad knew, 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!" "He is saying his prayers to mamma," says the little girl, who came up to her papa's knees; and my Lord burst out into another great laugh at this, and kinsman Henry looked very silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in reply, but 'twas months after- wards 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 ladj^ looking to her lord ; and the boy, 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 by this diminutive, looked at Henry Esmond solemnly, with a pair of large eyes, and then a smile shone over her face, which was as beautiful as that of a cherub, and she came up and put out a little hand to him. A keen and delightful pang of gratitude, happiness, affection, filled the orphan child's heart as he received from the protectors, whom Heaven had sent to him, these touching words and tokens of friendliness and kindness. But an hour since he liad felt quite alone in the world; when he heard the great peal of bells from Castle wood church ringing that morning to welcome the arrival of the new lord and lady, it had rung only terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the new owner would deal with him; and those to whom he formerly looked for jiro- tection were forgotten or dead. Pride and doubt too had kept ■kini withindoors, when tlie Vicar and the people of the village, and the servants of the house, had gone out to welcome my Lord 44 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND Castlewood — for Henry Esmond was no servant, though a depend- ant ; no relative, though he bore the name and inherited the blood of the house; and in the midst of the noise and acclamations attending the arrival of the new lord (for whom, you may be sure, a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, and tenants and domestics huzzahed when his carriage approached and rolled into the courtyard of the Hall), no one ever took any notice of young Henry Esmond, who sate unobserved and alone in the Book-room, until the afternoon of that day, when his new friends found him. When my Lord and Lady were going away thence, the little girl, still holding her kinsman by the hand, bade him to come too. "Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, Trix," says her father to her good-naturedly; and went into the gallery, giving an arm to his lady. They passed tlience through the music gallery, long since dismantled, and Queen Elizabeth's Rooms, in the clock- tower, and out into the terrace, where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darkling woods with a cloud of rooks returning; and the plain and river with Castlewood village beyond, and purple hills beautiful to look at— and the little heir of Castlewood, a child of two years old, was already here on the terrace in his nurse's arms, from whom he ran across the grass instantly he perceived his mother, and came to her. "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 j^ou are," she said, "but we were happiest of all at Walcote Forest." Then my Lord began to describe what was before them to his wife, and what indeed little Harry knew better than he— viz., the history of the house: how by yonder gate the page ran away with the heiress of Castlewood. by which the estate came into the present family; how the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower, which my Lord's father was slain in defending. "I was but two years old then," says he, "but take forty six from ninety, and how old shall I be, kinsman Harry?" "Thirty," says his wife, with a laugh. ^ THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND • 45 "A great deal too old for you, Rachel,'" answers my Lord, look- ing fondly down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, and was at that time scarce twenty years old. "You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you," says she, "and I promise you I will grow older every day." "You mustn't call papa Frank; you must call papa my Lord now," says Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head; at which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, and the little trotting boy laughed, not knowing why — but because he was happy, no doubt — as every 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 memory ! As the sun was setting, the little heir was sent in the arms of his nurse to bed, wiiither he went howling; but little Trix was promised to sit to supper that night — "and you will come too, kins- man, won't you?" she said. \ Harry Esmond blushed: "I — I have supper with Mrs. Worksop," says he. "D — n it," says my Lord, "thou shalt sup with us, Harry, to-night! Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?" — and they aU wondered at Harry's performance as a trencherman, in which character the poor boy acquitted himself very remarkably; for the truth is he had had no dinner, nobody thinking of him in the bustle which the house was in, during the preparations antecedent to the new lord's arrival. "No dinner! poor dear child!" says my Lady, heaping up his plate with meat, and my Lord, filling a bumper for him, bade him call a health; on which Master Harry, crying "The King," tossed off the wine. My Lord was ready to drink that, and most other toasts: indeed only too ready. He would not hear of Doctor Tusher (the Vicar of Castle wood, who came to supper) going away when the sweetmeats were brought: he had not had a chaplain long enough, he said, to be tired of him : so his reverence kept my Lord company for some hours over a pipe and a punch bowl; and went away home with rather a reeling gait, and declaring a dozen 46 THE HISTORY OF KENRY ESMOND of times, that his Lordship's affabilitj^ surpassed every kindness he had ever had from his Lordship's gracious family. As for young Esmond, when he got to his little chamber, it was with a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards the new friends whom this happy day had brought him. He was up and v.'atch- ing long before the house was astir, longing to see that fair lady and her children — that kind protector and patron; and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night should in any way be with- drawn or altered. But presently little Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, who greeted Harrs^ as kindly as before. He told her at greater length the histories of the house (svhich he had been taught in the old lord's time), and to which she listened with great interest ; and then he told her, with respect to the night before, that he understood French, and thanked her for lier protection. "Do you?" says she, with a blush; "then, sir, you shall teach me and Beatrix." And she asked him many more questions regarding himself, which had best be told more fully and explicitly than in those brief replies which the lad made to his mistress's questions. CHAPTER II RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLEWOOD 'Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of Castle- wood, com. Hants, came into possession of the present family through Dorothea, daughter and heiress of Edward, Earl and Marquis Esmond, and Lord of Castlewood, which lady married, 23^ Eliz., Henrj^ 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 Knig James the First; and being of a military disposition, remained long in Germany with the Elector-Palatine, in whose service Sir Francis incurred both expense and danger, lending large sums of money to that unfortunate Prince ; and receiving many wounds in the battles against the Imperialists, in which Sir Francis engaged. On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his services and many sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the First, who graciously conferred upon this tried servant tiie post of AVarden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which high and confidential oflEice 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 wiiole of the reign of King Charles the First, and his two sons who succeeded him. Sir George Esmond married, rather beneath the rank that a person of his name ar.d honour might aspire to, the daughter of 47 48 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND Thos. Topliam, of the city of London, alderman and goldsmith, who, taking the Parliamentary side in the troubles then com- mencing, 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 attach- inieut and loyalty to the royal cause and person; and the King being at Oxford in 1642, Sir George, with the consent of his father, then very aged and infirm, and residing at his house of Castle- wood, melted the whole of the family plate for his Majesty's ^service. For this, and other sacrifices and merits, his Majesty, by patent \mder the Privy Seal, dated Oxford, Jan. 1843, was pleased to advance Sir Francis Esmond to the dignity of Viscount Castle- wood, of Shandon, in Ireland: and the Viscount's estate being much impoverished by loans to the King, which in those trouble- some times his Majesty could not repay, a grant of land in the plantations of Virginia was given to the Lord Viscount ; part of which land is in possession of descendants of his family to the present day. The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and within a few months after he had been advanced to his honours. He was succeeded by his eldest son, the before-named George; and left issue besides, Thomas, a colonel in the King's army, 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 Esmond, who was killed with half of the Castlewood men beside him, at Worcester fight. The lands about Castlewood were sold and apportioned to the Commonwealth-men; Castlewood being concerned in almost all of the plots against tlie Protector, after the death of the King, and up to King Charles the Second's restora- tion. My Lord followed that King's Court about in its exile. THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 49 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 liis brother the King both quarrelled about Isabel Esmond. She was maid of honour to the Queen Henrietta Maria; she early joined the Roman Church; her father, a weak man, following her not long after at Breda. On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas Esmond, nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling, became heir to the title. His father had taken the Parliament side in the quar- rels, and so had been estranged from the chief of his house ; and my Lord Castlewood was at first so much enraged to think that his title (albeit little more than an empty one now) should pass to a rascally Roundhead, that he would have married again, and indeed proposed to do so to a vintner's daughter at Bruges, to whom his Lordship owed a score for lodging when the King was there, but for fear of the laughter of the Court, and the anger of his daugh- ter, 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 daughtei Isabel and 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 intimacy of the house, he suddenly flung up his suit, when it seemed to be pretty prosperous, without giving a pretext for his behaviour. His friends rallied him at what they laughingly chose to call his infidelity: Jack Churchill, Frank Esmond's lieutenant in the Royal Regiment of Foot-guards, getting the company wiiich Esmond vacated, when he left the Court and went to Tangier in a rage at discover- ing 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 50 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND said to him with an oath, ''Jack, your sister may be so-and-so, but by Jove my wife shan't!" and swords were drawn, and blood drawn too, until friends separated tbem on this quarrel. Few men were so jealous about the point of honour in those days; and gentlemen of good birth and lineage thought a royal blot was an ornament to their family coat. Frank Esmond retired in the sulks, first to Tangier, whence he returned after two years' service, settling on a small property he had of his mother, near to "Winchester, and became a country gentleman, and kept a pack of beagles, and never came to Court again in King Charles's time. But his uncle Castlewood was never reconciled to him ; nor, for some time after- wards, his cousin whom he had refused. By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts from the King, whilst his daughter was in favour. Lord Castlewood, who had spent in the Royal service his youth and fortune, did not retrieve the latter quite, and never cared to visit Castlewood, or repair it, since the death of his son, but managed to keep a good house, and figure at Court, and to save a considerable sum of ready money. And now, his heir and nephew, Thomas Esmond, began to bid for his uncle's favour. Thomas had served with the Emperor, and witli 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 by Iiis foreign experience. He had dissi- pated his small paternal inheritance of a younger brother's portion, and, as truth must be told, was no better tlian a hanger-on of ordinaries, and a brawler about Alsatia and the Friars, when he bethought him of a means of mending his fortune. His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had nobody's word but her own for the beauty which she said she once possessed. She was lean, and yellow, and long in the tooth ; all the red and THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 51 white in all the toy shops in London could not make a beauty of her — Mr. Killigrew called her the Sibyl, the death's-head put up at the King's feast as a memento mori, &c. — in fine, a woman who might be easy of conquest, bat whom only a very bold man would think of conquering. This bold man was Thomas Esmond. He had a fancy to my Lord Castle wood's savings, the amount of which rumour 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 assidu- ously. He looked so lean and shabby, that he passed without diificulty for a repentant sinner; and so, becoming converted, you may be sure took his uncle's priest for a director. Tliis charitable Father reconciled him with the old lord his uncle, who a short time before would not speak to him, as Tom passed under my Lord's coach window, his Lordship going in state to his place at Court, while his nephew slunk by with his battered hat and feather, and the point of his rapier sticking out of the scabbard — to his twopenny ordinary' in Bell Yard. Thomas Esmond, after this reconciliation with his uncle, very soon began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the benefits of good living and clean linen. He fasted rigorously twice a week, to be sure; but he made amends on the other days: and, to show how great liis appetite was, Mr. Wycherley said, he ended by swallowing that fly-blown rank old morsel his cousin. There were endless jokes and lampoons about this marriage at Court : but Tom rode thither in his uncle's coach now, called him father, and having won could afford to laugh. This marriage took place very shortly before King Charles died: whom the Viscount of Castle wood speedily followed. The issue of this marriage was one son, whom the parents watched with an intense eagerness and care ; but who, in sjpite of 52 THE HISTORY OF HE>^RY ESMOND nurses and physicians, had only a brief existence. His tainted blood did not run very long in his poor feeble little body. Symp- toms of evil broke out early on him ; and, part from flattery, part 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 crj- out miracle at first (the doctors and quacksalvers being constantly in attendance on the child, and experimenting on his poor little body with every con- ceivable nostrum) — but though there seemed, from some reason, a, notable amelioration in the infant's health after his Majesty touched him, in a few weeks afterward the poor thing died — caus- ing 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 favourite of the whole Court, where my poor Lady Castlewood was neglected, and who had one child, a daughter, flourishing and beautiful, and was about to become a mother once more. The Court, as I have heard, only laughed the more because the poor lady, who had pretty well passed the 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 con- stantly 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 play upon. Indeed, to the last days of her life, my Lady Viscountess liad tlie comfort of fancying herself beautiful, and persisted in blooming up to the very midst of winter, painting roses on her cheeks long after tlieir 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 toid the present writer a number of stories about this queer old lady, with which it's not necessary that posterity should THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 53 be entertained. She is said to have had great powers of invective ; and, if she fought with all her rivals in King James's favour, 'tis certain she must have had a vast number of quarrels on her hands. She was a woman of an intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pursued and rather fatigued his Majesty with her rights and her wrongs. Some say that the cause of her leaving Court was jealousy of Frank Esmond's wife ; others, that she was forced to retreat after a great battle which took place at Whitehall, between her Ladyship and Lady Dorchester, Tom Killigrew's daughter, whom the King delighted to honour, and in which that ill-favoured 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 countr}^; and the cruel ingratitude of the Sovereign in giving away, out of the family, that place of Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which the two last Lords Castle wood had held so lionourably, and which was now conferred upon a fellow of yester- day, and a hanger-on of that odious Dorchester creature, my Lord Bergamot;^ "I never," said mv Lady, "could have come to see his Majesty's posset carried by any other hand than an Esmond. I should have dashed the salver out of Lord Bergamot's hand, had I met him." And those who knew her Ladyship are aware that she was a person quite capable of performing this feat, had she not wisely kept out of the wa}'. Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which, indeed, \ \ she liked to bring most persons who came near her, Lady Castle- wood could command her husband's obedience, and so broke up her establishment at London; she had removed from Lincoln's Inn Fields to-Chelsey, to a pretty new house she bought there; and brought her establishment, her maids, lapdogs, and gentlewomen, 1 Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, ann. 1686, Gentleman Usher of the Back Stairs, and afterwax'ds appointed Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset (on the decease of George, second Viscount Castlevvood), accompanied his Majesty to St. Germain's, where he died v.-ithout issue. No Groom of the Posset was appointed oy the Prince of Orange, nor hath there been such an ofilcer in any succeeding reign- y 54 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND her priest, and his Lordship her husband, to Castlewood Hall, that she had never seen since she quitted it as a child with her father during the troubles of King Charles the First's reign. The walls were still open in the old house as they had been left by the shot of the Commonwealth- men. A part of the mansion was restored and furbished up with the plate, hangings, and furniture brought from the house in London. My Lady meant to have a triumphal entry into Castlewood village, and expected the people to cheer as she drove over the Green in her great coach, my Lord beside her, her gentlewomen, lapdogs, and cockatoos on the opposite seat, six horses to her carriage, and servants armed and mounted following it and preceding it. But 'twas in the height of the No-Popery cry; the folks in the village and the neighbouring town were scared by the sight of her Ladyship'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, "Lady Isabel! lord-a-mercy, it's Lad}^ Jezebel!" a name by which the enemies of the right honour- able Viscountess were afterwards in the habit of designating her. The country was then in a great No-Popery fervour; her Ladyship's known conv^ersion, 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 favour at first in the county or vil- lage. By far the greater part of the estate of Castlewood had been confiscated, and been parcelled out to Commonwealth-men. One or two of these old Cromwellian soldiers were still alive in the village, and looked grimly at first upon my Lady Viscountess, when she came to dwell there. She appeared at the Hexton Assembly, bringing her lord after her, scaring the country folks with the splendour of her diamonds, which she always wore in public. They said she wore them in private, too, and slept with them round her "neck; though the writer can pledge his word that this was a calumny. "If she were to take them off," my Ladj' Sark said, "Tom Esmond, her hus- THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 55 band, would run away with them and pawn them.'' 'Twas another calumny. My Lady Sark was also an exile from Court, and there had been war between the two ladies before. The village people began to be reconciled presently to their lady, who was generous and kind, though fantastic and haughty, in her ways, and whose praises Doctor Tusher, the Vicar, sounded loudly amongst his flock. As for my Lord, he gave no great trouble, being considered scarce more than an appendage to my Lady, who, as daughter of the old lords of Castlewood, and possessor . of vast wealth, as the country folk said (though indeed nine-tenths of it existed but in rumour), was looked upon as the real queen of/ i the castle, and mistress of all it contained, ' ' 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 retreat, the Lord Castle wood 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, b}^ name Mr. Pastoureau, one of those whom the persecution of the Huguenots by the French king had brought over to this country. With this old man lived a little lad, who went by the name of Henry Thomas. He remembered to have lived in another place a short time before, near to London too, amongst looms and spinning-wheels, and a great deal of psalm-sing- ing and church-going, and a whole colony of Frenchmen. There he had a dear, dear friend, who died, and whom be called Aunt. She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes ; and her face, though it was homely, was a thousand times dearer to him than that of Mrs. Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pastoureau'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, wiiere he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and say "Angel! she belongs to the Babylonish scarlet woman." Bon Papa was always talking of the scarlet woman. He had a little room where he always used to preach and sing hymns out of his great old nose. Little Harry did not like the preaching : he liked better the fine stories which aunt used to tell him. Bon Papa's wife never told him pretty stories ; she quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went away. 56 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 67 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 Httrry many a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows, he got ill names from her, which need not be set down here, for the sake of old Mr. Pastoureau, who was still kind sometimes. The unhappiness of those days is long forgiven, though they cast a shade of melancholy over the child's youth, which will accompany him, no doubt, to the end of his days: as those tender twigs are bent the trees grow after- ward ; and he, at least, who has suffered as a child, and is not quite perverted in that early school of unhappiness, learns to be gentle and long-suffering with little children. Harry was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, on horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch him away 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 children to keep their hands off him. One was a girl, and Harry never could bear to strike a girl ; and the other was a boy, whom he could easily have beat, but he always cried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail. She only washed Harry's face the day he went away ; nor ever so much as once boxed his ears. She whim- pered rather when the gentleman in black came for the boy ; and old Mr. Pastoureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over his shoulder at the strange gentleman, and grumbled out something abput Babylon and the scarlet lady. He was grown quite old, like a child almost. Mrs. Pastoureau used to wipe his nose as she did to the children. She was a great, big, handsome young woman ; but, though she pretended to cry, Harry thought 'twas only a sham, and sprang quite delighted upon the horse upon which the lacquey helped him. He was a Frenchman ; his name was Blaise. The cliild could talk to him in his own language perfectly well: he knew it better than English indeed, having lived hitherto chiefly among French I 58 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND people: and being called the Little Frenchman by other boys on Ealing Green, He soon learnt to speak English perfectly, and to forget some of his French: children forget easily. Some earlier and fainter recollections the child had of a different country ; and a town with tall white houses; and a ship. But these were quite indistinct in the boy's mind, as indeed the memory of Ealing soon became, at least of much that he suffered there. The lacquey before whom he rode was very lively and voluble, and informed the boy that the gentleman riding before him was my lord's chaplain. Father Holt — that he was now to be called blaster Harry Esmond — that my Lord Viscount Castlewood was his 2}an'ain — that he was to live at the great liovise of Castlewood, in tiie province of shire, where he would see Madame the Viscoun- tess, 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 §a," he said to the priest after eyeing the child, and the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders. "Let Blaise take him out for a holiday,'' and out for a holiday the boy and the valet w^ent. Harry went jumping along; he was' glad enough to go. He will remember to his life's end the delights of those days. He %vas taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, in a house a thou- sand 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 armour, and the great lions and bears in the moat— all under company of Monsieur Blaise. Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth for the coun- try, namely, my Lord Viscount and the other gentleman; Monsieur THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 59 Blaise and Harry on a pillion behind them, and two or three men with pistols leading the baggage- horses. And all along the road the Frenchman told little Harry stories of brigands, which made the child's hair stand on end, and terrified him ; so that at the great gloomy inn on the road where they lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room with one of the servants, and was compassionated by Mr. Holt, the gentleman who travelled with my lord, and wlio gave the child a little bed in his chamber. His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentleman in the boy's favom*, for next day Mr. Holt said Harry should ride behind him, and not with the French lacquey; and all along the journey put a thousand questions to the child — as to his foster- brother and relations at Ealing; what his old grandfather had taught him ; what languages he knew ; whether he could read and write, and sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt found that Harry could read and write, and possessed the two languages of French and English very well; and when he asked Harry about singing, ' the lad broke out with a hymn to the tune of Dr. Martin Luther, I which set Mr. Holt a-laughing; and even caused his grand parr ain in the laced hat and periwig to laugh too when Holt told him what the child was singing. For it appeared that Dr. Martin Luther's hymns were not sung in the churches Mr. liolt preached at. "You must never sing that song any more: do you hear, little mannikin?" says my Lord Viscount, holding up a finger. "But we will try and teach you a better, Harry," Mr. Holt said; and the child answered, for he was a docile child, and of an affec- tionate nature, "that he loved pretty songs, and would try and learn anything the gentleman would tell him." That day he so pleased the gentlemen by his talk, that they had him to dine with them at the inn, and encouraged him in his prattle ; and Monsieur Blaise, with whom he rode and dined the day before, waited upon him now. " 'Tis well, 'tis well!" said Blaise, that night (in his own lan- guage) when they lay again at an inn. "We are a little lord here; we are a little lorl now: we shall see what we are when we come to Castle wood, where my Lady is." 60 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND *'When shall we come to Castle wood, Monsieur Blaise?" says Harry. ''Parhleu! 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, tiiat the child had grown to be quite fond and familiar with him by the journey's end, and had scarce a thought in his little heart which by that time he had not confided to liis 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 curtseys to my Lord Viscount, who bowed to them all languidly ; and there was one portly person that wore a cassock and a broad-leafed hat, who bowed lower than any one — and with this one both my Lord and Mr. Holt had a few words. "This, Harry, is Castle wood church," says Mr. Holt, "and this is the pillar thereof, learned Doctor Tusher. Take off your hat, sirrah, and salute Doctor Tusher!" "Come up to supper, Doctor," says my Lord; at which tlie Doc- tor made another low bow, and the party moved on towards a grand house that was before them, with many grey towers and vanes on them, and windows flaming in the sunshine ; and a great army of rooks, wheeling over their heads, made for the woods behind the house, as Harry saw; and Mr. Holt told him that the}' lived at Castlewood too. They 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 they were in London, and Harry had spoken about his godpapa, when the Frenchman said, ''Parbleu, one sees well that my Lord is your godfather;" words whereof the THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 61 poor lad did not know the meaning then, though he apprehended the truth in a very short time afterwards, and learned it, and thought of it with no small feeling of shame. Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both descended from tlieir horses, Mr. Holt led him across the court, and under a low door to rooms on a level with the ground; one of vviiicli Father Holt said was to be the boy's chamber, the other on the otlier side of the passage being the Father's own ; and as soon as the little man's face was washed, and the, Father's own dress arranged, Harry's guide took him once more to the door by which my Lord had entered the hall, and up a stair, and through an ante-room to my Lady's draw- ing-room — an apartment than which Harry thought he had never seen anything more grand — no, not in the Tower of London which he had just visited. Indeed, the chamber was richly ornamented in the manner of Queen Elizabeth's time, with great stained windows at either end, and hangings of tapestry, which the sun shining through the coloured glass painted of a thousand hues; and here in state, by the fire, sate a lady, to whom the priest took up Harry, 1 who was indeed amazed by her appearance. My Lady 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 mas- ter 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 w^ho acted the wicked tragedy-queen, when the play- ers came down to Ealing Fair. She sate 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 snuffbox and her sugar-plum box. She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame- coloured brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as the old woman of Banbury Cross ; and pretty small feet which she was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to her stockings, and white pan- toties with red heels; and an odour of musk was shook out of 62 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND her garments whenever she moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoiseshell stick, little Fury barking at her heels. Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my Lady. She had been 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 your Ladyship your kinsman and little page of honour, Master Henry Esmond," Mr. Holt said, bowing lowly, with a sort of comical humility. "Make a pretty bow to my Lady, Mon- sieur; and then another little bow, not so low, to Madame Tusher — the fair priestess of Castlewood." "Where I have lived and hoped 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 Empress of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful. "Does my appearance please you, little page?" asked the lady. "He would be very hard to please if it didn't," cried Madame Tusher. "Have done, you silly Maria," said Lady Castlewood. "Where I'm attached, I'm attached, Madame — and I'd die rather than not say so." "Je meurs oii je m'attache," Mr. Holt said with a polite grin. "The ivy says so in tho picture, and clings to the oak like a fond parasite as it is." "Parricide, sir!" cries Mrs. Tusher. "Hush, Tusher — you are always bickering with Father Holt," cried mj Lady. "Come and kiss my hand, child;" and the oak held out a branch to little Harry Esmond, who took and dutifully ki.jsed the lean old hand, upon the gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred rings. "To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow happy!" cried Mrs. Tusher; on which my Lad}^ crying out "Go, you foolish Tusher!" and tapping her with her great fan, Tuslier ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury arose and barked furiously at THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 63 Tuslier ; and Father Holt looked on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances. The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the lady on whom this artless flattery was bestowed ; for having gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and the mode then was) and 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 pay him obedience in everything, and I pray you may grow to be as learned and as good as your tutor." The lady seemed to have the greatest reverence for Mr. Holt, and to be more afraid of him than of anything else in the world. If she was ever so angry, a word or look from Father Holt made her calm: indeed he had a vast power of subjecting those who came near him; and, among the rest, his new pupil gave himself up with an entire confidence and attachment to the good Father, and became his willing slave almost from the first moment he saw him. He put his small hand into the Father's as he walked away from his first presentation to his mistress, and asked many questions in his artless childish way. "Who is that other woman?" he asked. "She is fat and round; she is more pretty than my Lady Castle- wood." "She is Madame Tusher, the parson's wife of Castle wood. She has a son of your age, but bigger than you." "Why does she like so to kiss my Lady's hand? It is not good to kiss." "Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is attached to my 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 Frenchwoman, will you? I saw her laughing with Blaise in the buttery. ' ' "I belong to a Church that is older and better than the English 64 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESlilOND Church," Mr. Holt said (making a sign whereof Esmond did not then understand the meaning, across his breast and forehead); "in our Church the clergy do not marry. You will understand these things better soon." "Was not Saint Peter the head of your Church? — Dr. Rabbits of Ealing told us so." The Father said, "Yes, he was." "But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday that his wife's mother lay sick of the fever." On which the Father again laughed, and said he would understand this too better soon, and talked of other things, and took away Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old house which he had come to inhabit. It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were rooks' nests, where the birds at morning and returning home at 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 the midst, the parsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith's forge beside it, and the sign of the "Three Castles" on the elm. The London road stretched away towards the rising sun, and to the west were swelling hills and peaks, behind which many a time Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting, that he now looks on thousands of miles away across the great ocean— in a new Castlewood, by another stream, that bears, like the new country of wandering xEneas, the fond names of the land of his youth. The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof one only, the fountain-court, was now inhabited, the other having been battered down in the Cromwellian wars. In the fountain-court, still in good repair, was the great hall, near to the kitchen and butteries; a dozen of living-rooms looking to the north, and com- municating with the little chapel that faced eastwards and the buildings stretching from that to the main gate, and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the court now dismantled. This court had l)een the most magnificent of tlie two. until the Protec THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 65 tor's cannon tore down one side of it before 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. Tiie Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord Castle- wood to restore this ruined part of his house; where were the morning parlours, above tliem the long music-gallery, and before which stretched the garden-terrace, where, however, the flowers grew again which the boots of the Roundheads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored without much cost, and only a little care, by both ladies who succeeded the second viscount in the government of this mansion. Round the terrace garden was a low wall with a wicket leading to the wooded height beyond, that is called Cromwell's Battery to this day. Young Harry Esmond learned the domestic part of his duty, which was easy enough, from the groom of her Ladyship's chamber: serving the Countess, as the custom commonly was in his boyhood, as page, waiting at her chair, bringing her scented water and the silver basin after dinner— sitting on her carriage-step on state occasions, or on public days introducing her company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholic gentry, of whom there were a pretty many in the country and neighbouring city ; and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to partake 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 behaviour between Father Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor Tusher, the rector of the parish — Mr. Holt moving amongst the very highest as quite their equal, and as commanding them all; while poor Doctor Tusher, whose position was indeed a difficult one, having been chaplain once to the Hall, and still to the Protestant servants there, seemed more like an uslier than an equal, and always rose to go away after the first course. Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private vis- itors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had little difficulty in 66 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND recognising as ecclesiastics of the Father's persuasion, whatever 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 Lady — to the Lady and Lord rather — his Lordship being little more than a cipher in the house, and entirely under his domineering partner. A little fowling, a little hunting, a great deal of sleep, and a long time at cards and table, carried through one day after another with his Lordship. When meetings took place in this second year, which often 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 acting as little more than her secretary. Father Holt began speedily 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 they 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 treating him with a delicacy and kind- ness wiiich surprised and attached the child, always more easily won by these methods than bj^ any severe exercise of authority. And his delight in their walks was to tell Harry of the glories of his order, of its martyrs and heroes, of its Brethren converting the heathen by myriads, traversing the desert, facing the stake, ruling the courts and councils, or braving the tortures of kings; so that Harry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was the great- est prize of life and bravest end of ambition: the greatest career here and in heaven the surest reward ; and began to long for the day, not only when he should enter into tlie one church and receive his first communion, but when he might join that wonderful brotherhood, which was present throughout all the world, and wdiich 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 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 67 escape liim 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 neighbour, came from school for his holiday, and said how he, too, was to be bred up for an English priest, and would get what he called an exhibition from his school, and then a college scholarship and fellowship, and then a good living — it tasked young Harry Esmond's powers of reticence not to say to his young companion, "Church! priesthood! fat living! My dear Tommy, do you call yours a church and a priesthood? What is a fat living compared to converting a hundred thousand heathens by a single sermon? What is a scholarship at Trinity by the side of a crown of martyrdom, with angels awaiting you as your head is taken ofi"? Could your master at school sail over the Thames on his gown? Have you statues in your church that can bleed, speak, walk, and cry? My good Tommy, in dear Father Holt's church these things take place every 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 away these treasures of faith from T. Tusher, delivered himself of them never- theless simply to Father Holt; who stroked his head, smiled at him with his inscrutable look, and told him that he did well to meditate on these great things, and not to talk of them except undei direction. CHAPTER IV I AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT RELIGION— VISCOUNTESS CASTLEWOOD Had time enough been given, and his childish inclinations 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 obtained an entire mastery over the boy's intellect and affections; and had brought him to think, as indeed Father Holt thought with all his heart too, that no life was so noble, no death so desirable, as that which many brethren of his famous order were ready to undergo. By love, by a brightness of wit and good-humour that charmed all, by an authority which he knew how to assume, by a mystery and silence about him which increased the child's reverence for him, he won Harry's absolute fealty, and would have kept it, doubtless, if schemes greater and more important than a poor little boj-'s admis- sion into orders had not called him av/ay. After being at home for a few months in tranquillity (if theirs miglit be called tranquillity, which was, in truth, a constant bick- ering), my Lord and Lady left the country for London, taking their director with them: and his little pupil scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his life than he did for nights after the first parting with his dear friend, as he lay in the lonely chamber next to that which the Father used to occupy. He and a few domesfics were left as the only tenants of the great house: and, though Harrj' 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 HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 69 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 establisliment travelled thither with tlie exception of the porter — who was, moreover, brewer, gardener, and woodman — and his wife and children. These had their lodging in the gate-house hard by, with a door into the court ; and a window looking out on the green was the Chaplain's room ; and next to this a small cham- ber where Father Holt had his books, and Harry Esmond his sleeping closet. The side of the house facing the east had escaped the guns of the Cromwellians, whose battery was on the height facing the western court ; so that this eastern end bore few marks of demolition, save in the chapel, where the painted "windows sur- viving Edward the Sixth had been broke by the Commonwealth- men. In Father Holt's time little Harry Esmond acted as his familiar, and faithful little servitor; beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching his water from the well long before day- light, ready to run anywhere for the service of his beloved priest. When the Father was away, he locked his private chamber ; but tlie room where the books were was left to little Harry, who, but for the society of this gentleman, was little less solitary when Lord Castlewood was at home. The French wit saith that a hero is none to his valet-de-ehainbre, and it required less quick eyes than my Lady's little page was nat- urally endowed with, to see that she had many qualities by no means heroic, however much Mrs. Tusher might flatter and coax lier. When Father Holt was not by, who exercised 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 duty. The poor boy trembled before his mistress, who called him by a hundred ugly names, who made nothing of boxing his ears, and tilting the silver basin in his face which it was his business to present to her after dinner. She hath repaired, by subsequent kindness to him, these severities, which it must be owned made his childhood very unhappy. She was but unhappy herself at this time, poor soul! and I suppose made her def)endants 70 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND lead her own sad life. I think my Lord was as much afraid of het as her page was, and the only person of the household who mastered her was Mr. Holt. Harry was only too glad when the Father dined at table, and to slink away and prattle with him afterwards, or read with him, or walk with him. Luckily my Lady Viscountess did not rise till noon. Heaven help the poor waiting-woman v.dio had charge of her toilette ! 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 slie plaj'ed ill, or the game was going the wrong way. Blessed be the king wdio introduced cards, and the kind invent- ors of piquet and cribbage, for they emplo3'ed six hours at least of her Ladyship's day, during which her family was pretty easy. Without this occupation my Lady 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 w*ould sit with her at piquet during hours together, at which time she behaved herself properly ; and as for Doctor Tusher, I believe he would have left a parishioner's dying bed, if summoned to play a rubber with his patroness at Castlewood. Sometimes, when they were pretty comfortable together, my Lord took a hand. Besides these my Lady had her faithful poor Tusher, and one, two, three gentlemen whom Harry Esmond could recollect in his time. They could not bear that genteel service very long; one after another tried and failed at it. These and the housekeeper, and little Harry Esmond, had a table of their own. Poor ladies! their life was far harder than -the" page's. He was sound asleep, tucked in his little bed, whilst they were sitting by her Ladyship reading her to sleep, with the "News Let- ter,*' 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 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 71 wicked comedy of Mr. Shadwell's or Mr. Wyclierley's under his pillow. These, when he took any, were my Lord's favourite reading. But he was averse to much study, and, as his little page fancied, to much occupation of any sort. It always seemed to young Harry Esmond that my Lord treated liim 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 daily, showing a special pleasure if Father Holt gave a good report of him, patting him on the head, and promising that he would provide for the boy. However, in my Lady's presence, my Lord showed no such marks of kindness, and affected to treat the lad roughly, and rebuked him sharply for little faults, for which he in a manner asked pardon of young Esmond when they were private, saying if he did not speak roughly, she would, and his tongue was not such a bad one as his lady's — a point whereof the boy, young as he was, was very well assured. Great public events were happening all this while, of which the simple young page took little count. But one day, riding into the neighbouring 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 the Pope!" "No Popery! no Popery! Jezebel. Jezebel!" so that my Lord began to laugh, my Lady's eyes to roll with anger, for she was as bold as a lioness, and feared nobody ; whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond saw from his j^lace on the step, sank back with rather an alarmed face, crying out to her Ladyship, "For God's sake, madam, do not speak or look out of window; sit still." Bat 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, ana use your whip!*' The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and fresh 72 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND cries of "Jezebel! Jezebel!" My Lord onh- laughed the more: he was a languid gentleman: nothing seemed to excite him commonly, though I have seen him cheer and halloo the hounds very briskly, and his face (which was generally very yellow and calm) grow quite red and cheerful during a burst over the Downs after a hare, and laugh, and swear, and huzzah at a cock-fight, of whicli sport he was very fond. And now, when tlie mob began to hoot his lady, he laughed w^ith something of a mischievous look, as though he expected sport, and thought that she and they were a match. James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than the mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was bidden, and the postboy that rode with the first pair (my Ladj' always rode with her coach-and-six) gaA'e a cut of his thong over the shoulders of one fellow who put his hand out towards the leading horse's rein. It was a market-day, and the country people were all assembled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things ; the postillion had no sooner lashed the man who would have taken hold of his horse, but a great cabbage came whirling like a bombshell into the carriage, at which my Lord laughed more, for it knocked my Lady's fan out of her hand, and plumped into Father Holt's stomach. Then came a shower of carrots and potatoes. "For Heaven's sake be still!'' says Mr. Holt; "we are not ten paces from the "Bell' archway, where they can shut the gates on us, and keep out this ca«az7Ze." The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the eye, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout ; the man laughed, a great big saddler's apprentice of the town. "Ah! you d little yelling Popish bastard, " he said, and stooped to pick up another; the crowd had gathered quite between the horses and the inn door by this time, and the coach was brought to a dead stand-still. My Lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of the door on his side of the j 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. THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 73 ''You hulking coward!" says he; "you pack of screaming black- guards! how dare you attack children, and insult women? Fling another shot at that carriage, you sneaking pigskin cobbler, 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," says he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, but with a great air of authority). "Make way and let her Ladyship's carriage pass." The men that were between the coach and the gate of the "Bell" actually did make way, and the horses went in, my Lord walking after them with his hat on his head. As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach had just rolled, another cry begins, of "No Popery — no Papists!" My Lord turns round and faces them once more. "God save the King!" says he at the highest pitch of bis voice. "TVho dares abuse the King's religion? You, you d d psalm- singing cobbler, as sure as I'm a magistrate of this country I'll commit you!" The fellow shrank back, and my Lord retreated with all the honours of the day. But when the little flurry caused by the scene was over, and the flush passed off his face, he relapsed into his usual languor, trifled with his little dog, and yawned when my Lady spoke to him. This mob w^as 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 wliom little Harry Esmond at that time knew scarce anything. It was Assizes at Hexton, and there was a great meeting of the gentry at the "Bell" ; and my Lord's people had their new liveries on, and Harry a little suit of blue-and -silver, which he wore upon occasions of state; and the gentlefolks came round and talked to my Lord ; and a judge in a red gown, who seemed a very great personage, especially compli- mented him and my Lady, who was might}^ grand. Harry remem- bers her train borne up by her gentlewoman. There was an assembly and ball at the great room at the "Bell," and other young OF THE 74 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND gentlemen of the county families looked on as he did. One of them jeered him for his black eye, which was swelled by the potato, iand another called him a bastard, on which he and Harry fell to fisticuffs. My Lord's cousin, Colonel Esmond of Walcote, was there, and separated the two lads— a great tall gentlemen, with a handsome good-natured face. The boy did not know how nearly in after-life he should be allied to Colonel Esmond, and how much kindness he should have to owe him. There was little love between the two families. My Lady used not to spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for reasons which have been hinted already; but about which, at his tender age, Henry Esmond could be expected to know nothing. Very soon afterwards, my Lord and Lady went to London with Mr. Holt, leaving, however, the page behind them. The little man had the great house of Castlewood to himself; or between him and the housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop, an old lady who was a kinswoman of the family in some distant way, and a Protestant, but a staunch Tory and king's-man, as all the Esmonds were. He used to go to> school to Dr. Tusher when he was at home, though the Doctor w^as much occupied too. There was a great stir and commotion every- wdiere, even in the little quiet village of Castlewood, whither a party of people came from the town, wdio would have broken Castlewood Chapel windows, but the village people turned out, and 1 even old Sieveright, the republican blacksmith, along with them: for my Lady, though she was a Papist, and had many odd ways, , w^as kind to the tenantry, and there w^as always a plenty of beef, and blankets, 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 coming; 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 wuthin, whfch made this time very pleasant. CHAPTER V MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION OF KING JAMES THE SECOND Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines for eels which he had placed the night before, the lad was lying in his little bed, 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. '' Silent ium."' whispered the other; " 'tis I, my boy!" and, hold- ing his hand out, Harry had no difficult}^ in recognising 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 hasty greeting and blessing to the lad, who was charmed to see his tutor, the Father continued the burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard over the mantelpiece wall, which Harry had never iseen before. Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at once on. 75 76 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND this hole. "That is right, Harry," he said; "faithful little famuli see all and say nothing. You are faithful, I know." *'l know I would go to the stake for you," said Harry. *'I don't want your head," said the Father, patting it kindly ; "all you have to do is to hold your tongue. Let us burn these papers, and say nothing to anybody. Should you like to read them?" Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head ; he had looked as the fact w^as, and without thinking, at the paper before him ; and though he had seen it, could not understand a word of it, the letters being quite clear enough, but quite without meaning. They burned the papers, beating down the ashes in a brazier, so that scarce any traces of them remained. Harry had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more dresses than one ; it not being safe, or worth the danger, for Popish eccle- siastics 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 colours, and a couple of swords of a pretty make (Father Holt was an expert practitioner with the small-sword, and every day, whilst he w^as 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 mantelpiece from which the papers had been taken. "If they miss the cupboard," he said, "they will not find these; if they find them, thej-'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." Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about to THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 77 leave him; but "No,*' the priest said, *'I may very likely come back with my Lord in a few days. We are to be tolerated ; we are not to be persecuted. But they may take a fancy to pay a visit at Castle wood ere our return; and, as gentlemen of nw 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 ignorance. 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," said he, "Henry, my son, you ma}^ testify, with a safe conscience, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the last time I was here before I went away to London; and it will be daybreak directly, and I must be away before Lockwood is stirring." "Will not Lockwood let you out, sirf Esmond asked. Holt laughed ; he was never more gay or good-humoured than when in the midst of action or danger. "Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you," he said; "nor would you, you little wretch! had you slept better. You must forget that I have been here ; and now farewell. Close the door, and go to your own room, and don't come out till — stay, why should you not know one secret more? I know you will never betray me." In the Chaplain's room were two windows: the one looking into the court facing westwards to the fountain ; the other, a small case- ment strongly barred, and looking on to the green in front of the Hall. This window was too high to reach from the ground : but, mounting on a buffet which stood beneath it. Father Holt showed me how, by pressing on the base of the window, the whole frame- work of lead, glass, and iron stanchions descended into a cavity worked below, from which it could be drawn and restored to its 78 THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND usual place from without ; a broken pane being purposely open to admit the hand which was to work upon the spring of the machine. "When I am gone," Father Holt said, "you may push away the buffet, so that no one may fancy that an exit has been made that way ; lock the door ; place the key — where shall we put the key? — under 'Chrysostom' on the bookshelf ; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told you where to find it, if you had need to go to my room. The descent is easy down the wall into the ditch ; and so once more farewell, until I see thee again, my dear son." And with this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet with great agility and briskness, stepped across the window, lifting up the bars and framework again from the other side, and only leaving room for Harry Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss his hand before the case- ment closed, the bars fixing as firm as ever, seemingly, in the stone arch overhead. When Father Holt next arrived at Castle wood, it was by the public gate on horseback ; and he 'never so much as alluded to the existence of the private issue to Harry, 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. Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than betray his friend and master, as Mr. Holt well knew ; for he had tried the boy more than once, putting temptations in his way, to see whether he would yield to them and confess afterwards, or whether he would resist them, as he did sometimes, or whether he would lie, which he never did. Holt instructing the boy on this point, how- ever, that if to keep silence is not to lie, as it certainly is not, yet silence is, after all, equivalent to a negation — and therefore a down- right No, in the interest of justice or your friend, and in reply to a question that may be prejudicial to either, is not criminal, but, on the contrary, praiseworthy.; and as lawful a way as the other of eluding a wrongful demand. For instance (says he), suppose a good citizen, who had seen his Majesty take refuge there, had been asked, "Is King Cliarles up that oak tree?" his duty would have, TEIE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 79 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 rudi- ments of the tongues and sciences, the boy took eagerly and with gratitude from his tutor. When, then. Holt was gone, and told Harry not to see him, it was as if he had never been. And he had this answer pat when he came to be questioned a few days after. The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young Esmond learned from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best cassock (though the roads were muddy, and he never was known to wear his silk, only liis 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 w^as w^alking up and down in front of his parsonage, when little Esmond saw him, and heard him say he was going to pay his duty to his Highness the Prince, as he mounted his pad and rode aw^ay 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 indig- nantly when they bade him to cry "God save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant religion 1" but the people onl}- lauglied, for they liked the boy in the village, wliere his solitary condition moved the general pity, and where he found friendly welcomes and faces in many houses. Father Holt had many friends there too, for he not only would fight the blacksmith at theology, never losing his tem- per, but laughing the whole time in his pleasant way; but he cured him of an ague with quinquina, and was always ready with a kind word for any man that asked it, so that they said in the village 'twas a pity the two were Papists. The Director and the Vicar of Castlewood agreed very well; indeed, the former was a perfectly-bred gentleman, and it was the latter's business to agree with everybody. Doctor Tusher and the lady's maid, his spouse, had a boy who was about the age of little Esmond; and there was such a friendship between the lads, as propinquity and tolerable kindness and good-humour on either side 80 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND would be pretty sure to occasion. Tom Tuslier 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 year afterwards to Castlewood for many years of his scholastic and collegiate life. Thus there was less danger to Tom of a perversion of his faith by the Director, who scarce ever saw him, than there was to Harry, who constantly was in the Vicar's company; but as long as Harry's religion was his Majesty's, and my Lord's, and my Lady's, the Doctor said gravely, it should not be for him to disturb or disquiet him : it was far from him to say tliat his Majesty's Church was not a branch of the Cath- olic Church; upon which Farther Holt used, according to his cus- tom, 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 Doctor Tusher was away at Salisbury that there -came a troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in Castlewood, and some of them came up to the Hall, where they took possession, robbing nothing however beyond the hen-house and the •beer-cellar ; and only insisting upon going through the house and looking for papers. The first room they asked to look at was Father Holt's room, of which Harry Esmond brought the key, and they opened the drawers and the 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 merry, to Harry Esmond's horror. And to the questions which the gentleman put to Hany, he replied that Father Holt was a very kind man to him, and a very learned man, and Harry supposed would tell him none of his secrets, if he had any. He was about eleven years old at this time, and looked as innocent as boys of his age. The family were away more than six months, and when they returned they were in the deepest state of dejection, for King James had been banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, and the direst persecutions of those oi the Catholic faith were THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND 81 apprehended by my Lady, who said she did not believe that there was a word of truth in the promises of toleration that Dutch mon- ster made, or in a single word the perjured wretch said. My Lord and Lady were in a manner prisoners in their own house ; so her Ladyship gave the little page to know, who was by this time grow- ing of an age to understand what was passing about him, and some- thing of the characters of the people he lived with. "We are prisoners," says she; "in everything but chains we are prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to dungeons, or strike ofif my head from this poor little throat" (and she clasped it in her long fingers). "The blood of the Esmonds will always flow freely for their kings. We are not like the Churchills— the Judases, who kiss their master and betray him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in the royal cause" (no doubt it was that fatal business of losing the place of Groom of the Posset to which her Ladyship alluded, as she did half-a-dozen times in the day). "Let the tyrant of Orange bring his rack and his odious Dutch tortures — the beast ! the wretch ! I spit upon him and defy him. Cheerfully will I lay this head upon the block ; cheerfully will I accompany my Lord to the scaffold: we will cry 'God save King James!' with our dyihg breath, and smile in the face of the executioner." And she told "her page, a hundred times at least, of the particulars of the last interview which she had with his Majesty. "I flung myself before my liege's feet," she said, "at Salisbury. I devoted myself — my husband — my house, to his cause. Perhaps he remembered old times, when Isabella Esmond was young and fair; perhaps he recalled the day when 'twas not / that knelt — at least he spoke to me with a voice that reminded me of days gone by. 'Egad!' said his Majesty, 'you should go to the Prince of Orange, if you want anything.' 'No, sire,' I rephed, 'I would not kneel to a Usurper ; the Esmond that would have served your Majesty will never be groom to a traitor's posset. ' The royal exile smiled, even in the midst of his misfortune ; he deigned to raise me with words of consolation. The Viscount, my husband, himself, could not be angry at the august salute with which he honoured me!" 82 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND The public misfortune had the effect of making my Lord and his Lady better friends than they ever had been since their court^ ship. My Lord Viscount had shown both loyalty and spirit, when these were rare qualities in the dispirited party about the King ; and the praise die 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 little of his doings, but remarking only his greater cheerfulness and altered demeanour. Father Holt came to the Hall, constantly, but officiated no longer openly as chaplain', he was always fetching and carrying: strangers, military and eccl^iastic (Harry knew tl\e latter, though they came in all sorts of disguise "X were continually arriving and departing. My Lord made long absences and sudden reapp^rances, using some- times the means of exit which Father Holt had employed, though how often the little window in tha Chaplain's room let in or let out my Lord and his friends, Harry could ^ot tell. He stoutly kept his promise to the Father of not prying, andif at midnight from his little room he heard noises of persons stirringsjn the next chaml^e^ he turned round to the wall, and hid his curiosity, under hiijHpillow* uiiUi it fell asleep. Of course he could not help rem^rkiE^^ that tJie l^riest's journeys were constant, and understanding by a hundred signs that some active though secret business employed him : what this was may pretty well be guessed by what soon happened to my Lord. No garrison or watch was put into Castle wood 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 g9,te, and .those who went out and in. Lockwood said that at night especialh^ everj^ person who came in or went out was watched bj^ the outlying sentries. 'Twas lucky that we had a gate which their WcM'ships knew nothing about. My Lord and Father Holt must have 'made constant journeys at night: once or twice little Harry acted as their messenger and discreet aide-de-camp. He remembers he was.^id- THE HISTORY OF HEXRY ESMOND 8S den to go into the village with liis 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 may as well, however, for clearness' sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange being gone to Ireland, where the King was ready to meet him with a great army, it was determined that a great rising of his Majesty's party should take place in this country; and my Lord was to head the force in our county. Of late he had taken a gre^Uie*" lead in affairs than before, having the indefatigable Mr. Bo^fftlit j^^fejiiu^JJbow, and my Lady Viscountess strongly urging .likm.QtliSdaaltimy hotd Sark being in the Tower a prisoner, and .^^^"iJ|ft©fl6&^fcttic^?9rllfiQueen's Crawley, having gone over to«llfbl*JOSfiJ^&tf^^fl^^>^=^le— my Lord became the most conside'^SIfe^^ViftKi^^ii^l^ia* of the country for the affairs of the ISlii^^ ml mlA^h^'i^ It ^^•as ^iJta^i^tti^ilSl^f^Wgfet of Scots Greys and Dragoons, then qi^lj8^M^5fi'«W^fe(tft^?^&©'uld declare for the King on a cer- tain«\M^,%;4f^ff'fiHE^^4Mafi^entry affected to his Majesty's caus^ vs^r*IIto|i©p(ght that our side might move on London itself, and a feH|!^fe4^S^tory was predicted for the King. 8^1 '.Afe^'e^'^ great matters were in agitation, my Lord lost his list- "W^^^Wg^i- and seemed to gain health ; my Lady did not scokt Viiwii^-MiVpHolt came to and fro, busy always; and little Harry 4l^fi!g^t1*^'^have been a few inches taller, that he might draw a sword ft^tft!?>'%bod cause. ^^^v'^^ffil^'Bay, it must have been about the month of June 1690, my iiMtf^'ffe a great horseman's coat, under which Harry could see the sbffhta^ of a steel breastplate he had on, called little Harry to him, '^AiT^tfte hair off the child's forehead, and kissed him, and bade God Wtetts liitn in such an affectionate way as he never had used before. 84 THE HISTORY OF HENRY ESMOND Father Holt blessed him too, and then they took leave of my Lady Viscountess, who came from her apartment with a pocket-handker- chief to her eyes, and her gentlewoman and Mrs. Tuslier supporting her. "You 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 embracing; 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. Holt gave the same benediction to the little page, wlio went down and held my Lord's stw^iips for him to mount ; there were two servants waiting tli4i*ii(N>^^dyid they rode out of Castlewood gate. .- ii'i^xi v^n^MfiT^yw^t'ftHi^ As they crosseft 'Afe^ihfWgi^ifeiffjf^ffifei^ see an officer in scarlet ride up touching his''bftfe,'agaffe«adli(#^'3iBi^l'J.ta4- The party stopped, ataiidfa(flatowiftt^i,i)8iqr§^,^Hg^y or discussion, which presently ended, my Ik)dfliii>ii>tti]ig ihisubj^H^into a canter after taking off his hat and niato^i[lpM!li|ftilt^iqg[^(»3lf^ who rode alongside him step for step: the trQil^^tti©$iij$i^>i^llgqgigpJ|^^^ back, and riding with my Lord's two iTJitfb ^;3"^»^fiaj}^i^!F0tl;^j$jftr the green, and behind the elms (my Lord tfOsilieaijifei^Hl^Mjd^jH^i^ thought), and so they disappeared. That e vG^jj^^, gff}%, ^^t^ fg|:)g^ panic, the cowboy coming at milking-time riding CHM!a^«i^V