The Project Gutenberg eBook of Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges

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Title: Henry Esmond; The English Humourists; The Four Georges

Author: William Makepeace Thackeray

Editor: George Saintsbury

Release date: July 10, 2009 [eBook #29363]

Language: English

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HENRY ESMOND; THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS; THE FOUR GEORGES *** 










Henry Esmond


The English Humourists


The Four Georges


By


William Makepeace Thackeray


Edited, with an Introduction, by


George Saintsbury


With 15 Illustrations


Humphrey Milford


Oxford University Press


London, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Copenhagen,


New York, Toronto, Melbourne, Cape Town,


Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, Shanghai






 Contents













 Introduction.




Illustration
Thackeray In His Study At Onslow Square. From a painting by E. M. Ward



We know exceedingly little of the genesis and progress of
Esmond. “It did not seem to be a part of our lives as
Pendennis was,” says Lady Ritchie, though she wrote part
of it to dictation. She “only heard Esmond spoken of
very rarely”. Perhaps its state was not the less gracious.
The Milton girls found Paradise Lost a very considerable
part of their lives—and were not the happier.




But its parallels are respectable. The greatest things
have a way of coming “all so still” into the world. We
wrangle—that is, those of us who are not content simply
not to know—about the composition of Homer, the purpose
of the Divina Commedia, the probable plan of the
Canterbury Tales, the Ur-Hamlet. Nobody
put preliminary advertisements in the papers, you see, about these things: there
was a discreditable neglect of the first requirements of the
public. So it is with Esmond. There is, I thought, a reference
to it in the Brookfield letters; but in several searches
I cannot find it. To his mother he speaks of the book
as “grand and melancholy”, and to Lady Stanley as of
“cut-throat melancholy”. It is said to have been sold
for a thousand pounds—the same sum that Master Shallow
lent Falstaff on probably inferior security. Those who
knew thought well of it—which is not wholly surprising.




It is still, perhaps, in possession of a success rather of
esteem than of affection. A company of young men and
maidens to whom it was not long ago submitted pronounced
[pg x]
it (with one or two exceptions) inferior as a work
of humour. The hitting of little Harry in the eye with
a potato was, they admitted, humorous, but hardly anything
else. As representing another generation and
another point of view, the faithful Dr. John Brown did not
wholly like it—Esmond's marriage with Rachel, after
his love for Beatrix, being apparently “the fly in the ointment”
to him. Even the author could only plead “there's
a deal of pains in it that goes for nothing”, as he says in one
of his rare published references to the subject: but he was
wrong. Undoubtedly the mere taking of pains will not
do; but that is when they are taken in not the right
manner, by not the right person, on not the right subject.
Here everything was right, and accordingly it “went for”
everything. A greater novel than Esmond I do not know;
and I do not know many greater books. It may be “melancholy”,
and none the worse for that: it is “grand”.




For though there may not be much humour of the
potato-throwing sort in Esmond, it will, perhaps, be found
that in no book of Thackeray's, or of any one else's, is that
deeper and higher humour which takes all life for its province—which
is the humour of humanity—more absolutely
pervading. And it may be found likewise, at least by some,
that in no book is there to be found such a constant intertwist
of the passion which, in all humanity's higher
representatives, goes with humour hand in hand—a loving
yet a mutually critical pair. Of the extraordinarily
difficult form of autobiography I do not know such another
masterly presentment; nor is it very difficult to recognize
the means by which this mastery is attained, though
Heaven knows it is not easy to understand the skill with
which they are applied. The success is, in fact, the result
of that curious “doubleness”—amounting, in fact, here to
something like triplicity—which distinguishes Thackeray's
attitude and handling. Thus Henry Esmond, who is on
the whole, I should say, the most like him of all his characters
[pg xi]
(though of course “romanced” a little), is himself and “the
other fellow”, and also, as it were, human criticism of both.
At times we have a tolerably unsophisticated account of
his actions, or it may be even his thoughts; at another his
thoughts and actions as they present themselves, or might
present themselves, to another mind: and yet at other
times a reasoned view of them, as it were that of an impartial
historian. The mixed form of narrative and mono-drama
lends itself to this as nothing else could: and so
does the author's well-known, much discussed, and sometimes
heartily abused habit of parabasis or soliloquy to
the audience. Of this nothing has yet been directly said,
and anything that is said would have to be repeated as
to every novel: so that we may as well keep it for the last
or a late example, The Virginians
or Philip. But its
efficacy in this peculiar kind of double or treble handling
is almost indisputable, even by those who may dispute
its legitimacy as a constantly applied method.




One result, however, it has, as regards the hero-spokesman,
which is curious. I believe thoroughly in Henry Esmond—he
is to me one of the most real of illustrious Henrys as
well of Thackeray's characters—but his reality is of
a rather different kind from that of most of his fellows.
It is somewhat more abstract, more typical, more generalized
than the reality of English heroes usually is. He is not in
the least shadowy or allegoric: but still he is somehow
“Esmondity” as well as Esmond—the melancholy rather than
a melancholy, clearsighted, aloofminded man. His heart
and his head act to each other as their governing powers,
passion and humour, have been sketched as acting above.
He is a man never likely to be very successful, famous, or
fortunate in the world; not what is generally called a
happy man; yet enjoying constant glows and glimmers
of a cloudy happiness which he would hardly exchange
for any other light. The late Professor Masson—himself
no posture-monger or man of megrims, but one of genial
[pg xii]
temper and steady sense—described Thackeray as “a man
apart”; and so is the Marquis of Esmond. Yet Thackeray
was a very real man; and so is the Marquis too.





Illustration
No. 36 Onslow Square, Brompton, Where Thackeray Lived From 1853 to 1862.



The element of abstraction disappears, or rather retires
into the background, when we pass to Beatrix. She
also has the Ewigweibliche in her—as much of it
as any, or almost any, of Shakespeare's women, and therefore more
than anybody else's. But she is very much more than a
type—she is Beatrix Esmond in flesh and blood, and damask
and diamond, born “for the destruction of mankind”
and fortunately for the delight of them, or some of them,
as well. Beatrix is beyond eulogy. “Cease! cease to sing
her praise!” is really the only motto, though perhaps something
more may be said when we come to the terrible pendant
which only Thackeray has had the courage and the skill
to draw, with truth and without a disgusting result. If
she had died when Esmond closes I doubt whether, in
the Wood of Fair Ladies, even Cleopatra would have dared
to summon her to her side, lest the comparison should not
be favourable enough to herself, and the throne have to be
shared.




But, as usual with Thackeray, you must not look to the
hero and heroine too exclusively, even when there is
such a heroine as this. For is there not here another
heroine—cause of the dubieties of the Doctor Fidelis as
above cited? As to that it may perhaps be pointed out
to the extreme sentimentalists that, after all, Harry had
been in love with the mother, as well as with the daughter,
all along. If they consider this an aggravation, it cannot
be helped: but, except from the extreme point of view
of Miss Marianne Dashwood in her earlier stage, it ought
rather to be considered a palliative. And if they say further
that the thing is made worse still by the fact that Harry was
himself Rachel's second love, and that she did not exactly
wait to be a widow before she fell in love with him—why,
there is, again, nothing for it but to confess that it is very
[pg xiii]
shocking—and excessively human. Indeed, the fact is
that Rachel is as human as Beatrix, though in a different
way. You may not only love her less, but—in a different
sense of contrast from that of the Roman poet—like her
a little less. But you cannot, if you have any knowledge
of human nature, call her unnatural. And really I do
not know that the third lady of the family, Isabel Marchioness
of Esmond, though there is less written about her, is not as
real and almost as wonderful as the other two. She is
not so fairly treated, however, poor thing! for we have her
Bernstein period without her Beatrix one.




As for my Lords Castlewood—Thomas, and Francis
père et fils—their creator has not
taken so much trouble with them; but they are never “out”. The least of a piece,
I think, is Rachel's too fortunate or too unfortunate husband.
The people who regard Ibsen's great triumph in
the Doll's House as consisting in the conduct of the husband
as to the incriminating documents, ought to admire
Thackeray's management of the temporary loss of Rachel's
beauty. They are certainly both touches of the baser side
of human nature ingeniously worked in. But the question
is, What, in this wonderful book, is not ingeniously worked
in—character or incident, description or speech?




If the champions of “Unity” were wise, they would take
Esmond as a battle-horse, for it is certain that, great as
are its parts, the whole is greater than almost any one of
them—which is certainly not the case with Pendennis.
And it is further certain that, of these parts, the personages
of the hero and the heroine stand out commandingly,
which is certainly not the case with Pendennis, again.
The unity, however, is of a peculiar kind: and differs
from the ordinary non-classical “Unity of Interest” which
Thackeray almost invariably exhibits. It is rather a
Unity of Temper, which is also present (as the all-pervading
motto Vanitas Vanitatum almost necessitates) in
all the books, but here reaches a transcendence not elsewhere
[pg xiv]
attained. The brooding spirit of Ecclesiastes here
covers, as it were, with the shadow of one of its wings
the joys and sorrows, the failures and successes of a private
family and their friends, with the other the fates of
England and Europe; the fortunes of Marlborough and
of Swift on their way from dictatorship, in each case,
to dotage and death; the big wars and the notable literary
triumphs as well as the hopeless passions or acquiescent
losses. It is thus an instance—and the greatest—of that
revival of the historical novel which was taking place,
and in which the novel of Scott1—simpler, though not so
very simple as is sometimes thought—is being dashed with
a far heavier dose of the novel-element as opposed to
the romance, yet without abandonment of the romance-quality
proper. Of these novel-romance scenes, as they
may be called, the famous mock-duel at the end is of
course the greatest. But that where the Duke of Hamilton
has to acknowledge the Marquis of Esmond, and where
Beatrix gives the kiss of Beatrix, is almost as great: and
there are many others. It is possible that this very transcendence
accounts to some extent for the somewhat lukewarm
admiration which it has received. The usual devotee of
the novel of analysis dislikes the historic, and has taught
himself to consider it childish; the common lover of
romance (not the better kind) feels himself hampered by
the character-study, as Émile de Girardin's subscribers felt
themselves hampered by Gautier's style. All the happier
those who can make the best of both dispensations!




Nothing, however, has yet been said of one of the most
[pg xv]
salient characteristics of Esmond—one, perhaps, which has
had as much to do with the love of its lovers and the
qualified esteem of those who do not quite love it, as anything
else. This is, of course, the attempt, certainly a very
audacious one, at once to give the very form and pressure
of the time of the story—sometimes in actual diction—and
yet to suffuse it with a modern thought and colour which
most certainly were not of the time. The boldness and the
peril of this attempt are both quite indisputable; and the
peril itself is, in a way, double. There is the malcontent
who will say “This may be all very fine: but I don't like
it. It bothers and teases me. I do not want to be talked
to in the language of Addison and Steele”. And there
will be the possibly less ingenuous but more obtrusive
malcontent who will say that it ought never to have
been done, or that it is not, as it is, done well. With the
first, who probably exists “in squadrons and gross bands”,
argument is, of course, impossible. He may be taught better
if he is caught young, but that is all: and certainly the
last thing that any honest lover of literature would wish
would be to make him say that he likes a thing when he
does not. That may be left to those who preach and follow
the fashions of the moment. Nor, perhaps, is there very
much to do with those who say that the double attempt
is not successful—except to disable their judgement. But
as for the doctrine that this attempt deserves to fail, and
must fail—that it is wrong in itself—there one may take
up the cudgels with some confidence.




So far from there being anything illegitimate in this
attempt to bring one period before the eyes of another
in its habit as it lived, and speaking as it spoke,
but to allow those eyes themselves to move as they move
and see as they see—it is merely the triumph and the
justification of the whole method of prose fiction in general,
and of the historical novel in particular. For that historical
novel is itself the result of the growth of the historic sense
[pg xvi]
acting upon the demand for fiction. So long as people
made no attempt to understand things and thoughts
different from those around and within them; so long as,
like the men of the Middle Ages, they blandly threw everything
into their own image, or, like those of the Renaissance
to some extent and the Augustan period still more, regarded
other ages at worst with contempt, and at best with
indulgence as childish—the historical novel could not
come into being, and did not. It only became possible
when history began to be seriously studied as something
more than a chronicle of external events. When it had
thus been made possible, it was a perfectly legitimate
experiment to carry the process still further; not merely
to discuss or moralize, but to represent the period as it was,
without forfeiting the privilege of regarding it from a
point of view which it had not itself reached. The process
of Thackeray is really only an unfolding, and carrying
further into application, of the method of Shakespeare.
Partly his date, partly his genius, partly his dramatic
necessities, obliged Shakespeare to combine his treatment—to
make his godlike Romans at once Roman and Elizabethan,
and men of all time, and men of no time at all.
Thackeray, with the conveniences of the novel and the
demands of his audience, dichotomizes the presentation
while observing a certain unity in the fictitious person, now
of Henry Esmond, now of William Makepeace Thackeray
himself. If anybody does not like the result, there is
nothing to be said. But there are those who regard it
as one of the furthest explorations that we yet possess
of human genius—one of the most extraordinary achievements
of that higher imagination which Coleridge liked to
call esenoplastic.2 That a man should have the faculty
of reproducing contemporary or general life is wonderful;
[pg xvii]
that he should have the faculty of reproducing past life
is wonderful still more. But that he should thus revive
the past and preserve the present—command and provide at
once theatre and company, audience and performance—this
is the highest wizardry of all. And this, as it seems
to me, is what Thackeray had attempted, and more, what
he has done, in the History of Henry Esmond.3




He could not have done it without the “pains” to which
he refers in the saying quoted above; but these pains, as
usual, bore fruit more than once. It has been thought
desirable to include in the present volume the two main
after-crops,4 The English Humourists and
The Four Georges.
Exactly how early Thackeray's attention was drawn to
the eighteenth century it would, in the necessarily incomplete
state of our biographical information about
him, be very difficult to say. We have pointed out that
the connexion was pretty well established as early as
Catherine. But it was evidently founded upon that
peculiar congeniality, freshened and enlivened with a
proper dose of difference, which is the most certain source
and the purest maintainer of love in life and literature.




At the same time, the two sets of lectures are differentiated
from the novel not so much by their form—for Thackeray
as a lecturer had very little that smacked of the platform,
and as a novelist he had a great deal that smacked of the
satiric conversation-scene—as by their purport. Esmond,
though partly critical, is mainly and in far the greater part
[pg xviii]
creative. The Lectures, though partly creative—resurrective,
at any rate—are professedly and substantially critical.
Now, a good deal has been said already of Thackeray's
qualities and defects as a critic: and it has been pointed
out that, in consequence of his peculiar impulsiveness,
his strong likes and dislikes, his satiric-romantic temperament,
and perhaps certain deficiencies in all-round literary
and historical learning, his critical light was apt to be
rather uncertain, and his critical deductions by no means
things from which there should be no appeal. But The
English Humourists is by far the most important “place”
for this criticism in the literary department; and The
Four Georges (with The Book of Snobs to some extent
supplementing it) is the chief place for his criticism of
society, personality, and the like. Moreover, both have
been, and are, violently attacked by those who do not
like him. So that, for more reasons than one or two,
both works deserve faithful critical handling themselves.




It is always best to disperse Maleger and his myrmidons
before exploring the beauties of the House of Alma:
so we may take the objections to the Humourists first.
They are chiefly concerned with the handling of Swift and
(in a less degree) of Sterne. Now, it is quite certain that
we have here, in the first case at any rate, to confess,
though by no means to avoid. It is an instance of that
excessive “taking sides” with or against his characters
which has been noticed, and will be noticed, again and
again. Nor is the reason of this in the least difficult to
perceive. It is very doubtful whether Thackeray's own
estimate of average humanity was much higher than Swift's:
nor is it quite certain that the affection which Swift professed
and (from more than one instance) seems to have really
felt for Dick, Tom, and Harry, in particular, as opposed
to mankind at large, was very much less sincere than
Thackeray's own for individuals. But the temperament
of the one deepened and aggravated his general understanding
[pg xix]
of mankind into a furious misanthropy; while
the temperament of the other softened his into a general
pardon. In the same way, Swift's very love and friendship
were dangerous and harsh-faced, while Thackeray's were
sunny and caressing. But there can be very little doubt
that Thackeray himself, when the “Shadow of Vanity” was
heaviest on him, felt the danger of actual misanthropy,
and thus revolted from its victim with a kind of terror;
while his nature could not help feeling a similar revulsion
from Swift's harsh ways. That to all this revulsion he
gives undue force of expression need not be denied: but
then, it must be remembered that he does not allow it to
affect his literary judgement. I do not believe that any
one now living has a greater admiration for Swift than
I have: and all that I can say is that I know no estimate
of his genius anywhere more adequate than Thackeray's.
As for Sterne, I do not intend to say much. If you will
thrust your personality into your literature, as Sterne
constantly does, you must take the chances of your personality
as well as of your literature. You practically
expose both to the judgement of the public. And if
anybody chooses to take up the cudgels for Sterne's personality
I shall hand them over to him and take no part
on one side or another in that bout. To his genius, once
more, I do not think Thackeray at all unjust.




The fact is, however, that as is usual with persons of
genius, but even more than as usual, the defects and the
qualities are so intimately connected that you cannot have
one without the other—you must pay the price of the
other for the one. All I can say is that such another live
piece of English criticism of English literature as this
I do not know anywhere. What is alive is very seldom
perfect: to get perfection you must go to epitaphs. But,
once more, though I could pick plenty of small holes in
the details of the actual critical dicta, I know no picture
of the division of literature here concerned from which
[pg xx]
a fairly intelligent person will derive a better impression
of the facts than from this. Addison may be a little
depressed, and Steele a little exalted: but it is necessary
to remember that by Macaulay, whose estimate then
practically held the field, Steele had been most unduly
depressed and Addison rather unduly exalted. You may
go about among our critics on the brightest day with the
largest lantern and find nothing more brilliant itself than
the “Congreve” article, where the spice of injustice will,
again, deceive nobody but a fool. The vividness of the
“Addison and Steele” presentation is miraculous. He redresses
Johnson on Prior as he had redressed Macaulay on
Steele; and he is not unjust, as we might have feared that
he would be, to Pope. “Hogarth, Smollett, and Fielding”
is another miracle of appreciation: and I should like to
ask the objectors to “sentimentality” by what other means
than an intense sympathy (from which it is impossible to
exclude something that may be called sentimental) such
a study as that of Goldsmith could have been produced?
Now Goldsmith is one of the most difficult persons in the
whole range of literature to treat, from the motley of his
merits and his weaknesses. Yet Thackeray has achieved
the adventure here. In short, throughout the book,
he is invaluable as a critic, if not impeccable in criticism.
His faults, and the causes of them, are obvious,
separable, negligible: his merits (the chief of them, as
usual, the constant shower of happy and illuminative
phrase) as rare in quality as they are abundant in
quantity.




The lectures on The English Humourists must have been
composed very much pari passu
with Esmond; they were
being delivered while it was being finished, and it was published
just as the author was setting off to re-deliver them
in America. The Four Georges were not regularly taken
in hand till some years later, when The Newcomes was
finished or finishing, and when fresh material was wanted
[pg xxiii]
for the second American trip. But there exists a very
remarkable scenario of them—as it may be almost called—a
full decade older, in the shape of a satura of verse and
prose contributed to Punch on October 11, 1845; which
has accordingly been kept back from its original associates
to be inserted here. All things considered, it gives the
lines which are followed in the later lectures with remarkable
precision: and it is not at all improbable that Thackeray
actually, though not of necessity consciously, took it for
head-notes.




No book of his has been so violently attacked both at
the time of its appearance and since. Nor—for, as the reader
must have seen long ago, the present writer, though proud
to be called a Thackerayan stalwart, is not a Thackerayan
“know-nothing”, a “Thackeray-right-or-wrong” man—is
there any that exposes itself more to attack. From the
strictly literary side, indeed, it has the advantage of The
Book of Snobs: for it is nowhere unequal, and exhibits
its author's unmatched power of historical-artistic imagination
or reconstruction in almost the highest degree possible.
But in other respects it certainly does show the omission
“to erect a sconce on Drumsnab”. There was (it has
already been hinted at in connexion with the Eastern
Journey) a curious innocence about Thackeray. It may
be that, like the Hind,




He feared no danger for he knew no sin;




but the absence of fear with him implied an apparent
ignoring of danger, which is a danger in itself. Nobody
who has even passed Responsions in the study of his
literary and moral character will suspect him for one
moment of having pandered to American prejudice by
prating to it, as a tit-bit and primeur, scandal about
this or that King George. But it was quite evident from the
first, and ought to have been evident to the author long
beforehand, that the enemy might think, and would say so.
[pg xxiv]
In fact, putting considerations of mere expediency aside,
I think myself that he had much better not have done it.
As for the justice of the general verdict, it is no doubt
affected throughout by Thackeray's political incapacity,
whatever side he might have taken, and by that quaint
theoretical republicanism, with a good deal of pure Toryism
mixed, which he attributes to some of his characters, and no
doubt, in a kind of rather confused speculative way, held
himself. He certainly puts George III's ability too low,
and as certainly he indulges in the case of George IV in one
of these curious outbursts—a Hetze of unreasoning, frantic,
“stop-thief!” and “mad-dog!” persecution—to which he
was liable. “Gorgius” may not have been a hero or a
proper moral man: he was certainly “a most expensive
Herr”, and by no means a pattern husband.
But recent and by no means Pharisaical expositions have exhibited
his wife as almost infinitely not better than she should be;
the allegations of treachery to private friends are, on
the whole, Not Proven: if he deserted the Whigs, it was
no more than some of these very Whigs very shortly afterwards
did to their country: he played the difficult part
of Regent and the not very easy one of King by no means
ill; he was, by common and even reluctant consent, an
extremely pleasant host and companion; and he liked
Jane Austen's novels. There have been a good many
princes—and a good many demagogues too—of whom as
much good could not be said.




Admitting excess in these details, and “inconvenience”
in the circumstances of the original representation, there
remains, as it seems to me, a more than sufficient balance
to credit. That social-historic sense, accompanied with
literary power of bodying forth its results, which we noticed
as early as the opening of Catherine has, in the seventeen
years' interval, fully and marvellously matured itself. The
picture is not a mere mob of details: it is an orderly pageant
of artistically composed material. It is possible; it is life-like;
[pg xxv]
the only question (and that is rather a minor one)
is, “Is it true?”




Minor, I say, because the artistic value would remain
if the historical were impaired. But I do not think it is.
I shall bow to the authority of persons better acquainted
with the eighteenth century than I am: but if some decades
of familiarity with essayists and novelists and diarists
and letter-writers may give one a scanty
locus standi, I shall
certainly give my testimony in favour of “Thackeray's
Extract”. The true essence of the life that exhibits itself
in fiction from Pamela and
Joseph Andrews down to Pompey
the Little and the Spiritual Quixote; in essay from the
Tatler to the Mirror;
in Lord Chesterfield and Lady Mary
and Horace Walpole; in Pope and Young and Green and
Churchill and Cowper, in Boswell and Wraxall, in Mrs.
Delany and Madame d'Arblay, seems to me to deserve
warrant of excise and guarantee of analysis as it lies in
these four little flaskets.




And, as has been done before, let me finish with an almost
silent indication of the wonderful variety of this volume
also. In one sense the subject of its constituents is the
same. Yet in another it is treated with the widest and
most infinite difference. Any one of the three treatments
would be a masterpiece of single achievement; while the
first of the three is, as it seems to me, the masterpiece of
its entire class.5


[pg xxvii]


THE MS. OF “ESMOND”




The MS. is contained in two volumes and was presented
to Trinity College, Cambridge, by the author's daughter;
it is now deposited in the College Library. Sir Leslie
Stephen, in writing to the Librarian about it on June 11,
1889, says:—




“There are three separate handwritings. Thackeray's own
small upright handwriting; that of his daughter, now
Mrs. Richmond Ritchie, a rather large round handwriting;
and that of an amanuensis whose name I do not know.
The interest is mainly this, that it shows that Thackeray
dictated a considerable part of the book; and, as Mrs.
Ritchie tells me, he dictated it without having previously
written anything. The copy was sent straight to press as
it stands, with, as you will see, remarkably little alteration.
As Esmond is generally considered to be his most perfect
work in point of style, I think that this is a remarkable
fact and adds considerably to the interest of the MS.”




The four facsimiles which follow, and which appear here
by the very kind permission of Lady Ritchie and of the
authorities of the College, have been slightly reduced to fit
the pages.


[pg xxix]



Illustration: Facsimile 1




Illustration: Facsimile 2




Illustration: Facsimile 3




Illustration: Facsimile 4



[pg 001]





 The History Of Henry Esmond, Esq.



THE HISTORY OF




HENRY ESMOND, ESQ.




A COLONEL IN THE SERVICE OF HER MAJESTY
QUEEN ANNE




WRITTEN BY HIMSELF




Servetur ad imum

Qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet




[First edition in three volumes, 1852. Revised edition, 1858]


[pg 005]





 Dedication.



TO THE RIGHT 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 lordship, for the sake of the great kindness and
friendship which I owe to you and yours.




My volume will reach you when the Author is on his
voyage to a country where your name is as well known as
here. Wherever I am, I shall gratefully regard you; and
shall not be the less welcomed in America because I am




Your obliged friend and servant,




W. M. THACKERAY.




London, October 18, 1852.




[pg 007]





 Preface. The Esmonds Of Virginia



The estate of Castlewood, in Virginia, which was given
to our ancestors by King Charles the First, as some return
for the sacrifices made in his Majesty's cause by the Esmond
family, lies in Westmoreland county, between the rivers
Potomac and Rappahannoc, and was once as great as an
English Principality, though in the early times its revenues
were but small. Indeed, for near eighty years after our
forefathers possessed them, our plantations were in the
hands of factors, who enriched themselves one after another,
though a few scores of hogsheads of tobacco were all the
produce that, for long after the Restoration, our family
received from their Virginian estates.




My dear and honoured father, Colonel Henry Esmond,
whose history, written by himself, is contained in the accompanying
volume, came to Virginia in the year 1718, built
his house of Castlewood, and here permanently settled.
After a long stormy life in England, he passed the remainder
of his many years in peace and 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 bounteous
hospitality to his friends; the tenderest care to his
dependants; and bestowed on those of his immediate
family such a blessing of fatherly love and protection, as
can never be thought of, by us at least, without veneration
and thankfulness; and my son's children, whether established
here in our Republick, or at home in the always
beloved mother country, from which our late quarrel hath
separated us, may surely be proud to be descended from
one who in all ways was so truly noble.




My dear mother died in 1736, soon after our return from
England, whither my parents took me for my education;
[pg 008]
and where I made the acquaintance of Mr. Warrington,
whom my children never saw. When it pleased Heaven,
in the bloom of his youth, and after but a few months of
a most happy union, to remove him from me, I owed my
recovery from the grief which that calamity caused me,
mainly to my dearest father's tenderness, and then to the
blessing vouchsafed to me in the birth of my two beloved
boys. I know the fatal differences which separated them
in politics never disunited their hearts; and as I can love
them both, whether wearing the king's colours or the
Republick's, I am sure that they love me, and one another,
and him above all, my father and theirs, the dearest friend
of their childhood, the noble gentleman who bred them
from their infancy in the practice and knowledge of Truth,
and Love, and 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 his image! He
was of rather low stature, not being above five feet seven
inches in height; he used to laugh at my sons, whom he
called his crutches, and say they were grown too tall for him
to lean upon. But small as he was he had a perfect grace
and majesty of deportment, such as I have never seen in
this country, except perhaps in our friend Mr. Washington,
and commanded respect wherever he appeared.




In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extraordinary
quickness and agility. Of fencing he was especially
fond, and made my two boys proficient in that art; so
much so, that when the French came to this country with
Monsieur Rochambeau, not one of his officers was superior
to my Henry, and he was not the equal of my poor George,
who had taken the king's side in our lamentable but glorious
War of 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
[pg 009]
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
recovered her terror and anxiety of those days, which ended
so fatally for me, then a bride scarce six months married,
and died in my father's arms ere my own year of widowhood
was over.




From that day, until the last of his dear and honoured
life, it was my delight and consolation to remain with him
as his comforter and companion; and from those little
notes which my mother hath made here and there in the
volume in which my father describes his adventures in
Europe, I can well understand the extreme devotion with
which she regarded him—a devotion so passionate and
exclusive as to prevent her, I think, from loving any other
person except with an inferior regard; her whole thoughts
being centred on this one object of affection and worship.
I know that, before her, my dear father did not show the
love which he had for his daughter; and in her last and
most sacred moments, this dear and tender parent owned
to me her repentance that she had not loved me enough:
her jealousy even that my father should give his affection
to any but herself; and in the most fond and beautiful
words of affection and admonition, she bade me never to
leave him, and to supply the place which she was quitting.
With a clear conscience, and a heart inexpressibly thankful,
I think I can say that I fulfilled those dying commands, and
that until his last hour my dearest father never had to
complain that his 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 splendour of that affection which he bestowed
upon me, that I have come to understand and pardon what,
I own, used to anger me in my mother's lifetime, her jealousy
respecting her husband's love. 'Twas a gift so precious,
that no wonder she who had it was for keeping it all, and
could part with none of it, even to her daughter.




Though I never heard my father use a rough word, 'twas
extraordinary with how much awe his people regarded him;
and the servants on our plantation, both those assigned
[pg 010]
from England and the purchased negroes, obeyed him with
an eagerness such as the most severe taskmasters round
about us could never get from their people. He was never
familiar, though perfectly simple and natural; he was the
same with the meanest man as with the greatest, and as
courteous to a black slave-girl as to the governor's wife.
No one ever thought of taking a liberty with him (except
once a tipsy gentleman from York, and I am bound to own
that my papa never forgave him): he set the humblest
people at once on their ease with him, and brought down
the most arrogant by a grave satiric way, which made
persons exceedingly afraid of him. His courtesy was not
put on like a Sunday suit, and laid by when the company
went away; it was always the same; as he was always
dressed the same whether for a dinner by ourselves or for
a great entertainment. They say he liked to be the first
in his company; but what company was there in which
he would not be first? When I went to Europe for my
education, and we passed a winter at London with my half-brother,
my Lord Castlewood and his second lady, I saw at
her Majesty's Court some of the most famous gentlemen of
those days; and I thought to myself, “None of these are
better than my papa”; and the famous Lord Bolingbroke,
who came to us from Dawley, said as much, and that the
men of that time were not like those of his youth:—“Were
your father, madam,” he said, “to go into the woods, the
Indians would elect him Sachem;” and his lordship was
pleased to call me Pocahontas.




I did not see our other relative, Bishop Tusher's lady,
of whom so much is said in my papa's memoirs—although
my mamma went to visit her in the country. I have no
pride (as I showed by complying with my mother's request,
and marrying a gentleman who was but the younger son
of a 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 there; how she came to England and married
this Mr. Tusher, and became a great favourite of King
[pg 011]
George the Second, by whom Mr. Tusher was made a dean,
and then a bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to
remain at her palace all the time we were in London; but
after visiting her, my poor mamma said she had lost all
her good looks, and warned me not to set too much store
by any such gifts which nature had bestowed upon me.
She grew exceedingly stout; and I remember my brother's
wife, Lady Castlewood, saying—“No wonder she became
a favourite, for the king likes them old and ugly, as his
father did before him.” On which papa said—“All women
were alike; that there was never one so beautiful as that
one; and that we could forgive her everything but her
beauty.” And hereupon my mamma looked vexed, and
my Lord Castlewood began to laugh; and I, of course,
being a young creature, could not understand what was
the subject of their conversation.




After the circumstances narrated in the third book of
these memoirs, my father and mother both went abroad,
being advised by their friends to leave the country in consequence
of the transactions which are recounted at the
close of the volume of the memoirs. But my brother,
hearing how the future bishop's lady had quitted Castlewood
and joined the Pretender at Paris, pursued him, and would
have killed him, prince as he was, had not the prince
managed to make his escape. On his expedition to Scotland
directly after, Castlewood was so enraged against him that
he asked leave to serve as a volunteer, and join the Duke
of Argyle's army in Scotland, which the Pretender never
had the courage to face; and thenceforth my lord was
quite reconciled to the present reigning family, from whom
he hath even received promotion.




Mrs. Tusher was by this time as angry against the
Pretender as any of her relations could be, and used to boast,
as I have heard, that she not only brought back my lord
to the Church of England, but procured the English peerage
for him, which the junior branch of our family at present
enjoys. She was a great friend of Sir Robert Walpole, and
would not rest until her husband slept at Lambeth, my papa
used laughing to say. However, the bishop died of apoplexy
suddenly, and his wife erected a great monument over him;
and the pair sleep under that stone, with a canopy of marble
clouds and angels above them—the first Mrs. Tusher lying
sixty miles off at Castlewood.


[pg 012]


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 past in the tranquil offices of love and
duty; and I shall say no more by way of introduction
to his memoirs, nor keep my children from the perusal of a
story which is much more interesting than that of their
affectionate old mother,




Rachel Esmond Warrington.




Castlewood, Virginia,

November 3, 1778.




[pg 013]





 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 the dignity
of the Tragic Muse required these appurtenances, and that
she was not to move except to a measure and cadence. So
Queen Medea slew her children to a slow music: and King
Agamemnon perished in a dying fall (to use Mr. Dryden's
words): the Chorus standing by in a set attitude, and
rhythmically and decorously bewailing the fates of those
great crowned persons. The Muse of History 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 the 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, persisting in enacting through life the part
of Hero; and, divested of poetry, this was but a little
wrinkled old man, pock-marked, and with a great periwig
and red heels to make him look tall—a hero for a book if
you like, or for a brass statue or a painted ceiling, a god
[pg 014]
in a Roman shape, but what more than a man for Madame
Maintenon, or the barber who shaved him, or Monsieur
Fagon, his surgeon? I wonder shall History ever pull off
her periwig and cease to be court-ridden? Shall we see
something of France and England besides Versailles and
Windsor? I saw Queen Anne at the latter place tearing
down the Park slopes after her staghounds, 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
performing cringes and congees like a Court-chamberlain,
and shuffling backwards out of doors in the presence of
the sovereign. In a word, I would have History familiar
rather than heroic: and think that Mr. Hogarth and Mr.
Fielding will give our children a much better idea of the
manners of the present age in England, than the Court
Gazette and the newspapers which we get thence.




There was a German officer of Webb's, with whom we
used to joke, and of whom a story (whereof I myself was
the author) was got to be believed in the army, that he was
eldest son of the Hereditary Grand Bootjack of the Empire,
and heir to that honour of which his ancestors had been
very proud, having been kicked for twenty generations by
one imperial foot, as they drew the boot from the other.
I have heard that the old Lord Castlewood, of part of whose
family these present volumes are a chronicle, though he
came of quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served
(and who as regards mere lineage are no better than a dozen
English and Scottish houses I could name), was prouder
of his post about the Court than of his ancestral honours
and valued his dignity (as Lord of the Butteries and Groom
of the King's Posset) so highly, that he cheerfully ruined
himself for the thankless and thriftless race who bestowed
it. He pawned his plate for King Charles the First, mortgaged
his property for the same cause, and lost the greater
part of it by fines and sequestration: stood a siege of his
castle by Ireton, where his brother Thomas capitulated
(afterwards making terms with the Commonwealth, for
[pg 015]
which the elder brother never forgave him), and where his
second brother Edward, who had embraced the ecclesiastical
profession, was slain on Castlewood tower, being
engaged there both as preacher and artilleryman. This
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 misfortune? Mr. Addison has painted such a figure
in his noble piece of Cato. But suppose fugitive Cato
fuddling himself at a tavern with a wench on each knee,
a dozen faithful and tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord
calling out for his bill; and the dignity of misfortune
is straightway lost. The Historical Muse turns away
shamefaced from the vulgar scene, and closes the door—on
which the exile's unpaid drink is scored up—upon him
and his pots and his pipes, and the tavern-chorus which
he and his friends are singing. Such a man as Charles
should have had an Ostade or Mieris to paint him. Your
Knellers and Le Bruns only deal in clumsy and 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—orphan
of his son, ruined by his fidelity, bearing many
wounds and marks of bravery, old and in exile, his kinsmen
I suppose should be silent; nor if this patriarch fell down
in his cups, call fie upon him, and fetch passers-by to laugh
at his red face and white hairs. What! does a stream
rush out of a mountain free and pure, to roll through fair
pastures, to feed and throw out bright tributaries, and to
end in a village gutter? Lives that have noble commencements
have often no better endings; it is not without
a kind of awe and reverence that an observer should
speculate upon such careers as he traces the course of them.
I have seen too much of success in life to take off my hat
and huzza to it as it passes in its gilt coach: and would
[pg 016]
do my little part with my neighbours on foot, that they
should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too
loudly. Is it the Lord Mayor going in state to mince-pies
and the Mansion House? Is it poor Jack of Newgate's
procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting
him on his last journey to Tyburn? I look into my heart
and think that I am as good as my Lord Mayor, and know
I am as bad as Tyburn Jack. Give me a chain and red
gown and a pudding before me, and I could play the part
of alderman very well, and sentence Jack after dinner.
Starve me, keep me from books and honest people, educate
me to love dice, gin, and pleasure, and put me on Hounslow
Heath, with a purse before me and I will take it. “And
I shall be deservedly hanged,” say you, wishing to put an
end to this prosing. I don't say no. I can't but accept
the world as I find it, including a rope's end, as long as it is
in fashion.







 Chapter I. 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, with the housekeeper on the day of her
arrival. The boy was in the room known as the book-room,
or yellow gallery, where the portraits of the family used to
hang, that fine piece among others of Sir Antonio Van
Dyck of George, second viscount, and that by Mr. Dobson
of my lord the third viscount, just deceased, which it seems
his lady and widow did not think fit to carry away, when
she sent for and carried off to her house at Chelsey, near
to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter Lely, in which
her ladyship was represented as a huntress of Diana's court.




The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad lonely
little occupant of this gallery busy over his great book,
which he laid down when he was aware that a stranger
[pg 017]
was at hand. And, knowing who that person must be,
the lad stood up and bowed before her, performing a shy
obeisance to the mistress of his house.




She stretched out her hand—indeed when was it that
that hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness,
or to 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 certè, and appeared the most charming object
he had ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the
gold of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom;
her lips smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness
which made Harry Esmond's heart to beat with surprise.




“His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my lady,”
says Mrs. 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 now is in the family, noble and severe-looking,
with his hand on his sword, and his order on his cloak,
which he had from the emperor during the war on the
Danube against the Turk.




Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this
portrait and the lad, the new viscountess, who had still
hold of the boy's hand as she looked at the picture, blushed
and dropped the hand quickly, and walked down the gallery,
followed by Mrs. Worksop.




When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly
in the same spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when
he dropped it on his black coat.




Her heart melted I suppose (indeed she 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 words to him, which were so kind
and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy, who had never
looked upon so much beauty before, felt as if the touch
of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground,
and kissed the fair protecting hand as he knelt on one knee.
To the very last hour of his life, Esmond remembered the
[pg 018]
lady as she then spoke and looked, the rings on her fair
hands, the very scent of her robe, the beam of her eyes
lighting up with surprise and kindness, her lips blooming
in a smile, the sun making a golden halo round her hair.




As the boy was yet in this attitude of humility, enters
behind him a portly gentleman, with a little girl of four
years old in his hand. The gentleman burst into a great
laugh at the lady and her adorer, with his little queer figure,
his sallow face, and long black hair. The lady blushed,
and seemed to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal
to her husband, for it was my lord 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 knee; and my lord burst out
into another great laugh at this, and kinsman Henry looked
very silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in reply,
but 'twas months afterwards when he thought of this
adventure: as it was, he had never a word in answer.




“Le pauvre enfant, il
n'a que nous,” says the lady, 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
had felt quite alone in the world: when he heard the great
peal of bells from Castlewood church ringing that morning
to welcome the arrival of the new lord and lady, it had rung
only terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the
new owner would deal with him; and those to whom he formerly
looked for protection were forgotten or dead. Pride
and doubt too had kept him within doors: when the vicar
[pg 019]
and the people of the village, and the servants of the house,
had gone out to welcome my Lord Castlewood—for Henry
Esmond was no servant, though a dependant; no relative,
though he bore the name and inherited the blood of the
house; and in the midst of the noise and acclamations
attending the arrival of the new lord (for whom you may
be sure a feast was got ready, and guns were fired, and
tenants and domestics huzzaed when his carriage approached
and rolled into the courtyard of the hall), no one
ever took any notice of young Henry Esmond, who sat unobserved
and alone in the book-room, until the afternoon
of that day, when his new friends found him.




When my lord and lady were going away thence, the
little girl, still holding her kinsman by the hand, bade him
to come too. “Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for
a new one, Trix,” says her father to her good-naturedly;
and went into the gallery, giving an arm to his lady. They
passed thence through the music-gallery, long since dismantled,
and Queen Elizabeth's rooms, in the clock-tower,
and out into the terrace, where was a fine prospect of sunset,
and the great darkling woods with a cloud of rooks returning;
and the plain and river with Castlewood village beyond,
and purple hills beautiful to look at—and the little heir
of Castlewood, a child of two years old, was already here
on the terrace in his nurse's arms, from whom he ran
across the grass instantly he perceived his mother, and came
to her.




“If thou canst not be happy here,” says my lord, looking
round at the scene, “thou art hard to please, Rachel.”




“I am happy where you are,” she said, “but we were
happiest of all at Walcote Forest.” Then my lord began
to describe what was before them to his wife, and what
indeed little Harry knew better than he—viz., the history
of the house: how by yonder gate the page ran away with
the heiress of Castlewood, by which the estate came into
the present family, how the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower,
which my lord's father was slain in defending. “I
was but two years old then,” says he, “but take forty-six
from ninety, and how old shall I be, kinsman Harry?”




“Thirty,” says his wife, with a laugh.




“A great deal too old for you, Rachel,” answers my lord,
looking fondly down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a
girl; and was at that time scarce twenty years old.


[pg 020]


“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, whither he went howling; but
little Trix was promised to sit to supper that night—“and
you will come too, kinsman, won't you?” she said.




Harry Esmond blushed: “I—I have supper with Mrs.
Worksop,” says he.




“D—n it,” says my lord, “thou shalt sup with us, Harry,
to-night! Shan't refuse a lady, shall he, Trix?”—and
they all wondered at Harry's performance as a trencherman,
in which character the poor boy acquitted himself
very remarkably; for the truth is he had 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 Castlewood,
who came to supper) going away when the sweetmeats
were brought: he had not had a chaplain long enough,
he said, to be tired of him: so his reverence kept my lord
company for some hours over a pipe and a punchbowl; and
went away home with rather a reeling gait, and declaring
a dozen of times, that his lordship's affability surpassed
every kindness he had ever had from his lordship's gracious
family.




As for young Esmond, when he got to his little chamber,
it was with a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards
the new friends whom this happy day had brought him.
He was up and watching long before the house was astir,
longing to see that fair lady and her children—that kind
protector and patron; and only fearful lest their welcome
[pg 021]
of the past night should in any way be withdrawn or altered.
But presently little Beatrix came out into the garden, and
her mother followed, who greeted Harry as kindly as before.
He told her at greater length the histories of the house
(which he had been taught in the old lord's time), and to
which she listened with great interest; and then he told
her, with respect to the night before, that he understood
French, and thanked her for her protection.




“Do you?” says she, with a blush; “then, sir, you shall
teach me and Beatrix.” And she asked him many more
questions regarding himself, which had best be told more
fully and explicitly, than in those brief replies which the
lad made to his mistress's questions.









 Chapter II. Relates How Francis, Fourth Viscount, Arrives At Castlewood



'Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of
Castlewood, com. Hants, came into possession of the present
family through Dorothea, daughter and heiress of Edward,
Earl and Marquis of Esmond, and Lord of Castlewood,
which lady married, 23 Eliz., Henry Poyns, gent.; the
said Henry being then a page in the household of her father.
Francis, son and heir of the above Henry and Dorothea,
who took the maternal name which the family hath borne
subsequently, was made knight and baronet by King James
the First; and, being of a military disposition, remained
long in Germany with the Elector-Palatine, in whose service
Sir Francis incurred both expense and danger, lending large
sums of money to that unfortunate prince; and receiving
many wounds in the battles against the Imperialists, in
which Sir Francis engaged.




On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his
services and many sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the
First, who graciously conferred upon this tried servant
the post of Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King's
Posset, which high and confidential office he filled in that
king's, and his unhappy successor's, reign.




His age, and many wounds and infirmities, obliged Sir
Francis to perform much of his duty by deputy; and his
son, Sir George Esmond, knight and banneret, first as his
[pg 022]
father's lieutenant, and afterwards as inheritor of his father's
title and dignity, performed this office during almost the
whole of the reign of King Charles the First, and his two
sons who succeeded him.




Sir George Esmond married rather beneath the rank that
a person of his name and honour might aspire to, the daughter
of Thos. Topham, of the city of London, alderman and
goldsmith, who, taking the Parliamentary side in the
troubles then commencing, disappointed Sir George of the
property which he expected at the demise of his father-in-law,
who devised his money to his second daughter, Barbara,
a spinster.




Sir George Esmond, on his part, was conspicuous for his
attachment and loyalty to the royal cause and person, and
the king being at Oxford in 1642, Sir George, with the
consent of his father, then very aged and infirm, and residing
at his house of Castlewood, melted the whole of the family
plate for his Majesty's service.




For this, and other sacrifices and merits, his Majesty, by
patent under the Privy Seal, dated Oxford, Jan., 1643, was
pleased to advance Sir Francis Esmond to the dignity of
Viscount Castlewood, of Shandon, in Ireland: and the
viscount's estate being much impoverished by loans to the
king, which in those troublesome times his Majesty could
not repay, a grant of land in the plantations of Virginia
was given to the lord viscount; part of which land is in
possession of descendants of his family to the present day.




The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and
within a few months after he had been advanced to his
honours. He was succeeded by his eldest son, the before-named
George; and left issue besides, Thomas, a colonel
in the king's army, that afterwards 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 the Protector, after the death of the king,
and up to King Charles the Second's restoration. My lord
[pg 023]
followed that king's Court about in its exile, having ruined
himself in its service. He had but one daughter, who was
of no great comfort to her father; for misfortune had not
taught those exiles sobriety of life; and it is said that the
Duke of York and his brother the king both quarrelled
about Isabel Esmond. She was maid of 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 quarrels, and so had been estranged
from the chief of his house; and my Lord Castlewood was
at first so much enraged to think that his title (albeit little
more than an empty one now) should pass to a rascally
Roundhead, that he would have married again, and indeed
proposed to do so to a vintner's daughter at Bruges, to whom
his lordship owed a score for lodging when the king was
there, but for fear of the laughter of the Court, and the
anger of his daughter, of whom he stood in awe; for she
was in temper as imperious and violent as my lord, who
was much enfeebled by wounds and drinking, was weak.




Lord Castlewood would have had a match between his
daughter Isabel 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 which Esmond
vacated, when he left the Court and went to Tangier in a rage
at discovering that his promotion depended on the complaisance
of his elderly affianced bride. He and Churchill,
who had been condiscipuli at St. Paul's School, had words
about this matter; and Frank Esmond said to him with
an oath, “Jack, your sister may be so-and-so, but by Jove,
my wife shan't!” and swords were drawn, and blood drawn,
too, until friends separated them on this quarrel. Few
men were so jealous about the point of honour in those
[pg 024]
days; and gentlemen of good birth and lineage thought
a royal blot was an ornament to their family coat. Frank
Esmond retired in the sulks, first to Tangier, whence he
returned after two years' service, settling on a small property
he had of his mother, near to Winchester, and became
a country gentleman, and kept a pack of beagles, and never
came to Court again in King Charles's time. But his uncle
Castlewood was never reconciled to him; nor, for some
time afterwards, his cousin whom he had refused.




By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts
from the king, 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 with the Dutch, when King Charles was
compelled to lend troops to the States, and against them,
when his Majesty made an alliance with the French king.
In these campaigns Thomas Esmond was more remarked
for duelling, brawling, vice, and play, than for any conspicuous
gallantry in the field, and came back to England,
like many another English gentleman who has travelled, with
a character by no means improved by his foreign experience.
He had dissipated his small paternal inheritance of a younger
brother's portion, and, as truth must be told, was no better
than a hanger-on of ordinaries, and a brawler about Alsatia
and the Friars, when he bethought him of a means of
mending his fortune.




His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had
nobody's word but her own for the beauty which she said
she once possessed. She was lean, and yellow, and long
in the tooth; all the red and white in all the 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, but whom only a very bold man would
think of conquering. This bold man was Thomas Esmond.
He had a fancy to my Lord Castlewood's savings, the
amount of which rumour had very much exaggerated.
Madam Isabel was said to have royal jewels of great
[pg 025]
value; whereas poor Tom Esmond's last coat but one was
in pawn.




My lord had at this time a fine house in Lincoln's Inn
Fields, nigh to the Duke's Theatre and the Portugal ambassador's
chapel. Tom Esmond, who had frequented the one
as long as he had money to spend among the actresses,
now came to the church as assiduously. He looked so
lean and shabby, that he passed without difficulty for a
repentant sinner; and so, becoming converted, you may
be sure took his uncle's priest for a director.




This charitable father reconciled him with the old lord
his uncle, who a short time before would not speak to him,
as Tom passed under my lord's coach window, his lordship
going in state to his place at Court, while his nephew slunk
by with his battered hat and feather, and the point of his
rapier sticking out of the scabbard—to his twopenny
ordinary in Bell Yard.




Thomas Esmond, after this reconciliation with his uncle,
very soon began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the
benefits of good living and clean linen. He fasted rigorously
twice a week to be sure; but he made amends on the other
days: and, to show how great his appetite was, Mr. Wycherley
said, he ended by swallowing that fly-blown rank old
morsel his cousin. There were endless jokes and lampoons
about this marriage at Court: but Tom rode thither in his
uncle's coach now, called him father, and having won
could afford to laugh. This marriage took place very shortly
before King Charles died: whom the Viscount of Castlewood
speedily followed.




The issue of this marriage was one son, whom the parents
watched with an intense eagerness and care; but who, in
spite of nurses and physicians, had only a brief existence.
His tainted blood did not run very long in his poor feeble
little body. Symptoms of evil broke out early on him; and,
part from flattery, part superstition, nothing would satisfy
my lord and lady, especially the latter, but having the poor
little cripple touched by his Majesty at his church. They
were ready to cry out miracle at first (the doctors and
quack-salvers being constantly in attendance on the child,
and experimenting on his poor little body with every
conceivable nostrum)—but though there seemed from some
reason a notable amelioration in the infant's health after
his Majesty touched him, in a few weeks afterward the
[pg 026]
poor thing died—causing the lampooners of the Court to
say, that the king in expelling evil out of the infant of
Tom Esmond and Isabella his wife, expelled the life out of
it, which was nothing but corruption.




The mother's natural pang at losing this poor little child
must have been increased when she thought of her rival
Frank Esmond's wife, who was a 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 constantly sending over to Hexton
for the doctor, and announcing to her friends the arrival
of an heir. This absurdity of hers was one amongst many
others which the wags used to play upon. Indeed, to the
last days of her life, my lady viscountess had the comfort
of fancying herself beautiful, and persisted in blooming up
to the very midst of winter, painting roses on her cheeks
long after their natural season, and attiring herself like
summer though her head was covered with snow.




Gentlemen who were about the Court of King Charles
and King James, have told the present writer a number of
stories about this queer old lady, with which it's not necessary
that posterity should be entertained. She is said to
have had great powers of invective; and, if she fought with
all her rivals in King James's 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 country; and the cruel ingratitude of the sovereign in
giving away, out of the family, that place of Warden of
[pg 027]
the Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset, which the
two last Lords Castlewood had held so honourably, and
which was now conferred upon a fellow of yesterday, and
a hanger-on of that odious Dorchester creature, my Lord
Bergamot6; “I never,” said my lady, “could have come
to see his Majesty's posset carried by any other hand than
an Esmond. I should have dashed the salver out of Lord
Bergamot's hand, had I met him.” And those who knew
her ladyship are aware that she was a person quite capable
of performing this feat, had she not wisely kept out of
the way.




Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which,
indeed, she liked to bring most persons who came near her,
Lady Castlewood could command her husband's obedience,
and so broke up her establishment at London; she had
removed from Lincoln's Inn Fields to Chelsey, to a pretty
new house she bought there; and brought her establishment,
her maids, lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her priest,
and his lordship, her husband, to Castlewood Hall, that
she had never seen since she quitted it as a child with her
father during the troubles of King Charles the First's reign.
The walls were still open in the old house as they had been
left by the shot of the Commonwealth men. A part of the
mansion was restored and furnished 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,
lap-dogs, and cockatoos on the opposite seat, six
horses to her carriage, and servants armed and mounted,
following it and preceding it. But 'twas in the height of
the No-Popery cry; the folks in the village and the 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 Lady
[pg 028]
Jezebel!” a name by which the enemies of the right
honourable viscountess were afterwards in the habit of
designating her. The country was then in a great No-Popery
fervour, her ladyship's known conversion, and her
husband's, the priest in her train, and the service performed
at the chapel of Castlewood (though the chapel had been
built for that worship before any other was heard of in the
country, and though the service was performed in the
most quiet manner), got her no favour at first in the county
or village. By far the greater part of the estate of Castlewood
had been confiscated, and been parcelled out to
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 Lady Sark
said, “Tom Esmond, her husband, would run away with
them and pawn them.” 'Twas another calumny. My
Lady Sark was also an exile from Court, and there had been
war between the two ladies before.




The village people began to be reconciled presently to their
lady, who was generous and kind, though fantastic and
haughty, in her ways; and whose praises Dr. Tusher, the
vicar, sounded loudly amongst his flock. As for my lord, he
gave no great trouble, being considered scarce more than
an appendage to my lady, who as daughter of the old lords
of Castlewood, and possessor of vast wealth, as the country
folks said (though indeed nine-tenths of it existed but in
rumour), was looked upon as the real queen of the Castle,
and mistress of all it contained.




[pg 029]





 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 Castlewood dispatched a retainer of his
to a little cottage in the village of Ealing, near to London,
where for some time had dwelt an old French refugee, by
name Mr. Pastoureau, one of those whom the persecution
of the Huguenots by the French king had brought over
to this country. With this old man lived a little lad, who
went by the name of Henry Thomas. He remembered to
have lived in another place a short time before, near to
London, too, amongst looms and spinning-wheels, and
a great deal of psalm-singing and church-going, and a whole
colony of Frenchmen.




There he had a dear, dear friend, who died and whom he
called aunt. She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes;
and her face, though it was homely, was a thousand times
dearer to him than that of Mrs. 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, where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and
say, “Angel! she belongs to the Babylonish Scarlet Woman.”
Bon Papa was always talking of the Scarlet Woman. He
had a little room where he always used to preach and sing
hymns out of his great old nose. Little Harry did not like
the preaching; he liked better the fine stories which aunt
used to tell him. Bon Papa's wife never told him pretty
stories; she quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went
away.




After this Harry's Bon Papa, and his wife and two children
of her own that she brought with her, came to live at Ealing.
The new wife gave her children the best of everything, and
Harry many a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows,
he got ill names from her, which need not be set down here,
[pg 030]
for the sake of old Mr. Pastoureau, who was still kind sometimes.
The unhappiness of those days is long forgiven,
though they cast a shade of melancholy over the child's
youth, which will accompany him, no doubt, to the end of
his days: as those tender twigs are bent the trees grow
afterward; and he, at least, who has suffered as a child,
and is not quite perverted in that early school of unhappiness,
learns to be gentle and long-suffering with little
children.




Harry was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black,
on horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to
fetch him away from Ealing. The noverca, or unjust stepmother,
who had neglected him for her own two children,
gave him supper enough the night before he went away,
and plenty in the morning. She did not beat him once, and
told the children to keep their hands off him. One was a
girl, and Harry never could bear to strike a girl; and the
other was a boy, whom he could easily have beat, but he
always cried out, when Mrs. Pastoureau came sailing to the
rescue with arms like a flail. She only washed Harry's face
the day he went away; nor ever so much as once boxed
his ears. She whimpered rather when the gentleman in
black came for the boy; and old Mr. Pastoureau, as he
gave the child his blessing, scowled over his shoulder at the
strange gentleman, and grumbled out something about
Babylon and the scarlet lady. He was grown quite old,
like a child almost. Mrs. Pastoureau used to wipe his
nose as she did to the children. She was a great, big,
handsome young woman; but, though she pretended to
cry, Harry thought 'twas only a sham, and sprung quite
delighted upon the horse upon which the lackey helped him.




He was a Frenchman; his name was Blaise. The child
could talk to him in his own language perfectly well: he
knew it better than English indeed: having lived hitherto
chiefly among French people: and being called the little
Frenchman by other boys on Ealing Green. He soon 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.


[pg 031]


The lackey before whom he rode was very lively and
voluble, and informed the boy that the gentleman riding
before him was my lord's chaplain, Father Holt—that he
was now to be called Master Harry Esmond—that my Lord
Viscount Castlewood was his parrain—that he was
to live at the great house of Castlewood, in the province of ——shire,
where he would see madame the viscountess, who was a
grand lady. And so, seated on a cloth before Blaise's
saddle, Harry Esmond was brought to London, and to a fine
square called Covent Garden, near to which his patron
lodged.




Mr. Holt the priest took the child by the hand, and
brought him to this nobleman, 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 ça,”
he said to the priest after eyeing the
child, and the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders.




“Let Blaise take him out for a holiday,” and out for a
holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping
along; he was glad enough to go.




He will remember to his life's end the delights of those
days. He was taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, in
a house a thousand times greater and finer than the booth
at Ealing Fair—and on the next 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 moats—all under company of Monsieur
Blaise.




Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth for
the country, namely, my lord viscount and the other
gentleman; Monsieur Blaise, and Harry on a pillion behind
them, and two or three men with pistols leading the baggage-horses.
And all along the road the Frenchman told little
Harry stories of brigands, which made the child's hair stand
on end, and terrified him; so that at the 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 who gave the child a little bed in his chamber.




His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this
gentleman in the boy's favour, for next day Mr. Holt said
Harry should ride behind him, and not with the French
lacky; and all along the journey put a thousand questions
[pg 032]
to the child—as to his foster-brother and relations at
Ealing; what his old grandfather had taught him; what
languages he knew; whether he could read and write, and
sing, and so forth. And Mr. Holt found that Harry could
read and write, and possessed the two languages of French
and English very well; and when he asked Harry about
singing, the lad broke out with a hymn to the tune of
Dr. Martin Luther, which set Mr. Holt a-laughing; and
even caused his grand parrain in the laced hat and
periwig to laugh too when Holt told him what the child was singing.
For it appeared that Dr. Martin Luther's hymns were not
sung in the churches Mr. Holt preached at.




“You must never sing that song any more, do you hear,
little manikin?” 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 affectionate 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
language) when they lay again at an inn. “We are a little
lord here; we are a little lord now: we shall see what we are
when we come to Castlewood where my lady is.”




“When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise?”
says Harry.




“Parbleu!
my lord does not press himself.” Blaise says,
with a grin; and, indeed, it seemed as if his lordship was
not in a great hurry, for he spent three days on that journey,
which Harry Esmond hath often since ridden in a dozen
hours. For the last two of the days, Harry rode with the
priest, who was so kind to him, that the child had grown
to be quite fond and familiar with him by the journey's
end, and had scarce a thought in his little heart which by
that time he had not confided to his new friend.




At length on the third day, at evening, they came to a
village standing on a green with elms round it, very pretty
to look at; and the people there all took off their hats,
and made curtsies to my lord viscount, who bowed to them
[pg 033]
all languidly; and there was one portly person that wore
a cassock and a broad-leafed hat, who bowed lower than
any one—and with this one both my lord and Mr. Holt
had a few words. “This, Harry, is Castlewood 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
the doctor 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 they lived at Castlewood
too.




They came to the house, and passed under an arch into
a courtyard, 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 poor lad did not know the meaning then,
though he apprehended the truth in a very short time afterwards,
and learned it and thought of it with no small feeling
of shame.




Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both
descended from their horses, Mr. Holt led him across the
court, and under a low door to rooms on a level with the
ground; one of which Father Holt said was to be the boy's
chamber, the other on the other side of the passage being
the father's own; and as soon as the little man's face was
washed, and the father's own dress arranged, Harry's guide
took him once more to the door by which my lord had entered
the hall, and up a stair, and through an ante-room to my
lady's drawing-room—an apartment than which Harry
thought he had never seen anything more grand—no, not in
the Tower of London which he had just visited. Indeed
the 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
[pg 034]
through the coloured glass painted of a thousand hues;
and here in state, by the fire, sat a lady to whom the priest
took up Harry, who was indeed amazed by her appearance.




My lady viscountess's face was daubed with white and
red up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly
glare: she had a tower of lace on her head, under which
was a bush of black curls—borrowed curls—so that no
wonder little Harry Esmond was scared when he was first
presented to her—the kind priest acting as master of the
ceremonies at that solemn introduction—and he stared at
her with eyes almost as great as her own, as he had stared
at the player-woman who acted the wicked tragedy-queen,
when the players came down to Ealing Fair. She sat in
a great chair by the fire-corner; in her lap was a spaniel-dog
that barked furiously; on a little table by her was her
ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum 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 pantofles with red heels; and an
odour of musk was shook out of her garments whenever she
moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoiseshell
stick, little Fury barking at her heels.




Mrs. Tusher, the parson's wife, was with my lady. She
had been 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, monsieur; and then another little bow,
not so low, to Madam Tusher—the fair priestess of Castlewood.”




“Where I have lived and hope to die, sir,” says Madam
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.


[pg 035]


“He would be very hard to please if it didn't,” cried
Madam Tusher.




“Have done, you silly Maria,” said Lady Castlewood.




“Where I'm attached, I'm attached, madam—and I'd
die rather than not say so.”




“Je meurs où je m'attache,”
Mr. Holt said, with a polite
grin. “The ivy says so in the picture, and clings to the oak
like a fond parasite as it is.”




“Parricide, sir!” cries Mrs. Tusher.




“Hush, Tusher—you are always bickering with Father
Holt,” cried my lady. “Come and kiss my hand, child,”
and the oak held out a branch to little Harry Esmond, who
took and dutifully kissed the lean old hand, upon the
gnarled knuckles of which there glittered a hundred rings.




“To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow
happy!” cried Mrs. Tusher: on which my lady crying out,
“Go, you foolish Tusher,” and tapping her with her great
fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury
arose and barked furiously at Tusher; and Father Holt
looked on at this queer scene, with arch grave glances.




The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the
lady to whom this artless flattery was bestowed; for having
gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him,
and the mode then was) and performed his obeisance, she
said, “Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber will inform
you what your duties are, when you wait upon my lord and
me; and good Father Holt will instruct you as becomes
a gentleman of our name. You will 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 Castlewood.”


[pg 036]


“She is Madam Tusher, the parson's wife of Castlewood.
She has a son of your age, but bigger than you.”




“Why does she like so to kiss my lady's hand? It is not
good to kiss.”




“Tastes are different, little man. Madam 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 French woman, will you? I saw
her laughing with Blaise in the buttery.”




“I belong to a church that is older and better than the
English Church,” Mr. Holt said (making a sign whereof
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 St. Peter the head of your Church?—Dr. Rabbits
of Ealing told us so.”




The father said, “Yes, he was.”




“But St. Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday
that his wife's mother lay sick of a fever.” On which the
father again laughed, and said he would understand this
too better soon, and talked of other things, and took away
Harry Esmond, and showed him the great old house which
he had come to inhabit.




It stood on 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
Aeneas, the fond names of the land of his youth.




The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof
one only, the fountain court, was now inhabited, the other
having been battered down in the Cromwellian wars. In
[pg 037]
the fountain court, still in good repair, was the great hall,
near to the kitchen and butteries. A dozen of living-rooms
looking to the north, and communicating with the little
chapel that faced eastwards and the buildings stretching
from that to the main gate, and with the hall (which looked
to the west) into the court now dismantled. This court
had been the most magnificent of the two, until the protector's
cannon tore down one side of it before the place was
taken and stormed. The besiegers entered at the terrace
under the clock-tower, slaying every man of the garrison,
and at their head my lord's brother, Francis Esmond.




The Restoration did not bring enough money to the
Lord Castlewood to restore this ruined part of his house;
where were the morning parlours, above them the long
music-gallery, and before which stretched the garden-terrace,
where, however, the flowers grew again, which the
boots of the Roundheads had trodden in their assault, and
which was restored without much cost, and only a little
care, by both ladies who succeeded the second viscount in
the government of this mansion. Round the terrace-garden
was a low wall with a wicket leading to the wooded
height beyond, that is called 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 usher than
an equal, and always rose to go away after the first course.


[pg 038]


Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private
visitors, whom after a little, Henry Esmond had little
difficulty in recognizing as ecclesiastics of the father's
persuasion; whatever their dresses (and they adopted all)
might be. These were closeted with the father 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 kindness
which surprised and attached the child; always more easily
won by these methods than by any severe exercise of authority.
And his delight in our walks was to tell Harry of
the glories of his order, of its martyrs and heroes, of its
brethren converting the heathen by myriads, traversing
the desert, facing the stake, ruling the courts and councils,
or braving the tortures of kings; so that Harry Esmond
thought that to belong to the Jesuits was the greatest
prize of life and bravest end of ambition; the greatest
career here, and in heaven the surest reward; and began
to long for the day, not only when he should enter into the
one Church and receive his first communion, but when he
might join that wonderful brotherhood, which was present
throughout all the world, and which numbered the wisest,
the bravest, the highest born, the most eloquent of men
among its members. Father Holt bade him keep his views
secret, and to hide them as a great treasure which would
escape him if it was revealed; and proud of this confidence
and secret vested in him, the lad became fondly attached
[pg 039]
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 off? Could
your master at school sail over the Thames on his gown?
Have you statues in your church that can bleed, speak,
walk, and cry? My good Tommy, in dear Father Holt's
Church these things take place every day. You know
St. 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 nevertheless simply to
Father Holt, who stroked his head, smiled at him with his
inscrutable look, and told him that he did well to meditate
on these great things, and not to talk of them except
under direction.









 Chapter IV. 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
[pg 040]
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 boy's admission into
orders had not called him away.




After being at home for a few months in tranquillity
(if theirs might be called tranquillity, which was, in truth,
a constant bickering), my lord and lady left the country
for London, taking their director with them: and his little
pupil scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his life than he
did for nights after the first parting with his dear friend,
as he lay in the lonely chamber next to that which the
father used to occupy. He and a few domestics were left
as the only tenants of the great house: and, though Harry
sedulously did all the tasks which the father set him, he had
many hours unoccupied, and read in the library, and
bewildered his little brains with the great books he found
there.




After a while the little lad grew accustomed to the loneliness
of the place; and in after days remembered this part
of his life as a period not unhappy. When the family was
at London the whole of the establishment travelled thither
with the exception of the porter, who was, moreover, brewer,
gardener, and woodman, and his wife and children. These
had their lodging in the gate-house hard by, with a door
into the court; and a window looking out on the green
was the chaplain's room; and next to this a small chamber
where Father Holt had his books, and Harry Esmond his
sleeping-closet. The side of the house facing the east had
escaped the guns of the Cromwellians, whose battery was
on the height facing the western court; so that this eastern
end bore few marks of demolition, save in the chapel, where
the painted windows surviving Edward the Sixth had been
broke by the Commonwealth men. In Father Holt's time
little Harry Esmond acted as his familiar, and faithful little
servitor; beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching
his water from the well long before daylight, ready to run
anywhere for the service of his beloved priest. When the
father was away he locked his private chamber; but the
room where the books were was left to little Harry, who,
[pg 041]
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
chambre, and it required less quick eyes than my lady's
little page was naturally endowed with, to see that she had
many qualities by no means heroic, however much Mrs.
Tusher might flatter and coax her. When Father Holt was
not 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 dependants lead her own sad
life. I think my lord was as much afraid of her as her page
was, and the only person of the household who mastered
her was Mr. Holt. Harry was only too glad when the
father dined at table, and to slink away and prattle with
him afterwards, or read with him, or walk with him. Luckily
my lady viscountess did not rise till noon. Heaven help
the poor waiting-woman who had charge of her toilet!
I have often seen the poor wretch come out with red eyes
from the closet, where those long and mysterious rites of
her ladyship's dress were performed, and the backgammon-box
locked up with a rap on Mrs. Tusher's fingers when she
played ill or the game was going the wrong way.




Blessed be the king who introduced cards, and the kind
inventors of piquet and cribbage, for they employed six
hours at least of her 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 would sit with her at piquet during hours together,
at which time she behaved herself properly; and, as for
Dr. Tusher, I believe he would have left a parishioner's
dying bed, if summoned to play a rubber with his patroness
at Castlewood. Sometimes, when they were pretty comfortable
together, my lord took a hand. Besides these my lady
[pg 042]
had her faithful poor Tusher, and one, two, three gentlewomen
whom Harry Esmond could recollect in his time.
They could not bear that genteel service very long; one
after another tried and failed at it. These and the housekeeper,
and little Harry Esmond, had a table of their own.
Poor ladies! their life was far harder than the page's. He
was found asleep tucked up in his little bed, whilst they
were sitting by her ladyship reading her to sleep, with the
News Letter or the Grand Cyrus. My lady
used to have boxes of new plays from London, and Harry was forbidden,
under the pain of a whipping, to look into them. I am
afraid he deserved the penalty pretty often, and got it
sometimes. Father Holt applied it twice or thrice, when
he caught the young scapegrace with a delightful wicked
comedy of Mr. Shadwell's or Mr. Wycherley'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 him with more kindness when his lady was not
present, and Lord Castlewood would take the lad sometimes
on his little journeys a-hunting or a-birding; he loved to
play at cards and tric-trac with him, which games the boy
learned to pleasure his lord: and was growing to like him
better 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
[pg 043]
to roll with anger, for she was as bold as a lioness, and feared
nobody; whilst Mr. Holt, as Esmond saw from his place
on the step, sank back with rather an alarmed face, crying
out to her ladyship, “For God's sake, madam, do not speak
or look out of window, sit still.” But she did not obey this
prudent injunction of the father; she thrust her head out
of the coach window, and screamed out to the coachman,
“Flog your way through them, the brutes, James, and use
your whip!”




The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and
fresh cries of, “Jezebel! Jezebel!” My lord only laughed
the more: he was a languid gentleman: nothing seemed
to excite him commonly, though I have seen him cheer
and halloo the hounds very briskly, and his face (which
was generally very yellow and calm) grow quite red and
cheerful during a burst over the Downs after a hare, and
laugh, and swear, and huzza at a cockfight, of which sport
he was very fond. And now, when the mob began to hoot
his lady, he laughed with something of a mischievous look,
as though he expected sport, and thought that she and they
were a match.




James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than
the mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was
bidden, and the postboy that rode with the first pair (my
lady always went with her coach-and-six) gave a cut of his
thong over the shoulders of one fellow who put his hand
out towards the leading horse's rein.




It was a market day and the country people were all
assembled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such
things; the 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!” says Mr. Holt; “we are
not ten paces from the ‘Bell’ archway, where they can
shut the gates on us, and keep out this canaille.”




The little page was outside the coach on the step, and
a fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him
in the eye, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout;
the man laughed, a great big saddler's apprentice of the
town. “Ah! you d—— little yelling Popish bastard,” he
[pg 044]
said, and stooped to pick up another; the crowd had
gathered quite between the horses and in the inn door by
this time, and the coach was brought to a dead standstill.
My lord jumped as briskly as a boy out of the door on his
side of the coach, squeezing little Harry behind it; had
hold of the potato-thrower's collar in an instant, and the
next moment the brute's heels were in the air, and he fell
on the stones with a thump.




“You hulking coward!” says he; “you pack of screaming
blackguards! how dare you attack children, and insult
women? Fling another shot at that carriage, you sneaking
pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I'll send my rapier through
you!”




Some of the mob cried, “Huzza, my lord!” for they knew
him, and the saddler's man was a known bruiser, near twice
as big as my lord viscount.




“Make way, there,” says he (he spoke in a high shrill
voice, but with a great air of authority). “Make way, and
let her ladyship's carriage pass.” The men that were
between the coach and the gate of the “Bell” actually did
make way, and the horses went in, my lord walking after
them with his hat on his head.




As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach
had just rolled, another cry begins of “No Popery—no
Papists!” My lord turns round and faces them once more.




“God save the king!” says he at the highest pitch of his
voice. “Who dares abuse the king's religion? You, you
d——d psalm-singing cobbler, as sure as I'm a magistrate
of this county I'll commit you!” The fellow shrunk 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 was one of many thousands that were going
about the country at that time, huzzaing for the acquittal
of the seven bishops who had been tried just then, and
about whom little Harry Esmond at that time knew scarce
anything. It was assizes at Hexton, and there was a great
meeting of the gentry at the “Bell”; and my lord's people
had their new liveries on, and Harry a little suit of blue and
silver, which he wore upon occasions of state; and the
gentlefolks came round and talked to my lord; and a judge
[pg 045]
in a red gown, who seemed a very great personage, especially
complimented him and my lady, who was mighty grand.
Harry remembers her train borne up by her gentlewoman.
There was an assembly and ball at the great room at the
“Bell”, and other young gentlemen of the county families
looked on as he did. One of them jeered him for his black
eye, which was swelled by the potato, and another called
him a bastard, on which he and Harry fell to fisticuffs. My
lord's cousin, Colonel Esmond of Walcote, was there, and
separated the two lads, a great tall gentleman with a handsome,
good-natured face. The boy did not know how
nearly in after-life he should be allied to Colonel Esmond,
and how much kindness he should have to owe him.




There was little love between the two families. My lady
used not to spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for
reasons which have been hinted already; but about which,
at his tender age, Henry Esmond could be expected to
know nothing.




Very soon afterwards my lord and lady went to London
with Mr. Holt, leaving, however, the page behind them.
The little man had the great house of Castlewood to himself;
or between him and the housekeeper, Mrs. Worksop,
an old lady who was a kinswoman of the family in some
distant way, and a Protestant, but a stanch Tory and
king's-man, as all the Esmonds were. He used to go to
school to Dr. Tusher when he was at home, though the doctor
was much occupied too. There was a great stir and commotion
everywhere, even in the little quiet village of Castlewood,
whither a party of people came from the town, who
would have broken Castlewood Chapel windows, but the
village people turned out, and even old Sievewright, the republican
blacksmith, along with them: for my lady, though
she was a Papist, and had many odd ways, was kind to the
tenantry, and there was always 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 within, which made this time very pleasant.




[pg 046]





 Chapter V. My Superiors Are Engaged In Plots For The Restoration Of
King James II



Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines
for eels which he had placed the night before, the lad was
lying in his little bed, waiting for the hour when the gate
would be open, and he and his comrade, Job Lockwood,
the porter's son, might go to the pond and see what fortune
had brought them. At daybreak Job was to awaken him,
but his own eagerness for the sport had served as a réveille
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.




“Silentium!”
whispered the other; “'tis I, my boy!”
and, holding his hand out, Harry had no difficulty in
recognizing his master and friend, Father Holt. A curtain
was over the window of the chaplain's room that looked
to the court, and Harry saw that the smoke came from a
great flame of papers which were burning in a brazier when
he entered the chaplain's room. After giving a 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 seen before.




Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad's attention fixed at
once on this hole. “That is right, Harry,” he said; “faithful
little famuli see all and say nothing. You are faithful,
I know.”




“I know I would go to the stake for you,” said Harry.


[pg 047]


“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 was, and without thinking, at the paper
before him; and though he had seen it, could not understand
a word of it, the letters being quite clear enough, but
quite without meaning. They burned the papers, 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 ecclesiastics to wear their proper dress; and he
was, in consequence, in no wise astonished that the priest
should now appear before him in a riding dress, with large
buff leather boots, and a feather to his hat, plain, but such
as gentlemen wore.




“You know the secret of the cupboard,” said he, laughing,
“and must be prepared for other mysteries;” and he opened—but
not a secret cupboard this time—only a wardrobe,
which he usually kept locked, and from which he now took
out two or three dresses and perukes 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 was at home, he and his pupil practised this
exercise, in which the lad became a very great proficient),
a military coat and cloak, and a farmer's smock, and placed
them in the large hole over the mantelpiece from which
the papers had been taken.




“If they miss the cupboard,” he said, “they will not find
these; if they find them, they'll tell no tales, except that
Father Holt 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 leave him; but “No”, the priest said; “I may very likely
come back with my lord in a few days. We are to be
tolerated; we are not to be persecuted. But they may take
a fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return; and, as
gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose
to 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
[pg 048]
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 may testify, with a safe
conscience, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the
last time I was here before I went away to London; and
it will be daybreak directly, and I must be away before
Lockwood is stirring.”




“Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?” Esmond asked.
Holt laughed; he was never more gay or good-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 casement strongly barred, and looking
on to the green in front of the Hall. This window was too
high to reach from the ground; but, mounting on a buffet
which stood beneath it, Father Holt showed me how, by
pressing on the base of the window, the whole framework
of lead, glass, and iron stanchions, descended into a cavity
worked below, from which it could be drawn and restored
to its usual place from without; a broken pane being
purposely open to admit the hand which was to work upon
the spring of the machine.




“When I am gone,” Father Holt said, “you may push
away the buffet, so that no one may fancy that an exit
has been made that way; lock the door; place the key—where
shall we put the key?—under Chrysostom on the
book-shelf; 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,
[pg 049]
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 casement closed, the
bars fixing as firm as ever seemingly in the stone arch overhead.
When Father Holt next arrived at Castlewood, 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, however, 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 downright No, in the interest of justice or your friend, and
in reply to a question that may be prejudicial to either, is
not criminal, but, on the contrary, praiseworthy; and as
lawful a way as the other of eluding a wrongful demand.
For instance (says he), suppose a good citizen, who had seen
his Majesty take refuge there, had been asked, “Is King
Charles up that oak-tree?” His duty would have been
not to say, Yes—so that the Cromwellians should seize
the king and murder him like his father—but No; his
Majesty being private in the tree, and therefore not to be
seen there by loyal eyes: all which instruction, in religion
and morals, as well as in the rudiments of the tongues and
sciences, the boy took eagerly and with gratitude from his
tutor. When, then, Holt was gone, and told Harry not to
see him, it was as if he had never been. And he had this
answer pat when he came to be questioned a few days after.




The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young
Esmond learned from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best
cassock (though the roads were muddy, and he never was
known to wear his silk, only his stuff one, a-horseback), with a
great orange cockade in his broad-leafed hat, and Nahum, his
clerk, ornamented with a like decoration. The doctor was
walking up and down, in front of his parsonage, when little
Esmond saw him, and heard him say he was going to pay
[pg 050]
his duty to his highness the prince, as he mounted his pad
and rode away with Nahum behind. The village people
had orange cockades too, and his friend the blacksmith's
laughing daughter pinned one into Harry's old hat, which
he tore out indignantly when they bid him to cry, “God
save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant religion!”
but the people only laughed, for they liked the boy in the
village, where his solitary condition moved the general pity,
and where he found friendly welcomes and faces in many
houses. Father Holt had many friends there too, for he
not only would fight the blacksmith at theology, never
losing his temper, but 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 would
be pretty sure to occasion. Tom Tusher was sent off early
however to a school in London, whither his father took him
and a volume of sermons in the first year of the reign of
King James; and Tom returned but once, a year afterwards,
to Castlewood for many years of his scholastic and
collegiate life. Thus there was less danger to Tom of a perversion
of his faith by the director, who scarce ever saw him,
than there was to Harry, who constantly was in the vicar's
company; but as long as Harry's religion was his Majesty's,
and my lord's, and my lady's, the doctor said gravely, it
should not be for him to disturb or disquiet him: it was
far from him to say that his Majesty's Church was not a
branch of the Catholic Church; upon which Father Holt
used, according to his custom, to laugh and say, that the
Holy Church throughout all the world, and the noble army
of martyrs, were very much obliged to the doctor.




It was while Dr. Tusher was away at Salisbury that there
came a troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered
in Castlewood, and some of them came up to the Hall,
where they took possession, robbing nothing however
[pg 051]
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
Harry, he replied, that Father Holt was a very kind man
to him, and a very learned man, and Harry supposed
would tell him none of his secrets if he had any. He was
about eleven years old at this time, and looked as innocent
as boys of his age.




The family were away more than six months, and when
they returned 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 of
the Catholic faith were apprehended by my lady, who
said she did not believe that there was a word of truth in
the promises of toleration that Dutch monster 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 growing of an age to understand what was passing
about him, and something of the characters of the people
he lived with.




“We are prisoners,” says she; “in everything but chains,
we are prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to
dungeons, or strike off my head from this poor little throat”
(and she clasped it in her long fingers). “The blood of the
Esmonds will always flow freely for their kings. We are
not like the Churchills—the Judases, who kiss their master
and betray him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive
in the royal cause” (no doubt it was to that fatal business
of losing the place of Groom of the Posset to which her
ladyship alluded, as she did half a dozen times in the day).
“Let the tyrant of Orange bring his rack and his odious
Dutch tortures—the beast! the wretch! I spit upon him
and defy him. Cheerfully will I lay this head upon the
block; cheerfully will I accompany my lord to the scaffold:
we will cry, ‘God save King James!’ with our dying breath,
and smile in the face of the executioner.” And she told her
[pg 052]
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 I that knelt—at least he spoke to me with
a voice that reminded me of days gone by. ‘Egad!’ said
his Majesty, ‘you should go to the Prince of Orange, if you
want anything.’ ‘No, sire,’ I replied, ‘I would not kneel
to a usurper; the Esmond that would have served your
Majesty will never be groom to a traitor's posset.’ The
royal exile smiled, even in the midst of his misfortune; he
deigned to raise me with words of consolation. The viscount,
my husband, himself, could not be angry at the
august salute with which he honoured me!”




The public misfortune had the effect of making my lord
and his lady better friends than they ever had been since
their courtship. My lord viscount had shown both loyalty
and spirit, when these were rare qualities in the dispirited
party about the king; and the praise he got elevated him
not a little in his wife's good opinion, and perhaps in his
own. He wakened up from the listless and supine life which
he had been leading; was always riding to and fro in consultation
with this friend or that of the king's; the page of
course knowing 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 ecclesiastic (Harry knew
the latter though they came in all sorts of disguises), were
continually arriving and departing. My lord made long
absences and sudden reappearances, using sometimes the
means of exit which Father Holt had employed, though
how often the little window in the chaplain's room let in
or let out my lord and his friends, Harry could not tell. He
stoutly kept his promise to the father of not prying, and if
at midnight from his little room he heard noises of persons
stirring in the next chamber, he turned round to the wall
and hid his curiosity under his pillow until it fell asleep.
Of course he could not help remarking that the priest's
journeys were constant, and understanding by a hundred
signs that some active though secret business employed
[pg 053]
him: what this was may pretty well be guessed by what
soon happened to my lord.




No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my
lord came back, but a guard was in the village; and one
or other of them was always on the Green keeping a look-out
on our great gate, and those who went out and in. Lockwood
said that at night especially every person who came in or
went out was watched by the outlying sentries. 'Twas
lucky that we had a gate which their worships knew nothing
about. My lord and Father Holt must have made constant
journeys at night: once or twice little Harry acted as their
messenger and discreet little aide de camp. He remembers
he was bidden to go into the village with his fishing-rod,
enter certain houses, ask for a drink of water, and tell the
good man, “There would be a horse-market at Newbury
next Thursday,” and so carry the same message on to the
next house on his list.




He did not know what the message meant at the time,
nor what was happening: which may as well, however, for
clearness' sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange
being gone to Ireland, where the king was ready to meet him
with a great army, it was determined that a great rising of
his Majesty's party should take place in this country: and
my lord was to head the force in our county. Of late he
had taken a greater lead in affairs than before, having the
indefatigable Mr. Holt at his elbow, and my lady viscountess
strongly urging him on; and my Lord Sark being in the
Tower a prisoner, and Sir Wilmot Crawley, of Queen's
Crawley, having gone over to the Prince of Orange's side—my
lord became the most considerable person in our part
of the county for the affairs of the king.




It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Greys and
Dragoons, then quartered at Newbury, should declare for the
king on a certain day, when likewise the gentry affected to
his Majesty's cause were to come in with their tenants and
adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops at
Reading under Ginckel; and, these overthrown, and their
indomitable little master away in Ireland, 'twas thought
that our side might move on London itself, and a confident
victory was predicted for the king.




As these great matters were in agitation, my lord lost
his listless manner and seemed to gain health; my lady
did not scold him, Mr. Holt came to and fro, busy always;
[pg 054]
and little Harry longed to have been a few inches taller,
that he might draw a sword in this good cause.




One day, it must have been about the month of July,
1690, my lord, in a great horseman's coat, under which
Harry could see the shining of a steel breastplate he had on,
called little Harry to him, put the hair off the child's forehead,
and kissed him, and bade God bless him in such an
affectionate way as he never had used before. Father Holt
blessed him too, and then they took leave of my lady
viscountess, who came from her apartment with a pocket-handkerchief
to her eyes, and her gentlewoman and Mrs.
Tusher 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, who
went down and held my lord's stirrups for him to mount;
there were two servants waiting there too—and they rode
out of Castlewood gate.




As they crossed the bridge Harry could see an officer in
scarlet ride up touching his hat, and address my lord.




The party stopped, and came to some parley or discussion,
which presently ended, my lord putting his horse into a
canter after taking off his hat and making a bow to the
officer who rode alongside him step for step: the trooper
accompanying him, falling back, and riding with my lord's
two men. They cantered over the Green, and behind the
elms (my lord waving his hand, Harry thought), and so
they disappeared.




That evening we had a great panic, the cow-boy coming
at milking-time riding one of our horses, which he had
found grazing at the outer park wall.




All night my lady viscountess was in a very quiet and
subdued mood. She scarce found fault with anybody;
she played at cards for six hours; little page Esmond went
to sleep. He prayed for my lord and the good cause before
closing his eyes.




It was quite in the grey of the morning when the porter's
[pg 055]
bell rang, and old Lockwood waking up, let in one of my
lord's servants, who had gone with him in the morning, and
who returned with a melancholy story.




The officer who rode up to my lord had, it appeared, said
to him, that it was his duty to inform his lordship that he
was not under arrest, but under surveillance, and to request
him not to ride abroad that day.




My lord replied that riding was good for his health, that
if the captain chose to accompany him he was welcome, and
it was then that he made a bow, and they cantered away
together.




When he came on to Wansey Down, my lord all of a
sudden pulled up, and the party came to a halt at the crossway.




“Sir” says he to the officer, “we are four to two; will you
be so kind as to take that road, and leave me to go mine?”




“Your road is mine, my lord,” says the officer.




“Then,” says my lord, but he had no time to say more,
for the officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his lordship;
as at the same moment Father Holt, drawing a pistol, shot
the officer through the head.




It was done, and the man dead in an instant of time.
The orderly, gazing at the officer, looked scared for a moment,
and galloped away for his life.




“Fire! fire!” cries out Father Holt, sending another
shot after the trooper, but the two servants were too much
surprised to use their pieces, and my lord calling to them to
hold their hands, the fellow got away.




“Mr. Holt, qui
pensoit à tout,” says Blaise, “gets off his
horse, examines the pockets of the dead officer for papers,
gives his money to us two, and says, ‘The wine is drawn,
monsieur le marquis,’—why did he say marquis to monsieur
le vicomte?—‘we must drink it.’




“The poor gentleman's horse was a better one than that
I rode,” Blaise continues; “Mr. Holt bids me get on him,
and so I gave a cut to Whitefoot, and she trotted home.
We rode on towards Newbury; we heard firing towards
midday: at two o'clock a horseman comes up to us as we
were giving our cattle water at an inn—and says, All is done.
The Ecossois declared an hour too soon—General Ginckel
was down upon them. The whole thing was at an end.




“ ‘And we've shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly
escape,’ says my lord.


[pg 056]


“ ‘Blaise,’ says Mr. Holt, writing two lines on his table-book,
one for my lady, and one for you, Master Harry;
‘you must go back to Castlewood, and deliver these,’ and
behold me.”




And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to
himself, which only said, “Burn the papers in the cupboard,
burn this. You know nothing about anything.” Harry
read this, ran upstairs to his mistress's apartment, where
her gentlewoman slept near to the door, made her bring a
light and wake my lady, into whose hands he gave the
paper. She was a wonderful object to look at in her night
attire, nor had Harry ever seen the like.




As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped
back to the chaplain's room, opened the secret cupboard
over the fireplace, burned all the papers in it, and, as he
had seen the priest do before, took down one of his reverence's
manuscript sermons, and half burnt that in the brazier.
By the time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight.
Harry ran back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman
ushered him again into her ladyship's chamber; she told
him (from behind her nuptial curtains) to bid the coach
be got ready, and that she would ride away anon.




But the mysteries of her ladyship's toilet were as awfully
long on this day as on any other, and, long after the coach
was ready, my lady was still attiring herself. And just as
the viscountess stepped forth from her room, ready for
departure, young Job Lockwood comes running up from
the village with news that a lawyer, three officers, and
twenty or four-and-twenty soldiers, were marching thence
upon the house. Job had but two minutes the start of them,
and, ere he had well told his story, the troop rode into our
courtyard.




[pg 057]





 Chapter VI. The Issue Of The Plots.—The Death Of Thomas, Third Viscount
Of Castlewood; And The Imprisonment Of His Viscountess



At first my lady was for dying like Mary, Queen of Scots (to
whom she fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and,
stroking her scraggy neck, said, “They will find Isabel of
Castlewood is equal to her fate.” Her gentlewoman,
Victoire, persuaded her that her prudent course was, as she
could not fly, to receive the troops as though she suspected
nothing, and that her chamber was the best place wherein
to await them. So her black japan casket which Harry
was to carry to the coach was taken back to her ladyship's
chamber, whither the maid and mistress retired. Victoire
came out presently, bidding the page to say her ladyship was
ill, confined to her bed with the rheumatism.




By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood.
Harry Esmond saw them from the window of the tapestry
parlour; a couple of sentinels were posted at the gate—a
half-dozen more walked towards the stable; and some
others, preceded by their commander, and a man in black,
a lawyer probably, were conducted by one of the servants
to the stair leading up to the part of the house which my
lord and lady inhabited.




So the captain, a handsome kind man, and the lawyer,
came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlour, and
where now was nobody but young Harry Esmond, the page.




“Tell your mistress, little man,” says the captain kindly,
“that we must speak to her.”




“My mistress is ill abed,” said the page.




“What complaint has she?” asked the captain.




The boy said, “the rheumatism!”




“Rheumatism! that's a sad complaint,” continues the
good-natured captain; “and the coach is in the yard to
fetch the doctor, I suppose?”




“I don't know,” says the boy.




“And how long has her ladyship been ill?”




“I don't know,” says the boy.




“When did my lord go away?”




“Yesterday night.”


[pg 058]


“With Father Holt?”




“With Mr. Holt.”




“And which way did they travel?” asks the lawyer.




“They travelled without me,” says the page.




“We must see Lady Castlewood.”




“I have orders that nobody goes in to her ladyship—she
is sick,” says the page; but at this moment Victoire came
out. “Hush!” says she; and, as if not knowing that any
one was near, “What's this noise?” says she. “Is this
gentleman the doctor?”




“Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood,” says the lawyer,
pushing by.




The curtains of her ladyship's room were down, and the
chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her
head, and propped up by her pillows, looking none the less
ghastly because of the red which was still on her cheeks, and
which she could not afford to forgo.




“Is that the doctor?” she said.




“There is no use with this deception, madam,” Captain
Westbury said (for so he was named). “My duty is to arrest
the person of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring
peer—of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood—and Henry
Holt, known under various other names and designations,
a Jesuit priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late
king's time, and is now at the head of the conspiracy which
was about to break out in this country against the authority
of their Majesties King William and Queen Mary—and my
orders are to search the house for such papers or traces of
the conspiracy as may be found here. Your ladyship will
please to give me your keys, and it will be as well for yourself
that you should help us, in every way, in our search.”




“You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot
move,” said the lady, looking uncommonly ghastly as she
sat up in her bed, where however she had had her cheeks
painted, and a new cap put on, so that she might at least
look her best when the officers came.




“I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so
that your ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may have
an arm to lean on,” Captain Westbury said. “Your woman
will show me where I am to look;” and Madame Victoire,
chattering in her half-French and half-English jargon, opened
while the captain examined one drawer after another; but,
as Harry Esmond thought, rather carelessly, with a smile on
[pg 059]
his face, as if he was only conducting the examination for
form's sake.




Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down,
stretching out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried,
“Non, jamais,
monsieur l'officier! Jamais! I will rather
die than let you see this wardrobe.”




But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile
on his face, which, when the box was opened, turned into
a fair burst of laughter. It contained—not papers regarding
the conspiracy—but my lady's wigs, washes, and rouge-pots,
and Victoire said men were monsters, as the captain went
on with his perquisition. He tapped the back to see whether
or no it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the
cupboard, my lady from her bed called out with a voice that
did not sound like that of a very sick woman, “Is it your
commission to insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen,
captain?”




“These articles are only dangerous when worn by your
ladyship,” the captain said with a low bow, and a mock
grin of politeness. “I have found nothing which concerns
the Government as yet—only the weapons with which beauty
is authorized to kill,” says he, pointing to a wig with his
sword-tip. “We must now proceed to search the rest of the
house.”




“You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with
me,” cried my lady, pointing to the soldier.




“What can I do, madam? Somebody you must have
to smooth your pillow and bring your medicine—permit
me——”




“Sir!” screamed out my lady—




“Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed,” the captain
then said, rather sternly, “I must have in four of my men
to lift you off in the sheet: I must examine this bed, in
a word; papers may be hidden in a bed as elsewhere; we
know that very well and——”




Here it was her ladyship's turn to shriek, for the captain,
with his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came
to “burn”, as they say in the play of forfeits, and wrenching
away one of the pillows, said, “Look, did not I tell you so?
Here is a pillow stuffed with paper.”




“Some villain has betrayed us,” cried out my lady, sitting
up in the bed, showing herself full dressed under her
night-rail.


[pg 060]


“And now your ladyship can move, I am sure; permit
me to give you my hand to rise. You will have to travel
for some distance, as far as Hexton Castle to-night. Will
you have your coach? Your woman shall attend you if you
like—and the japan-box?”




“Sir! you don't strike a man when he is down,” said my
lady, with some dignity: “can you not spare a woman?”




“Your ladyship must please to rise and let me search the
bed,” said the captain; “there is no more time to lose in
bandying talk.”




And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up.
Harry Esmond recollected to the end of his life that figure,
with the brocade dress and the white night-rail, and the
gold-clocked red stockings, and white red-heeled shoes
sitting up in the bed, and stepping down from it. The
trunks were ready packed for departure in her ante-room,
and the horses ready harnessed in the stable: about all
which the captain seemed to know, by information got
from some quarter or other; and, whence, Esmond could
make a pretty shrewd guess in after-times, when Dr. Tusher
complained that King William's Government had basely
treated him for services done in that cause.




And here he may relate, though he was then too young
to know all that was happening, what the papers contained,
of which Captain Westbury had made a seizure, and which
papers had been transferred from the japan-box to the bed
when the officers arrived.




There was a list, of gentlemen of the county in Father
Holt's handwriting—Mr. Freeman's (King James's) friends—a
similar paper being found among those of Sir John
Fenwick and Mr. Coplestone, who suffered death for this
conspiracy.




There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of
Esmond on my Lord Castlewood, and the heirs male of his
body; his appointment as lord lieutenant of the county,
and major-general.7

[pg 061]


There were various letters from the nobility and gentry,
some ardent and some doubtful, in the king's service;
and (very luckily for him) two letters concerning Colonel
Francis Esmond; one from Father Holt, which said, “I have
been to see this colonel at his house at Walcote near to Wells,
where he resides since the king's departure, and pressed him
very eagerly in Mr. Freeman's cause, showing him the great
advantage he would have by trading with that merchant,
offering him large premiums there as agreed between us.
But he says no: he considers Mr. Freeman the head of the
firm, will never trade against him or embark with any other
trading company, but considers his duty was done when
Mr. Freeman left England. This colonel seems to care
more for his wife and his beagles than for affairs. He asked
me much about young H. E., ‘that bastard,’ as he called
him: doubting my lord's intentions respecting him. I reassured
him on this head, stating what I knew of the lad,
and our intentions respecting him, but with regard to Freeman
he was inflexible.”




And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kinsman,
to say that one Captain Holton had been with him
offering him large bribes to join, you know who, and saying
that the head of the house of Castlewood was deeply engaged
in that quarter. But for his part he had broke his sword
when the K. left the country, and would never again fight
in that quarrel. The P. of O. was a man, at least, of a noble
courage, and his duty and, as he thought, every Englishman's,
was to keep the country quiet, and the French out
of it: and, in fine, that he would have nothing to do with
the scheme.




Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of
the pillow, Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount
Castlewood, told Henry Esmond afterwards, when the
letters were shown to his lordship, who congratulated himself,
as he had good reason, that he had not joined in the
scheme which proved so fatal to many concerned in it. But,
naturally, the lad knew little about these circumstances
when they happened under his eyes: only being aware that
his patron and his mistress were in some trouble, which
had caused the flight of the one, and the apprehension of
the other by the officers of King William.


[pg 062]


The seizure of the papers effected, the gentlemen did not
pursue their further search through Castlewood house very
rigorously. They examined Mr. Holt's room, being led
thither by his pupil, who showed, as the father had bidden
him, the place where the key of his chamber lay, opened
the door for the gentlemen, and conducted them into
the room.




When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in
the brazier, they examined them eagerly enough, and their
young guide was a little amused at their perplexity.




“What are these?” says one.




“They're written in a foreign language,” says the lawyer.
“What are you laughing at, little whelp?” adds he, turning
round as he saw the boy smile.




“Mr. Holt said they were sermons,” Harry said, “and bade
me to burn them;” which indeed was true of those papers.




“Sermons, indeed—it's treason, I would lay a wager,”
cries the lawyer.




“Egad! it's Greek to me,” says Captain Westbury. “Can
you read it, little boy?”




“Yes, sir, a little,” Harry said.




“Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril,” said
the lawyer. And Harry began to translate:—




“Hath not one of your own writers said, ‘The children
of Adam are now labouring as much as he himself ever did,
about the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, shaking
the boughs thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the most
part unmindful of the tree of life.’ O blind generation!
'tis this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has led you”—and
here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the page
being charred by the fire: and asked of the lawyer—“Shall
I go on, sir?”




The lawyer said—“This boy is deeper than he seems:
who knows that he is not laughing at us?”




“Let's have in Dick the Scholar,” cried Captain Westbury,
laughing; and he called to a trooper out of the window—“Ho,
Dick, come in here and construe.”




A thick-set soldier, with a square good-humoured face,
came in at the summons, saluting his officer.




“Tell us what is this, Dick,” says the lawyer.




“My name is Steele, sir,” says the soldier. “I may be
Dick for my friends, but I don't name gentlemen of your
cloth amongst them.”


[pg 063]


“Well then, Steele.”




“Mr. Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gentleman
of his Majesty's Horse Guards, be pleased not to be
so familiar.”




“I didn't know, sir,” said the lawyer.




“How should you? I take it you are not accustomed to
meet with gentlemen,” says the trooper.




“Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper,” says Westbury.




“'Tis Latin,” says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting
his officer, “and from a sermon of Mr. Cudworth's,” and he
translated the words pretty much as Henry Esmond had
rendered them.




“What a young scholar you are,” says the captain to the
boy.




“Depend on't, he knows more than he tells,” says the
lawyer. “I think we will pack him off in the coach with
old Jezebel.”




“For construing a bit of Latin?” said the captain very
good-naturedly.




“I would as lief go there as anywhere,” Harry Esmond
said, simply, “for there is nobody to care for me.”




There must have been something touching in the child's
voice, or in this description of his solitude—for the captain
looked at him very good-naturedly, and the trooper, called
Steele, put his hand kindly on the lad's head, and said some
words in the Latin tongue.




“What does he say?” says the lawyer.




“Faith, ask Dick himself,” cried Captain Westbury.




“I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had
learned to succour the miserable, and that's not your trade,
Mr. Sheepskin,” said the trooper.




“You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr. Corbet,”
the captain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by
a kind face and kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured
champion.




The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach; and
the countess and Victoire came down and were put into the
vehicle. This woman, who quarrelled with Harry Esmond
all day, was melted at parting with him, and called him
“dear angel”, and “poor infant”, and a hundred other names.




The viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade
him always be faithful to the house of Esmond. “If evil
[pg 064]
should happen to my lord,” says she, “his successor I trust
will be found, and give you protection. Situated as I am,
they will not dare wreak their vengeance on me now.” And
she kissed a medal she wore with great fervour, and Henry
Esmond knew not in the least what her meaning was; but
hath since learned that, old as she was, she was for ever
expecting, by the good offices of saints and relics, to have
an heir to the title of Esmond.




Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced
into the secrets of politics in which his patrons were implicated;
for they put but few questions to the boy (who was
little of stature, and looked much younger than his age),
and such questions as they put he answered cautiously
enough, and professing even more ignorance than he had,
for which his examiners willingly enough gave him credit.
He did not say a word about the window or the cupboard
over the fireplace; and these secrets quite escaped the
eyes of the searchers.




So then my lady was consigned to her coach, and sent
off to Hexton, with her woman and the man of law to bear
her company, a couple of troopers riding on either side of
the coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging
as it were to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The
captain and a guard of men remained in possession there;
and the soldiers, who were very good-natured and kind,
ate my lord's mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves
comfortable, as they well might do, in such pleasant
quarters.




The captains had their dinner served in my lord's tapestry
parlour, and poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait
upon Captain Westbury's chair, as his custom had been
to serve his lord when he sat there.




After the departure of the countess, Dick the Scholar
took Harry Esmond under his special protection, and would
examine him in his humanities, and talk to him both of
French and Latin, in which tongues the lad found, and his
new friend was willing enough to acknowledge, that he was
even more proficient than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he
had learned them from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom and
whose goodness Harry was never tired of speaking, Dick,
rather to the boy's surprise, who began to have an early
shrewdness, like many children bred up alone, showed
a great deal of theological science, and knowledge of the
[pg 065]
points at issue between the two Churches; so that he and
Harry would have hours of controversy together, in which
the boy was certainly worsted by the arguments of this
singular trooper. “I am no common soldier,” Dick would
say, and indeed it was easy to see by his learning, breeding,
and many accomplishments, that he was not. “I am of
one of the most ancient families in the Empire; I have had
my education at a famous school, and a famous university;
I learned my first rudiments of Latin near to Smithfield,
in London, where the martyrs were roasted.”




“You hanged as many of ours,” interposed Harry; “and,
for the matter of persecution, Father Holt told me that
a young gentleman of Edinburgh, eighteen years of age,
student at the college there, was hanged for heresy only
last year, though he recanted, and solemnly asked pardon
for his errors.”




“Faith! there has been too much persecution on both
sides: but 'twas you taught us.”




“Nay, 'twas the pagans began it,” cried the lad, and
began to instance a number of saints of the Church, from
the Protomartyr downwards—“this one's fire went out
under him: that one's oil cooled in the cauldron: at a
third holy head the executioner chopped three times and
it would not come off. Show us martyrs in your Church
for whom such miracles have been done.”




“Nay,” says the trooper gravely, “the miracles of the
first three centuries belong to my Church as well as yours,
Master Papist,” and then added, with something of a smile
upon his countenance, and a queer look at Harry—“And
yet, my little catechizer, I have sometimes thought about
those miracles, that there was not much good in them, since
the victim's head always finished by coming off at the
third or fourth chop, and the cauldron, if it did not boil
one day, boiled the next. Howbeit, in our times, the
Church has lost that questionable advantage of respites.
There never was a shower to put out Ridley's fire, nor an
angel to turn the edge of Campion's axe. The rack tore
the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and Sympson the Protestant
alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes die willingly
enough. I have read in Monsieur Rycaut's History of the
Turks, of thousands of Mahomet's followers rushing upon
death in battle as upon certain Paradise; and in the Great
Mogul's dominions people fling themselves by hundreds
[pg 066]
under the cars of the idols annually, and the widows burn
themselves on their husbands' bodies, as 'tis well known.
'Tis not the dying for a faith that's so hard, Master Harry—every
man of every nation has done that—'tis the living
up to it that is difficult, as I know to my cost,” he added,
with a sigh. “And ah!” he added, “my poor lad, I am not
strong enough to convince thee by my life—though to die
for my religion would give me the greatest of joys—but
I had a dear friend in Magdalen College in Oxford; I wish
Joe Addison were here to convince thee, as he quickly could—for
I think he's a match for the whole College of Jesuits;
and what's more, in his life too. In that very sermon of
Dr. Cudworth's which your priest was quoting from, and
which suffered martyrdom in the brazier,” Dick added, with
a smile, “I had a thought of wearing the black coat (but
was ashamed of my life you see, and took to this sorry red
one)—I have often thought of Joe Addison—Doctor
Cudworth says, ‘A good conscience is the best looking-glass
of Heaven’—and there's a serenity in my friend's
face which always reflects it—I wish you could see him,
Harry.”




“Did he do you a great deal of good?” asked the lad,
simply.




“He might have done,” said the other—“at least he taught
me to see and approve better things. 'Tis my own fault,
deteriora sequi.”




“You seem very good,” the boy said.




“I'm not what I seem, alas!” answered the trooper—and
indeed, as it turned out, poor Dick told the truth—for that
very night, at supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of
the troop took their repasts, and passed most part of their
days dicing and smoking of tobacco, and singing and cursing,
over the Castlewood ale—Harry Esmond found Dick the
Scholar in a woful state of drunkenness. He hiccuped
out a sermon; and his laughing companions bade him sing
a hymn, on which Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel
through the body who insulted his religion, made for his
sword, which was hanging on the wall, and fell down flat
on the floor under it, saying to Harry, who ran forward to
help him, “Ah, little Papist, I wish Joseph Addison was
here!”




Though the troopers of the king's Life Guards were all
gentlemen, yet the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant
[pg 067]
and vulgar boors to Harry Esmond, with the exception of
this good-natured Corporal Steele the Scholar, and Captain
Westbury and Lieutenant Trant, who were always kind
to the lad. They remained for some weeks or months
encamped in Castlewood, and Harry learned from them,
from time to time, how the lady at Hexton Castle was
treated, and the particulars of her confinement there. 'Tis
known that King William was disposed to deal very leniently
with the gentry who remained faithful to the old king's
cause; and no prince usurping a crown, as his enemies
said he did (righteously taking it as I think now), ever
caused less blood to be shed. As for women-conspirators,
he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked up the
others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton
Castle, and the gaoler's garden to walk in; and though
she repeatedly desired to be led out to execution, like Mary
Queen of Scots, there never was any thought of taking her
painted old head off, or any desire to do aught but keep her
person in security.




And it appeared she found that some were friends in her
misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperity, considered
as her worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my lord's
cousin and her ladyship's, who had married the Dean of
Winchester's daughter, and, since King James's departure
out of England, had lived not very far away from Hexton
town, hearing of his kinswoman's strait, and being friends
with Colonel Brice, commanding for King William in
Hexton, and with the Church dignitaries there, came to
visit her ladyship in prison, offering to his uncle's daughter
any friendly services which lay in his power. And he brought
his lady and little daughter to see the prisoner, to the
latter of whom, a child of great beauty, and many winning
ways, the old viscountess took not a little liking, although
between her ladyship and the child's mother there was little
more love than formerly. There are some injuries which
women never forgive one another; and Madam Francis
Esmond, in marrying her cousin, had done one of those
irretrievable wrongs to Lady Castlewood. But as she was
now humiliated, and in misfortune, Madam Francis could
allow a truce to her enmity, and could be kind for a while,
at least, to her husband's discarded mistress. So the little
Beatrix, her daughter, was permitted often to go and visit
the imprisoned viscountess, who, in so far as the child and
[pg 068]
its father were concerned, got to abate in her anger towards
that branch of the Castlewood family. And the letters of
Colonel Esmond coming to light, as has been said, and his
conduct being known to the king's council, the colonel was
put in a better position with the existing Government than
he had ever before been; any suspicions regarding his
loyalty were entirely done away; and so he was enabled
to be of more service to his kinswoman than he could otherwise
have been.




And now there befell an event by which this lady recovered
her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner,
and fatherless little Harry Esmond a new and most kind
protector and friend. Whatever that secret was which
Harry was to hear from my lord, the boy never heard it;
for that night when Father Holt arrived, and carried my
lord away with him, was the last on which Harry ever saw
his patron. What happened to my lord may be briefly
told here. Having found the horses at the place where
they were lying, my lord and Father Holt rode together
to Chatteris, where they had temporary refuge with one of
the father's penitents in that city; but the pursuit being
hot for them, and the reward for the apprehension of one
or the other considerable, it was deemed advisable that they
should separate; and the priest betook himself to other
places of retreat known to him, whilst my lord passed over
from Bristol into Ireland, in which kingdom King James
had a Court and an army. My lord was but a small addition
to this; bringing, indeed, only his sword and the few
pieces in his pocket; but the king received him with some
kindness and distinction in spite of his poor plight, confirmed
him in his new title of marquis, gave him a regiment, and
promised him further promotion. But titles or promotion
were not to benefit him now. My lord was wounded at the
fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from which field (long after
his master had set him an example), he lay for a while
concealed in the marshy country near to the town of Trim,
and more from catarrh and fever caught in the bogs than
from the steel of the enemy in the battle, sank and died.
May the earth lie light upon Thomas of Castlewood! He
who writes this must speak in charity, though this lord
did him and his two grievous wrongs: for one of these he
would have made amends, perhaps, had life been spared
him; but the other lay beyond his power to repair, though
[pg 069]
'tis to be hoped that a greater Power than a priest has
absolved him of it. He got the comfort of this absolution,
too, such as it was: a priest of Trim writing a letter to my
lady to inform her of this calamity.




But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our
priest's took two months or more on its journey from
Ireland to England: where, when it did arrive, it did not
find my lady at her own house; she was at the king's
house of Hexton Castle when the letter came to Castlewood,
but it was opened for all that by the officer in command
there.




Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter,
which Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and
Lieutenant Trant were on the green playing at bowls, young
Esmond looking on at the sport, or reading his book in the
arbour.




“Here's news for Frank Esmond,” says Captain Westbury;
“Harry, did you ever see Colonel Esmond?” And Captain
Westbury looked very hard at the boy as he spoke.




Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at
Hexton, at the ball there.




“And did he say anything?”




“He said what I don't care to repeat,” Harry answered.
For he was now twelve years of age: he knew what his
birth was and the disgrace of it; and he felt no love towards
the man who had most likely stained his mother's honour
and his own.




“Did you love my Lord Castlewood?”




“I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say,” the boy
answered, his eyes filling with tears.




“Something has happened to Lord Castlewood,” Captain
Westbury said, in a vary grave tone—“something which
must happen to us all. He is dead of a wound received
at the Boyne, fighting for King James.”




“I am glad my lord fought for the right cause,” the boy
said.




“It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than
face it on Tower Hill, as some of them may,” continued
Mr. Westbury. “I hope he has made some testament, or
provided for thee somehow. This letter says, he recommends
unicum filium suum
dilectissimum to his lady. I hope he
has left you more than that.”




Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of
[pg 070]
Heaven and Fate; but more lonely now, as it seemed to
him, than he had been all the rest of his life; and that night,
as he lay in his little room which he still occupied, the boy
thought with many a pang of shame and grief of his strange
and solitary condition:—how he had a father and no father;
a nameless mother that had been brought to ruin, perhaps,
by that very father whom Harry could only acknowledge
in secret and with a blush, and whom he could neither love
nor revere. And he sickened to think how Father Holt,
a stranger, and two or three soldiers, his acquaintances of
the last six weeks, were the only friends he had in the great
wide world, where he was now quite alone. The soul of
the boy was full of love, and he longed as he lay in the
darkness there for some one upon whom he could bestow it.
He remembers, and must to his dying day, the thoughts
and tears of that long night, the hours tolling through it.
Who was he and what? Why here rather than elsewhere?
I have a mind, he thought, to go to that priest at Trim, and
find out what my father said to him on his death-bed
confession. Is there any child in the whole world so unprotected
as I am? Shall I get up and quit this place, and
run to Ireland? With these thoughts and tears the lad
passed that night away until he wept himself to sleep.




The next day, the gentlemen of the guard who had heard
what had befallen him were more than usually kind to the
child, especially his friend Scholar Dick, who told him
about his own father's death, which had happened when
Dick was a child at Dublin, not quite five years of age.
“That was the first sensation of grief,” Dick said, “I ever
knew. I remember I went into the room where his body
lay, and my mother sat weeping beside it. I had my battledore
in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and calling
papa; on which my mother caught me in her arms, and
told me in a flood of tears papa could not hear me, and
would play with me no more, for they were going to put him
under ground, whence he could never come to us again.
And this,” said Dick kindly, “has made me pity all children
ever since; and caused me to love thee, my poor fatherless,
motherless lad. And if ever thou wantest a friend, thou
shalt have one in Richard Steele.”




Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful. But what
could Corporal Steele do for him? take him to ride a spare
horse, and be servant to the troop? Though there might
[pg 071]
be a bar in Harry Esmond's shield, it was a noble one. The
counsel of the two friends was, that little Harry should
stay where he was, and abide his fortune: so Esmond
stayed on at Castlewood, awaiting with no small anxiety
the fate, whatever it was, which was over him.









 Chapter VII. I Am Left At Castlewood An Orphan, And Find Most Kind Protectors
There



During the stay of the soldiers in Castlewood, honest Dick
the Scholar was the constant companion of the lonely little
orphan lad Harry Esmond: and they read together, and
they played bowls together, and when the other troopers
or their officers, who were free-spoken over their cups
(as was the way of that day, when neither men nor women
were over-nice), talked unbecomingly of their amours and
gallantries before the child, Dick, who very likely was
setting the whole company laughing, would stop their jokes
with a maxima debetur
pueris reverentia, and once offered to
lug out against another trooper called Hulking Tom, who
wanted to ask Harry Esmond a ribald question.




Also, Dick seeing that the child had, as he said, a sensibility
above his years, and a great and praiseworthy discretion,
confided to Harry his love for a vintner's daughter,
near to the Tollyard, Westminster, whom Dick addressed
as Saccharissa in many verses of his composition, and without
whom he said it would be impossible that he could
continue to live. He vowed this a thousand times in a day,
though Harry smiled to see the lovelorn swain had his
health and appetite as well as the most heart-whole trooper
in the regiment: and he swore Harry to secrecy too, which
vow the lad religiously kept, until he found that officers and
privates were all taken into Dick's confidence, and had the
benefit of his verses. And it must be owned likewise that,
while Dick was sighing after Saccharissa in London, he had
consolations in the country; for there came a wench out
of Castlewood village who had washed his linen, and who
cried sadly when she heard he was gone: and without
paying her bill too, which Harry Esmond took upon himself
[pg 072]
to discharge by giving the girl a silver pocket-piece, which
Scholar Dick had presented to him, when, with many
embraces and prayers for his prosperity, Dick parted from
him, the garrison of Castlewood being ordered away. Dick
the Scholar said he would never forget his young friend,
nor indeed did he: and Harry was sorry when the kind
soldiers vacated Castlewood, looking forward with no small
anxiety (for care and solitude had made him thoughtful
beyond his years) to his fate when the new lord and lady of
the house came to live there. He had lived to be past
twelve years old now; and had never had a friend, save
this wild trooper perhaps, and Father Holt; and had a fond
and affectionate heart, tender to weakness, that would fain
attach itself to somebody, and did not seem at rest until
it had found a friend who would take charge of it.




The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and
love the gracious person, the fair apparition of whose beauty
and kindness had so moved him when he first beheld her,
became soon a devoted affection and passion of gratitude,
which entirely filled his young heart, that as yet, except in
the case of dear Father Holt, had had very little kindness
for which to be thankful. O
Dea certè, thought he, remembering
the lines out of the Aeneis which Mr. Holt had taught
him. There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or
gesture of this fair creature, an angelical softness and bright
pity—in motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the
tone of her voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial,
gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It
cannot be called love, that a lad of twelve years of age, little
more than a menial, felt for an exalted lady, his mistress:
but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her
errand and run on it before she had spoken it; to watch,
to follow, adore her; became the business of his life.
Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own,
and never thought of or suspected the admiration of her
little pigmy adorer.




My lady had on her side her three idols: first and foremost,
Jove and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry's patron,
the good Viscount of Castlewood. All wishes of his were
laws with her. If he had a headache, she was ill. If he
frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and was
charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the
window to see him ride away, her little son crowing on her
[pg 073]
arm, or on the watch till his return. She made dishes for
his dinner: spiced his wine for him: made the toast for
his tankard at breakfast: hushed the house when he slept
in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If my
lord was not a little proud of his beauty, my lady adored it.
She clung to his arm as he paced the terrace, her two fair
little hands clasped round his great one; her eyes were
never tired of looking in his face and wondering at its
perfection. Her little son was his son, and had his father's
look and curly brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his
daughter, and had his eyes—were there ever such beautiful
eyes in the world? All the house was arranged so as to
bring him ease and give him pleasure. She liked the small
gentry round about to come and pay him court, never
caring for admiration for herself; those who wanted to
be well with the lady must admire him. Not regarding
her dress, she would wear a gown to rags, because he
had once liked it: and, if he brought her a brooch or a
ribbon, would prefer it to all the most costly articles of her
wardrobe.




My lord went to London every year for six weeks, and the
family being too poor to appear at Court with any figure,
he went alone. It was not until he was out of sight that
her face showed any sorrow: and what a joy when he came
back! What preparation before his return! The fond
creature had his arm-chair at the chimney-side—delighting
to put the children in it, and look at them there. Nobody
took his place at the table; but his silver tankard stood
there as when my lord was present.




A pretty sight it was to see, during my lord's absence, or
on those many mornings when sleep or headache kept him
abed, this fair young lady of Castlewood, her little daughter
at her knee, and her domestics gathered round her reading
the Morning Prayer of the English Church. Esmond long
remembered how she looked and spoke kneeling reverently
before the sacred book, the sun shining upon her golden
hair until it made a halo round about her. A dozen of
the servants of the house kneeled in a line opposite their
mistress; for awhile Harry Esmond kept apart from these
mysteries, but Doctor Tusher showing him that the prayers
read were those of the Church of all ages, and the boy's
own inclination prompting him to be always as near as he
might to his mistress, and to think all things she did right,
[pg 074]
from listening to the prayers in the antechamber, he came
presently to kneel down with the rest of the household in
the parlour; and before a couple of years my lady had made
a thorough convert. Indeed, the boy loved his catechizer
so much that he would have subscribed to anything she
bade him, and was never tired of listening to her fond
discourse and simple comments upon the book, which she
read to him in a voice of which it was difficult to resist
the sweet persuasion and tender appealing kindness. This
friendly controversy, and the intimacy which it occasioned,
bound the lad more fondly than ever to his mistress. The
happiest period of all his life was this; and the young
mother, with her daughter and son, and the orphan lad
whom she protected, read and worked and played, and
were children together. If the lady looked forward—as
what fond woman does not?—towards the future, she had
no plans from which Harry Esmond was left out; and
a thousand and a thousand times in his passionate and
impetuous way he vowed that no power should separate
him from his mistress, and only asked for some chance to
happen by which he might show his fidelity to her. Now,
at the close of his life, as he sits and recalls in tranquillity
the happy and busy scenes of it, he can think, not ungratefully,
that he has been faithful to that early vow. Such
a life is so simple that years may be chronicled in a few
lines. But few men's life-voyages are destined to be all
prosperous; and this calm of which we are speaking was
soon to come to an end.




As Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found of
necessity much to read and think of outside that fond circle
of kinsfolk who had admitted him to join hand with them.
He read more books than they cared to study with him;
was alone in the midst of them many a time, and passed
nights over labours, futile perhaps, but in which they could
not join him. His dear mistress divined his thoughts with
her usual jealous watchfulness of affection: began to forebode
a time when he would escape from his home-nest;
and, at his eager protestations to the contrary, would only
sigh and shake her head. Before those fatal decrees in
life are executed, there are always secret previsions and
warning omens. When everything yet seems calm, we are
aware that the storm is coming. Ere the happy days were
over, two at least of that home-party felt that they were
[pg 075]
drawing to a close; and were uneasy, and on the look-out
for the cloud which was to obscure their calm.




'Twas easy for Harry to see, however much his lady persisted
in obedience and admiration for her husband, that my
lord tired of his quiet life, and grew weary, and then testy,
at those gentle bonds with which his wife would have held
him. As they say the Grand Lama of Thibet is very much
fatigued by his character of divinity, and yawns on his altar
as his bonzes kneel and worship him, many a home-god
grows heartily sick of the reverence with which his family
devotees pursue him, and sighs for freedom and for his old
life, and to be off the pedestal on which his dependants
would have him sit for ever, whilst they adore him, and ply
him with flowers, and hymns, and incense, and flattery;—so,
after a few years of his marriage, my honest Lord Castlewood
began to tire; all the high-flown raptures and devotional
ceremonies with which his wife, his chief priestess,
treated him, first sent him to sleep, and then drove him out
of doors; for the truth must be told, that my lord was a
jolly gentleman, with very little of the august or divine in
his nature, though his fond wife persisted in revering it—and,
besides, he had to pay a penalty for this love, which
persons of his disposition seldom like to defray: and, in
a word, if he had a loving wife, had a very jealous and exacting
one. Then he wearied of this jealousy: then he broke
away from it; then came, no doubt, complaints and
recriminations; then, perhaps, promises of amendment
not fulfilled; then upbraidings not the more pleasant
because they were silent, and only sad looks and tearful
eyes conveyed them. Then, perhaps, the pair reached that
other stage which is not uncommon in married life, when
the woman perceives that the god of the honeymoon is a god
no more; only a mortal like the rest of us—and so she looks
into her heart, and lo! vacuae sedes
et inania arcana. And
now, supposing our lady to have a fine genius and a brilliant
wit of her own, and the magic spell and infatuation removed
from her which had led her to worship as a god a very
ordinary mortal—and what follows? They live together,
and they dine together, and they say “my dear” and “my
love” as heretofore; but the man is himself, and the
woman herself: that dream of love is over, as everything
else is over in life; as flowers and fury, and griefs and
pleasures, are over.


[pg 076]


Very likely the Lady Castlewood had ceased to adore her
husband herself long before she got off her knees, or would
allow her household to discontinue worshipping him. To
do him justice, my lord never exacted this subservience:
he laughed and joked, and drank his bottle, and swore when
he was angry, much too familiarly for any one pretending
to sublimity; and did his best to destroy the ceremonial
with which his wife chose to surround him. And it required
no great conceit on young Esmond's part to see that his
own brains were better than his patron's, who, indeed,
never assumed any airs of superiority over the lad, or over
any dependant of his, save when he was displeased, in which
case he would express his mind, in oaths, very freely; and
who, on the contrary, perhaps, spoiled “Parson Harry”, as
he called young Esmond, by constantly praising his parts,
and admiring his boyish stock of learning.




It may seem ungracious in one who has received a hundred
favours from his patron to speak in any but a reverential
manner of his elders; but the present writer has had
descendants of his own, whom he has brought up with as
little as possible of the servility at present exacted by
parents from children (under which mask of duty there
often lurks indifference, contempt, or rebellion): and as he
would have his grandsons believe or represent him to be
not an inch taller than Nature has made him: so, with
regard to his past acquaintances, he would speak without
anger, but with truth, as far as he knows it, neither extenuating
nor setting down aught in malice.




So long, then, as the world moved according to Lord
Castlewood's wishes, he was good-humoured enough; of
a temper naturally sprightly and easy, liking to joke,
especially with his inferiors, and charmed to receive the
tribute of their laughter. All exercises of the body he
could perform to perfection—shooting at a mark and flying,
breaking horses, riding at the ring, pitching the quoit,
playing at all games with great skill. And not only did he
do these things well, but he thought he did them to perfection;
hence he was often tricked about horses, which he
pretended to know better than any jockey; was made to
play at ball and billiards by sharpers who took his money;
and came back from London wofully poorer each time than
he went, as the state of his affairs testified, when the sudden
accident came by which his career was brought to an end.


[pg 077]


He was fond of the parade of dress, and passed as many
hours daily at his toilette as an elderly coquette. A tenth
part of his day was spent in the brushing of his teeth and
the oiling of his hair, which was curling and brown, and
which he did not like to conceal under a periwig, such as
almost everybody of that time wore (we have the liberty of
our hair back now, but powder and pomatum along with it.
When, I wonder, will these monstrous poll-taxes of our
age be withdrawn, and men allowed to carry their colours,
black, red, or grey, as nature made them?) And, as he liked
her to be well dressed, his lady spared no pains in that matter
to please him; indeed, she would dress her head or cut it
off if he had bidden her.




It was a wonder to young Esmond, serving as page to my
lord and lady, to hear, day after day, to such company as
came, the same boisterous stories told by my lord, at which
his lady never failed to smile or hold down her head, and
Doctor Tusher to burst out laughing at the proper point, or
cry, “Fie, my lord, remember my cloth,” but with such a
faint show of resistance, that it only provoked my lord
further. Lord Castlewood's stories rose by degrees, and
became stronger after the ale at dinner and the bottle afterwards;
my lady always taking flight after the very first
glass to Church and King, and leaving the gentlemen to
drink the rest of the toasts by themselves.




And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called
from duty at this time. “My lord has lived in the army
and with soldiers,” she would say to the lad, “amongst whom
great licence is allowed. You have had a different nurture,
and I trust these things will change as you grow older; not
that any fault attaches to my lord, who is one of the best
and most religious men in this kingdom.” And very likely
she believed so. 'Tis strange what a man may do, and
a woman yet think him an angel.




And as Esmond has taken truth for his motto, it must
be owned, even with regard to that other angel, his mistress,
that she had a fault of character, which flawed her perfections.
With the other sex perfectly tolerant and kindly,
of her own she was invariably jealous, and a proof that she
had this vice is, that though she would acknowledge a
thousand faults that she had not, to this which she had she
could never be got to own. But if there came a woman with
even a semblance of beauty to Castlewood, she was so sure
[pg 078]
to find out some wrong in her, that my lord, laughing in his
jolly way, would often joke with her concerning her foible.
Comely servant-maids might come for hire, but none were
taken at Castlewood. The housekeeper was old; my lady's
own waiting-woman squinted, and was marked with the
small-pox; the housemaids and scullion were ordinary
country wenches, to whom Lady Castlewood was kind, as
her nature made her to everybody almost; but as soon
as ever she had to do with a pretty woman, she was cold,
retiring, and haughty. The country ladies found this fault
in her; and though the men all admired her, their wives
and daughters complained of her coldness and airs, and said
that Castlewood was pleasanter in Lady Jezebel's time (as
the dowager was called) than at present. Some few were
of my mistress's side. Old Lady Blenkinsop Jointure, who
had been at Court in King James the First's time, always
took her side; and so did old Mistress Crookshank, Bishop
Crookshank's daughter, of Hexton, who, with some more
of their like, pronounced my lady an angel; but the pretty
women were not of this mind; and the opinion of the
country was, that my lord was tied to his wife's apron-strings,
and that she ruled over him.




The second fight which Harry Esmond had, was at
fourteen years of age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John
Hawkshaw's son, of Bramblebrook, who advancing this
opinion, that my lady was jealous, and henpecked my lord,
put Harry into such a fury, that Harry fell on him, and with
such rage, that the other boy, who was two years older, and
by far bigger than he, had by far the worst of the assault,
until it was interrupted by Doctor Tusher walking out of
the dinner room.




Bryan Hawkshaw got up, bleeding at the nose, having,
indeed, been surprised, as many a stronger man might have
been, by the fury of the assault upon him.




“You little bastard beggar!” he said, “I'll murder you for this!”




And indeed he was big enough.




“Bastard or not,” said the other, grinding his teeth,
“I have a couple of swords, and if you like to meet me,
as a man, on the terrace to-night——”




And here the doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young
champions ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw
did not care to continue a fight with such a ferocious
opponent as this had been.




[pg 079]





 Chapter VIII. After Good Fortune Comes Evil



Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the
custom of inoculation from Turkey (a perilous practice
many deem it, and only a useless rushing into the jaws of
danger), I think the severity of the small-pox, that dreadful
scourge of the world, has somewhat been abated in our part
of it; and remembering in my time hundreds of the young
and beautiful who have been carried to the grave, or have
only risen from their pillows frightfully scarred and disfigured
by this malady. Many a sweet face hath left its
roses on the bed, on which this dreadful and withering blight
has laid them. In my early days this pestilence would enter
a village and destroy half its inhabitants: at its approach
it may well be imagined not only the beautiful but the
strongest were alarmed, and those fled who could. One
day in the year 1694 (I have good reason to remember it),
Doctor Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a face of
consternation, saying that the malady had made its appearance
at the blacksmith's house in the village, and that one
of the maids there was down in the small-pox.




The blacksmith, beside his forge and irons for horses, had
an alehouse for men, which his wife kept, and his company
sat on benches before the inn door, looking at the smithy
while they drank their beer. Now, there was a pretty girl
at this inn, the landlord's men called Nancy Sievewright,
a bouncing fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the
hollyhocks over the pales of the garden behind the inn.
At this time Harry Esmond was a lad of sixteen, and
somehow in his walks and rambles it often happened that
he fell in with Nancy Sievewright's bonny face; if he did
not want something done at the blacksmith's he would go
and drink ale at the “Three Castles”, or find some pretext
for seeing this poor Nancy. Poor thing, Harry meant or
imagined no harm; and she, no doubt, as little, but the
truth is they were always meeting—in the lanes, or by the
brook, or at the garden-palings, or about Castlewood: it
was, “Lord, Mr. Henry!” and “How do you do, Nancy?”
many and many a time in the week. 'Tis surprising the
[pg 080]
magnetic attraction which draws people together from ever
so far. I blush as I think of poor Nancy now, in a red
bodice and buxom purple cheeks and a canvas petticoat;
and that I devised schemes, and set traps, and made
speeches in my heart, which I seldom had courage to say
when in presence of that humble enchantress, who knew
nothing beyond milking a cow, and opened her black eyes
with wonder when I made one of my fine speeches out of
Waller or Ovid. Poor Nancy! from the mist of far-off
years thine honest country face beams out; and I remember
thy kind voice as if I had heard it yesterday.




When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox
was at the “Three Castles”, whither a tramper, it was
said, had brought the malady, Henry Esmond's first thought
was of alarm for poor Nancy, and then of shame and disquiet
for the Castlewood family, lest he might have brought
this infection; for the truth is that Mr. Harry had been
sitting in a back room for an hour that day, where Nancy
Sievewright was with a little brother who complained of
headache, and was lying stupefied and crying, either in a
chair by the corner of the fire, or in Nancy's lap, or on
mine.




Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr. Tusher's news;
and my lord cried out, “God bless me!” He was a brave
man, and not afraid of death in any shape but this. He
was very proud of his pink complexion and fair hair—but
the idea of death by small-pox scared him beyond all other
ends. “We will take the children and ride away to-morrow
to Walcote:” this was my lord's small house, inherited from
his mother, near to Winchester.




“That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads,” said
Dr. Tusher. “'Tis awful to think of it beginning at the
alehouse. Half the people of the village have visited that
to-day, or the blacksmith's, which is the same thing. My
clerk Simons lodges with them—I can never go into my
reading-desk and have that fellow so near me. I won't have
that man near me.”




“If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you,
would you not go?” asked my lady, looking up from her
frame of work, with her calm blue eyes.




“By the Lord, I wouldn't,” said my lord.




“We are not in a Popish country: and a sick man doth
not absolutely need absolution and confession,” said the
[pg 081]
doctor. “'Tis true they are a comfort and a help to him
when attainable, and to be administered with hope of
good. But in a case where the life of a parish priest in the
midst of his flock is highly valuable to them, he is not called
upon to risk it (and therewith the lives, future prospects,
and temporal, even spiritual welfare of his own family) for
the sake of a single person, who is not very likely in a condition
even to understand the religious message whereof
the priest is the bringer—being uneducated, and likewise
stupefied or delirious by disease. If your ladyship or his
lordship, my excellent good friend and patron, were to
take it——”




“God forbid!” cried my lord.




“Amen,” continued Dr. Tusher. “Amen to that prayer,
my very good lord! for your sake I would lay my life down”—and,
to judge from the alarmed look of the doctor's purple
face, you would have thought that that sacrifice was about
to be called for instantly.




To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct,
rather than a merit, in Henry Esmond, so much so, that he
thought almost with a sort of shame of his liking for them,
and of the softness into which it betrayed him; and on this
day the poor fellow had not only had his young friend, the
milkmaid's brother, on his knee, but had been drawing
pictures, and telling stories to the little Frank Esmond,
who had occupied the same place for an hour after dinner,
and was never tired of Henry's tales, and his pictures of
soldiers and horses. As luck would have it, Beatrix had
not on that evening taken her usual place, which generally
she was glad enough to have, upon her tutor's lap. For
Beatrix, from the earliest time, was jealous of every caress
which was given to her little brother Frank. She would
fling away even from the maternal arms, if she saw Frank
had been there before her; insomuch that Lady Castlewood
was obliged not to show her love for her son in the presence
of the little girl, and embrace one or the other alone. She
would turn pale and red with rage if she caught signs of
intelligence or affection between Frank and his mother;
would sit apart, and not speak for a whole night, if she
thought the boy had a better fruit or a larger cake than
hers; would fling away a ribbon if he had one; and from
the earliest age, sitting up in her little chair by the great
fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady Castlewood
[pg 082]
commonly sat at her embroidery, would utter infantine
sarcasms about the favour shown to her brother. These, if
spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickled and
amused his humour; he would pretend to love Frank best,
and dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at Beatrix's
jealousy. But the truth is, my lord did not often witness
these scenes, nor very much trouble the quiet fireside at
which his lady passed many long evenings. My lord was
hunting all day when the season admitted; he frequented
all the cockfights and fairs in the country, and would ride
twenty miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their
heads at a cudgelling match; and he liked better to sit in
his parlour drinking ale and punch with Jack and Tom,
than in his wife's drawing-room: whither, if he came, he
brought only too often bloodshot eyes, a hiccuping voice,
and a reeling gait. The management of the house and the
property, the care of the few tenants and the village poor,
and the accounts of the estate, were in the hands of his lady
and her young secretary, Harry Esmond. My lord took
charge of the stables, the kennel, and the cellar—and he
filled this and emptied it too.




So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry
Esmond had had the blacksmith's son, and the peer's son,
alike upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would come to her
tutor willingly enough with her book and her writing, had
refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother, and,
luckily for her, had sat at the further end of the room,
away from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had
(and for which, by fits and starts, she would take a great
affection), and talking at Harry Esmond over her shoulder,
as she pretended to caress the dog, saying, that Fido would
love her, and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido,
all her life.




When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at
the “Three Castles” was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry
Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for
his mistress's son, whom he might have brought into peril.
Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently (and who whenever
a stranger appeared began, from infancy almost, to play off
little graces to catch his attention), her brother being now
gone to bed, was for taking her place upon Esmond's knee:
for, though the doctor was very obsequious to her, she did
not like him, because he had thick boots and dirty hands
[pg 083]
(the pert young miss said), and because she hated learning
the catechism.




But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner
where she had been sulking, he started back and placed the
great chair on which he was sitting between him and her—saying
in the French language to Lady Castlewood, with
whom the young lad had read much, and whom he had
perfected in this tongue—“Madam, the child must not
approach me; I must tell you that I was at the blacksmith's
to-day, and had his little boy upon my lap.”




“Where you took my son afterwards,” Lady Castlewood
said, very angry, and turning red. “I thank you, sir, for
giving him such company. Beatrix,” she said in English,
“I forbid you to touch Mr. Esmond. Come away, child—come
to your room. Come to your room—I wish your
reverence good night—and you, sir, had you not better go
back to your friends at the alehouse?” Her eyes, ordinarily
so kind, darted flashes of anger as she spoke; and she
tossed up her head (which hung down commonly) with the
mien of a princess.




“Hey-day!” says my lord, who was standing by the
fireplace—indeed he was in the position to which he generally
came by that hour of the evening—“Hey-day! Rachel,
what are you in a passion about? Ladies ought never to
be in a passion. Ought they, Doctor Tusher? though it
does good to see Rachel in a passion—Damme, Lady Castlewood,
you look dev'lish handsome in a passion.”




“It is, my lord, because Mr. Henry Esmond, having
nothing to do with his time here, and not having a taste for
our company, has been to the alehouse, where he has some
friends.”




My lord burst out with a laugh and an oath—“You young
sly-boots, you've been at Nancy Sievewright. D—— the
young hypocrite, who'd have thought it in him? I say,
Tusher, he's been after——”




“Enough, my lord,” said my lady, “don't insult me with
this talk.”




“Upon my word,” said poor Harry, ready to cry with
shame and mortification, “the honour of that young person
is perfectly unstained for me.”




“Oh, of course, of course,” says my lord, more and more
laughing and tipsy. “Upon his honour, doctor—Nancy
Sieve——”


[pg 084]


“Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” my lady cried at this
moment to Mrs. Tucker her woman, who came in with her
ladyship's tea. “Put her into my room—no, into yours,”
she added quickly. “Go, my child: go, I say: not a word!”
And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority
from one who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice,
went out of the room with a scared countenance and waited
even to burst out a-crying, until she got to the door with
Mrs. Tucker.




For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and
continued to speak eagerly—“My lord,” she said, “this young
man—your dependant—told me just now in French—he
was ashamed to speak in his own language—that he had
been at the ale-house all day, where he has had that little
wretch who is now ill of the small-pox on his knee. And
he comes home reeking from that place—yes, reeking
from it—and takes my boy into his lap without shame,
and sits down by me, yes, by me. He may have killed
Frank for what I know—killed our child. Why was
he brought in to disgrace our house? Why is he here?
Let him go—let him go, I say, to-night, and pollute the
place no more.”




She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to
Harry Esmond; and her cruel words smote the poor boy,
so that he stood for some moments bewildered with grief and
rage at the injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He
turned quite white from red, which he had been.




“I cannot help my birth, madam,” he said, “nor my other
misfortune. And as for your boy, if—if my coming nigh
to him pollutes him now, it was not so always. Good night,
my lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness
to me. I have tired her ladyship's kindness out, and I will
go;” and, sinking down on his knee, Harry Esmond took
the rough hand of his benefactor and kissed it.




“He wants to go to the ale-house—let him go,” cried my
lady.




“I'm d——d if he shall,” said my lord. “I didn't think
you could be so d——d ungrateful, Rachel.”




Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit
the room with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond. As my
lord, not heeding them, and still in great good humour,
raised up his young client from his kneeling posture (for
a thousand kindnesses had caused the lad to revere my lord
[pg 085]
as a father), and put his broad hand on Harry Esmond's
shoulder—




“She was always so,” my lord said; “the very notion of
a woman drives her mad. I took to liquor on that very
account, by Jove, for no other reason than that; for she
can't be jealous of a beer-barrel or a bottle of rum, can she,
doctor? D—— it, look at the maids—just look at the maids
in the house” (my lord pronounced all the words
together—just-look-at-the-maze-in-the-house:
jever-see-such-maze?)
“You wouldn't take a wife out of Castlewood now, would
you, doctor?” and my lord burst out laughing.




The doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood
from under his eyelids, said, “But joking apart, and, my
lord, as a divine, I cannot treat the subject in a jocular light,
nor, as a pastor of this congregation, look with anything
but sorrow at the idea of so very young a sheep going astray.”




“Sir,” said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly,
“she told me that you yourself were a horrid old man, and
had offered to kiss her in the dairy.”




“For shame, Henry,” cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red
as a turkey-cock, while my lord continued to roar with
laughter. “If you listen to the falsehoods of an abandoned
girl——”




“She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure
for me,” cried out Henry, “and as kind, and as good. For
shame on you to malign her!”




“Far be it from me to do so,” cried the doctor. “Heaven
grant I may be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have
a truly precocious genius; but that is not the point at issue
at present. It appears that the small-pox broke out in the
little boy at the ‘Three Castles’; that it was on him when
you visited the ale-house, for your own reasons; and that
you sat with the child for some time, and immediately
afterwards with my young lord.” The doctor raised his
voice as he spoke, and looked towards my lady, who had
now come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in
her hand.




“This is all very true, sir,” said Lady Esmond, looking at
the young man.




“'Tis to be feared that he may have brought the infection
with him.”




“From the ale-house—yes,” said my lady.




“D—— it, I forgot when I collared you, boy,” cried my
[pg 086]
lord, stepping back. “Keep off, Harry, my boy; there's
no good in running into the wolf's jaws, you know.”




My lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly
advancing to Henry Esmond, took his hand. “I beg your
pardon, Henry,” she said; “I spoke very unkindly. I have
no right to interfere with you—with your——”




My lord broke out into an oath. “Can't you leave the
boy alone, my lady?” She looked a little red, and faintly
pressed the lad's hand as she dropped it.




“There is no use, my lord,” she said; “Frank was on his
knee as he was making pictures, and was running constantly
from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any.”




“Not with me, damme,” cried my lord. “I've been
smoking”—and he lighted his pipe again with a coal—“and
it keeps off infection; and as the disease is in the village—plague
take it—I would have you leave it. We'll go tomorrow
to Walcote, my lady.”




“I have no fear,” said my lady; “I may have had it as
an infant, it broke out in our house then; and when four of
my sisters had it at home, two years before our marriage,
I escaped it, and two of my dear sisters died.”




“I won't run the risk,” said my lord; “I'm as bold as
any man, but I'll not bear that.”




“Take Beatrix with you and go,” said my lady. “For
us the mischief is done; and Tucker can wait upon us, who
has had the disease.”




“You take care to choose 'em ugly enough,” said my lord,
at which her ladyship hung down her head and looked
foolish: and my lord, calling away Tusher, bade him come
to the oak parlour and have a pipe. The doctor made a low
bow to her ladyship (of which salaams he was profuse), and
walked off on his creaking square-toes after his patron.




When the lady and the young man were alone, there was
a silence of some moments, during which he stood at the
fire, looking rather vacantly at the dying embers, whilst
her ladyship busied herself with her tambour-frame and
needles.




“I am sorry,” she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice,—“I
repeat I am sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful
for the safety of my son. It was not at all my wish that you
should leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure elsewhere.
But you must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at your
age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can
[pg 087]
continue to stay upon the intimate footing in which you
have been in this family. You have wished to go to the
University, and I think 'tis quite as well that you should
be sent thither. I did not press this matter, thinking you
a child, as you are, indeed, in years—quite a child; and
I should never have thought of treating you otherwise
until—until these circumstances came to light. And I shall
beg my lord to dispatch you as quick as possible: and will
go on with Frank's learning as well as I can (I owe my
father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm sure, for
much that you have taught me),—and—and I wish you
a good night, Mr. Esmond.”




And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking
her candle, went away through the tapestry door, which led
to her apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly
staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until
she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon him,
and remained for ever fixed upon his memory. He saw
her retreating, the taper lighting up her marble face, her
scarlet lip quivering, and her shining golden hair. He went
to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read, as his
custom was; but he never knew what he was reading until
afterwards he remembered the appearance of the letters of
the book (it was in Montaigne's Essays), and the events of
the day passed before him—that is, of the last hour of the
day; for as for the morning, and the poor milkmaid yonder,
he never so much as once thought. And he could not get
to sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache,
and quite unrefreshed.




He had brought the contagion with him from the “Three
Castles” sure enough, and was presently laid up with the
small-pox, which spared the Hall no more than it did the
cottage.




[pg 088]





 Chapter IX. I Have The Small-Pox, And Prepare To Leave Castlewood



When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that
malady, and returned to health again, he found that little
Frank Esmond had also suffered and rallied after the disease,
and the lady his mother was down with it, with a couple
more of the household. “It was a providence, for which we
all ought to be thankful,” Doctor Tusher said, “that my lady
and her son were spared, while Death carried off the poor
domestics of the house;” and rebuked Harry for asking,
in his simple way—for which we ought to be thankful—that
the servants were killed, or the gentlefolks were saved?
Nor could young Esmond agree in the doctor's vehement
protestations to my lady, when he visited her during her
convalescence, that the malady had not in the least impaired
her charms, and had not been churl enough to injure
the fair features of the Viscountess of Castlewood, whereas
in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought that her
ladyship's beauty was very much injured by the smallpox.
When the marks of the disease cleared away, they
did not, it is true, leave furrows or scars on her face (except
one, perhaps, on her forehead over her left eyebrow); but
the delicacy of her rosy colour and complexion were gone:
her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face
looked older. It was as if a coarse hand had rubbed off
the delicate tints of that sweet picture, and brought it, as
one has seen unskilful painting-cleaners do, to the dead
colour. Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after
the malady, her ladyship's nose was swollen and redder.




There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but
that they actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in
the world, where a gnat often plays a greater part than an
elephant, and a mole-hill, as we know in King William's case,
can upset an empire. When Tusher in his courtly way (at
which Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully)
vowed and protested that my lady's face was none the
worse—the lad broke out and said, “It is worse: and my
mistress is not near so handsome as she was”; on which
poor Lady Esmond gave a rueful smile, and a look into a
[pg 089]
little Venice glass she had, which showed her I suppose
that what the stupid boy said was only too true, for she
turned away from the glass and her eyes filled with tears.




The sight of these in Esmond's heart always created a sort
of rage of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom
he loved best, the young blunderer sank down on his knees,
and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool
and an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a speech, he
who had caused her malady, and Doctor Tusher told him
that a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would remain, at
which speech poor young Esmond was so dumb-stricken that
he did not even growl.




“He is my bear, and I will not have him baited, doctor,”
my lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy's head,
as he was still kneeling at her feet. “How your hair has
come off! And mine, too,” she added with another sigh.




“It is not for myself that I cared,” my lady said to Harry,
when the parson had taken his leave; “but am I very much
changed? Alas! I fear 'tis too true.”




“Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest
face in the world, I think,” the lad said; and indeed he
thought and thinks so.




“Will my lord think so when he comes back?” the
lady asked, with a sigh, and another look at her Venice
glass. “Suppose he should think as you do, sir, that I am
hideous—yes, you said hideous—he will cease to care for me.
'Tis all men care for in women, our little beauty. Why did
he select me from among my sisters? 'Twas only for that.
We reign but for a day or two: and be sure that Vashti knew
Esther was coming.”




“Madam,” said Mr. Esmond, “Ahasuerus was the Grand
Turk, and to change was the manner of his country, and
according to his law.”




“You are all Grand Turks for that matter,” said my lady,
“or would be if you could. Come, Frank, come, my child.
You are well, praised be Heaven. Your locks are not
thinned by this dreadful small-pox: nor your poor face
scarred—is it, my angel?”




Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such
a misfortune. From the very earliest time the young lord
had been taught to admire his beauty by his mother: and
esteemed it as highly as any reigning toast valued hers.




One day, as he himself was recovering from his fever and
[pg 090]
illness, a pang of something like shame shot across young
Esmond's breast as he remembered that he had never once,
during his illness, given a thought to the poor girl at the
smithy, whose red cheeks but a month ago he had been so
eager to see. Poor Nancy! her cheeks had shared the fate
of roses, and were withered now. She had taken the illness
on the same day with Esmond—she and her brother were
both dead of the small-pox, and buried under the Castlewood
yew-trees. There was no bright face looking now from the
garden, or to cheer the old smith at his lonely fireside.
Esmond would have liked to have kissed her in her shroud
(like the lass in Mr. Prior's pretty poem), but she rested
many foot below the ground, when Esmond after his malady
first trod on it.




Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity, about
which Harry Esmond longed to ask, but did not like. He
said almost the whole village had been stricken with the
pestilence; seventeen persons were dead of it, among them
mentioning the names of poor Nancy and her little brother.
He did not fail to say how thankful we survivors ought to
be. It being this man's business to flatter and make
sermons, it must be owned he was most industrious in it,
and was doing the one or the other all day.




And so Nancy was gone; and Harry Esmond blushed that
he had not a single tear for her, and fell to composing an
elegy in Latin verses over the rustic little beauty. He bade
the dryads mourn and the river-nymphs deplore her. As
her father followed the calling of Vulcan, he said that surely
she was like a daughter of Venus, though Sievewright's
wife was an ugly shrew, as he remembered to have heard
afterwards. He made a long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely
more sorrowful than a mute at a funeral. These first
passions of men and women are mostly abortive; and are
dead almost before they are born. Esmond could repeat,
to his last day, some of the doggerel lines in which his muse
bewailed his pretty lass; not without shame to remember
how bad the verses were, and how good he thought them;
how false the grief, and yet how he was rather proud of it.
'Tis an error, surely, to talk of the simplicity of youth.
I think no persons are more hypocritical, and have a more
affected behaviour to one another, than the young. They
deceive themselves and each other with artifices that do
not impose upon men of the world; and so we got to
[pg 091]
understand truth better, and grow simpler as we grow
older.




When my lady heard of the fate which had befallen poor
Nancy, she said nothing so long as Tusher was by, but when
he was gone, she took Harry Esmond's hand and said—




“Harry, I beg your pardon for those cruel words I used
on the night you were taken ill. I am shocked at the fate
of the poor creature, and am sure that nothing had happened
of that with which, in my anger, I charged you. And the
very first day we go out, you must take me to the blacksmith,
and we must see if there is anything I can do to
console the poor old man. Poor man! to lose both his
children! What should I do without mine!”




And this was, indeed, the very first walk which my lady
took, leaning on Esmond's arm, after her illness. But
her visit brought no consolation to the old father; and
he showed no softness, or desire to speak. “The Lord
gave and took away,” he said; and he knew what His
servant's duty was. He wanted for nothing—less now than
ever before, as there were fewer mouths to feed. He wished
her ladyship and Master Esmond good morning—he had
grown tall in his illness, and was but very little marked;
and with this, and a surly bow, he went in from the smithy
to the house, leaving my lady, somewhat silenced and
shamefaced, at the door. He had a handsome stone put
up for his two children, which may be seen in Castlewood
churchyard to this very day; and before a year was out
his own name was upon the stone. In the presence of
Death, that sovereign ruler, a woman's coquetry is scared;
and her jealousy will hardly pass the boundaries of that
grim kingdom. 'Tis entirely of the earth that passion, and
expires in the cold blue air, beyond our sphere.




At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced
that my lord and his daughter would return.
Esmond well remembered the day. The lady, his mistress,
was in a flurry of fear: before my lord came, she went into
her room, and returned from it with reddened cheeks.
Her fate was about to be decided. Her beauty was gone—was
her reign, too, over? A minute would say. My lord
came riding over the bridge—he could be seen from the
great window, clad in scarlet, and mounted on his grey
hackney—his little daughter ambled by him in a bright
riding-dress of blue, on a shining chestnut horse. My lady
[pg 092]
leaned against the great mantelpiece, looking on, with one
hand on her heart—she seemed only the more pale for
those red marks on either cheek. She put her handkerchief
to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysterically—the
cloth was quite red with the rouge when she took it away.
She ran to her room again, and came back with pale cheeks
and red eyes—her son in her hand—just as my lord entered,
accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out to meet
his protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended from
horseback.




“What, Harry, boy!” my lord said good-naturedly,
“you look as gaunt as a greyhound. The small-pox hasn't
improved your beauty, and your side of the house hadn't
never too much of it—ho, ho!”




And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small
agility, looking handsome and red, with a jolly face and
brown hair, like a beef-eater; Esmond kneeling again, as
soon as his patron had descended, performed his homage,
and then went to greet the little Beatrix, and help her
from her horse.




“Fie! how yellow you look,” she said; “and there are
one, two, red holes in your face;” which, indeed, was very
true; Harry Esmond's harsh countenance bearing, as long
as it continued to be a human face, the marks of the disease.




My lord laughed again, in high good humour.




“D—— it!” said he, with one of his usual oaths, “the
little slut sees everything. She saw the dowager's paint
t'other day, and asked her why she wore that red stuff—didn't
you, Trix? and the Tower; and St. James's; and
the play; and the Prince George, and the Princess Anne—didn't
you, Trix?”




“They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy,” the child
said.




Papa roared with laughing.




“Brandy!” he said. “And how do you know, Miss
Pert?”




“Because your lordship smells of it after supper, when
I embrace you before you go to bed,” said the young lady,
who, indeed, was as pert as her father said, and looked as
beautiful a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on.




“And now for my lady,” said my lord, going up the stairs,
and passing under the tapestry curtain that hung before
the drawing-room door. Esmond remembered that noble
[pg 093]
figure handsomely arrayed in scarlet. Within the last few
months he himself had grown from a boy to be a man, and
with his figure, his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly.




My lady's countenance, of which Harry Esmond was
accustomed to watch the changes, and with a solicitous
affection to note and interpret the signs of gladness or care,
wore a sad and depressed look for many weeks after her
lord's return: during which it seemed as if, by caresses and
entreaties, she strove to win him back from some ill humour
he had, and which he did not choose to throw off. In her
eagerness to please him she practised a hundred of those
arts which had formerly charmed him, but which seemed
now to have lost their potency. Her songs did not amuse
him; and she hushed them and the children when in his
presence. My lord sat silent at his dinner, drinking greatly,
his lady opposite to him, looking furtively at his face,
though also speechless. Her silence annoyed him as much
as her speech; and he would peevishly, and with an oath,
ask her why she held her tongue and looked so glum, or
he would roughly check her when speaking, and bid her
not talk nonsense. It seemed as if, since his return, nothing
she could do or say could please him.




When a master and mistress are at strife in a house, the
subordinates in the family take the one side or the other.
Harry Esmond stood in so great fear of my lord, that he
would run a league barefoot to do a message for him; but
his attachment for Lady Esmond was such a passion of
grateful regard, that to spare her a grief, or to do her
a service, he would have given his life daily: and it was
by the very depth and intensity of this regard that he began
to divine how unhappy his adored lady's life was, and that
a secret care (for she never spoke of her anxieties) was
weighing upon her.




Can any one, who has passed through the world and
watched the nature of men and women there, doubt what
had befallen her? I have seen, to be sure, some people
carry down with them into old age the actual bloom of their
youthful love, and I know that Mr. Thomas Parr lived to
be a hundred and sixty years old. But, for all that, threescore
and ten is the age of men, and few get beyond it; and
'tis certain that a man who marries for mere beaux yeux,
as my lord did, considers his part of the contract at end
when the woman ceases to fulfil hers, and his love does
[pg 094]
not survive her beauty. I know 'tis often otherwise, I say;
and can think (as most men in their own experience may)
of many a house, where, lighted in early years, the sainted
lamp of love hath never been extinguished; but so there
is Mr. Parr, and so there is the great giant at the fair that
is eight feet high—exceptions to men—and that poor lamp
whereof I speak, that lights at first the nuptial chamber,
is extinguished by a hundred winds and draughts down the
chimney, or sputters out for want of feeding. And then—and
then it is Chloe, in the dark, stark awake, and Strephon
snoring unheeding; or vice versa, 'tis poor Strephon that
has married a heartless jilt, and awoke out of that absurd
vision of conjugal felicity, which was to last for ever, and
is over like any other dream. One and other has made
his bed, and so must lie in it, until that final day when life
ends, and they sleep separate.




About this time young Esmond, who had a knack of
stringing verses, turned some of Ovid's epistles into rhymes,
and brought them to his lady for her delectation. Those
which treated of forsaken women touched her immensely,
Harry remarked; and when Oenone called after Paris, and
Medea bade Jason come back again, the lady of Castlewood
sighed, and said she thought that part of the verses was the
most pleasing. Indeed, she would have chopped up the
dean, her old father, in order to bring her husband back
again. But her beautiful Jason was gone, as beautiful
Jasons will go, and the poor enchantress had never a spell
to keep him.




My lord was only sulky as long as his wife's anxious face
or behaviour seemed to upbraid him. When she had got
to master these, and to show an outwardly cheerful countenance
and behaviour, her husband's good humour returned
partially, and he swore and stormed no longer at dinner,
but laughed sometimes, and yawned unrestrainedly;
absenting himself often from home, inviting more company
thither, passing the greater part of his days in the
hunting-field, or over the bottle as before; but, with this
difference, that the poor wife could no longer see now,
as she had done formerly, the light of love kindled in his
eyes. He was with her, but that flame was out; and that
once welcome beacon no more shone there.




What were this lady's feelings when forced to admit the
truth whereof her foreboding glass had given her only too
[pg 095]
true warning, that with her beauty her reign had ended,
and the days of her love were over? What does a seaman
do in a storm if mast and rudder are carried away? He
ships a jurymast, and steers as he best can with an oar.
What happens if your roof falls in a tempest? After the
first stun of the calamity the sufferer starts up, gropes
around to see that the children are safe, and puts them
under a shed out of the rain. If the palace burns down,
you take shelter in the barn. What man's life is not
overtaken by one or more of these tornadoes that send
us out of the course, and fling us on rocks to shelter as
best we may?




When Lady Castlewood found that her great ship had
gone down, she began as best she might, after she had
rallied from the effects of the loss, to put out small ventures
of happiness; and hope for little gains and returns, as
a merchant on “Change, indocilis pauperiem pati,”
having lost his thousands, embarks a few guineas upon the next
ship. She laid out her all upon her children, indulging
them beyond all measure, as was inevitable with one of her
kindness of disposition; giving all her thoughts to their
welfare—learning, that she might teach them, and improving
her own many natural gifts and feminine accomplishments,
that she might impart them to her young ones. To be doing
good for some one else, is the life of most good women.
They are exuberant of kindness, as it were, and must impart
it to some one. She made herself a good scholar of French,
Italian, and Latin, having been grounded in these by her
father in her youth: hiding these gifts from her husband
out of fear, perhaps, that they should offend him, for my
lord was no bookman—pish'd and psha'd at the notion of
learned ladies, and would have been angry that his wife
could construe out of a Latin book of which he could scarce
understand two words. Young Esmond was usher, or
house tutor, under her or over her, as it might happen.
During my lord's many absences, these schooldays would
go on uninterruptedly: the mother and daughter learning
with surprising quickness: the latter by fits and starts only,
and as suited her wayward humour. As for the little lord,
it must be owned that he took after his father in the matter
of learning—liked marbles and play, and the great horse,
and the little one which his father brought him, and on
which he took him out a-hunting—a great deal better than
[pg 096]
Corderius and Lily; marshalled the village boys, and had
a little court of them, already flogging them, and domineering
over them with a fine imperious spirit, that made his
father laugh when he beheld it, and his mother fondly warn
him. The cook had a son, the woodman had two, the big
lad at the porter's lodge took his cuffs and his orders.
Doctor Tusher said he was a young nobleman of gallant
spirit; and Harry Esmond, who was his tutor, and eight
years his little lordship's senior, had hard work sometimes
to keep his own temper, and hold his authority over his
rebellious little chief and kinsman.




In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen
which had robbed Lady Castlewood of a little—a very
little—of her beauty, and her careless husband's heart (if
the truth must be told, my lady had found not only that
her reign was over, but that her successor was appointed,
a princess of a noble house in Drury Lane somewhere, who
was installed and visited by my lord at the town eight miles
off—pudet haec
opprobria dicere nobis)—a great change had
taken place in her mind, which, by struggles only known to
herself, at least never mentioned to any one, and unsuspected
by the person who caused the pain she endured—had been
schooled into such a condition as she could not very likely
have imagined possible a score of months since, before her
misfortunes had begun.




She had oldened in that time as people do who suffer
silently great mental pain; and learned much that she had
never suspected before. She was taught by that bitter
teacher Misfortune. A child, the mother of other children,
but two years back her lord was a god to her; his words
her law; his smile her sunshine; his lazy commonplaces
listened to eagerly, as if they were words of wisdom—all
his wishes and freaks obeyed with a servile devotion. She
had been my lord's chief slave and blind worshipper. Some
women bear farther than this, and submit not only to
neglect but to unfaithfulness too—but here this lady's allegiance
had failed her. Her spirit rebelled and disowned any
more obedience. First she had to bear in secret the passion
of losing the adored object; then to get a farther initiation,
and to find this worshipped being was but a clumsy idol:
then to admit the silent truth, that it was she was superior,
and not the monarch her master: that she had thoughts
which his brains could never master, and was the better
[pg 097]
of the two; quite separate from my lord although tied to
him, and bound as almost all people (save a very happy few)
to work all her life alone. My lord sat in his chair, laughing
his laugh, cracking his joke, his face flushing with wine—my
lady in her place over against him—he never suspecting
that his superior was there, in the calm resigned lady, cold
of manner, with downcast eyes. When he was merry in
his cups, he would make jokes about her coldness, and,
“D—— it, now my lady is gone, we will have t'other bottle,”
he would say. He was frank enough in telling his thoughts,
such as they were. There was little mystery about my
lord's words or actions. His fair Rosamond did not live
in a labyrinth, like the lady of Mr. Addison's opera, but
paraded with painted cheeks and a tipsy retinue in the
country town. Had she a mind to be revenged, Lady
Castlewood could have found the way to her rival's house
easily enough; and, if she had come with bowl and dagger,
would have been routed off the ground by the enemy with
a volley of Billingsgate, which the fair person always kept
by her.




Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his
benefactress's sweet face had lost none of its charms. It
had always the kindest of looks and smiles for him—smiles,
not so gay and artless perhaps as those which Lady Castlewood
had formerly worn, when, a child herself, playing
with her children, her husband's pleasure and authority
were all she thought of; but out of her griefs and cares,
as will happen I think when these trials fall upon a kindly
heart, and are not too unbearable, grew up a number of
thoughts and excellences which had never come into
existence, had not her sorrow and misfortunes engendered
them. Sure, occasion is the father of most that is good
in us. As you have seen the awkward fingers and clumsy
tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most delicate little
pieces of carved work; or achieve the most prodigious
underground labours, and cut through walls of masonry,
and saw iron bars and fetters; 'tis misfortune that awakens
ingenuity, or fortitude, or endurance, in hearts where these
qualities had never come to life but for the circumstance
which gave them a being.




“'Twas after Jason left her, no doubt,” Lady Castlewood
once said with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who
was reading to her a version of certain lines out of Euripides),
[pg 098]
“that Medea became a learned woman and a great enchantress.”




“And she could conjure the stars out of heaven,” the
young tutor added, “but she could not bring Jason back
again.”




“What do you mean?” asked my lady, very angry.




“Indeed I mean nothing,” said the other, “save what I've
read in books. What should I know about such matters?
I have seen no woman save you and little Beatrix, and the
parson's wife and my late mistress, and your ladyship's
woman here.”




“The men who wrote your books,” says my lady, “your
Horaces, and Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them,
all thought ill of us, as all the heroes they wrote about used
us basely. We were bred to be slaves always; and even
of our own times, as you are still the only lawgivers, I think
our sermons seem to say that the best woman is she who
bears her master's chains most gracefully. 'Tis a pity there
are no nunneries permitted by our Church: Beatrix and
I would fly to one, and end our days in peace there away
from you.”




“And is there no slavery in a convent?” says Esmond.




“At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them,”
answered the lady. “They don't work in street-gangs with
the public to jeer them: and if they suffer, suffer in private.
Here comes my lord home from hunting. Take away the
books. My lord does not love to see them. Lessons are
over for to-day, Mr. Tutor.” And with a curtsy and a smile
she would end this sort of colloquy.




Indeed “Mr. Tutor”, as my lady called Esmond, had now
business enough on his hands in Castlewood House. He had
three pupils, his lady and her two children, at whose lessons
she would always be present; besides writing my lord's
letters, and arranging his accompts for him—when these
could be got from Esmond's indolent patron.




Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars,
and as my lady would admit no discipline such as was then
in use, my lord's son only learned what he liked, which was
but little, and never to his life's end could be got to construe
more than six lines of Virgil. Mistress Beatrix chattered
French prettily from a very early age; and sang sweetly,
but this was from her mother's teaching—not Harry
Esmond's, who could scarce distinguish between “Green
[pg 099]
Sleeves” and “Lillabullero”; although he had no greater
delight in life than to hear the ladies sing. He sees them
now (will he ever forget them?) as they used to sit together
of the summer evenings—the two golden heads over the
page—the child's little hand and the mother's beating the
time, with their voices rising and falling in unison.




But if the children were careless, 'twas a wonder how
eagerly the mother learned from her young tutor—and
taught him too. The happiest instinctive faculty was this
lady's—a faculty for discerning latent beauties and hidden
graces of books, especially books of poetry, as in a walk
she would spy out field-flowers and make posies of them,
such as no other hand could. She was a critic not by
reason but by feeling; the sweetest commentator of those
books they read together; and the happiest hours of young
Esmond's life, perhaps, were those passed in the company
of this kind mistress and her children.




These happy days were to end soon, however; and it
was by the Lady Castlewood's own decree that they were
brought to a conclusion. It happened about Christmastime,
Harry Esmond being now past sixteen years of age,
that his old comrade, adversary, and friend, Tom Tusher,
returned from his school in London, a fair, well-grown, and
sturdy lad, who was about to enter college, with an exhibition
from his school, and a prospect of after promotion in
the Church. Tom Tusher's talk was of nothing but Cambridge,
now; and the boys, who were good friends, examined
each other eagerly about their progress in books. Tom had
learned some Greek and Hebrew, besides Latin, in which
he was pretty well skilled, and also had given himself to
mathematical studies under his father's guidance, who was
a proficient in those sciences, of which Esmond knew nothing,
nor could he write Latin so well as Tom, though he could
talk it better, having been taught by his dear friend the
Jesuit father, for whose memory the lad ever retained the
warmest affection, reading his books, keeping his swords
clean in the little crypt where the father had shown them
to Esmond on the night of his visit; and often of a night
sitting in the chaplain's room, which he inhabited, over
his books, his verses, and rubbish, with which the lad
occupied himself, he would look up at the window, thinking
he wished it might open and let in the good father. He had
come and passed away like a dream; but for the swords
[pg 100]
and books Harry might almost think the father was an
imagination of his mind—and for two letters which had
come to him, one from abroad full of advice and affection,
another soon after he had been confirmed by the Bishop
of Hexton, in which Father Holt deplored his falling away.
But Harry Esmond felt so confident now of his being in
the right, and of his own powers as a casuist, that he thought
he was able to face the father himself in argument, and
possibly convert him.




To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond's
kind mistress sent to the library of her father the dean, who
had been distinguished in the disputes of the late king's
reign; and, an old soldier now, had hung up his weapons
of controversy. These he took down from his shelves
willingly for young Esmond, whom he benefited by his own
personal advice and instruction. It did not require much
persuasion to induce the boy to worship with his beloved
mistress. And the good old nonjuring dean flattered himself
with a conversion which in truth was owing to a much
gentler and fairer persuader.




Under her ladyship's kind eyes (my lord's being sealed
in sleep pretty generally), Esmond read many volumes of
the works of the famous British divines of the last age,
and was familiar with Wake and Sherlock, with Stillingfleet
and Patrick. His mistress never tired to listen or to read,
to pursue the text with fond comments, to urge those points
which her fancy dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most
important. Since the death of her father the dean, this
lady hath admitted a certain latitude of theological reading,
which her orthodox father would never have allowed;
his favourite writers appealing more to reason and antiquity
than to the passions or imaginations of their readers, so
that the works of Bishop Taylor, nay, those of Mr. Baxter
and Mr. Law, have in reality found more favour with my
Lady Castlewood than the severer volumes of our great
English schoolmen.




In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the
controversy, and pursued it in a very different manner,
when his patrons had determined for him that he was to
embrace the ecclesiastical life. But though his mistress's
heart was in this calling, his own never was much. After
that first fervour of simple devotion, which his beloved
Jesuit priest had inspired in him, speculative theology took
[pg 101]
but little hold upon the young man's mind. When his
early credulity was disturbed, and his saints and virgins
taken out of his worship, to rank little higher than the
divinities of Olympus, his belief became acquiescence rather
than ardour; and he made his mind up to assume the
cassock and bands, as another man does to wear a breastplate
and jack-boots, or to mount a merchant's desk for
a livelihood, and from obedience and necessity, rather than
from choice. There were scores of such men in Mr. Esmond's
time at the Universities, who were going to the Church
with no better calling than his.




When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small
depression and disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which,
though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have
divined the cause: for soon after she showed not only that
she understood the reason of Harry's melancholy, but could
provide a remedy for it. Her habit was thus to watch,
unobservedly, those to whom duty or affection bound her,
and to prevent their designs, or to fulfil them, when she
had the power. It was this lady's disposition to think
kindnesses, and devise silent bounties, and to scheme
benevolence for those about her. We take such goodness,
for the most part, as if it was our due; the Marys who
bring ointment for our feet get but little thanks. Some of
us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to
gratitude or acknowledgement; others only recall it years
after, when the days are past in which those sweet kindnesses
were spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt
by a poor tardy payment of tears. Then forgotten tones
of love recur to us, and kind glances shine out of the past—oh,
so bright and clear!—oh, so longed after!—because
they are out of reach; as holiday music from withinside
a prison wall—or sunshine seen through the bars; more
prized because unattainable—more bright because of the
contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is
no escape.




All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take
of Harry Esmond's melancholy, upon Tom Tusher's departure,
was, by a gaiety unusual to her, to attempt to dispel
his gloom. She made his three scholars (herself being the
chief one) more cheerful than ever they had been before, and
more docile too, all of them learning and reading much more
than they had been accustomed to do. “For who knows,”
[pg 102]
said the lady, “what may happen, and whether we may be
able to keep such a learned tutor long?”




Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn
any more, and Cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever
he liked, if he would come out a-fishing; and little
Beatrix declared she would send for Tom Tusher, and he
would be glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose
to go away.




At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day,
bearer of a letter with a great black seal from the dean there,
to say that his sister was dead, and had left her fortune
of 2,000l. among her six nieces, the dean's daughters; and
many a time since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed
face and eager look wherewith, after this intelligence, his
kind lady regarded him. She did not pretend to any grief
about the deceased relative, from whom she and her family
had been many years parted.




When my lord heard of the news, he also did not make
any very long face. “The money will come very handy to
furnish the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low,
and buy your ladyship a coach and a couple of horses that
will do indifferent to ride or for the coach. And Beatrix,
you shall have a spinet: and Frank, you shall have a little
horse from Hexton Fair; and Harry, you shall have five
pounds to buy some books,” said my lord, who was generous
with his own, and indeed with other folks' money. “I wish
your aunt would die once a year, Rachel; we could spend
your money, and all your sisters', too.”




“I have but one aunt—and—and I have another use for
the money, my lord,” says my lady, turning very red.




“Another use, my dear; and what do you know about
money?” cries my lord. “And what the devil is there that
I don't give you which you want?”




“I intend to give this money—can't you fancy how, my
lord?”




My lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know
in the least what she meant.




“I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college.—Cousin
Harry,” says my lady, “you mustn't stay longer in this
dull place, but make a name to yourself, and for us too,
Harry.”




“D——n it, Harry's well enough here,” says my lord, for
a moment looking rather sulky.


[pg 103]


“Is Harry going away? You don't mean to say you will
go away?” cry out Frank and Beatrix at one breath.




“But he will come back: and this will always be his
home,” cries my lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial
kindness: “and his scholars will always love him; won't
they?”




“By G——d, Rachel, you're a good woman!” says my lord,
seizing my lady's hand, at which she blushed very much,
and shrank back, putting her children before her. “I wish
you joy, my kinsman,” he continued, giving Harry Esmond
a hearty slap on the shoulder. “I won't balk your luck.
Go to Cambridge, boy; and when Tusher dies you shall
have the living here, if you are not better provided by that
time. We'll furnish the dining-room and buy the horses
another year. I'll give thee a nag out of the stable: take
any one except my hack and the bay gelding and the coach-horses;
and God speed thee, my boy!”




“Have the sorrel, Harry; 'tis a good one. Father says
'tis the best in the stable,” says little Frank, clapping his
hands, and jumping up. “Let's come and see him in the
stable.” And the other, in his delight and eagerness, was
for leaving the room that instant to arrange about his
journey.




The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating
glances. “He wishes to be gone already, my lord,”
said she to her husband.




The young man hung back abashed. “Indeed, I would
stay for ever, if your ladyship bade me,” he said.




“And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains, kinsman,”
said my lord. “Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world.
Sow thy wild oats; and take the best luck that Fate sends
thee. I wish I were a boy again that I might go to college,
and taste the Trumpington ale.”




“Ours indeed is but a dull home,” cries my lady, with
a little of sadness, and maybe of satire, in her voice: “an
old glum house, half ruined, and the rest only half furnished;
a woman and two children are but poor company for men
that are accustomed to better. We are only fit to be your
worship's handmaids, and your pleasures must of necessity
lie elsewhere than at home.”




“Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art in
earnest or not,” said my lord.




“In earnest, my lord!” says she, still clinging by one of
[pg 104]
her children. “Is there much subject here for joke?”
And she made him a grand curtsy, and, giving a stately
look to Harry Esmond, which seemed to say, “Remember;
you understand me, though he does not,” she left the room
with her children.




“Since she found out that confounded Hexton business,”
my lord said—“and be hanged to them that told her!—she
has not been the same woman. She, who used to be
as humble as a milkmaid, is as proud as a princess,” says
my lord. “Take my counsel, Harry Esmond, and keep
clear of women. Since I have had anything to do with
the jades, they have given me nothing but disgust. I had
a wife at Tangier, with whom, as she couldn't speak a word
of my language, you'd have thought I might lead a quiet
life. But she tried to poison me, because she was jealous
of a Jew girl. There was your aunt, for aunt she is—aunt
Jezebel, a pretty life your father led with her, and here's
my lady. When I saw her on a pillion riding behind the
dean her father, she looked and was such a baby, that a
sixpenny doll might have pleased her. And now you see
what she is—hands off, highty-tighty, high and mighty,
an empress couldn't be grander. Pass us the tankard,
Harry, my boy. A mug of beer and a toast at morn, says
my host. A toast and a mug of beer at noon, says my dear.
D——n it, Polly loves a mug of ale, too, and laced with
brandy, by Jove!” Indeed, I suppose they drank it together;
for my lord was often thick in his speech at mid-day
dinner; and at night at supper, speechless altogether.




Harry Esmond's departure resolved upon, it seemed as
if the Lady Castlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him; for
more than once, when the lad, ashamed perhaps at his own
secret eagerness to go away (at any rate stricken with
sadness at the idea of leaving those from whom he had
received so many proofs of love and kindness inestimable),
tried to express to his mistress his sense of gratitude to her,
and his sorrow at quitting those who had so sheltered and
tended a nameless and houseless orphan, Lady Castlewood
cut short his protests of love and his lamentations, and
would hear of no grief, but only look forward to Harry's
fame and prospects in life. “Our little legacy will keep
you for four years like a gentleman. Heaven's Providence,
your own genius, industry, honour, must do the rest for
you. Castlewood will always be a home for you; and these
[pg 105]
children, whom you have taught and loved, will not forget
to love you. And Harry,” said she (and this was the only
time when she spoke with a tear in her eye, or a tremor in
her voice), “it may happen in the course of nature that
I shall be called away from them: and their father—and—and
they will need true friends and protectors. Promise
me that you will be true to them—as—as I think I have
been to you—and a mother's fond prayer and blessing go
with you.”




“So help me God, madam, I will,” said Harry Esmond,
falling on his knees, and kissing the hand of his dearest
mistress. “If you will have me stay now, I will. What
matters whether or no I make my way in life, or whether
a poor bastard dies as unknown as he is now? 'Tis enough
that I have your love and kindness surely; and to make
you happy is duty enough for me.”




“Happy!” says she; “but indeed I ought to be, with my
children, and——”




“Not happy!” cried Esmond (for he knew what her life
was, though he and his mistress never spoke a word concerning
it). “If not happiness, it may be ease. Let me stay
and work for you—let me stay and be your servant.”




“Indeed, you are best away,” said my lady, laughing, as
she put her hand on the boy's head for a moment. “You
shall stay in no such dull place. You shall go to college
and distinguish yourself as becomes your name. That is
how you shall please me best; and—and if my children
want you, or I want you, you shall come to us; and I
know we may count on you.”




“May Heaven forsake me if you may not,” Harry said,
getting up from his knee.




“And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he
may fight,” said my lady, laughing; which speech made
Harry Esmond start, and turn red; for indeed the very
thought was in his mind, that he would like that some
chance should immediately happen whereby he might show
his devotion. And it pleased him to think that his lady
had called him “her knight”, and often and often he recalled
this to his mind, and prayed that he might be her true
knight, too.




My lady's bedchamber window looked out over the
country, and you could see from it the purple hills beyond
Castlewood village, the green common betwixt that and the
[pg 106]
Hall, and the old bridge which crossed over the river. When
Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran
alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry
stopped for a moment, and looked back at the house where
the best part of his life had been passed. It lay before him
with its grey familiar towers, a pinnacle or two shining in
the sun, the buttresses and terrace walls casting great blue
shades on the grass. And Harry remembered all his life
after how he saw his mistress at the window looking out on
him, in a white robe, the little Beatrix's chestnut curls
resting at her mother's side. Both waved a farewell to
him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him. Yes, he
would be his lady's true knight, he vowed in his heart; he
waved her an adieu with his hat. The village people had
good-bye to say to him too. All knew that Master Harry
was going to college, and most of them had a kind word and
a look of farewell. I do not stop to say what adventures he
began to imagine, or what career to devise for himself,
before he had ridden three miles from home. He had not
read Monsieur Galland's ingenious Arabian tales as yet;
but be sure that there are other folks who build castles in
the air, and have fine hopes, and kick them down too, besides
honest Alnaschar.









 Chapter X. I Go To Cambridge, And Do But Little Good There



My lord, who said he should like to revisit the old haunts
of his youth, kindly accompanied Harry Esmond in his first
journey to Cambridge. Their road lay through London,
where my lord viscount would also have Harry stay a few
days to show him the pleasures of the town, before he entered
upon his University studies, and whilst here Harry's patron
conducted the young man to my lady dowager's house at
Chelsey near London: the kind lady at Castlewood having
specially ordered that the young gentleman and the old
should pay a respectful visit in that quarter.




Her ladyship the viscountess dowager occupied a handsome
new house in Chelsey, with a garden behind it, and
facing the river, always a bright and animated sight with
[pg 107]
its swarms of sailors, barges, and wherries. Harry laughed
at recognizing in the parlour the well-remembered old piece
of Sir Peter Lely, wherein his father's widow was represented
as a virgin huntress, armed with a gilt bow and arrow, and
encumbered only with that small quantity of drapery which
it would seem the virgins in King Charles's day were accustomed
to wear.




My lady dowager had left off this peculiar habit of huntress
when she married. But though she was now considerably
past sixty years of age, I believe she thought that airy
nymph of the picture could still be easily recognized in the
venerable personage who gave an audience to Harry and
his patron.




She received the young man with even more favour than
she showed to the elder, for she chose to carry on the conversation
in French, in which my Lord Castlewood was no
great proficient, and expressed her satisfaction at finding
that Mr. Esmond could speak fluently in that language.
“'Twas the only one fit for polite conversation,” she condescended
to say, “and suitable to persons of high breeding.”




My lord laughed afterwards, as the gentlemen went away,
at his kinswoman's behaviour. He said he remembered
the time when she could speak English fast enough, and
joked in his jolly way at the loss he had had of such a lovely
wife as that.




My lady viscountess deigned to ask his lordship news of
his wife and children; she had heard that Lady Castlewood
had had the small-pox; she hoped she was not so very
much disfigured as people said.




At this remark about his wife's malady, my lord viscount
winced and turned red; but the dowager, in speaking of
the disfigurement of the young lady, turned to her looking-glass
and examined her old wrinkled countenance in it with
such a grin of satisfaction, that it was all her guests could
do to refrain from laughing in her ancient face.




She asked Harry what his profession was to be; and my
lord, saying that the lad was to take orders, and have the
living of Castlewood when old Dr. Tusher vacated it; she
did not seem to show any particular anger at the notion of
Harry's becoming a Church of England clergyman, nay,
was rather glad than otherwise, that the youth should be
so provided for. She bade Mr. Esmond not to forget to pay
her a visit whenever he passed through London, and carried
[pg 108]
her graciousness so far as to send a purse with twenty
guineas for him, to the tavern at which my lord put up (the
“Greyhound”, in Charing Cross); and, along with this
welcome gift for her kinsman, she sent a little doll for a
present to my lord's little daughter Beatrix, who was
growing beyond the age of dolls by this time, and was as
tall almost as her venerable relative.




After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord
Castlewood and Esmond rode together to Cambridge,
spending two pleasant days upon the journey. Those
rapid new coaches were not established as yet, that performed
the whole journey between London and the University
in a single day; however, the road was pleasant and
short enough to Harry Esmond, and he always gratefully
remembered that happy holiday, which his kind patron
gave him.




Mr. Esmond was entered a pensioner of Trinity College in
Cambridge, to which famous college my lord had also in his
youth belonged. Dr. Montague was master at this time,
and received my lord viscount with great politeness: so did
Mr. Bridge, who was appointed to be Harry's tutor. Tom
Tusher, who was of Emmanuel College, and was by this time
a junior soph, came to wait upon my lord, and to take Harry
under his protection; and comfortable rooms being provided
for him in the great court close by the gate, and
near to the famous Mr. Newton's lodgings, Harry's patron
took leave of him with many kind words and blessings, and
an admonition to him to behave better at the University
than my lord himself had ever done.




'Tis needless in these memoirs to go at any length into
the particulars of Harry Esmond's college career. It was
like that of a hundred young gentlemen of that day. But he
had the ill fortune to be older by a couple of years than
most of his fellow students; and by his previous solitary
mode of bringing up, the circumstances of his life, and the
peculiar thoughtfulness and melancholy that had naturally
engendered, he was, in a great measure, cut off from the
society of comrades who were much younger and higher-spirited
than he. His tutor, who had bowed down to the
ground, as he walked my lord over the college grass-plats,
changed his behaviour as soon as the nobleman's back was
turned, and was—at least Harry thought so—harsh and
overbearing. When the lads used to assemble in their
[pg 109]
greges in hall, Harry found himself alone in the midst of
that little flock of boys; they raised a great laugh at him
when he was set on to read Latin, which he did with the
foreign pronunciation taught to him by his old master, the
Jesuit, than which he knew no other. Mr. Bridge, the tutor,
made him the object of clumsy jokes, in which he was fond of
indulging. The young man's spirit was chafed, and his
vanity mortified; and he found himself, for some time, as
lonely in this place as ever he had been at Castlewood,
whither he longed to return. His birth was a source of
shame to him, and he fancied a hundred slights and sneers
from young and old, who, no doubt, had treated him better
had he met them himself more frankly. And as he looks
back, in calmer days, upon this period of his life, which he
thought so unhappy, he can see that his own pride and
vanity caused no small part of the mortifications which he
attributed to others' ill will. The world deals good-naturedly
with good-natured people, and I never knew a sulky
misanthropist who quarrelled with it, but it was he, and not
it, that was in the wrong. Tom Tusher gave Harry plenty
of good advice on this subject, for Tom had both good sense
and good humour; but Mr. Harry chose to treat his senior
with a great deal of superfluous disdain and absurd scorn,
and would by no means part from his darling injuries, in
which, very likely, no man believed but himself. As for
honest Doctor Bridge, the tutor found, after a few trials of
wit with the pupil, that the younger man was an ugly subject
for wit, and that the laugh was often turned against him.
This did not make tutor and pupil any better friends; but
had, so far, an advantage for Esmond, that Mr. Bridge was
induced to leave him alone; and so long as he kept his
chapels, and did the college exercises required of him, Bridge
was content not to see Harry's glum face in his class, and to
leave him to read and sulk for himself in his own chamber.




A poem or two in Latin and English, which were pronounced
to have some merit, and a Latin oration (for
Mr. Esmond could write that language better than pronounce
it), got him a little reputation both with the authorities of
the University and amongst the young men, with whom he
began to pass for more than he was worth. A few victories
over their common enemy Mr. Bridge, made them incline
towards him, and look upon him as the champion of their
order against the seniors. Such of the lads as he took into
[pg 110]
his confidence, found him not so gloomy and haughty as
his appearance led them to believe; and Don Dismallo, as
he was called, became presently a person of some little
importance in his college, and was, as he believes, set down
by the seniors there as rather a dangerous character.




Don Dismallo was a stanch young Jacobite, like the rest
of his family; gave himself many absurd airs of loyalty;
used to invite young friends to burgundy, and give the
king's health on King James's birthday; wore black on the
day of his abdication; fasted on the anniversary of King
William's coronation; and performed a thousand absurd
antics, of which he smiles now to think.




These follies caused many remonstrances on Tom Tusher's
part, who was always a friend to the powers that be, as
Esmond was always in opposition to them. Tom was a
Whig, while Esmond was a Tory. Tom never missed a
lecture, and capped the proctor with the profoundest of
bows. No wonder he sighed over Harry's insubordinate
courses, and was angry when the others laughed at him.
But that Harry was known to have my lord viscount's
protection, Tom no doubt would have broken with him altogether.
But honest Tom never gave up a comrade as long
as he was the friend of a great man. This was not out of
scheming on Tom's part, but a natural inclination towards
the great. 'Twas no hypocrisy in him to flatter, but the
bent of his mind, which was always perfectly good-humoured,
obliging, and servile.




Harry had very liberal allowances, for his dear mistress
of Castlewood not only regularly supplied him, but the
dowager at Chelsey made her donation annual, and received
Esmond at her house near London every Christmas; but,
in spite of these benefactions, Esmond was constantly
poor; whilst 'twas a wonder with how small a stipend
from his father, Tom Tusher contrived to make a good
figure. 'Tis true that Harry both spent, gave, and lent
his money very freely, which Thomas never did. I think
he was like the famous Duke of Marlborough in this instance,
who, getting a present of fifty pieces, when a young
man, from some foolish woman who fell in love with his
good looks, showed the money to Cadogan in a drawer
scores of years after, where it had lain ever since he had
sold his beardless honour to procure it. I do not mean to
say that Tom ever let out his good looks so profitably, for
[pg 111]
nature had not endowed him with any particular charms of
person, and he ever was a pattern of moral behaviour, losing
no opportunity of giving the very best advice to his younger
comrade; with which article, to do him justice, he parted
very freely. Not but that he was a merry fellow, too, in his
way; he loved a joke, if by good fortune he understood it,
and took his share generously of a bottle if another paid for
it, and especially if there was a young lord in company to
drink it. In these cases there was not a harder drinker
in the University than Mr. Tusher could be; and it was
edifying to behold him, fresh shaved and with smug face,
singing out “Amen!” at early chapel in the morning. In
his reading, poor Harry permitted himself to go a-gadding
after all the Nine Muses, and so very likely had but little
favour from any one of them; whereas Tom Tusher, who
had no more turn for poetry than a ploughboy, nevertheless,
by a dogged perseverance and obsequiousness in courting
the divine Calliope, got himself a prize, and some credit
in the University, and a fellowship at his college, as a
reward for his scholarship. In this time of Mr. Esmond's
life, he got the little reading which he ever could boast of,
and passed a good part of his days greedily devouring all
the books on which he could lay hand. In this desultory
way the works of most of the English, French, and Italian
poets came under his eyes, and he had a smattering of the
Spanish tongue likewise, besides the ancient languages, of
which, at least of Latin, he was a tolerable master.




Then, about midway in his University career, he fell to
reading for the profession to which worldly prudence rather
than inclination called him, and was perfectly bewildered
in theological controversy. In the course of his reading
(which was neither pursued with that seriousness or that
devout mind which such a study requires), the youth found
himself, at the end of one month, a Papist, and was about
to proclaim his faith; the next month a Protestant, with
Chillingworth; and the third a sceptic, with Hobbs and
Bayle. Whereas honest Tom Tusher never permitted his
mind to stray out of the prescribed University path,
accepted the Thirty-nine Articles with all his heart, and
would have signed and sworn to other nine-and-thirty
with entire obedience. Harry's wilfulness in this matter,
and disorderly thoughts and conversation, so shocked and
afflicted his senior, that there grew up a coldness and
[pg 112]
estrangement between them, so that they became scarce
more than mere acquaintances, from having been intimate
friends when they came to college first. Politics ran high,
too, at the University; and here, also, the young men were
at variance. Tom professed himself, albeit a High Churchman,
a strong King William's-man; whereas Harry brought
his family Tory politics to college with him, to which he
must add a dangerous admiration for Oliver Cromwell,
whose side, or King James's by turns, he often chose to take
in the disputes which the young gentlemen used to hold in
each other's rooms, where they debated on the state of the
nation, crowned and deposed kings, and toasted past and
present heroes or beauties in flagons of college ale.




Thus, either from the circumstances of his birth, or the
natural melancholy of his disposition, Esmond came to live
very much by himself during his stay at the University,
having neither ambition enough to distinguish himself in
the college career, nor caring to mingle with the mere pleasures
and boyish frolics of the students, who were, for the
most part, two or three years younger than he. He fancied
that the gentlemen of the common-room of his college
slighted him on account of his birth, and hence kept aloof
from their society. It may be that he made the ill will,
which he imagined came from them, by his own behaviour,
which, as he looks back on it in after-life, he now sees was
morose and haughty. At any rate, he was as tenderly
grateful for kindness as he was susceptible of slight and
wrong; and, lonely as he was generally, yet had one or two
very warm friendships for his companions of those days.




One of these was a queer gentleman that resided in the
University, though he was no member of it, and was the
professor of a science scarce recognized in the common course
of college education. This was a French refugee officer,
who had been driven out of his native country at the time of
the Protestant persecutions there, and who came to Cambridge,
where he taught the science of the small-sword, and
set up a saloon-of-arms. Though he declared himself a
Protestant, 'twas said Mr. Moreau was a Jesuit in disguise;
indeed, he brought very strong recommendations to the
Tory party, which was pretty strong in that University,
and very likely was one of the many agents whom King
James had in this country. Esmond found this gentleman's
conversation very much more agreeable, and to his taste,
[pg 113]
than the talk of the college divines in the common-room;
he never wearied of Moreau's stories of the wars of Turenne
and Condé, in which he had borne a part; and being
familiar with the French tongue from his youth, and in
a place where but few spoke it, his company became very
agreeable to the brave old professor of arms, whose favourite
pupil he was, and who made Mr. Esmond a very tolerable
proficient in the noble science of escrime.




At the next term Esmond was to take his degree of
Bachelor of Arts, and afterwards, in proper season, to assume
the cassock and bands which his fond mistress would have
him wear. Tom Tusher himself was a parson and a fellow
of his college by this time; and Harry felt that he would
very gladly cede his right to the living of Castlewood to
Tom, and that his own calling was in no way the pulpit.
But as he was bound, before all things in the world, to his
dear mistress at home, and knew that a refusal on his part
would grieve her, he determined to give her no hint of his
unwillingness to the clerical office; and it was in this
unsatisfactory mood of mind that he went to spend the
last vacation he should have at Castlewood before he
took orders.









 Chapter XI. I Come Home For A Holiday To Castlewood, And Find
A Skeleton In The House



At his third long vacation, Esmond came as usual to Castlewood,
always feeling an eager thrill of pleasure when he
found himself once more in the house where he had passed
so many years, and beheld the kind familiar eyes of his
mistress looking upon him. She and her children (out of
whose company she scarce ever saw him) came to greet him.
Miss Beatrix was grown so tall that Harry did not quite
know whether he might kiss her or no; and she blushed and
held back when he offered that salutation, though she took
it, and even courted it, when they were alone. The young
lord was shooting up to be like his gallant father in look,
though with his mother's kind eyes: the Lady of Castlewood
herself seemed grown, too, since Harry saw her—in her look
more stately, in her person fuller, in her face, still as ever
[pg 114]
most tender and friendly, a greater air of command and decision
than had appeared in that guileless sweet countenance
which Harry remembered so gratefully. The tone of her
voice was so much deeper and sadder when she spoke and
welcomed him, that it quite startled Esmond, who looked up
at her surprised as she spoke, when she withdrew her eyes
from him; nor did she ever look at him afterwards when
his own eyes were gazing upon her. A something hinting
at grief and secret, and filling his mind with alarm undefinable,
seemed to speak with that low thrilling voice of hers,
and look out of those dear sad eyes. Her greeting to Esmond
was so cold that it almost pained the lad (who would have
liked to fall on his knees and kiss the skirt of her robe, so
fond and ardent was his respect and regard for her), and
he faltered in answering the questions which she, hesitating
on her side, began to put to him. Was he happy at Cambridge?
Did he study too hard? She hoped not. He had
grown very tall, and looked very well.




“He has got a moustache!” cries out Master Esmond.




“Why does he not wear a peruke like my Lord Mohun?”
asked Miss Beatrix. “My lord says that nobody wears
their own hair.”




“I believe you will have to occupy your old chamber,”
says my lady. “I hope the housekeeper has got it ready.”




“Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these
three days yourself!” exclaims Frank.




“And she cut some flowers which you planted in my
garden—do you remember, ever so many years ago?—when
I was quite a little girl,” cries out Miss Beatrix, on
tiptoe. “And mamma put them in your window.”




“I remember when you grew well after you were ill that
you used to like roses,” said the lady, blushing like one of
them. They all conducted Harry Esmond to his chamber;
the children running before, Harry walking by his mistress
hand-in-hand.




The old room had been ornamented and beautified not
a little to receive him. The flowers were in the window
in a china vase; and there was a fine new counterpane on
the bed, which chatterbox Beatrix said mamma had made
too. A fire was crackling on the hearth, although it was
June. My lady thought the room wanted warming; everything
was done to make him happy and welcome: “And
you are not to be a page any longer, but a gentleman and
[pg 115]
kinsman, and to walk with papa and mamma,” said the
children. And as soon as his dear mistress and children
had left him to himself, it was with a heart overflowing
with love and gratefulness that he flung himself down on
his knees by the side of the little bed, and asked a blessing
upon those who were so kind to him.




The children, who are always house tell-tales, soon made
him acquainted with the little history of the house and
family. Papa had been to London twice. Papa often went
away now. Papa had taken Beatrix to Westlands, where
she was taller than Sir George Harper's second daughter,
though she was two years older. Papa had taken Beatrix
and Frank both to Bellminster, where Frank had got the
better of Lord Bellminster's son in a boxing-match—my
lord, laughing, told Harry afterwards. Many gentlemen
came to stop with papa, and papa had gotten a new game
from London, a French game, called a billiard—that the
French king played it very well: and the Dowager Lady
Castlewood had sent Miss Beatrix a present; and papa had
gotten a new chaise, with two little horses, which he drove
himself, beside the coach, which mamma went in; and
Dr. Tusher was a cross old plague, and they did not like
to learn from him at all; and papa did not care about them
learning, and laughed when they were at their books, but
mamma liked them to learn, and taught them; and “I don't
think papa is fond of mamma”, said Miss Beatrix, with her
great eyes. She had come quite close up to Harry Esmond
by the time this prattle took place, and was on his knee, and
had examined all the points of his dress, and all the good
or bad features of his homely face.




“You shouldn't say that papa is not fond of mamma,”
said the boy, at this confession. “Mamma never said so;
and mamma forbade you to say it, Miss Beatrix.”




'Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in
Lady Castlewood's eyes, and the plaintive vibrations of
her voice. Who does not know of eyes, lighted by love once,
where the flame shines no more?—of lamps extinguished,
once properly trimmed and tended? Every man has such
in his house. Such mementoes make our splendidest chambers
look blank and sad; such faces seen in a day cast a
gloom upon our sunshine. So oaths mutually sworn, and
invocations of Heaven, and priestly ceremonies, and fond
belief, and love, so fond and faithful that it never doubted
[pg 116]
but that it should live for ever, are all of no avail towards
making love eternal: it dies, in spite of the banns and the
priest; and I have often thought there should be a visitation
of the sick for it, and a funeral service, and an extreme
unction, and an abi in pace.
It has its course, like all mortal
things—its beginning, progress, and decay. It buds and it
blooms out into sunshine, and it withers and ends. Strephon
and Chloe languish apart; join in a rapture: and presently
you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has broken his
crook across her back. Can you mend it so as to show no
marks of rupture? Not all the priests of Hymen, not all
the incantations to the gods, can make it whole!




Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college
honours, in which, for two years, Harry Esmond had been
immersed, he found himself instantly, on his return home,
in the midst of this actual tragedy of life, which absorbed
and interested him more than all his tutor taught him. The
persons whom he loved best in the world, and to whom he
owed most, were living unhappily together. The gentlest
and kindest of women was suffering ill-usage and shedding
tears in secret: the man who made her wretched by neglect,
if not by violence, was Harry's benefactor and patron. In
houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame of love,
there is discord at the centre, the whole, household becomes
hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbour. The husband
(or it may be the wife) lies when the visitor comes in, and
wears a grin of reconciliation or politeness before him.
The wife lies (indeed, her business is to do that, and to smile,
however much she is beaten), swallows her tears, and lies to
her lord and master; lies in bidding little Jacky respect dear
papa; lies in assuring grandpapa that she is perfectly
happy. The servants lie, wearing grave faces behind their
master's chair, and pretending to be unconscious of the
fighting; and so, from morning till bedtime, life is passed
in falsehood. And wiseacres call this a proper regard of
morals, and point out Baucis and Philemon as examples
of a good life.




If my lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond,
my lord was by no means reserved when in his cups, and
spoke his mind very freely, bidding Harry in his coarse way,
and with his blunt language, beware of all women as cheats,
jades, jilts, and using other unmistakable monosyllables
in speaking of them. Indeed, 'twas the fashion of the day
[pg 117]
as I must own; and there's not a writer of my time of any
note, with the exception of poor Dick Steele, that does not
speak of a woman as of a slave, and scorn and use her as
such. Mr. Pope, Mr. Congreve, Mr. Addison, Mr. Gay,
every one of 'em, sing in this key, each according to his
nature and politeness; and louder and fouler than all in
abuse is Dr. Swift, who spoke of them as he treated them,
worst of all.




Much of the quarrels and hatred which arise between
married people come in my mind from the husband's rage
and revolt at discovering that his slave and bedfellow, who
is to minister to all his wishes, and is church-sworn to honour
and obey him—is his superior; and that he, and not she,
ought to be the subordinate of the twain; and in these
controversies, I think, lay the cause of my lord's anger
against his lady. When he left her, she began to think for
herself, and her thoughts were not in his favour. After
the illumination, when the love-lamp is put out that anon
we spoke of, and by the common daylight we look at the
picture, what a daub it looks! what a clumsy effigy! How
many men and wives come to this knowledge, think you?
And if it be painful to a woman to find herself mated for
life to a boor, and ordered to love and honour a dullard; it is
worse still for the man himself perhaps, whenever in his dim
comprehension the idea dawns that his slave and drudge
yonder is, in truth, his superior; that the woman who does
his bidding, and submits to his humour, should be his lord;
that she can think a thousand things beyond the power of
his muddled brains; and that in yonder head, on the pillow
opposite to him, lie a thousand feelings, mysteries of
thought, latent scorns and rebellions, whereof he only dimly
perceives the existence as they look out furtively from her
eyes: treasures of love doomed to perish without a hand
to gather them; sweet fancies and images of beauty that
would grow and unfold themselves into flower; bright wit
that would shine like diamonds could it be brought into
the sun: and the tyrant in possession crushes the outbreak
of all these, drives them back like slaves into the dungeon
and darkness, and chafes without that his prisoner is rebellious,
and his sworn subject undutiful and refractory. So
the lamp was out in Castlewood Hall, and the lord and lady
there saw each other as they were. With her illness and
altered beauty my lord's fire for his wife disappeared; with
[pg 118]
his selfishness and faithlessness her foolish fiction of love
and reverence was rent away. Love!—who is to love what
is base and unlovely? Respect!—who is to respect what is
gross and sensual? Not all the marriage oaths sworn before
all the parsons, cardinals, ministers, muftis, and rabbins in
the world, can bind to that monstrous allegiance. This
couple was living apart then; the woman happy to be
allowed to love and tend her children (who were never of
her own goodwill away from her) and thankful to have
saved such treasures as these out of the wreck in which the
better part of her heart went down.




These young ones had had no instructors save their
mother, and Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally,
and had made more progress than might have been expected
under a tutor so indulgent and fond as Lady Castlewood.
Beatrix could sing and dance like a nymph. Her voice
was her father's delight after dinner. She ruled over the
house with little imperial ways, which her parents coaxed
and laughed at. She had long learned the value of her
bright eyes, and tried experiments in coquetry, in corpore
vili, upon rustics and country squires, until she should
prepare to conquer the world and the fashion. She put on
a new ribbon to welcome Harry Esmond, made eyes at him,
and directed her young smiles at him, not a little to the
amusement of the young man, and the joy of her father,
who laughed his great laugh, and encouraged her in her
thousand antics. Lady Castlewood watched the child
gravely and sadly: the little one was pert in her replies to
her mother, yet eager in her protestations of love and
promises of amendment; and as ready to cry (after a little
quarrel brought on by her own giddiness) until she had won
back her mamma's favour, as she was to risk the kind lady's
displeasure by fresh outbreaks of restless vanity. From
her mother's sad looks she fled to her father's chair and
boozy laughter. She already set the one against the other:
and the little rogue delighted in the mischief which she
knew how to make so early.




The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and
mother both. He took their caresses as men do, and as if
they were his right. He had his hawks and his spaniel
dog, his little horse and his beagles. He had learned to ride
and to drink, and to shoot flying: and he had a small court,
the sons of the huntsman and woodman, as became the
[pg 119]
heir-apparent, taking after the example of my lord his
father. If he had a headache, his mother was as much
frightened as if the plague were in the house: my lord
laughed and jeered in his abrupt way—(indeed, 'twas on the
day after New Year's Day, and an excess of mince-pie)—and
said with some of his usual oaths—“D——n it, Harry
Esmond—you see how my lady takes on about Frank's
megrim. She used to be sorry about me, my boy (pass the
tankard, Harry), and to be frightened if I had a headache
once. She don't care about my head now. They're like
that—women are—all the same, Harry, all jilts in their
hearts. Stick to college—stick to punch and buttery ale:
and never see a woman that's handsomer than an old
cinder-faced bedmaker. That's my counsel.”




It was my lord's custom to fling out many jokes of this
nature, in presence of his wife and children, at meals—clumsy
sarcasms which my lady turned many a time, or
which, sometimes, she affected not to hear, or which now
and again would hit their mark and make the poor victim
wince (as you could see by her flushing face and eyes filling
with tears), or which again worked her up to anger and
retort, when, in answer to one of these heavy bolts, she
would flash back with a quivering reply. The pair were
not happy; nor indeed was it happy to be with them.
Alas that youthful love and truth should end in bitterness
and bankruptcy! To see a young couple loving each other
is no wonder; but to see an old couple loving each other is
the best sight of all. Harry Esmond became the confidant
of one and the other—that is, my lord told the lad all his
griefs and wrongs (which were indeed of Lord Castlewood's
own making), and Harry divined my lady's; his affection
leading him easily to penetrate the hypocrisy under which
Lady Castlewood generally chose to go disguised, and see
her heart aching whilst her face wore a smile. 'Tis a hard
task for women in life, that mask which the world bids them
wear. But there is no greater crime than for a woman who
is ill used and unhappy to show that she is so. The world
is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a cheerful face;
and our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to go
smiling and painted to sacrifice themselves with their husbands;
their relations being the most eager to push them
on to their duty, and, under their shouts and applauses, to
smother and hush their cries of pain.


[pg 120]


So, into the sad secret of his patron's household, Harry
Esmond became initiated, he scarce knew how. It had
passed under his eyes two years before, when he could not
understand it; but reading, and thought, and experience
of men, had oldened him; and one of the deepest sorrows
of a life which had never, in truth, been very happy, came
upon him now, when he was compelled to understand and
pity a grief which he stood quite powerless to relieve.






It hath been said my lord would never take the oath of
allegiance, nor his seat as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland,
where, indeed, he had but a nominal estate; and refused
an English peerage which King William's Government
offered him as a bribe to secure his loyalty.




He might have accepted this, and would doubtless, but
for the earnest remonstrances of his wife (who ruled her
husband's opinions better than she could govern his conduct),
and who being a simple-hearted woman, with but one rule
of faith and right, never thought of swerving from her fidelity
to the exiled family, or of recognizing any other sovereign
but King James; and, though she acquiesced in the doctrine
of obedience to the reigning power, no temptation, she
thought, could induce her to acknowledge the Prince of
Orange as rightful monarch, nor to let her lord so acknowledge
him. So my Lord Castlewood remained a nonjuror
all his life nearly, though his self-denial caused him many
a pang, and left him sulky and out of humour.




The year after the Revolution, and all through King
William's life, 'tis known there were constant intrigues for
the restoration of the exiled family; but if my Lord Castlewood
took any share of these, as is probable, 'twas only for
a short time, and when Harry Esmond was too young to be
introduced into such important secrets.




But in the year 1695, when that conspiracy of Sir John
Fenwick, Colonel Lowick, and others, was set on foot, for
waylaying King William as he came from Hampton Court
to London, and a secret plot was formed, in which a vast
number of the nobility and people of honour were engaged;
Father Holt appeared at Castlewood, and brought a young
friend with him, a gentleman whom 'twas easy to see that
both my lord and the father treated with uncommon deference.
Harry Esmond saw this gentleman, and knew and
recognized him in after-life, as shall be shown in its place;
[pg 121]
and he has little doubt now that my lord viscount was implicated
somewhat in the transactions which always kept
Father Holt employed and travelling hither and thither
under a dozen of different names and disguises. The
father's companion went by the name of Captain James;
and it was under a very different name and appearance
that Harry Esmond afterwards saw him.




It was the next year that the Fenwick conspiracy blew up,
which is a matter of public history now, and which ended
in the execution of Sir John and many more, who suffered
manfully for their treason, and who were attended to Tyburn
by my lady's father, Dean Armstrong, Mr. Collier, and other
stout nonjuring clergymen, who absolved them at the
gallows' foot.




'Tis known that when Sir John was apprehended, discovery
was made of a great number of names of gentlemen engaged
in the conspiracy; when, with a noble wisdom and clemency,
the prince burned the list of conspirators furnished to him,
and said he would know no more. Now it was, after this,
that Lord Castlewood swore his great oath, that he would
never, so help him Heaven, be engaged in any transaction
against that brave and merciful man; and so he told Holt
when the indefatigable priest visited him, and would have
had him engage in a farther conspiracy. After this my
lord ever spoke of King William as he was—as one of the
wisest, the bravest, and the greatest of men. My Lady
Esmond (for her part) said she could never pardon the king,
first, for ousting his father-in-law from his throne, and
secondly, for not being constant to his wife, the Princess
Mary. Indeed, I think if Nero were to rise again, and be
king of England, and a good family man, the ladies would
pardon him. My lord laughed at his wife's objections—the
standard of virtue did not fit him much.




The last conference which Mr. Holt had with his lordship
took place when Harry was come home for his first vacation
from college (Harry saw his old tutor but for a half-hour,
and exchanged no private words with him), and their talk,
whatever it might be, left my lord viscount very much
disturbed in mind—so much so, that his wife, and his young
kinsman, Henry Esmond, could not but observe his disquiet.
After Holt was gone, my lord rebuffed Esmond, and again
treated him with the greatest deference; he shunned his
wife's questions and company, and looked at his children
[pg 122]
with such a face of gloom and anxiety, muttering, “Poor
children—poor children!” in a way that could not but fill
those whose life it was to watch him and obey him, with
great alarm. For which gloom, each person interested in
the Lord Castlewood, framed in his or her own mind an
interpretation.




My lady, with a laugh of cruel bitterness, said, “I suppose
the person at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him” (for
my lord's infatuation about Mrs. Marwood was known only
too well). Young Esmond feared for his money affairs,
into the condition of which he had been initiated; and that
the expenses, always greater than his revenue, had caused
Lord Castlewood disquiet.




One of the causes why my lord viscount had taken young
Esmond into his special favour was a trivial one, that hath
not before been mentioned, though it was a very lucky
accident in Henry Esmond's life. A very few months after
my lord's coming to Castlewood, in the winter-time—the
little boy, being a child in a petticoat, trotting about—it
happened that little Frank was with his father after dinner,
who fell asleep over his wine, heedless of the child, who
crawled to the fire; and, as good fortune would have it,
Esmond was sent by his mistress for the boy just as the
poor little screaming urchin's coat was set on fire by a log;
when Esmond, rushing forward, tore the dress off the infant,
so that his own hands were burned more than the child's,
who was frightened rather than hurt, by this accident.
But certainly 'twas providential that a resolute person
should have come in at that instant, or the child had been
burned to death probably, my lord sleeping very heavily
after drinking, and not waking so cool as a man should who
had a danger to face.




Ever after this the father, loud in his expressions of
remorse and humility for being a tipsy good-for-nothing,
and of admiration for Harry Esmond, whom his lordship
would style a hero for doing a very trifling service, had the
tenderest regard for his son's preserver, and Harry became
quite as one of the family. His burns were tended with the
greatest care by his kind mistress, who said that Heaven
had sent him to be the guardian of her children, and that
she would love him all her life.




And it was after this, and from the very great love and
tenderness which had grown up in this little household,
[pg 123]
rather than to the exhortations of Dean Armstrong (though
these had no small weight with him), that Harry came to
be quite of the religion of his house and his dear mistress,
of which he has ever since been a professing member.
As for Dr. Tusher's boasts that he was the cause of this
conversion—even in these young days Mr. Esmond had
such a contempt for the doctor, that had Tusher bade him
believe anything (which he did not—never meddling at all),
Harry would that instant have questioned the truth on't.




My lady seldom drank wine; but on certain days of
the year, such as birthdays (poor Harry had never a one)
and anniversaries, she took a little; and this day, the 29th
December, was one. At the end, then, of this year, '96,
it might have been a fortnight after Mr. Holt's last visit,
Lord Castlewood being still very gloomy in mind, and sitting
at table—my lady bidding a servant bring her a glass of
wine, and looking at her husband with one of her sweet
smiles, said—




“My lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call
a toast?”




“What is it, Rachel?” says he, holding out his empty
glass to be filled.




“'Tis the 29th of December,” says my lady, with her fond
look of gratitude; “and my toast is, ‘Harry—and God
bless him, who saved my boy's life!’ ”




My lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but
clapped it down on the table in a moment, and, with a
sort of groan, rose up, and went out of the room. What
was the matter? We all knew that some great grief was
over him.




Whether my lord's prudence had made him richer, or
legacies had fallen to him, which enabled him to support
a greater establishment than that frugal one which had
been too much for his small means, Harry Esmond knew
not; but the house of Castlewood was now on a scale
much more costly than it had been during the first year
of his lordship's coming to the title. There were more
horses in the stable and more servants in the hall, and
many more guests coming and going now than formerly,
when it was found difficult enough by the strictest economy
to keep the house as befitted one of his lordship's rank, and
the estate out of debt. And it did not require very much
penetration to find, that many of the new acquaintances
[pg 124]
at Castlewood were not agreeable to the lady there: not
that she ever treated them or any mortal with anything
but courtesy; but they were persons who could not be
welcome to her; and whose society a lady so refined and
reserved could scarce desire for her children. There came
fuddling squires from the country round, who bawled their
songs under her windows and drank themselves tipsy with
my lord's punch and ale: there came officers from Hexton,
in whose company our little lord was made to hear talk
and to drink, and swear too in a way that made the delicate
lady tremble for her son. Esmond tried to console her by
saying what he knew of his college experience; that with
this sort of company and conversation a man must fall in
sooner or later in his course through the world: and it
mattered very little whether he heard it at twelve years old
or twenty—the youths who quitted mother's apron-strings
the latest being not uncommonly the wildest rakes. But
it was about her daughter that Lady Castlewood was the
most anxious, and the danger which she thought menaced
the little Beatrix from the indulgences which her father
gave her (it must be owned that my lord, since these unhappy
domestic differences especially, was at once violent in his
language to the children when angry, as he was too familiar,
not to say coarse, when he was in a good humour), and from
the company into which the careless lord brought the child.




Not very far off from Castlewood is Sark Castle, where
the Marchioness of Sark lived, who was known to have
been a mistress of the late King Charles—and to this house,
whither indeed a great part of the country gentry went,
my lord insisted upon going, not only himself, but on
taking his little daughter and son to play with the children
there. The children were nothing loath, for the house was
splendid, and the welcome kind enough. But my lady,
justly no doubt, thought that the children of such a mother
as that noted Lady Sark had been, could be no good
company for her two; and spoke her mind to her lord.
His own language when he was thwarted was not indeed
of the gentlest: to be brief, there was a family dispute
on this, as there had been on many other points—and the
lady was not only forced to give in, for the other's will was
law—nor could she, on account of their tender age, tell
her children what was the nature of her objection to their
visit of pleasure, or indeed mention to them any objection
[pg 125]
at all—but she had the additional secret mortification to
find them returning delighted with their new friends, loaded
with presents from them, and eager to be allowed to go back
to a place of such delights as Sark Castle. Every year she
thought the company there would be more dangerous to
her daughter, as from a child Beatrix grew to a woman,
and her daily increasing beauty, and many faults of character
too, expanded.




It was Harry Esmond's lot to see one of the visits which
the old lady of Sark paid to the lady of Castlewood Hall:
whither she came in state with six chestnut horses and blue
ribbons, a page on each carriage step, a gentleman of the
horse, and armed servants riding before and behind her.
And, but that it was unpleasant to see Lady Castlewood's
face, it was amusing to watch the behaviour of the two
enemies: the frigid patience of the younger lady, and the
unconquerable good humour of the elder—who would see
no offence whatever her rival intended, and who never
ceased to smile and to laugh, and to coax the children,
and to pay compliments to every man, woman, child, nay
dog, or chair and table, in Castlewood, so bent was she
upon admiring everything there. She lauded the children,
and wished—as indeed she well might—that her own family
had been brought up as well as those cherubs. She had
never seen such a complexion as dear Beatrix's—though
to be sure she had a right to it from father and mother—Lady
Castlewood's was indeed a wonder of freshness, and
Lady Sark sighed to think she had not been born a fair
woman; and remarking Harry Esmond, with a fascinating
superannuated smile, she complimented him on his wit,
which she said she could see from his eyes and forehead;
and vowed that she would never have him at Sark until
her daughter were out of the way.




[pg 126]





 Chapter XII. My Lord Mohun Comes Among Us For No Good



There had ridden along with this old princess's cavalcade,
two gentlemen; her son, my Lord Firebrace, and his friend,
my Lord Mohun, who both were greeted with a great deal
of cordiality by the hospitable Lord of Castlewood. My
Lord Firebrace was but a feeble-minded and weak-limbed
young nobleman, small in stature and limited in understanding—to
judge from the talk young Esmond had with
him; but the other was a person of a handsome presence,
with the bel air, and a bright daring warlike aspect,
which, according to the chronicle of those days, had already
achieved for him the conquest of several beauties and
toasts. He had fought and conquered in France, as well
as in Flanders; he had served a couple of campaigns with
the Prince of Baden on the Danube, and witnessed the
rescue of Vienna from the Turk. And he spoke of his
military exploits pleasantly, and with the manly freedom of
a soldier, so as to delight all his hearers at Castlewood, who
were little accustomed to meet a companion so agreeable.




On the first day this noble company came, my lord would
not hear of their departure before dinner, and carried away
the gentlemen to amuse them, whilst his wife was left to
do the honours of her house to the old marchioness and her
daughter within. They looked at the stables, where my
Lord Mohun praised the horses, though there was but
a poor show there: they walked over the old house and
gardens, and fought the siege of Oliver's time over again:
they played a game of rackets in the old court, where my
Lord Castlewood beat my Lord Mohun, who said he loved
ball of all things, and would quickly come back to Castlewood
for his revenge. After dinner they played bowls, and
drank punch in the green alley; and when they parted
they were sworn friends, my Lord Castlewood kissing the
other lord before he mounted on horseback, and pronouncing
him the best companion he had met for many a long day.
All night long, over his tobacco-pipe Castlewood did not
cease to talk to Harry Esmond in praise of his new friend,
and in fact did not leave off speaking of him until his
[pg 127]
lordship was so tipsy that he could not speak plainly any
more.




At breakfast next day it was the same talk renewed;
and when my lady said there was something free in the
Lord Mohun's looks and manner of speech which caused
her to mistrust him, her lord burst out with one of his
laughs and oaths; said that he never liked man, woman,
or beast, but what she was sure to be jealous of it; that
Mohun was the prettiest fellow in England; that he hoped
to see more of him whilst in the country; and that he
would let Mohun know what my Lady Prude said of him.




“Indeed,” Lady Castlewood said, “I liked his conversation
well enough. 'Tis more amusing than that of most people
I know. I thought it, I own, too free; not from what he
said, as rather from what he implied.”




“Psha! your ladyship does not know the world,” said her
husband; “and you have always been as squeamish as
when you were a miss of fifteen.”




“You found no fault when I was a miss at fifteen.”




“Begad, madam, you are grown too old for a pinafore
now; and I hold that 'tis for me to judge what company
my wife shall see,” said my lord, slapping the table.




“Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise,” answered
my lady, rising and dropping him a curtsy, in which stately
action, if there was obedience, there was defiance too; and
in which a bystander, deeply interested in the happiness
of that pair as Harry Esmond was, might see how hopelessly
separated they were; what a great gulf of difference and
discord had run between them.




“By G——d! Mohun is the best fellow in England; and
I'll invite him here, just to plague that woman. Did you
ever see such a frigid insolence as it is, Harry? That's
the way she treats me,” he broke out, storming, and his face
growing red as he clenched his fists and went on. “I'm
nobody in my own house. I'm to be the humble servant of
that parson's daughter. By Jove! I'd rather she should
fling the dish at my head than sneer at me as she does.
She puts me to shame before the children with her d——d
airs; and, I'll swear, tells Frank and Beaty that papa's
a reprobate, and that they ought to despise me.”




“Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word
out of respect regarding you,” Harry Esmond interposed.




“No, curse it! I wish she would speak. But she never
[pg 128]
does. She scorns me, and holds her tongue. She keeps
off from me, as if I was a pestilence. By George! she was
fond enough of her pestilence once. And when I came
a-courting, you would see miss blush—blush red, by George!
for joy. Why, what do you think she said to me, Harry?
She said herself, when I joked with her about her d—d
smiling red cheeks: ‘'Tis as they do at St. James's; I put
up my red flag when my king comes.’ I was the king,
you see, she meant. But now, sir, look at her! I believe
she would be glad if I was dead; and dead I've been to
her these five years—ever since you all of you had the
small-pox: and she never forgave me for going away.”




“Indeed, my lord, though 'twas hard to forgive, I think
my mistress forgave it,” Harry Esmond said; “and remember
how eagerly she watched your lordship's return, and
how sadly she turned away when she saw your cold looks.”




“Damme!” cries out my lord; “would you have had
me wait and catch the small-pox? Where the deuce had
been the good of that? I'll bear danger with any man—but
not useless danger—no, no. Thank you for nothing.
And—you nod your head, and I know very well, Parson
Harry, what you mean. There was the—the other affair
to make her angry. But is a woman never to forgive
a husband who goes a-tripping? Do you take me for
a saint?”




“Indeed, sir, I do not,” says Harry, with a smile.




“Since that time my wife's as cold as the statue at
Charing Cross. I tell thee she has no forgiveness in her,
Henry. Her coldness blights my whole life, and sends me
to the punch-bowl, or driving about the country. My
children are not mine, but hers, when we are together.
'Tis only when she is out of sight with her abominable
cold glances, that run through me, that they'll come to
me, and that I dare to give them so much as a kiss; and
that's why I take 'em and love 'em in other people's houses,
Harry. I'm killed by the very virtue of that proud woman.
Virtue! give me the virtue that can forgive; give me the
virtue that thinks not of preserving itself, but of making
other folks happy. Damme, what matters a scar or two
if 'tis got in helping a friend in ill fortune?”




And my lord again slapped the table, and took a great
draught from the tankard. Harry Esmond admired as
he listened to him, and thought how the poor preacher of
[pg 129]
this self-sacrifice had fled from the small-pox, which the
lady had borne so cheerfully, and which had been the cause
of so much disunion in the lives of all in this house. “How
well men preach,” thought the young man, “and each is
the example in his own sermon. How each has a story
in a dispute, and a true one, too, and both are right, or
wrong as you will!” Harry's heart was pained within him,
to watch the struggles and pangs that tore the breast of
this kind, manly friend and protector.




“Indeed, sir,” said he, “I wish to God that my mistress
could hear you speak as I have heard you; she would know
much that would make her life the happier, could she hear
it.” But my lord flung away with one of his oaths, and
a jeer; he said that Parson Harry was a good fellow; but
that as for women, all women were alike—all jades and
heartless. So a man dashes a fine vase down and despises
it for being broken. It may be worthless—true: but who
had the keeping of it, and who shattered it?




Harry, who would have given his life to make his benefactress
and her husband happy, bethought him, now that
he saw what my lord's state of mind was, and that he
really had a great deal of that love left in his heart, and
ready for his wife's acceptance if she would take it, whether
he could not be a means of reconciliation between these
two persons, whom he revered the most in the world. And
he cast about how he should break a part of his mind to
his mistress, and warn her that in his, Harry's opinion, at
least, her husband was still her admirer, and even her lover.




But he found the subject a very difficult one to handle,
when he ventured to remonstrate, which he did in the very
gravest tone (for long confidence and reiterated proofs of
devotion and loyalty had given him a sort of authority in
the house, which he resumed as soon as ever he returned
to it); and with a speech that should have some effect,
as, indeed, it was uttered with the speaker's own heart,
he ventured most gently to hint to his adored mistress,
that she was doing her husband harm by her ill opinion
of him, and that the happiness of all the family depended
upon setting her right.




She, who was ordinarily calm and most gentle, and full
of smiles and soft attentions, flushed up when young Esmond
so spoke to her, and rose from her chair, looking at him
with a haughtiness and indignation that he had never before
[pg 130]
known her to display. She was quite an altered being for
that moment; and looked an angry princess insulted by
a vassal.




“Have you ever heard me utter a word in my lord's
disparagement?” she asked hastily, hissing out her words,
and stamping her foot.




“Indeed, no,” Esmond said, looking down.




“Are you come to me as his ambassador—You?” she
continued.




“I would sooner see peace between you than anything
else in the world,” Harry answered, “and would go of any
embassy that had that end.”




“So you are my lord's go-between?” she went on, not
regarding this speech. “You are sent to bid me back
into slavery again, and inform me that my lord's favour is
graciously restored to his handmaid? He is weary of
Covent Garden, is he, that he comes home and would have
the fatted calf killed?”




“There's good authority for it, surely,” said Esmond.




“For a son, yes; but my lord is not my son. It was
he who cast me away from him. It was he who broke
our happiness down, and he bids me to repair it. It was
he who showed himself to me at last, as he was, not as I had
thought him. It is he who comes before my children stupid
and senseless with wine—who leaves our company for that
of frequenters of taverns and bagnios—who goes from his
home to the city yonder and his friends there, and when
he is tired of them returns hither, and expects that I shall
kneel and welcome him. And he sends you as his chamberlain!
What a proud embassy! Monsieur, I make you my
compliment of the new place.”




“It would be a proud embassy, and a happy embassy
too, could I bring you and my lord together,” Esmond
replied.




“I presume you have fulfilled your mission now, sir.
'Twas a pretty one for you to undertake. I don't know
whether 'tis your Cambridge philosophy, or time, that has
altered your ways of thinking,” Lady Castlewood continued,
still in a sarcastic tone. “Perhaps you too have learned
to love drink, and to hiccup over your wine or punch;—which
is your worship's favourite liquor? Perhaps you
too put up at the ‘Rose’ on your way through London, and
have your acquaintances in Covent Garden. My services
[pg 131]
to you, sir, to principal and ambassador, to master and—and
lackey.”




“Great Heavens, madam,” cried Harry, “what have I
done that thus, for a second time, you insult me? Do
you wish me to blush for what I used to be proud of, that
I lived on your bounty? Next to doing you a service
(which my life would pay for), you know that to receive
one from you is my highest pleasure. What wrong have
I done you that you should wound me so, cruel woman?”




“What wrong?” she said, looking at Esmond with wild
eyes. “Well, none—none that you know of, Harry, or
could help. Why did you bring back the small-pox,” she
added, after a pause, “from Castlewood village? You could
not help it, could you? Which of us knows whither fate
leads us? But we were all happy, Henry, till then.” And
Harry went away from this colloquy, thinking still that
the estrangement between his patron and his beloved
mistress was remediable, and that each had at heart a strong
attachment to the other.




The intimacy between the Lords Mohun and Castlewood
appeared to increase as long as the former remained in the
country; and my Lord of Castlewood especially seemed
never to be happy out of his new comrade's sight. They
sported together, they drank, they played bowls and tennis:
my Lord Castlewood would go for three days to Sark, and
bring back my Lord Mohun to Castlewood—where indeed
his lordship made himself very welcome to all persons,
having a joke or a new game at romps for the children,
all the talk of the town for my lord, and music and gallantry
and plenty of the beau langage for my lady, and for Harry
Esmond, who was never tired of hearing his stories of his
campaigns and his life at Vienna, Venice, Paris, and the
famous cities of Europe which he had visited both in peace
and war. And he sang at my lady's harpsichord, and
played cards or backgammon, or his new game of billiards
with my lord (of whom he invariably got the better);
always having a consummate good humour, and bearing
himself with a certain manly grace, that might exhibit
somewhat of the camp and Alsatia perhaps, but that had
its charm and stamped him a gentleman: and his manner
to Lady Castlewood was so devoted and respectful, that
she soon recovered from the first feelings of dislike which
she had conceived against him—nay, before long, began to
[pg 132]
be interested in his spiritual welfare, and hopeful of his
conversion, lending him books of piety, which he promised
dutifully to study. With her my lord talked of reform,
of settling into quiet life, quitting the Court and town, and
buying some land in the neighbourhood—though it must
be owned that, when the two lords were together over their
burgundy after dinner, their talk was very different, and
there was very little question of conversion on my Lord
Mohun's part. When they got to their second bottle,
Harry Esmond used commonly to leave these two noble
topers, who, though they talked freely enough, Heaven
knows, in his presence (Good Lord, what a set of stories,
of Alsatia and Spring Garden, of the taverns and gaming-houses,
of the ladies of the Court, and mesdames of the
theatres, he can recall out of their godly conversation!)—although
I say they talked before Esmond freely, yet they
seemed pleased when he went away, and then they had
another bottle, and then they fell to cards, and then my
Lord Mohun came to her ladyship's drawing-room; leaving
his boon companion to sleep off his wine.




'Twas a point of honour with the fine gentlemen of those
days to lose or win magnificently at their horse-matches,
or games of cards and dice—and you could never tell,
from the demeanour of these two lords afterwards, which
had been successful and which the loser at their games.
And when my lady hinted to my lord that he played more
than she liked, he dismissed her with a “pish”, and swore
that nothing was more equal than play betwixt gentlemen,
if they did but keep it up long enough. And these kept
it up long enough you may be sure. A man of fashion
of that time often passed a quarter of his day at cards,
and another quarter at drink: I have known many a pretty
fellow, who was a wit too, ready of repartee, and possessed
of a thousand graces, who would be puzzled if he had to
write more than his name.




There is scarce any thoughtful man or woman, I suppose,
but can look back upon his course of past life, and remember
some point, trifling as it may have seemed at the time of
occurrence, which has nevertheless turned and altered his
whole career. 'Tis with almost all of us, as in Monsieur
Massillon's magnificent image regarding King William, a
grain de sable that perverts or perhaps overthrows us;
and so it was but a light word flung in the air, a mere freak of
[pg 133]
a perverse child's temper, that brought down a whole heap
of crushing woes upon that family whereof Harry Esmond
formed a part.




Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year
of his academical course (wherein he had now obtained
some distinction, his Latin Poem on the death of the Duke
of Gloucester, Princess Anne of Denmark's son, having
gained him a medal, and introduced him to the society of
the University wits), Esmond found his little friend and
pupil Beatrix grown to be taller than her mother, a slim
and lovely young girl, with cheeks mantling with health
and roses: with eyes like stars shining out of azure, with
waving bronze hair clustered about the fairest young forehead
ever seen: and a mien and shape haughty and beautiful,
such as that of the famous antique statue of the huntress
Diana—at one time haughty, rapid, imperious, with eyes
and arrows that dart and kill. Harry watched and wondered
at this young creature, and likened her in his mind to
Artemis with the ringing bow and shafts flashing death
upon the children of Niobe; at another time she was coy
and melting as Luna shining tenderly upon Endymion.
This fair creature, this lustrous Phoebe, was only young as
yet, nor had nearly reached her full splendour: but crescent
and brilliant, our young gentleman of the University, his
head full of poetical fancies, his heart perhaps throbbing
with desires undefined, admired this rising young divinity;
and gazed at her (though only as at some “bright particular
star”, far above his earth) with endless delight and wonder.
She had been a coquette from the earliest times almost,
trying her freaks and jealousies, her wayward frolics and
winning caresses, upon all that came within her reach;
she set her women quarrelling in the nursery, and practised
her eyes on the groom as she rode behind him on the pillion.




She was the darling and torment of father and mother.
She intrigued with each secretly; and bestowed her fondness
and withdrew it, plied them with tears, smiles, kisses,
cajolements;—when the mother was angry, as happened
often, flew to the father, and sheltering behind him, pursued
her victim; when both were displeased, transferred her
caresses to the domestics, or watched until she could win
back her parents' good graces, either by surprising them
into laughter and good humour, or appeasing them by
submission and artful humility. She was
saevo laeta negotio,
[pg 134]
like that fickle goddess Horace describes, and of whose
“malicious joy” a great poet of our own has written so
nobly—who, famous and heroic as he was, was not strong
enough to resist the torture of women.




It was but three years before, that the child, then but
ten years old, had nearly managed to make a quarrel
between Harry Esmond and his comrade, good-natured,
phlegmatic Thomas Tusher, who never of his own seeking
quarrelled with anybody: by quoting to the latter some
silly joke which Harry had made regarding him—(it was
the merest, idlest jest, though it near drove two old friends
to blows, and I think such a battle would have pleased
her)—and from that day Tom kept at a distance from her;
and she respected him, and coaxed him sedulously whenever
they met. But Harry was much more easily appeased,
because he was fonder of the child: and when she made
mischief, used cutting speeches, or caused her friends pain,
she excused herself for her fault, not by admitting and
deploring it, but by pleading not guilty, and asserting
innocence so constantly, and with such seeming artlessness,
that it was impossible to question her plea. In her childhood,
they were but mischiefs then which she did; but her
power became more fatal as she grew older—as a kitten first
plays with a ball, and then pounces on a bird and kills it.
'Tis not to be imagined that Harry Esmond had all this
experience at this early stage of his life, whereof he is now
writing the history—many things here noted were but
known to him in later days. Almost everything Beatrix
did or undid seemed good, or at least pardonable, to him
then, and years afterwards.




It happened, then, that Harry Esmond came home to
Castlewood for his last vacation, with good hopes of a fellowship
at his college, and a contented resolve to advance his
fortune that way. 'Twas in the first year of the present
century, Mr. Esmond (as far as he knew the period of
his birth) being then twenty-two years old. He found
his quondam pupil shot up into this beauty of which we
have spoken, and promising yet more: her brother, my
lord's son, a handsome high-spirited brave lad, generous
and frank, and kind to everybody, save perhaps his sister,
with whom Frank was at war (and not from his but her
fault)—adoring his mother, whose joy he was: and taking
her side in the unhappy matrimonial differences which
[pg 135]
were now permanent, while of course Mistress Beatrix
ranged with her father. When heads of families fall out,
it must naturally be that their dependants wear the one
or the other party's colour; and even in the parliaments
in the servants' hall or the stables, Harry, who had an
early observant turn, could see which were my lord's
adherents and which my lady's, and conjecture pretty
shrewdly how their unlucky quarrel was debated. Our
lackeys sit in judgement on us. My lord's intrigues may
be ever so stealthily conducted, but his valet knows them;
and my lady's woman carries her mistress's private history
to the servants' scandal-market, and exchanges it against
the secrets of other abigails.









 Chapter XIII. My Lord Leaves Us And His Evil Behind Him



My Lord Mohun (of whose exploits and fame some of the
gentlemen of the University had brought down but ugly
reports) was once more a guest at Castlewood, and seemingly
more intimately allied with my lord even than before.
Once in the spring those two noblemen had ridden to Cambridge
from Newmarket, whither they had gone for the
horse-racing, and had honoured Harry Esmond with a visit
at his rooms; after which Doctor Montague, the master
of the college, who had treated Harry somewhat haughtily,
seeing his familiarity with these great folks, and that my
Lord Castlewood laughed and walked with his hand on
Harry's shoulder, relented to Mr. Esmond, and condescended
to be very civil to him; and some days after his arrival,
Harry, laughing, told this story to Lady Esmond, remarking
how strange it was that men famous for learning and
renowned over Europe, should, nevertheless, so bow down
to a title, and cringe to a nobleman ever so poor. At this,
Mistress Beatrix flung up her head, and said, it became
those of low origin to respect their betters; that the parsons
made themselves a great deal too proud, she thought; and
that she liked the way at Lady Sark's best, where the
chaplain, though he loved pudding, as all parsons do,
always went away before the custard.


[pg 136]


“And when I am a parson,” says Mr. Esmond, “will you
give me no custard, Beatrix?”




“You—you are different,” Beatrix answered. “You are
of our blood.”




“My father was a parson, as you call him,” said my
lady.




“But mine is a peer of Ireland,” says Mistress Beatrix,
tossing her head. “Let people know their places. I suppose
you will have me go down on my knees and ask a blessing
of Mr. Thomas Tusher, that has just been made a curate,
and whose mother was a waiting-maid.”




And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty
humours then.




When she was gone, my lady looked so sad and grave,
that Harry asked the cause of her disquietude. She said
it was not merely what he said of Newmarket, but what
she had remarked, with great anxiety and terror, that my
lord, ever since his acquaintance with the Lord Mohun
especially, had recurred to his fondness for play, which he
had renounced since his marriage.




“But men promise more than they are able to perform
in marriage,” said my lady, with a sigh. “I fear he has lost
large sums; and our property, always small, is dwindling
away under this reckless dissipation. I heard of him in
London with very wild company. Since his return letters
and lawyers are constantly coming and going: he seems
to me to have a constant anxiety, though he hides it under
boisterousness and laughter. I looked through—through
the door last night, and—and before,” said my lady, “and
saw them at cards after midnight; no estate will bear that
extravagance, much less ours, which will be so diminished
that my son will have nothing at all, and my poor Beatrix
no portion!”




“I wish I could help you, madam,” said Harry Esmond,
sighing, and wishing that unavailingly, and for the thousandth
time in his life.




“Who can? Only God,” said Lady Esmond—“only God,
in whose hands we are.” And so it is, and for his rule over
his family, and for his conduct to wife and children—subjects
over whom his power is monarchical—any one who
watches the world must think with trembling sometimes of
the account which many a man will have to render. For
in our society there's no law to control the King of the
[pg 137]
Fireside. He is master of property, happiness—life almost.
He is free to punish, to make happy or unhappy—to ruin
or to torture. He may kill a wife gradually, and be no
more questioned than the Grand Seignior who drowns a
slave at midnight. He may make slaves and hypocrites
of his children; or friends and freemen; or drive them into
revolt and enmity against the natural law of love. I have
heard politicians and coffee-house wiseacres talking over
the newspaper, and railing at the tyranny of the French
king, and the emperor, and wondered how these (who are
monarchs, too, in their way) govern their own dominions
at home, where each man rules absolute? When the annals
of each little reign are shown to the Supreme Master, under
whom we hold sovereignty, histories will be laid bare of
household tyrants as cruel as Amurath, and as savage as
Nero, and as reckless and dissolute as Charles.




If Harry Esmond's patron erred, 'twas in the latter way,
from a disposition rather self-indulgent than cruel; and he
might have been brought back to much better feelings, had
time been given to him to bring his repentance to a lasting
reform.




As my lord and his friend Lord Mohun were such close
companions, Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the
latter; and the two gentlemen often entertained each other
by laughing, in their rude boisterous way, at the child's
freaks of anger and show of dislike. “When thou art old
enough, thou shalt marry Lord Mohun,” Beatrix's father
would say: on which the girl would pout and say, “I would
rather marry Tom Tusher.” And because the Lord Mohun
always showed an extreme gallantry to my Lady Castlewood,
whom he professed to admire devotedly, one day, in
answer to this old joke of her father's, Beatrix said, “I think
my lord would rather marry mamma than marry me; and
is waiting till you die to ask her.”




The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one
night before supper, as the family party were assembled
near the great fire. The two lords, who were at cards, both
gave a start; my lady turned as red as scarlet, and bade
Mistress Beatrix go to her own chamber; whereupon the
girl, putting on, as her wont was, the most innocent air, said,
“I am sure I meant no wrong; I am sure mamma talks a
great deal more to Harry Esmond than she does to papa—and
she cried when Harry went away, and she never does
[pg 138]
when papa goes away; and last night she talked to Lord
Mohun for ever so long, and sent us out of the room, and
cried when we came back, and——”




“D——n!” cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all
patience. “Go out of the room, you little viper!” and he
started up and flung down his cards.




“Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis,” her ladyship
said, rising up with a scared face, but yet with a great
and touching dignity and candour in her look and voice.
“Come away with me, Beatrix.” Beatrix sprung up too;
she was in tears now.




“Dearest mamma, what have I done?” she asked. “Sure
I meant no harm.” And she clung to her mother, and the
pair went out sobbing together.




“I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank,” my
Lord Mohun cried—“Parson Harry may hear it; and, as
I hope for heaven, every word I say is true. Last night,
with tears in her eyes, your wife implored me to play no
more with you at dice or at cards, and you know best
whether what she asked was not for your good.”




“Of course it was, Mohun,” says my lord, in a dry hard
voice. “Of course, you are a model of a man: and the
world knows what a saint you are.”




My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had
many affairs of honour: of which women as usual had been
the cause.




“I am no saint, though your wife is—and I can answer
for my actions as other people must for their words,” said
my Lord Mohun.




“By G——, my lord, you shall,” cried the other, starting up.




“We have another little account to settle first, my lord,”
says Lord Mohun. Whereupon Harry Esmond, filled with
alarm for the consequences to which this disastrous dispute
might lead, broke out into the most vehement expostulations
with his patron and his adversary. “Gracious Heavens!”
he said, “my lord, are you going to draw a sword upon your
friend in your own house? Can you doubt the honour of
a lady who is as pure as Heaven, and would die a thousand
times rather than do you a wrong? Are the idle words of
a jealous child to set friends at variance? Has not my
mistress, as much as she dared to, besought your lordship,
as the truth must be told, to break your intimacy with my
Lord Mohun; and to give up the habit which may bring
[pg 139]
ruin on your family? But for my Lord Mohun's illness, had
he not left you?”




“Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can't run after
other men's wives,” broke out my Lord Mohun, who indeed
was in that way, and with a laugh and a look at his swathed
limb so frank and comical, that the other dashing his fist
across his forehead was caught by that infectious good
humour, and said with his oath, “—— it, Harry, I
believe thee,” and so this quarrel was over, and the two
gentlemen, at swords drawn but just now, dropped their
points, and shook hands.




Beati pacifici.
“Go, bring my lady back,” said Harry's
patron. Esmond went away only too glad to be the bearer
of such good news. He found her at the door; she had
been listening there, but went back as he came. She took
both his hands, hers were marble cold. She seemed as if she
would fall on his shoulder. “Thank you, and God bless
you, my dear brother Harry,” she said. She kissed his hand,
Esmond felt her tears upon it: and leading her into the
room, and up to my lord, the Lord Castlewood with an
outbreak of feeling and affection, such as he had not
exhibited for many a long day, took his wife to his heart,
and bent over and kissed her and asked her pardon.




“'Tis time for me to go to roost. I will have my gruel
abed,” said my Lord Mohun: and limped off comically on
Harry Esmond's arm. “By George, that woman is a pearl!”
he said; “and 'tis only a pig that wouldn't value her.
Have you seen the vulgar trapesing orange-girl whom
Esmond”—but here Mr. Esmond interrupted him, saying,
that these were not affairs for him to know.




My lord's gentleman came in to wait upon his master,
who was no sooner in his nightcap and dressing-gown than
he had another visitor whom his host insisted on sending
to him: and this was no other than the Lady Castlewood
herself with the toast and gruel, which her husband bade her
make and carry with her own hands in to her guest.




Lord Castlewood stood looking after his wife as she went
on this errand, and as he looked, Harry Esmond could not
but gaze on him, and remarked in his patron's face an
expression of love, and grief, and care, which very much
moved and touched the young man. Lord Castlewood's
hands fell down at his sides, and his head on his breast, and
presently he said—


[pg 140]


“You heard what Mohun said, parson?”




“That my lady was a saint?”




“That there are two accounts to settle. I have been going
wrong these five years, Harry Esmond. Ever since you
brought that damned small-pox into the house, there has
been a fate pursuing me, and I had best have died of it, and
not run away from it like a coward. I left Beatrix with her
relations, and went to London; and I fell among thieves,
Harry, and I got back to confounded cards and dice, which
I hadn't touched since my marriage—no, not since I was in
the duke's guard, with those wild Mohocks. And I have
been playing worse and worse, and going deeper and deeper
into it; and I owe Mohun two thousand pounds now; and
when it's paid I am little better than a beggar. I don't
like to look my boy in the face; he hates me, I know he does.
And I have spent Beaty's little portion; and the Lord
knows what will come if I live; the best thing I can do is to
die, and release what portion of the estate is redeemable for
the boy.”




Mohun was as much master at Castlewood as the owner
of the Hall itself; and his equipages filled the stables, where,
indeed, there was room in plenty for many more horses than
Harry Esmond's impoverished patron could afford to keep.
He had arrived on horseback with his people; but when his
gout broke out my Lord Mohun sent to London for a light
chaise he had, drawn by a pair of small horses, and running
as swift, wherever roads were good, as a Laplander's sledge.
When this carriage came, his lordship was eager to drive
the Lady Castlewood abroad in it, and did so many times,
and at a rapid pace, greatly to his companion's enjoyment,
who loved the swift motion and the healthy breezes over
the downs which lie hard upon Castlewood, and stretch
thence towards the sea. As this amusement was very
pleasant to her, and her lord, far from showing any mistrust
of her intimacy with Lord Mohun, encouraged her to be
his companion; as if willing, by his present extreme confidence,
to make up for any past mistrust which his jealousy
had shown; the Lady Castlewood enjoyed herself freely in
this harmless diversion, which, it must be owned, her guest
was very eager to give her; and it seemed that she grew
the more free with Lord Mohun, and pleased with his company,
because of some sacrifice which his gallantry was
pleased to make in her favour.


[pg 141]


Seeing the two gentlemen constantly at cards still of
evenings, Harry Esmond one day deplored to his mistress
that this fatal infatuation of her lord should continue;
and now they seemed reconciled together, begged his lady
to hint to her husband that he should play no more.




But Lady Castlewood, smiling archly and gaily, said she
would speak to him presently, and that, for a few nights
more at least, he might be let to have his amusement.




“Indeed, madam,” said Harry, “you know not what it costs
you; and 'tis easy for any observer who knows the game,
to see that Lord Mohun is by far the stronger of the two.”




“I know he is,” says my lady, still with exceeding good
humour; “he is not only the best player, but the kindest
player in the world.”




“Madam, madam,” Esmond cried, transported and provoked.
“Debts of honour must be paid some time or other;
and my master will be ruined if he goes on.”




“Harry, shall I tell you a secret?” my lady replied, with
kindness and pleasure still in her eyes. “Francis will not
be ruined if he goes on; he will be rescued if he goes on.
I repent of having spoken and thought unkindly of the Lord
Mohun when he was here in the past year. He is full of
much kindness and good: and 'tis my belief that we shall
bring him to better things. I have lent him Tillotson and
your favourite Bishop Taylor, and he is much touched, he
says; and as a proof of his repentance—(and herein lies
my secret)—what do you think he is doing with Francis?
He is letting poor Frank win his money back again. He
hath won already at the last four nights; and my Lord
Mohun says that he will not be the means of injuring poor
Frank and my dear children.”




“And in God's name, what do you return him for this
sacrifice?” asked Esmond, aghast; who knew enough of
men, and of this one in particular, to be aware that such
a finished rake gave nothing for nothing. “How, in
Heaven's name, are you to pay him?”




“Pay him! With a mother's blessing and a wife's
prayers!” cries my lady, clasping her hands together.
Harry Esmond did not know whether to laugh, to be angry,
or to love his dear mistress more than ever for the obstinate
innocency with which she chose to regard the conduct of
a man of the world, whose designs he knew better how to
interpret. He told the lady, guardedly, but so as to make
[pg 142]
his meaning quite clear to her, what he knew in respect of
the former life and conduct of this nobleman; of other
women against whom he had plotted, and whom he had
overcome; of the conversation which he Harry himself
had had with Lord Mohun, wherein the lord made a boast
of his libertinism, and frequently avowed that he held all
women to be fair game (as his lordship styled this pretty
sport), and that they were all, without exception, to be won.
And the return Harry had for his entreaties and remonstrances
was a fit of anger on Lady Castlewood's part, who
would not listen to his accusations, she said, and retorted
that he himself must be very wicked and perverted, to suppose
evil designs, where she was sure none were meant.
“And this is the good meddlers get of interfering,” Harry
thought to himself with much bitterness; and his perplexity
and annoyance were only the greater, because he could not
speak to my Lord Castlewood himself upon a subject of this
nature, or venture to advise or warn him regarding a
matter so very sacred as his own honour, of which my lord
was naturally the best guardian.




But though Lady Castlewood would listen to no advice
from her young dependant, and appeared indignantly to
refuse it when offered, Harry had the satisfaction to find
that she adopted the counsel which she professed to reject;
for the next day she pleaded a headache, when my Lord
Mohun would have had her drive out, and the next day
the headache continued; and next day, in a laughing gay
way she proposed that the children should take her place
in his lordship's car, for they would be charmed with a ride
of all things; and she must not have all the pleasure for
herself. My lord gave them a drive with a very good grace,
though I dare say with rage and disappointment inwardly—not
that his heart was very seriously engaged in his designs
upon this simple lady: but the life of such men is often one
of intrigue, and they can no more go through the day without
a woman to pursue, than a fox-hunter without his sport
after breakfast.




Under an affected carelessness of demeanour, and though
there was no outward demonstration of doubt upon his
patron's part since the quarrel between the two lords,
Harry yet saw that Lord Castlewood was watching his guest
very narrowly; and caught signs of distrust and smothered
rage (as Harry thought) which foreboded no good. On the
[pg 143]
point of honour Esmond knew how touchy his patron was;
and watched him almost as a physician watches a patient,
and it seemed to him that this one was slow to take the
disease, though he could not throw off the poison when once
it had mingled with his blood. We read in Shakespeare
(whom the writer for his part considers to be far beyond
Mr. Congreve, Mr. Dryden, or any of the wits of the present
period) that when jealousy is once declared, nor poppy,
nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the East, will
ever soothe it or medicine it away.




In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to this
young physician (who indeed young as he was had felt the
kind pulses of all those dear kinsmen), that Harry thought
it would be his duty to warn my Lord Mohun, and let him
know that his designs were suspected and watched. So
one day, when in rather a pettish humour, his lordship had
sent to Lady Castlewood, who had promised to drive with
him, and now refused to come, Harry said—“My lord, if
you will kindly give me a place by your side I will thank
you; I have much to say to you, and would like to speak
to you alone.”




“You honour me by giving me your confidence, Mr. Henry
Esmond,” says the other, with a very grand bow. My lord
was always a fine gentleman, and young as he was there
was that in Esmond's manner which showed that he was
a gentleman too, and that none might take a liberty with
him—so the pair went out, and mounted the little carriage
which was in waiting for them in the court, with its two
little cream-coloured Hanoverian horses covered with
splendid furniture and champing at the bit.




“My lord,” says Harry Esmond, after they were got into
the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun's foot, which
was swathed in flannel, and put up rather ostentatiously on
a cushion—“my lord, I studied medicine at Cambridge.”




“Indeed, Parson Harry,” says he: “and are you going
to take out a diploma: and cure your fellow student of
the——”




“Of the gout,” says Harry, interrupting him, and looking
him hard in the face; “I know a good deal about the gout.”




“I hope you may never have it. 'Tis an infernal disease,”
says my lord, “and its twinges are diabolical. Ah!” and
he made a dreadful wry face, as if he just felt a twinge.




“Your lordship would be much better if you took off all
[pg 144]
that flannel—it only serves to inflame the toe,” Harry continued,
looking his man full in the face.




“Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?” says the
other, with an innocent air.




“If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd
slipper away, and wore a boot,” continues Harry.




“You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond?” asks my lord.




“Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your lordship three days
ago run down the gallery fast enough,” Harry goes on.
“I am sure that taking gruel at night is not so pleasant as
claret to your lordship; and besides it keeps your lordship's
head cool for play, whilst my patron's is hot and flustered
with drink.”




“'Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don't play fair?”
cries my lord, whipping his horses, which went away at
a gallop.




“You are cool when my lord is drunk,” Harry continued;
“your lordship gets the better of my patron. I have
watched you as I looked up from my books.”




“You young Argus!” says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry
Esmond—and for whose company and wit, and a certain
daring manner, Harry had a great liking too—“You young
Argus! you may look with all your hundred eyes and see
we play fair. I've played away an estate of a night, and
I've played my shirt off my back; and I've played away
my periwig and gone home in a nightcap. But no man
can say I ever took an advantage of him beyond the advantage
of the game. I played a dice-cogging scoundrel in
Alsatia for his ears and won 'em, and have one of 'em in my
lodging in Bow Street in a bottle of spirits. Harry Mohun
will play any man for anything—always would.”




“You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my patron's
house,” Harry said, “and more games than are on the cards.”




“What do you mean, sir?” cries my lord, turning round,
with a flush on his face.




“I mean,” answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, “that your
gout is well—if ever you had it.”




“Sir!” cried my lord, getting hot.




“And to tell the truth I believe your lordship has no more
gout than I have. At any rate, change of air will do you
good, my Lord Mohun. And I mean fairly that you had
better go from Castlewood.”




“And were you appointed to give me this message?”
[pg 145]
cries the Lord Mohun. “Did Frank Esmond commission
you?”




“No one did. 'Twas the honour of my family that commissioned
me.”




“And you are prepared to answer this?” cries the other,
furiously lashing his horses.




“Quite, my lord: your lordship will upset the carriage
if you whip so hotly.”




“By George, you have a brave spirit!” my lord cried out,
bursting into a laugh. “I suppose 'tis that infernal
botte de Jésuite that makes you so bold,” he added.




“'Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world,”
Harry Esmond said warmly—“'tis the honour of a noble
benefactor—the happiness of my dear mistress and her
children. I owe them everything in life, my lord; and
would lay it down for any one of them. What brings you
here to disturb this quiet household? What keeps you
lingering month after month in the country? What makes
you feign illness and invent pretexts for delay? Is it to
win my poor patron's money? Be generous, my lord, and
spare his weakness for the sake of his wife and children.
Is it to practise upon the simple heart of a virtuous lady?
You might as well storm the Tower single-handed. But
you may blemish her name by light comments on it, or by
lawless pursuits—and I don't deny that 'tis in your power
to make her unhappy. Spare these innocent people, and
leave them.”




“By the Lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty
Puritan thyself, Master Harry,” says my lord, with his
reckless, good-humoured laugh, and as if he had been
listening with interest to the passionate appeal of the young
man. “Whisper, Harry. Art thou in love with her thyself?
Hath tipsy Frank Esmond come by the way of all
flesh?”




“My lord, my lord,” cried Harry, his face flushing and his
eyes filling as he spoke, “I never had a mother, but I love
this lady as one. I worship her as a devotee worships a
saint. To hear her name spoken lightly seems blasphemy
to me. Would you dare think of your own mother so, or
suffer any one so to speak of her! It is a horror to me to
fancy that any man should think of her impurely. I implore
you, I beseech you, to leave her. Danger will come out
of it.”


[pg 146]


“Danger, psha!” says my lord, giving a cut to the horses,
which at this minute—for we were got on to the Downs—fairly
ran off into a gallop that no pulling could stop. The
rein broke in Lord Mohun's hands, and the furious beasts
scampered madly forwards, the carriage swaying to and
fro, and the persons within it holding on to the sides as best
they might, until seeing a great ravine before them, where
an upset was inevitable, the two gentlemen leapt for their
lives, each out of his side of the chaise. Harry Esmond
was quit for a fall on the grass, which was so severe that
it stunned him for a minute; but he got up presently very
sick, and bleeding at the nose, but with no other hurt.
The Lord Mohun was not so fortunate; he fell on his
head against a stone, and lay on the ground dead to all
appearance.




This misadventure happened as the gentlemen were on
their return homewards; and my Lord Castlewood, with his
son and daughter, who were going out for a ride, met the
ponies as they were galloping with the car behind, the
broken traces entangling their heels, and my lord's people
turned and stopped them. It was young Frank who spied
out Lord Mohun's scarlet coat as he lay on the ground, and
the party made up to that unfortunate gentleman and
Esmond, who was now standing over him. His large periwig
and feathered hat had fallen off, and he was bleeding
profusely from a wound on the forehead, and looking, and
being, indeed, a corpse.




“Great God! he's dead!” says my lord. “Ride, some
one: fetch a doctor—stay. I'll go home and bring back
Tusher; he knows surgery,” and my lord, with his son after
him, galloped away.




They were scarce gone when Harry Esmond, who was
indeed but just come to himself, bethought him of a similar
accident which he had seen on a ride from Newmarket to
Cambridge, and taking off a sleeve of my lord's coat, Harry,
with a penknife, opened a vein in his arm, and was greatly
relieved, after a moment, to see the blood flow. He was
near half an hour before he came to himself, by which time
Doctor Tusher and little Frank arrived, and found my lord
not a corpse indeed, but as pale as one.




After a time, and when he was able to bear motion, they
put my lord upon a groom's horse, and gave the other to
Esmond, the men walking on each side of my lord, to
[pg 147]
support him, if need were, and worthy Doctor Tusher with
them. Little Frank and Harry rode together at a foot pace.




When we rode together home, the boy said: “We met
mamma, who was walking on the terrace with the doctor,
and papa frightened her, and told her you were dead——”




“That I was dead?” asks Harry.




“Yes. Papa says: ‘Here's poor Harry killed, my dear;’
on which mamma gives a great scream; and oh, Harry!
she drops down; and I thought she was dead, too. And
you never saw such a way as papa was in: he swore one of
his great oaths: and he turned quite pale; and then he
began to laugh somehow, and he told the doctor to take
his horse, and me to follow him; and we left him. And
I looked back, and saw him dashing water out of the fountain
on to mamma. Oh, she was so frightened!”




Musing upon this curious history—for my Lord Mohun's
name was Henry too, and they called each other Frank and
Harry often—and not a little disturbed and anxious,
Esmond rode home. His dear lady was on the terrace still,
one of her women with her, and my lord no longer there.
There are steps and a little door thence down into the road.
My lord passed, looking very ghastly, with a handkerchief
over his head, and without his hat and periwig, which a
groom carried, but his politeness did not desert him, and he
made a bow to the lady above.




“Thank Heaven you are safe,” she said.




“And so is Harry, too, mamma,” says little Frank,—“huzzay!”




Harry Esmond got off the horse to run to his mistress, as
did little Frank, and one of the grooms took charge of the
two beasts, while the other, hat and periwig in hand, walked
by my lord's bridle to the front gate, which lay half a mile
away.




“Oh, my boy! what a fright you have given me!” Lady
Castlewood said, when Harry Esmond came up, greeting
him with one of her shining looks, and a voice of tender
welcome; and she was so kind as to kiss the young man
('twas the second time she had so honoured him), and she
walked into the house between him and her son, holding
a hand of each.




[pg 148]





 Chapter XIV. We Ride After Him To London



After a repose of a couple of days, the Lord Mohun was so
far recovered of his hurt as to be able to announce his
departure for the next morning; when, accordingly, he
took leave of Castlewood, proposing to ride to London by
easy stages, and lie two nights upon the road. His host
treated him with a studied and ceremonious courtesy,
certainly different from my lord's usual frank and careless
demeanour; but there was no reason to suppose that the
two lords parted otherwise than good friends, though Harry
Esmond remarked that my lord viscount only saw his
guest in company with other persons, and seemed to avoid
being alone with him. Nor did he ride any distance with
Lord Mohun, as his custom was with most of his friends,
whom he was always eager to welcome and unwilling to lose;
but contented himself, when his lordship's horses were
announced, and their owner appeared booted for his journey,
to take a courteous leave of the ladies of Castlewood, by
following the Lord Mohun downstairs to his horses, and by
bowing and wishing him a good day, in the courtyard.
“I shall see you in London before very long, Mohun,” my
lord said, with, a smile; “when we will settle our accounts
together.”




“Do not let them trouble you, Frank,” said the other
good-naturedly, and, holding out his hand, looked rather
surprised at the grim and stately manner in which his host
received his parting salutation: and so, followed by his
people, he rode away.




Harry Esmond was witness of the departure. It was
very different to my lord's coming, for which great preparation
had been made (the old house putting on its best
appearance to welcome its guest), and there was a sadness
and constraint about all persons that day, which filled
Mr. Esmond with gloomy forebodings, and sad indefinite
apprehensions. Lord Castlewood stood at the door watching
his guest and his people as they went out under the
arch of the outer gate. When he was there, Lord Mohun
turned once more, my lord viscount slowly raised his beaver
[pg 149]
and bowed. His face wore a peculiar livid look, Harry
thought. He cursed and kicked away his dogs, which came
jumping about him—then he walked up to the fountain in
the centre of the court, and leaned against a pillar and
looked into the basin. As Esmond crossed over to his
own room, late the chaplain's, on the other side of the
court, and turned to enter in at the low door, he saw Lady
Castlewood looking through the curtains of the great
window of the drawing-room overhead, at my lord as he
stood regarding the fountain. There was in the court
a peculiar silence somehow; and the scene remained long
in Esmond's memory;—the sky bright overhead; the
buttresses of the building and the sundial casting shadow
over the gilt memento
mori inscribed underneath; the two
dogs, a black greyhound and a spaniel nearly white, the one
with his face up to the sun, and the other snuffing amongst
the grass and stones, and my lord leaning over the fountain,
which was plashing audibly. 'Tis strange how that scene
and the sound of that fountain remain fixed on the memory
of a man who has beheld a hundred sights of splendour, and
danger too, of which he has kept no account.




It was Lady Castlewood, she had been laughing all the
morning, and especially gay and lively before her husband
and his guest, who, as soon as the two gentlemen went
together from her room, ran to Harry, the expression of her
countenance quite changed now, and with a face and eyes
full of care, and said, “Follow them, Harry, I am sure
something has gone wrong.” And so it was that Esmond
was made an eavesdropper at this lady's orders: and
retired to his own chamber, to give himself time in truth to
try and compose a story which would soothe his mistress,
for he could not but have his own apprehension that some
serious quarrel was pending between the two gentlemen.




And now for several days the little company at Castlewood
sat at table as of evenings: this care, though unnamed
and invisible, being nevertheless present alway, in the minds
of at least three persons there. My lord was exceeding
gentle and kind. Whenever he quitted the room, his wife's
eyes followed him. He behaved to her with a kind of mournful
courtesy and kindness remarkable in one of his blunt
ways and ordinary rough manner. He called her by her
Christian name often and fondly, was very soft and gentle
with the children, especially with the boy, whom he did not
[pg 150]
love, and being lax about church generally, he went thither
and performed all the offices (down even to listening to
Doctor Tusher's sermon) with great devotion.




“He paces his room all night; what is it? Henry, find
out what it is,” Lady Castlewood said constantly to her
young dependant. “He has sent three letters to London,”
she said, another day.




“Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer,” Harry answered,
who knew of these letters, and had seen a part of the
correspondence, which related to a new loan my lord was
raising; and when the young man remonstrated with his
patron, my lord said, “He was only raising money to
pay off an old debt on the property, which must be
discharged.”




Regarding the money, Lady Castlewood was not in the
least anxious. Few fond women feel money-distressed;
indeed you can hardly give a woman a greater pleasure than
to bid her pawn her diamonds for the man she loves; and
I remember hearing Mr. Congreve say of my Lord Marlborough,
that the reason why my lord was so successful
with women as a young man was, because he took money of
them. “There are few men who will make such a sacrifice
for them,” says Mr. Congreve, who knew a part of the sex
pretty well.




Harry Esmond's vacation was just over, and, as hath
been said, he was preparing to return to the University for
his last term before taking his degree and entering into the
Church. He had made up his mind for this office, not
indeed with that reverence which becomes a man about
to enter upon a duty so holy, but with a worldly spirit of
acquiescence in the prudence of adopting that profession
for his calling. But his reasoning was that he owed all to
the family of Castlewood, and loved better to be near them
than anywhere else in the world; that he might be useful
to his benefactors, who had the utmost confidence in him
and affection for him in return; that he might aid in bringing
up the young heir of the house and acting as his governor;
that he might continue to be his dear patron's and mistress's
friend and adviser, who both were pleased to say that they
should ever look upon him as such: and so, by making himself
useful to those he loved best, he proposed to console
himself for giving up of any schemes of ambition which he
might have had in his own bosom. Indeed, his mistress had
[pg 151]
told him that she would not have him leave her; and whatever
she commanded was will to him.




The Lady Castlewood's mind was greatly relieved in the
last few days of this well-remembered holiday time, by my
lord's announcing one morning, after the post had brought
him letters from London, in a careless tone, that the Lord
Mohun was gone to Paris, and was about to make a great
journey in Europe; and though Lord Castlewood's own
gloom did not wear off, or his behaviour alter, yet this cause
of anxiety being removed from his lady's mind, she began to
be more hopeful and easy in her spirits: striving too, with
all her heart, and by all the means of soothing in her power,
to call back my lord's cheerfulness and dissipate his moody
humour.




He accounted for it himself, by saying that he was out of
health; that he wanted to see his physician; that he
would go to London, and consult Doctor Cheyne. It was
agreed that his lordship and Harry Esmond should make
the journey as far as London together; and of a Monday
morning, the 10th of October, in the year 1700, they set
forwards towards London on horseback. The day before
being Sunday, and the rain pouring down, the family did
not visit church; and at night my lord read the service to
his family, very finely, and with a peculiar sweetness and
gravity—speaking the parting benediction, Harry thought,
as solemn as ever he heard it. And he kissed and embraced
his wife and children before they went to their own chambers
with more fondness than he was ordinarily wont to show,
and with a solemnity and feeling of which they thought in
after days with no small comfort.




They took horse the next morning (after adieux from
the family as tender as on the night previous), lay that
night on the road, and entered London at nightfall; my
lord going to the “Trumpet”, in the Cockpit, Whitehall, a
house used by the military in his time as a young man, and
accustomed by his lordship ever since.




An hour after my lord's arrival (which showed that his
visit had been arranged beforehand), my lord's man of
business arrived from Gray's Inn; and thinking that his
patron might wish to be private with the lawyer, Esmond
was for leaving them: but my lord said his business was
short; introduced Mr. Esmond particularly to the lawyer,
who had been engaged for the family in the old lord's time;
[pg 152]
who said that he had paid the money, as desired that day,
to my Lord Mohun himself, at his lodgings in Bow Street;
that his lordship had expressed some surprise, as it was not
customary to employ lawyers, he said, in such transactions
between men of honour; but, nevertheless, he had returned
my lord viscount's note of hand, which he held at his client's
disposition.




“I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris!” cried
Mr. Esmond, in great alarm and astonishment.




“He is come back at my invitation,” said my lord
viscount. “We have accounts to settle together.”




“I pray Heaven they are over, sir,” says Esmond.




“Oh, quite,” replied the other, looking hard at the young
man. “He was rather troublesome about that money
which I told you I had lost to him at play. And now 'tis
paid, and we are quits on that score, and we shall meet
good friends again.”




“My lord,” cried out Esmond, “I am sure you are deceiving
me, and that there is a quarrel between the Lord Mohun
and you.”




“Quarrel—pish! We shall sup together this very night,
and drink a bottle. Every man is ill-humoured who loses
such a sum as I have lost. But now 'tis paid, and my
anger is gone with it.”




“Where shall we sup, sir?” says Harry.




“We! Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked,”
says my lord viscount, with a laugh. “You go to Duke
Street, and see Mr. Betterton. You love the play, I know.
Leave me to follow my own devices; and in the morning
we'll breakfast together, with what appetite we may, as
the play says.”




“By G——! my lord, I will not leave you this night,” says
Harry Esmond. “I think I know the cause of your dispute.
I swear to you 'tis nothing. On the very day the accident
befell Lord Mohun, I was speaking to him about it. I know
that nothing has passed but idle gallantry on his part.”




“You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry
between Lord Mohun and my wife,” says my lord, in a
thundering voice—“you knew of this, and did not tell me?”




“I knew more of it than my dear mistress did herself,
sir—a thousand times more. How was she, who was as
innocent as a child, to know what was the meaning of the
covert addresses of a villain?”


[pg 153]


“A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my
wife away from me.”




“Sir, she is as pure as an angel,” cried young Esmond.




“Have I said a word against her?” shrieks out my lord.
“Did I ever doubt that she was pure? It would have been
the last day of her life when I did. Do you fancy I think
that she would go astray? No, she hasn't passion enough
for that. She neither sins nor forgives. I know her
temper—and now I've lost her: by Heaven I love her
ten thousand times more than ever I did—yes, when she
was young and as beautiful as an angel—when she smiled
at me in her old father's house, and used to lie in wait
for me there as I came from hunting—when I used to fling
my head down on her little knees and cry like a child on
her lap—and swear I would reform and drink no more, and
play no more, and follow women no more; when all the
men of the Court used to be following her—when she used
to look with her child more beautiful, by George, than the
Madonna in the Queen's Chapel. I am not good like her,
I know it. Who is—by Heaven, who is? I tired and
wearied her, I know that very well. I could not talk to
her. You men of wit and books could do that, and
I couldn't—I felt I couldn't. Why, when you was but
a boy of fifteen I could hear you two together talking your
poetry and your books till I was in such a rage that I was
fit to strangle you. But you were always a good lad,
Harry, and I loved you, you know I did. And I felt she
didn't belong to me: and the children don't. And I besotted
myself, and gambled, and drank, and took to all
sorts of devilries out of despair and fury. And now comes
this Mohun, and she likes him, I know she likes him.”




“Indeed, and on my soul, you are wrong, sir,” Esmond
cried.




“She takes letters from him,” cries my lord—“look here
Harry,” and he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of
blood upon it. “It fell from him that day he wasn't killed.
One of the grooms picked it up from the ground and gave
it me. Here it is in their d——d comedy jargon. ‘Divine
Gloriana—Why look so coldly on your slave who adores
you? Have you no compassion on the tortures you have
seen me suffering? Do you vouchsafe no reply to billets
that are written with the blood of my heart.’ She had
more letters from him.”


[pg 154]


“But she answered none,” cries Esmond.




“That's not Mohun's fault,” says my lord, “and I will
be revenged on him, as God's in heaven, I will.”




“For a light word or two, will you risk your lady's honour
and your family's happiness, my lord?” Esmond interposed
beseechingly.




“Psha—there shall be no question of my wife's honour,”
said my lord; “we can quarrel on plenty of grounds beside.
If I live, that villain will be punished; if I fall, my family
will be only the better: there will only be a spendthrift
the less to keep in the world: and Frank has better teaching
than his father. My mind is made up, Harry Esmond, and
whatever the event is I am easy about it. I leave my wife
and you as guardians to the children.”




Seeing that my lord was bent upon pursuing this quarrel,
and that no entreaties would draw him from it, Harry
Esmond (then of a hotter and more impetuous nature than
now, when care, and reflection, and grey hairs have calmed
him) thought it was his duty to stand by his kind generous
patron, and said—“My lord, if you are determined upon
war, you must not go into it alone. 'Tis the duty of our
house to stand by its chief: and I should neither forgive
myself nor you if you did not call me, or I should be absent
from you at a moment of danger.”




“Why, Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a parson,”
says my lord, taking Esmond by the hand very kindly:
“and it were a great pity that you should meddle in the
matter.”




“Your lordship thought of being a churchman once,”
Harry answered, “and your father's orders did not prevent
him fighting at Castlewood against the Roundheads. Your
enemies are mine, sir: I can use the foils, as you have seen,
indifferently well, and don't think I shall be afraid when
the buttons are taken off 'em.” And then Harry explained
with some blushes and hesitation (for the matter was
delicate, and he feared lest, by having put himself forward
in the quarrel, he might have offended his patron), how he
had himself expostulated with the Lord Mohun, and proposed
to measure swords with him if need were, and he
could not be got to withdraw peaceably in this dispute.
“And I should have beat him, sir,” says Harry, laughing.
“He never could parry that botte I brought from
Cambridge. Let us have half an hour of it, and rehearse—I can teach
[pg 155]
it your lordship: 'tis the most delicate point in the world,
and if you miss it your adversary's sword is through you.”




“By George, Harry! you ought to be the head of the
house,” says my lord gloomily. “You had been better
Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot like me,” he added, drawing
his hand across his eyes, and surveying his kinsman with
very kind and affectionate glances.




“Let us take our coats off and have half an hour's practice
before nightfall,” says Harry, after thankfully grasping his
patron's manly hand.




“You are but a little bit of a lad,” says my lord good-humouredly;
“but, in faith, I believe you could do for
that fellow. No, my boy,” he continued, “I'll have none
of your feints and tricks of stabbing: I can use my sword
pretty well too, and will fight my own quarrel my own way.”




“But I shall be by to see fair play,” cries Harry.




“Yes, God bless you—you shall be by.”




“When is it, sir?” says Harry, for he saw that the matter
had been arranged privately, and beforehand, by my
lord.




“'Tis arranged thus: I sent off a courier to Jack Westbury
to say that I wanted him specially. He knows for what,
and will be here presently, and drink part of that bottle
of sack. Then we shall go to the theatre in Duke Street,
where we shall meet Mohun; and then we shall all go sup at
the ‘Rose’ or the ‘Greyhound’. Then we shall call for cards,
and there will be probably a difference over the cards—and
then, God help us!—either a wicked villain and traitor
shall go out of the world, or a poor worthless devil, that
doesn't care to remain in it. I am better away, Hal—my
wife will be all the happier when I am gone,” says my lord,
with a groan, that tore the heart of Harry Esmond so that
he fairly broke into a sob over his patron's kind hand.




“The business was talked over with Mohun before he left
home—Castlewood I mean”—my lord went on. “I took
the letter in to him, which I had read, and I charged him
with his villany, and he could make no denial of it, only
he said that my wife was innocent.”




“And so she is; before Heaven, my lord, she is!” cries
Harry.




“No doubt, no doubt. They always are,” says my lord.
“No doubt, when she heard he was killed, she fainted from
accident.”


[pg 156]


“But, my lord, my name is Harry,” cried out Esmond,
burning red. “You told my lady, ‘Harry was killed!’ ”




“Damnation! shall I fight you too?” shouts my lord,
in a fury. “Are you, you little serpent, warmed by my
fire, going to sting—you?—No, my boy, you're an honest
boy; you are a good boy.” (And here he broke from rage
into tears even more cruel to see.) “You are an honest boy,
and I love you; and, by Heavens, I am so wretched that
I don't care what sword it is that ends me. Stop, here's
Jack Westbury. Well, Jack! Welcome, old boy! This
is my kinsman, Harry Esmond.”




“Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, sir,”
says Harry, bowing; and the three gentlemen sat down
and drank of that bottle of sack which was prepared for
them.




“Harry is number three,” says my lord. “You needn't
be afraid of him, Jack.” And the colonel gave a look, as
much as to say, “Indeed, he don't look as if I need.” And
then my lord explained what he had only told by hints
before. When he quarrelled with Lord Mohun he was
indebted to his lordship in a sum of sixteen hundred pounds,
for which Lord Mohun said he proposed to wait until my lord
viscount should pay him. My lord had raised the sixteen
hundred pounds and sent them to Lord Mohun that morning,
and before quitting home had put his affairs into order,
and was now quite ready to abide the issue of the quarrel.




When we had drunk a couple of bottles of sack, a coach
was called, and the three gentlemen went to the Duke's
Playhouse, as agreed. The play was one of Mr. Wycherley's—Love
in a Wood.




Harry Esmond has thought of that play ever since with
a kind of terror, and of Mrs. Bracegirdle, the actress who
performed the girl's part in the comedy. She was disguised
as a page, and came and stood before the gentlemen as
they sat on the stage, and looked over her shoulder with
a pair of arch black eyes, and laughed at my lord, and
asked what ailed the gentlemen from the country, and had
he had bad news from Bullock Fair?




Between the acts of the play the gentlemen crossed over
and conversed freely. There were two of Lord Mohun's
party, Captain Macartney, in a military habit, and a gentleman
in a suit of blue velvet and silver in a fair periwig,
with a rich fall of point of Venice lace—my lord the Earl of
[pg 157]
Warwick and Holland. My lord had a paper of oranges,
which he ate and offered to the actresses, joking with them.
And Mrs. Bracegirdle, when my Lord Mohun said something
rude, turned on him, and asked him what he did there,
and whether he and his friends had come to stab anybody
else, as they did poor Will Mountford? My lord's dark face
grew darker at this taunt, and wore a mischievous fatal look.
They that saw it remembered it, and said so afterward.




When the play was ended the two parties joined company;
and my Lord Castlewood then proposed that they should go
to a tavern and sup. Lockit's, the “Greyhound”, in Charing
Cross, was the house selected. All six marched together
that way; the three lords going ahead, Lord Mohun's
captain, and Colonel Westbury, and Harry Esmond, walking
behind them. As they walked, Westbury told Harry
Esmond about his old friend Dick the Scholar, who had
got promotion, and was cornet of the Guards, and had
wrote a book called the Christian Hero, and had all the
Guards to laugh at him for his pains, for the Christian
Hero was breaking the commandments constantly, Westbury
said, and had fought one or two duels already. And, in
a lower tone, Westbury besought young Mr. Esmond to take
no part in the quarrel. “There was no need for more
seconds than one,” said the colonel, “and the captain or
Lord Warwick might easily withdraw.” But Harry said
no; he was bent on going through with the business.
Indeed, he had a plan in his head, which, he thought, might
prevent my lord viscount from engaging.




They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired
a private room and wine and cards, and when the drawer
had brought these, they began to drink and call healths,
and as long as the servants were in the room appeared very
friendly.




Harry Esmond's plan was no other than to engage in talk
with Lord Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first of the
quarrel. So when cards were proposed he offered to play.
“Psha!” says my Lord Mohun (whether wishing to save
Harry, or not choosing to try the botte de Jésuite, it
is not to be known)—“young gentlemen from college should not
play these stakes. You are too young.”




“Who dares say I am too young?” broke out Harry.
“Is your lordship afraid?”




“Afraid!” cries out Mohun.


[pg 158]


But my good lord viscount saw the move—“I'll play you
for ten moidores, Mohun,” says he—“You silly boy, we don't
play for groats here as you do at Cambridge:” and Harry,
who had no such sum in his pocket (for his half-year's
salary was always pretty well spent before it was due), fell
back with rage and vexation in his heart that he had not
money enough to stake.




“I'll stake the young gentleman a crown,” says the Lord
Mohun's captain.




“I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen
of the army,” says Harry.




“Do they birch at college?” says the captain.




“They birch fools,” says Harry, “and they cane bullies,
and they fling puppies into the water.”




“Faith, then, there's some escapes drowning,” says the
captain, who was an Irishman; and all the gentlemen
began to laugh, and made poor Harry only more angry.




My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle. It was when
the drawers brought in fresh bottles and glasses and were
in the room—on which my lord viscount said—“The deuce
take you, Mohun, how damned awkward you are! Light
the candle, you drawer.”




“Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my
lord,” says the other. “Town gentlemen don't use such
words—or ask pardon if they do.”




“I'm a country gentleman,” says my lord viscount.




“I see it by your manner,” says my Lord Mohun. “No
man shall say ‘damned awkward’ to me.”




“I fling the words in your face, my lord,” says the other;
“shall I send the cards too?”




“Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?” cry out
Colonel Westbury and my Lord Warwick in a breath.
The drawers go out of the room hastily. They tell the
people below of the quarrel upstairs.




“Enough has been said,” says Colonel Westbury. “Will
your lordships meet to-morrow morning?”




“Will my Lord Castlewood withdraw his words?” asks
the Earl of Warwick.




“My Lord Castlewood will be —— first,” says Colonel
Westbury.




“Then we have nothing for it. Take notice, gentlemen,
there have been outrageous words—reparation asked and
refused.”


[pg 159]


“And refused,” says my Lord Castlewood, putting on his
hat. “Where shall the meeting be? and when?”




“Since my lord refuses me satisfaction, which I deeply
regret, there is no time so good as now,” says my Lord
Mohun. “Let us have chairs and go to Leicester Field.”




“Are your lordship and I to have the honour of exchanging
a pass or two?” says Colonel Westbury, with a low bow
to my Lord of Warwick and Holland.




“It is an honour for me,” says my lord, with a profound
congée, “to be matched with a gentleman who has been
at Mons and Namur.”




“Will your reverence permit me to give you a lesson?”
says the captain.




“Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a side are plenty,” says
Harry's patron. “Spare the boy, Captain Macartney,”
and he shook Harry's hand—for the last time, save one,
in his life.




At the bar of the tavern all the gentlemen stopped, and
my lord viscount said, laughing, to the barwoman, that
those cards set people sadly a-quarrelling; but that the
dispute was over now, and the parties were all going away
to my Lord Mohun's house, in Bow Street, to drink a bottle
more before going to bed.




A half-dozen of chairs were now called, and the six gentlemen
stepping into them, the word was privately given to
the chairmen to go to Leicester Field, where the gentlemen
were set down opposite the “Standard” Tavern. It was midnight,
and the town was abed by this time, and only a few
lights in the windows of the houses; but the night was
bright enough for the unhappy purpose which the disputants
came about; and so all six entered into that fatal square,
the chairmen standing without the railing and keeping the
gate, lest any persons should disturb the meeting.




All that happened there hath been matter of public
notoriety, and is recorded, for warning to lawless men, in
the annals of our country. After being engaged for not
more than a couple of minutes, as Harry Esmond thought
(though being occupied at the time with his own adversary's
point, which was active, he may not have taken a good note
of time), a cry from the chairmen without, who were
smoking their pipes, and leaning over the railings of the
field as they watched the dim combat within, announced
that some catastrophe had happened which caused Esmond
[pg 160]
to drop his sword and look round, at which moment his
enemy wounded him in the right hand. But the young
man did not heed this hurt much, and ran up to the place
where he saw his dear master was down.




My Lord Mohun was standing over him.




“Are you much hurt, Frank?” he asked, in a hollow voice.




“I believe I'm a dead man,” my lord said from the ground.




“No, no, not so,” says the other; “and I call God to
witness, Frank Esmond, that I would have asked your
pardon, had you but given me a chance. In—in the first
cause of our falling out, I swear that no one was to blame
but me, and—and that my lady——”




“Hush!” says my poor lord viscount, lifting himself on
his elbow, and speaking faintly. “'Twas a dispute about
the cards—the cursed cards. Harry, my boy, are you
wounded, too? God help thee! I loved thee, Harry, and
thou must watch over my little Frank—and—and carry
this little heart to my wife.”




And here my dear lord felt in his breast for a locket he
wore there, and, in the act, fell back, fainting.




We were all at this terrified, thinking him dead; but
Esmond and Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen to come
into the field; and so my lord was carried to one Mr. Aimes,
a surgeon, in Long Acre, who kept a bath, and there the
house was wakened up, and the victim of this quarrel
carried in.




My lord viscount was put to bed, and his wound looked
to by the surgeon, who seemed both kind and skilful.
When he had looked to my lord, he bandaged up Harry
Esmond's hand (who, from loss of blood, had fainted too,
in the house, and may have been some time unconscious);
and when the young man came to himself, you may be sure
he eagerly asked what news there were of his dear patron;
on which the surgeon carried him to the room where the
Lord Castlewood lay; who had already sent for a priest;
and desired earnestly, they said, to speak with his kinsman.
He was lying on a bed, very pale and ghastly, with that
fixed, fatal look in his eyes, which betokens death; and
faintly beckoning all the other persons away from him with
his hand, and crying out “Only Harry Esmond”, the hand
fell powerless down on the coverlet, as Harry came forward,
and knelt down and kissed it.




“Thou art all but a priest, Harry,” my lord viscount
[pg 161]
gasped out, with a faint smile, and pressure of his cold hand.
“Are they all gone? Let me make thee a death-bed
confession.”




And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bed-foot,
as an awful witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped
out his last wishes in respect of his family;—his humble
profession of contrition for his faults;—and his charity
towards the world he was leaving. Some things he said
concerned Harry Esmond as much as they astonished him.
And my lord viscount, sinking visibly, was in the midst
of these strange confessions, when the ecclesiastic for whom
my lord had sent, Mr. Atterbury, arrived.




This gentleman had reached to no great church dignity
as yet, but was only preacher at St. Bride's, drawing all
the town thither by his eloquent sermons. He was godson
to my lord, who had been pupil to his father; had paid
a visit to Castlewood from Oxford more than once; and
it was by his advice, I think, that Harry Esmond was
sent to Cambridge, rather than to Oxford, of which place
Mr. Atterbury, though a distinguished member, spoke
but ill.




Our messenger found the good priest already at his books,
at five o'clock in the morning, and he followed the man
eagerly to the house where my poor lord viscount lay—Esmond
watching him, and taking his dying words from
his mouth.




My lord, hearing of Mr. Atterbury's arrival, and squeezing
Esmond's hand, asked to be alone with the priest; and
Esmond left them there for this solemn interview. You
may be sure that his own prayers and grief accompanied
that dying benefactor. My lord had said to him that which
confounded the young man—informed him of a secret which
greatly concerned him. Indeed, after hearing it, he had
had good cause for doubt and dismay; for mental anguish
as well as resolution. While the colloquy between Mr.
Atterbury and his dying penitent took place within, an
immense contest of perplexity was agitating Lord Castlewood's
young companion.




At the end of an hour—it may be more—Mr. Atterbury
came out of the room looking very hard at Esmond, and
holding a paper.




“He is on the brink of God's awful judgement,” the
priest whispered. “He has made his breast clean to me.
[pg 162]
He forgives and believes, and makes restitution. Shall it
be in public? Shall we call a witness to sign it?”




“God knows,” sobbed out the young man, “my dearest
lord has only done me kindness all his life.”




The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He looked
at it. It swam before his eyes.




“'Tis a confession,” he said.




“'Tis as you please,” said Mr. Atterbury.




There was a fire in the room, where the cloths were
drying for the baths, and there lay a heap in a corner,
saturated with the blood of my dear lord's body. Esmond
went to the fire, and threw the paper into it. 'Twas a great
chimney with glazed Dutch tiles. How we remember such
trifles in such awful moments!—the scrap of the book that
we have read in a great grief—the taste of that last dish
that we have eaten before a duel or some such supreme
meeting or parting. On the Dutch tiles at the bagnio was
a rude picture representing Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating
Isaac of Esau's birthright. The burning paper lighted
it up.




“'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury,” said the young
man. He leaned his head against the mantelpiece: a burst
of tears came to his eyes. They were the first he had shed
as he sat by his lord, scared by this calamity and more yet
by what the poor dying gentleman had told him, and
shocked to think that he should be the agent of bringing
this double misfortune on those he loved best.




“Let us go to him,” said Mr. Esmond. And accordingly
they went into the next chamber, where, by this time, the
dawn had broke, which showed my lord's poor pale face
and wild appealing eyes, that wore that awful fatal look of
coming dissolution. The surgeon was with him. He went
into the chamber as Atterbury came out thence. My lord
viscount turned round his sick eyes towards Esmond. It
choked the other to hear that rattle in his throat.




“My lord viscount,” says Mr. Atterbury, “Mr. Esmond
wants no witnesses, and hath burned the paper.”




“My dearest master!” Esmond said, kneeling down, and
taking his hand and kissing it.




My lord viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his
arms round Esmond. “God bl—bless...,” was all he said.
The blood rushed from his mouth, deluging the young man.
My dearest lord was no more. He was gone with a blessing
[pg 163]
on his lips, and love and repentance and kindness in his
manly heart.




“Benedicti
benedicentes,” says Mr. Atterbury, and the young
man kneeling at the bedside, groaned out an Amen.




“Who shall take the news to her?” was Mr. Esmond's
next thought. And on this he besought Mr. Atterbury to
bear the tidings to Castlewood. He could not face his
mistress himself with those dreadful news. Mr. Atterbury
complying kindly, Esmond writ a hasty note on his table-book
to my lord's man, bidding him get the horses for Mr.
Atterbury, and ride with him, and send Esmond's own
valise to the Gatehouse prison, whither he resolved to go
and give himself up.






[pg 165]





 Book II. Contains Mr. Esmond's Military Life, And Other Matters
Appertaining To The Esmond Family






 Chapter I. I Am In Prison, And Visited, But Not Consoled There



Those may imagine, who have seen death untimely strike
down persons revered and beloved, and know how unavailing
consolation is, what was Harry Esmond's anguish after being
an actor in that ghastly midnight scene of blood and homicide.
He could not, he felt, have faced his dear mistress,
and told her that story. He was thankful that kind Atterbury
consented to break the sad news to her; but, besides
his grief, which he took into prison with him, he had that
in his heart which secretly cheered and consoled him.




A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy
stricken kinsman, lying on his death-bed. Were he to
disclose it, as in equity and honour he might do, the discovery
would but bring greater grief upon those whom he loved
best in the world, and who were sad enough already. Should
he bring down shame and perplexity upon all those beings
to whom he was attached by so many tender ties of affection
and gratitude? degrade his father's widow? impeach and
sully his father's and kinsman's honour? and for what?
for a barren title, to be worn at the expense of an innocent
boy, the son of his dearest benefactress. He had debated
this matter in his conscience, whilst his poor lord was
making his dying confession. On one side were ambition,
temptation, justice even; but love, gratitude, and fidelity,
pleaded on the other. And when the struggle was over in
Harry's mind, a glow of righteous happiness filled it; and
it was with grateful tears in his eyes that he returned thanks
to God for that decision which he had been enabled to make.




“When I was denied by my own blood,” thought he;
“these dearest friends received and cherished me. When
[pg 166]
I was a nameless orphan myself, and needed a protector,
I found one in yonder kind soul, who has gone to his account
repenting of the innocent wrong he has done.”




And with this consoling thought he went away to give
himself up at the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his
benefactor.




It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse
prison (where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which
inflamed and ached severely); and with those thoughts and
resolutions that have been just spoke of, to depress, and
yet to console him, that H. Esmond's keeper came and told
him that a visitor was asking for him, and though he could
not see her face, which was enveloped in a black hood, her
whole figure, too, being veiled and covered with the deepest
mourning, Esmond knew at once that his visitor was his
dear mistress.




He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very
weak; and advancing towards her, as the retiring keeper
shut the door upon him and his guest in that sad place,
he put forward his left hand (for the right was wounded and
bandaged), and he would have taken that kind one of his
mistress, which had done so many offices of friendship for
him for so many years.




But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting
back her hood, and leaning against the great stanchioned
door which the gaoler had just closed upon them. Her
face was ghastly white, as Esmond saw it, looking from the
hood; and her eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were
fixed at him with such a tragic glance of woe and anger,
as caused the young man, unaccustomed to unkindness
from that person, to avert his own glances from her
face.




“And this, Mr. Esmond,” she said, “is where I see you;
and 'tis to this you have brought me!”




“You have come to console me in my calamity, madam,”
said he (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address
her, his emotions at beholding her, so overpowered him).




She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling,
looking out at him from her black draperies, with her small
white hands clasped together, and quivering lips and hollow
eyes.




“Not to reproach me,” he continued, after a pause, “My
grief is sufficient as it is.”


[pg 167]


“Take back your hand—do not touch me with it!” she
cried. “Look! there's blood on it!”




“I wish they had taken it all,” said Esmond; “if you are
unkind to me.”




“Where is my husband?” she broke out. “Give me
back my husband, Henry? Why did you stand by at
midnight and see him murdered? Why did the traitor
escape who did it? You, the champion of your house, who
offered to die for us! You that he loved and trusted, and
to whom I confided him—you that vowed devotion and
gratitude, and I believed you—yes, I believed you—why
are you here, and my noble Francis gone? Why did you
come among us? You have only brought us grief and
sorrow; and repentance, bitter, bitter repentance, as a
return for our love and kindness. Did I ever do you
a wrong, Henry? You were but an orphan child when
I first saw you—when he first saw you, who was so good,
and noble, and trusting. He would have had you sent
away, but, like a foolish woman, I besought him to let you
stay. And you pretended to love us, and we believed you—and
you made our house wretched, and my husband's
heart went from me: and I lost him through you—I lost
him—the husband of my youth, I say. I worshipped him:
you know I worshipped him—and he was changed to me.
He was no more my Francis of old—my dear, dear soldier.
He loved me before he saw you; and I loved him; oh,
God is my witness how I loved him! Why did he not send
you from among us? 'Twas only his kindness, that could
refuse me nothing then. And, young as you were—yes,
and weak and alone—there was evil, I knew there was evil
in keeping you. I read it in your face and eyes. I saw
that they boded harm to us—and it came, I knew it would.
Why did you not die when you had the small-pox—and
I came myself and watched you, and you didn't know me
in your delirium—and you called out for me, though I was
there at your side. All that has happened since, was a just
judgement on my wicked heart—my wicked jealous heart.
Oh, I am punished—awfully punished! My husband lies
in his blood—murdered for defending me, my kind, kind,
generous lord—and you were by, and you let him die,
Henry!”




These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief, by one
who was ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with
[pg 168]
a gentle smile and a soothing tone, rung in Esmond's ear;
and 'tis said that he repeated many of them in the fever
into which he now fell from his wound, and perhaps from
the emotion which such passionate, undeserved upbraidings
caused him. It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love
for this lady and her family were to turn to evil and reproach:
as if his presence amongst them was indeed a cause of grief,
and the continuance of his life but woe and bitterness to
theirs. As the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly,
without a tear, he never offered a word of appeal or remonstrance;
but sat at the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only
with the more pain at thinking it was that soft and beloved
hand which should stab him so cruelly, and powerless against
her fatal sorrow. Her words as she spoke struck the chords
of all his memory, and the whole of his boyhood and youth
passed within him; whilst this lady, so fond and gentle but
yesterday—this good angel whom he had loved and worshipped—stood
before him, pursuing him with keen words
and aspect malign.




“I wish I were in my lord's place,” he groaned out. “It
was not my fault that I was not there, madam. But Fate
is stronger than all of us, and willed what has come to pass.
It had been better for me to have died when I had the
illness.”




“Yes, Henry,” said she—and as she spoke she looked at
him with a glance that was at once so fond and so sad,
that the young man, tossing up his arms, wildly fell back,
hiding his head in the coverlet of the bed. As he turned
he struck against the wall with his wounded hand, displacing
the ligature; and he felt the blood rushing again from the
wound. He remembered feeling a secret pleasure at the
accident—and thinking, “Suppose I were to end now, who
would grieve for me?”




This haemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the
luckless young man was at the time of the accident, must
have brought on a deliquium presently; for he had scarce
any recollection afterwards, save of some one, his mistress
probably, seizing his hand—and then of the buzzing noise
in his ears as he awoke, with two or three persons of the
prison around his bed, whereon he lay in a pool of blood
from his arm.




It was now bandaged up again by the prison surgeon,
who happened to be in the place; and the governor's wife
[pg 169]
and servant, kind people both, were with the patient.
Esmond saw his mistress still in the room when he awoke
from his trance; but she went away without a word;
though the governor's wife told him that she sat in her
room for some time afterward, and did not leave the prison
until she heard that Esmond was likely to do well.




Days afterwards, when Esmond was brought out of a
fever which he had, and which attacked him that night
pretty sharply, the honest keeper's wife brought her patient
a handkerchief fresh washed and ironed, and at the corner of
which he recognized his mistress's well-known cipher and
viscountess's crown. “The lady had bound it round his
arm when he fainted, and before she called for help,” the
keeper's wife said; “poor lady; she took on sadly about her
husband. He has been buried to-day, and a many of the
coaches of the nobility went with him,—my Lord Marlborough's
and my Lord Sunderland's, and many of the
officers of the Guards, in which he served in the old king's
time; and my lady has been with her two children to the
king at Kensington, and asked for justice against my Lord
Mohun, who is in hiding, and my lord the Earl of Warwick
and Holland, who is ready to give himself up and take his
trial.”




Such were the news, coupled with assertions about her
own honesty and that of Molly her maid, who would never
have stolen a certain trumpery gold sleeve-button of Mr.
Esmond's that was missing after his fainting fit, that the
keeper's wife brought to her lodger. His thoughts followed
to that untimely grave, the brave heart, the kind friend,
the gallant gentleman, honest of word and generous of
thought (if feeble of purpose, but are his betters much
stronger than he?) who had given him bread and shelter
when he had none; home and love when he needed them;
and who, if he had kept one vital secret from him, had done
that of which he repented ere dying—a wrong indeed, but
one followed by remorse, and occasioned by almost irresistible
temptation.




Esmond took his handkerchief when his nurse left him,
and very likely kissed it, and looked at the bauble embroidered
in the corner. “It has cost thee grief enough,”
he thought, “dear lady, so loving and so tender. Shall
I take it from thee and thy children? No, never! Keep
it, and wear it, my little Frank, my pretty boy. If I cannot
[pg 170]
make a name for myself, I can die without one. Some day,
when my dear mistress sees my heart, I shall be righted;
or if not here or now, why, elsewhere; where Honour doth
not follow us, but where Love reigns perpetual.”




'Tis needless to narrate here, as the reports of the lawyers
already have chronicled them, the particulars or issue of
that trial which ensued upon my Lord Castlewood's melancholy
homicide. Of the two lords engaged in that said
matter, the second, my lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland,
who had been engaged with Colonel Westbury, and
wounded by him, was found not guilty by his peers, before
whom he was tried (under the presidence of the Lord
Steward, Lord Somers); and the principal, the Lord
Mohun, being found guilty of the manslaughter (which,
indeed, was forced upon him, and of which he repented
most sincerely), pleaded his clergy; and so was discharged
without any penalty. The widow of the slain nobleman,
as it was told us in prison, showed an extraordinary spirit;
and, though she had to wait for ten years before her son was
old enough to compass it, declared she would have revenge
of her husband's murderer. So much and suddenly had
grief, anger, and misfortune appeared to change her. But
fortune, good or ill, as I take it, does not change men and
women. It but develops their characters. As there are
a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not
know till he takes up the pen to write, so the heart is a
secret even to him (or her) who has it in his own breast.
Who hath not found himself surprised into revenge, or
action, or passion, for good or evil; whereof the seeds lay
within him, latent and unsuspected, until the occasion
called them forth? With the death of her lord, a change
seemed to come over the whole conduct and mind of Lady
Castlewood; but of this we shall speak in the right season
and anon.




The lords being tried then before their peers at Westminster,
according to their privilege, being brought from
the Tower with state processions and barges, and accompanied
by lieutenants and axe-men, the commoners engaged
in that melancholy fray took their trial at Newgate, as
became them; and, being all found guilty, pleaded likewise
their benefit of clergy. The sentence, as we all know,
in these cases is, that the culprit lies a year in prison, or
during the king's pleasure, and is burned in the hand, or
[pg 171]
only stamped with a cold iron; or this part of the punishment
is altogether remitted at the grace of the sovereign.
So Harry Esmond found himself a criminal and a prisoner
at two-and-twenty years old; as for the two colonels, his
comrades, they took the matter very lightly. Duelling
was a part of their business; and they could not in honour
refuse any invitations of that sort.




But the case was different with Mr. Esmond. His life
was changed by that stroke of the sword which destroyed
his kind patron's. As he lay in prison, old Dr. Tusher fell
ill and died; and Lady Castlewood appointed Thomas
Tusher to the vacant living; about the filling of which she
had a thousand times fondly talked to Harry Esmond:
how they never should part; how he should educate her
boy; how to be a country clergyman, like saintly George
Herbert, or pious Dr. Ken, was the happiness and greatest
lot in life; how (if he were obstinately bent on it, though,
for her part, she owned rather to holding Queen Bess's
opinion, that a bishop should have no wife, and if not a
bishop why a clergyman?) she would find a good wife for
Harry Esmond: and so on, with a hundred pretty prospects
told by fireside evenings, in fond prattle, as the children
played about the hall. All these plans were overthrown now.
Thomas Tusher wrote to Esmond, as he lay in prison,
announcing that his patroness had conferred upon him the
living his reverend father had held for many years; that
she never, after the tragical events which had occurred
(whereof Tom spoke with a very edifying horror), could
see in the revered Tusher's pulpit, or at her son's table, the
man who was answerable for the father's life; that her
ladyship bade him to say that she prayed for her kinsman's
repentance and his worldly happiness; that he was free
to command her aid for any scheme of life which he might
propose to himself; but that on this side of the grave she
would see him no more. And Tusher, for his own part,
added that Harry should have his prayers as a friend of his
youth, and commended him whilst he was in prison to read
certain works of theology, which his reverence pronounced
to be very wholesome for sinners in his lamentable condition.




And this was the return for a life of devotion—this the
end of years of affectionate intercourse and passionate
fidelity! Harry would have died for his patron, and was
held as little better than his murderer: he had sacrificed,
[pg 172]
she did not know how much, for his mistress, and she threw
him aside—he had endowed her family with all they had,
and she talked about giving him alms as to a menial! The
grief for his patron's loss: the pains of his own present
position, and doubts as to the future: all these were forgotten
under the sense of the consummate outrage which
he had to endure, and overpowered by the superior pang
of that torture.




He writ back a letter to Mr. Tusher from his prison,
congratulating his reverence upon his appointment to the
living of Castlewood: sarcastically bidding him to follow
in the footsteps of his admirable father, whose gown had
descended upon him—thanking her ladyship for her offer
of alms, which he said he should trust not to need; and
beseeching her to remember that, if ever her determination
should change towards him, he would be ready to give her
proofs of a fidelity which had never wavered, and which
ought never to have been questioned by that house. “And
if we meet no more, or only as strangers in this world,”
Mr. Esmond concluded, “a sentence against the cruelty
and injustice of which I disdain to appeal; hereafter she
will know who was faithful to her, and whether she had any
cause to suspect the love and devotion of her kinsman and
servant.”




After the sending of this letter, the poor young fellow's
mind was more at ease than it had been previously. The
blow had been struck, and he had borne it. His cruel
goddess had shaken her wings and fled: and left him alone
and friendless, but virtute sua. And he had to bear him
up, at once the sense of his right and the feeling of his
wrongs, his honour and his misfortune. As I have seen
men waking and running to arms at a sudden trumpet;
before emergency a manly heart leaps up resolute; meets
the threatening danger with undaunted countenance; and,
whether conquered or conquering, faces it always. Ah!
no man knows his strength or his weakness, till occasion
proves them. If there be some thoughts and actions of his
life from the memory of which a man shrinks with shame,
sure there are some which he may be proud to own and
remember; forgiven injuries, conquered temptations (now
and then), and difficulties vanquished by endurance.






It was these thoughts regarding the living, far more than
[pg 173]
any great poignancy of grief respecting the dead, which
affected Harry Esmond whilst in prison after his trial: but
it may be imagined that he could take no comrade of misfortune
into the confidence of his feelings, and they thought
it was remorse and sorrow for his patron's loss which
affected the young man, in error of which opinion he chose
to leave them. As a companion he was so moody and silent
that the two officers, his fellow sufferers, left him to himself
mostly, liked little very likely what they knew of him,
consoled themselves with dice, cards, and the bottle, and
whiled away their own captivity in their own way. It
seemed to Esmond as if he lived years in that prison: and
was changed and aged when he came out of it. At certain
periods of life we live years of emotion in a few weeks—and
look back on those times, as on great gaps between the old
life and the new. You do not know how much you suffer
in those critical maladies of the heart, until the disease is
over and you look back on it afterwards. During the time,
the suffering is at least sufferable. The day passes in more
or less of pain, and the night wears away somehow. 'Tis
only in after-days that we see what the danger has been—as
a man out a-hunting or riding for his life looks at a leap,
and wonders how he should have survived the taking of it.
O dark months of grief and rage! of wrong and cruel endurance!
He is old now who recalls you. Long ago he has
forgiven and blest the soft hand that wounded him: but
the mark is there, and the wound is cicatrized only—no time,
tears, caresses, or repentance, can obliterate the scar. We
are indocile to put up with grief, however. Reficimus rates
quassas: we tempt the ocean again and again, and try upon
new ventures. Esmond thought of his early time as a
novitiate, and of this past trial as an initiation before entering
into life—as our young Indians undergo tortures silently
before they pass to the rank of warriors in the tribe.




The officers, meanwhile, who were not let into the secret
of the grief which was gnawing at the side of their silent
young friend, and being accustomed to such transactions,
in which one comrade or another was daily paying the forfeit
of the sword, did not of course bemoan themselves very
inconsolably about the fate of their late companion in arms.
This one told stories of former adventures of love, or war, or
pleasure, in which poor Frank Esmond had been engaged;
t'other recollected how a constable had been bilked, or a
[pg 174]
tavern-bully beaten: whilst my lord's poor widow was
sitting at his tomb worshipping him as an actual saint and
spotless hero—so the visitors said who had news of Lady
Castlewood; and Westbury and Macartney had pretty
nearly had all the town to come and see them.




The duel, its fatal termination, the trial of the two peers
and the three commoners concerned, had caused the
greatest excitement in the town. The prints and News
Letters were full of them. The three gentlemen in Newgate
were almost as much crowded as the bishops in the Tower,
or a highwayman before execution. We were allowed to
live in the governor's house, as hath been said, both before
trial and after condemnation, waiting the king's pleasure;
nor was the real cause of the fatal quarrel known, so closely
had my lord and the two other persons who knew it kept
the secret, but every one imagined that the origin of the
meeting was a gambling dispute. Except fresh air, the
prisoners had, upon payment, most things they could desire.
Interest was made that they should not mix with the vulgar
convicts, whose ribald choruses and loud laughter and
curses could be heard from their own part of the prison,
where they and the miserable debtors were confined pell-mell.









 Chapter II. I Come To The End Of My Captivity, But Not Of My Trouble



Among the company which came to visit the two officers
was an old acquaintance of Harry Esmond; that gentleman
of the Guards, namely, who had been so kind to Harry
when Captain Westbury's troop had been quartered at
Castlewood more than seven years before. Dick the
Scholar was no longer Dick the Trooper now, but Captain
Steele of Lucas's Fusiliers, and secretary to my Lord Cutts,
that famous officer of King William's, the bravest and most
beloved man of the English army. The two jolly prisoners
had been drinking with a party of friends (for our cellar
and that of the keepers of Newgate, too, were supplied with
endless hampers of burgundy and champagne that the
friends of the colonels sent in); and Harry, having no wish
for their drink or their conversation, being too feeble in
[pg 175]
health for the one and too sad in spirits for the other, was
sitting apart in his little room, reading such books as he
had, one evening, when honest Colonel Westbury, flushed
with liquor, and always good-humoured in and out of his
cups, came laughing into Harry's closet, and said, “Ho,
young Killjoy! here's a friend come to see thee; he'll pray
with thee, or he'll drink with thee; or he'll drink and pray
turn about. Dick, my Christian hero, here's the little
scholar of Castlewood.”




Dick came up and kissed Esmond on both cheeks, imparting
a strong perfume of burnt sack along with his caress to
the young man.




“What! is this the little man that used to talk Latin
and fetch our bowls? How tall thou art grown! I protest
I should have known thee anywhere. And so you have
turned ruffian and fighter; and wanted to measure swords
with Mohun, did you? I protest that Mohun said at the
Guard dinner yesterday, where there was a pretty company
of us, that the young fellow wanted to fight him, and was
the better man of the two.”




“I wish we could have tried and proved it, Mr. Steele,”
says Esmond, thinking of his dead benefactor, and his eyes
filling with tears.




With the exception of that one cruel letter which he had
from his mistress, Mr. Esmond heard nothing from her, and
she seemed determined to execute her resolve of parting
from him and disowning him. But he had news of her,
such as it was, which Mr. Steele assiduously brought him
from the prince's and princesses' Court, where our honest
captain had been advanced to the post of gentleman waiter.
When off duty there, Captain Dick often came to console
his friends in captivity; a good nature and a friendly
disposition towards all who were in ill fortune no doubt
prompting him to make his visits, and good fellowship and
good wine to prolong them.




“Faith,” says Westbury, “the little scholar was the first
to begin the quarrel—I mind me of it now—at Lockit's.
I always hated that fellow Mohun. What was the real
cause of the quarrel betwixt him and poor Frank? I would
wager 'twas a woman.”




“'Twas a quarrel about play—on my word, about play,”
Harry said. “My poor lord lost great sums to his guest at
Castlewood. Angry words passed between them; and,
[pg 176]
though Lord Castlewood was the kindest and most pliable
soul alive, his spirit was very high; and hence that meeting
which has brought us all here,” says Mr. Esmond, resolved
never to acknowledge that there had ever been any other
but cards for the duel.




“I do not like to use bad words of a nobleman,” says
Westbury; “but if my Lord Mohun were a commoner,
I would say, 'twas a pity he was not hanged. He was
familiar with dice and women at a time other boys are at
school, being birched; he was as wicked as the oldest rake,
years ere he had done growing; and handled a sword and
a foil, and a bloody one too, before ever he used a razor.
He held poor Will Mountford in talk that night, when bloody
Dick Hill ran him through. He will come to a bad end, will
that young lord; and no end is bad enough for him,” says
honest Mr. Westbury: whose prophecy was fulfilled twelve
years after, upon that fatal day when Mohun fell, dragging
down one of the bravest and greatest gentlemen in England
in his fall.




From Mr. Steele, then, who brought the public rumour,
as well as his own private intelligence, Esmond learned the
movements of his unfortunate mistress. Steele's heart was
of very inflammable composition; and the gentleman usher
spoke in terms of boundless admiration both of the widow
(that most beautiful woman, as he said) and of her daughter,
who, in the captain's eyes, was a still greater paragon. If
the pale widow, whom Captain Richard, in his poetic rapture,
compared to a Niobe in tears—to a Sigismunda—to a weeping
Belvidera, was an object the most lovely and pathetic
which his eyes had ever beheld, or for which his heart had
melted, even her ripened perfections and beauty were as
nothing compared to the promise of that extreme loveliness
which the good captain saw in her daughter. It was matre
pulcra filia pulcrior. Steele composed sonnets whilst he
was on duty in his prince's antechamber, to the maternal
and filial charms. He would speak for hours about them
to Harry Esmond; and, indeed, he could have chosen few
subjects more likely to interest the unhappy young man,
whose heart was now as always devoted to these ladies;
and who was thankful to all who loved them, or praised
them, or wished them well.




Not that his fidelity was recompensed by any answering
kindness, or show of relenting even, on the part of a mistress
[pg 177]
obdurate now after ten years of love and benefactions. The
poor young man getting no answer, save Tusher's, to that
letter which he had written, and being too proud to write
more, opened a part of his heart to Steele, than whom no
man, when unhappy, could find a kinder hearer or more
friendly emissary; described (in words which were no
doubt pathetic, for they came imo pectore, and caused
honest Dick to weep plentifully) his youth, his constancy, his fond
devotion to that household which had reared him; his
affection how earned, and how tenderly requited until but
yesterday, and (as far as he might) the circumstances and
causes for which that sad quarrel had made of Esmond a
prisoner under sentence, a widow and orphans of those whom
in life he held dearest. In terms that might well move
a harder-hearted man than young Esmond's confidant—for,
indeed, the speaker's own heart was half broke as he uttered
them; he described a part of what had taken place in that
only sad interview which his mistress had granted him;
how she had left him with anger and almost imprecation,
whose words and thoughts until then had been only blessing
and kindness; how she had accused him of the guilt of that
blood, in exchange for which he would cheerfully have
sacrificed his own (indeed, in this the Lord Mohun, the
Lord Warwick, and all the gentlemen engaged, as well as
the common rumour out of doors—Steele told him—bore
out the luckless young man); and with all his heart, and
tears, he besought Mr. Steele to inform his mistress of her
kinsman's unhappiness, and to deprecate that cruel anger
she showed him. Half frantic with grief at the injustice
done him, and contrasting it with a thousand soft recollections
of love and confidence gone by, that made his present
misery inexpressibly more bitter, the poor wretch passed
many a lonely day and wakeful night in a kind of powerless
despair and rage against his iniquitous fortune. It was
the softest hand that struck him, the gentlest and most
compassionate nature that persecuted him. “I would as
lief,” he said, “have pleaded guilty to the murder, and
have suffered for it like any other felon, as have to endure
the torture to which my mistress subjects me.”




Although the recital of Esmond's story, and his passionate
appeals and remonstrances, drew so many tears from Dick
who heard them, they had no effect upon the person whom
they were designed to move. Esmond's ambassador came
[pg 178]
back from the mission with which the poor young gentleman
had charged him, with a sad blank face and a shake of the
head, which told that there was no hope for the prisoner;
and scarce a wretched culprit in that prison of Newgate
ordered for execution, and trembling for a reprieve, felt
more cast down than Mr. Esmond, innocent and condemned.




As had been arranged between the prisoner and his
counsel in their consultations, Mr. Steele had gone to the
dowager's house in Chelsey, where it has been said the
widow and her orphans were, had seen my lady viscountess
and pleaded the cause of her unfortunate kinsman. “And
I think I spoke well, my poor boy,” says Mr. Steele; “for
who would not speak well in such a cause, and before so
beautiful a judge? I did not see the lovely Beatrix (sure
her famous namesake of Florence was never half so beautiful),
only the young viscount was in the room with the Lord
Churchill, my Lord of Marlborough's eldest son. But these
young gentlemen went off to the garden, I could see them
from the window tilting at each other with poles in a mimic
tournament (grief touches the young but lightly, and I
remember that I beat a drum at the coffin of my own father).
My lady viscountess looked out at the two boys at their
game, and said—‘You see, sir, children are taught to use
weapons of death as toys, and to make a sport of murder’;
and as she spoke she looked so lovely, and stood there in
herself so sad and beautiful an instance of that doctrine
whereof I am a humble preacher, that had I not dedicated
my little volume of the Christian Hero (I perceive, Harry,
thou hast not cut the leaves of it. The sermon is good,
believe me, though the preacher's life may not answer it)—I
say, hadn't I dedicated the volume to Lord Cutts, I would
have asked permission to place her ladyship's name on the
first page. I think I never saw such a beautiful violet
as that of her eyes, Harry. Her complexion is of the pink
of the blush-rose, she hath an exquisite turned wrist and
dimpled hand, and I make no doubt——”




“Did you come to tell me about the dimples on my lady's
hand?” broke out Mr. Esmond, sadly.




“A lovely creature in affliction seems always doubly
beautiful to me,” says the poor captain, who indeed was
but too often in a state to see double, and so checked he
resumed the interrupted thread of his story. “As I spoke
[pg 179]
my business,” Mr. Steele said, “and narrated to your
mistress what all the world knows, and the other side hath
been eager to acknowledge—that you had tried to put
yourself between the two lords, and to take your patron's
quarrel on your own point; I recounted the general praises
of your gallantry, besides my Lord Mohun's particular
testimony to it; I thought the widow listened with some
interest, and her eyes—I have never seen such a violet,
Harry—looked up at mine once or twice. But after
I had spoken on this theme for a while she suddenly broke
away with a cry of grief. ‘I would to God, sir,’ she
said, ‘I had never heard that word gallantry which
you use, or known the meaning of it. My lord might
have been here but for that; my home might be happy;
my poor boy have a father. It was what you gentlemen
call gallantry came into my home, and drove my
husband on to the cruel sword that killed him. You
should not speak the word to a Christian woman, sir—a
poor widowed mother of orphans, whose home was
happy until the world came into it—the wicked godless
world, that takes the blood of the innocent, and lets the
guilty go free.’




“As the afflicted lady spoke in this strain, sir,” Mr. Steele
continued, “it seemed as if indignation moved her, even
more than grief. ‘Compensation!’ she went on passionately,
her cheeks and eyes kindling; ‘what compensation
does your world give the widow for her husband, and the
children for the murderer of their father? The wretch
who did the deed has not even a punishment. Conscience!
what conscience has he, who can enter the house of a friend,
whisper falsehood and insult to a woman that never harmed
him, and stab the kind heart that trusted him? My lord—my
Lord Wretch, my Lord Villain's, my Lord Murderer's
peers meet to try him, and they dismiss him with a word
or two of reproof, and send him into the world again, to
pursue women with lust and falsehood, and to murder
unsuspecting guests that harbour him. That day, my
lord—my Lord Murderer—(I will never name him)—was
let loose, a woman was executed at Tyburn for stealing in
a shop. But a man may rob another of his life, or a lady
of her honour, and shall pay no penalty! I take my
child, run to the throne, and on my knees ask for justice,
and the king refuses me. The king! he is no king of
[pg 180]
mine—he never shall be. He, too, robbed the throne from
the king his father—the true king—and he has gone
unpunished, as the great do.’




“I then thought to speak for you,” Mr. Steele continued,
“and I interposed by saying, ‘There was one, madam,
who, at least, would have put his own breast between your
husband's and my Lord Mohun's sword. Your poor young
kinsman, Harry Esmond, hath told me that he tried to
draw the quarrel on himself.’




“ ‘Are you come from him?’ asked the lady” (so Mr.
Steele went on), “rising up with a great severity and stateliness.
‘I thought you had come from the princess. I saw
Mr. Esmond in his prison, and bade him farewell. He
brought misery into my house. He never should have
entered it.’




“ ‘Madam, madam, he is not to blame,’ I interposed,”
continued Mr. Steele.




“ ‘Do I blame him to you, sir?’ asked the widow.
‘If 'tis he who sent you, say that I have taken counsel,
where’—she spoke with a very pallid cheek now, and
a break in her voice—‘where all who ask may have it;—and
that it bids me to part from him, and to see him no
more. We met in the prison for the last time—at least
for years to come. It may be, in years hence, when—when
our knees and our tears and our contrition have
changed our sinful hearts, sir, and wrought our pardon,
we may meet again—but not now. After what has passed,
I could not bear to see him. I wish him well, sir; but
I wish him farewell, too; and if he has that—that regard
towards us which he speaks of, I beseech him to prove it
by obeying me in this.’




“ ‘I shall break the young man's heart, madam, by this
hard sentence,’ ” Mr. Steele said.




“The lady shook her head,” continued my kind scholar.
“ ‘The hearts of young men, Mr. Steele, are not so made,’
she said. ‘Mr. Esmond will find other—other friends.
The mistress of this house has relented very much towards
the late lord's son,’ she added, with a blush, ‘and has
promised me, that is, has promised that she will care for
his fortune. Whilst I live in it, after the horrid, horrid
deed which has passed, Castlewood must never be a home
to him—never. Nor would I have him write to me—except—no—I
would have him never write to me, nor see
[pg 181]
him more. Give him, if you will, my parting—Hush! not
a word of this before my daughter.’




“Here the fair Beatrix entered from the river, with her
cheeks flushing with health, and looking only the more
lovely and fresh for the mourning habiliments which she
wore. And my lady viscountess said—




“ ‘Beatrix, this is Mr. Steele, gentleman-usher to the
prince's highness. When does your new comedy appear,
Mr. Steele?’ I hope thou wilt be out of prison for the
first night, Harry.”




The sentimental captain concluded his sad tale, saying,
“Faith, the beauty of Filia
pulcrior drove pulcram matrem
out of my head; and yet as I came down the river, and
thought about the pair, the pallid dignity and exquisite
grace of the matron had the uppermost, and I thought her
even more noble than the virgin!”






The party of prisoners lived very well in Newgate, and
with comforts very different to those which were awarded
to the poor wretches there (his insensibility to their misery,
their gaiety still more frightful, their curses and blasphemy,
hath struck with a kind of shame since—as proving how
selfish, during his imprisonment, his own particular grief
was, and how entirely the thoughts of it absorbed him):
if the three gentlemen lived well under the care of the
warden of Newgate, it was because they paid well: and
indeed the cost at the dearest ordinary or the grandest
tavern in London could not have furnished a longer reckoning,
than our host of the “Handcuff Inn”—as Colonel Westbury
called it. Our rooms were the three in the gate over
Newgate—on the second story looking up Newgate Street
towards Cheapside and Paul's Church. And we had leave
to walk on the roof, and could see thence Smithfield and
the Bluecoat Boys' School, Gardens, and the Chartreux,
where, as Harry Esmond remembered, Dick the Scholar,
and his friend Tom Tusher, had had their schooling.




Harry could never have paid his share of that prodigious
heavy reckoning which my landlord brought to his guests
once a week: for he had but three pieces in his pockets
that fatal night before the duel, when the gentlemen were
at cards, and offered to play five. But whilst he was yet
ill at the Gatehouse, after Lady Castlewood had visited
him there, and before his trial, there came one in an orange-tawny
[pg 182]
coat and blue lace, the livery which the Esmonds
always wore, and brought a sealed packet for Mr. Esmond,
which contained twenty guineas, and a note saying that
a counsel had been appointed for him, and that more
money would be forthcoming whenever he needed it.




'Twas a queer letter from the scholar as she was, or as
she called herself: the Dowager Viscountess Castlewood,
written in the strange barbarous French which she and
many other fine ladies of that time—witness Her Grace of
Portsmouth—employed. Indeed, spelling was not an
article of general commodity in the world then, and my
Lord Marlborough's letters can show that he, for one, had
but a little share of this part of grammar.






Mong Coussin (my lady viscountess dowager wrote), je scay
que vous vous etes bravement batew et grievement bléssay—du
costé de feu M. le Vicomte. M. le Compte de Varique ne se playt
qua parlay de vous: M. de Moon auçy. Il di que vous avay voulew
vous bastre avecque luy—que vous estes plus fort que luy sur
l'ayscrimme—quil'y a surtout certaine Botte que vous scavay quil
n'a jammay sceu pariay: et que c'en eut été fay de luy si vouseluy
vous vous fussiay battews ansamb. Aincy ce pauv Vicompte est
mort. Mort et peutayt—Mon coussin, mon coussin! jay dans la
tayste que vous n'estes quung pety Monst—angcy que les Esmonds
ong tousjours esté. La veuve est chay moy. J'ay recuilly cet'
pauve famme. Elle est furieuse cont vous, allans tous les jours
chercher le Roy (d'icy) démandant à gran cri revanche pour son
Mary. Elle ne veux voyre ni entende parlay de vous: pourtant elle
ne fay qu'en parlay milfoy par jour. Quand vous seray hor prison
venay me voyre. J'auray soing de vous. Si cette petite Prude veut
se défaire de song pety Monste (Hélas je craing qùil ne soy trotar!)
je m'en chargeray. J'ay encor quelqu interay et quelques escus de
costay.




La Veuve se raccommode avec Miladi Marlboro qui est tout
puiçante avecque la Reine Anne. Cet dam sentéraysent pour la
petite prude; qui pourctant a un fi du mesme asge que vous savay.




En sortant de prisong venez icy. Je ne puy vous recevoir chay-moy
à cause des méchansetés du monde, may pre du moy vous
aurez logement.




Isabelle Vicomptesse d'Esmond.






Marchioness of Esmond this lady sometimes called herself,
in virtue of that patent which had been given by the
late King James to Harry Esmond's father; and in this
state she had her train carried by a knight's wife, a cup
and cover of assay to drink from, and fringed cloth.




He who was of the same age as little Francis, whom we
[pg 183]
shall henceforth call Viscount Castlewood here, was H.R.H.
the Prince of Wales, born in the same year and month with
Frank, and just proclaimed at St. Germains, King of Great
Britain, France, and Ireland.









 Chapter III. I Take The Queen's Pay In Quin's Regiment



The fellow in the orange-tawny livery with blue lace
and facings was in waiting when Esmond came out of
prison, and, taking the young gentleman's slender baggage,
led the way out of that odious Newgate, and by Fleet
Conduit, down to the Thames, where a pair of oars was
called, and they went up the river to Chelsea. Esmond
thought the sun had never shone so bright; nor the air
felt so fresh and exhilarating. Temple Garden, as they
rowed by, looked like the garden of Eden to him, and the
aspect of the quays, wharves, and buildings by the river,
Somerset House, and Westminster (where the splendid
new bridge was just beginning), Lambeth tower and palace,
and that busy shining scene of the Thames swarming with
boats and barges, filled his heart with pleasure and cheerfulness—as
well such a beautiful scene might to one who had
been a prisoner so long, and with so many dark thoughts
deepening the gloom of his captivity. They rowed up at
length to the pretty village of Chelsey, where the nobility
have many handsome country-houses; and so came to
my lady viscountess's house, a cheerful new house in the
row facing the river, with a handsome garden behind it,
and a pleasant look-out both towards Surrey and Kensington,
where stands the noble ancient palace of the Lord
Warwick, Harry's reconciled adversary.




Here in her ladyship's saloon, the young man saw again
some of those pictures which had been at Castlewood, and
which she had removed thence on the death of her lord,
Harry's father. Specially, and in the place of honour,
was Sir Peter Lely's picture of the Honourable Mistress
Isabella Esmond as Diana, in yellow satin, with a bow
in her hand and a crescent in her forehead; and dogs
frisking about her. 'Twas painted about the time when
[pg 184]
royal Endymions were said to find favour with this virgin
huntress; and, as goddesses have youth perpetual, this
one believed to the day of her death that she never grew
older: and always persisted in supposing the picture was
still like her.




After he had been shown to her room by the groom of
the chamber, who filled many offices besides in her ladyship's
modest household; and after a proper interval, his
elderly goddess Diana vouchsafed to appear to the young
man. A blackamoor in a Turkish habit, with red boots
and a silver collar, on which the viscountess's arms were
engraven, preceded her and bore her cushion; then came
her gentlewoman; a little pack of spaniels barking and
frisking about preceded the austere huntress—then, behold,
the viscountess herself “dropping odours”. Esmond recollected
from his childhood that rich aroma of musk which
his mother-in-law (for she may be called so) exhaled. As
the sky grows redder and redder towards sunset, so, in the
decline of her years, the cheeks of my lady dowager blushed
more deeply. Her face was illuminated with vermilion, which
appeared the brighter from the white paint employed to
set it off. She wore the ringlets which had been in fashion
in King Charles's time; whereas the ladies of King William's
had head-dresses like the towers of Cybele. Her eyes
gleamed out from the midst of this queer structure of
paint, dyes, and pomatums. Such was my lady viscountess,
Mr. Esmond's father's widow.




He made her such a profound bow as her dignity and
relationship merited: and advanced with the greatest
gravity, and once more kissed that hand, upon the trembling
knuckles of which glittered a score of rings—remembering
old times when that trembling hand made him tremble.
“Marchioness,” says he, bowing, and on one knee, “is it only
the hand I may have the honour of saluting?” For,
accompanying that inward laughter, which the sight of
such an astonishing old figure might well produce in the
young man, there was goodwill too, and the kindness of
consanguinity. She had been his father's wife, and was his
grandfather's daughter. She had suffered him in old days,
and was kind to him now after her fashion. And now
that bar-sinister was removed from Esmond's thought, and
that secret opprobrium no longer cast upon his mind, he
was pleased to feel family ties and own them—perhaps
[pg 185]
secretly vain of the sacrifice he had made, and to think
that he, Esmond, was really the chief of his house, and only
prevented by his own magnanimity from advancing his
claim.




At least, ever since he had learned that secret from his
poor patron on his dying bed, actually as he was standing
beside it, he had felt an independency which he had never
known before, and which since did not desert him. So he
called his old aunt marchioness, but with an air as if he
was the Marquis of Esmond who so addressed her.




Did she read in the young gentleman's eyes, which had
now no fear of hers or their superannuated authority, that
he knew or suspected the truth about his birth? She gave
a start of surprise at his altered manner: indeed, it was
quite a different bearing to that of the Cambridge student
who had paid her a visit two years since, and whom she
had dismissed with five pieces sent by the groom of the
chamber. She eyed him, then trembled a little more than
was her wont, perhaps, and said, “Welcome, cousin”, in
a frightened voice.




His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite
different, namely, so to bear himself through life as if the
secret of his birth was not known to him; but he suddenly
and rightly determined on a different course. He asked
that her ladyship's attendants should be dismissed, and
when they were private—“Welcome, nephew, at least,
madam, it should be,” he said, “A great wrong has been
done to me and to you, and to my poor mother, who is
no more.”




“I declare before Heaven that I was guiltless of it,” she
cried out, giving up her cause at once. “It was your wicked
father who——”




“Who brought this dishonour on our family,” says Mr.
Esmond. “I know it full well. I want to disturb no one.
Those who are in present possession have been my dearest
benefactors, and are quite innocent of intentional wrong
to me. The late lord, my dear patron, knew not the truth
until a few months before his death, when Father Holt
brought the news to him.”




“The wretch! he had it in confession! He had it in
confession!” cried out the dowager lady.




“Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession,”
Mr. Esmond answered. “My father, when wounded at the
[pg 186]
Boyne, told the truth to a French priest, who was in hiding
after the battle, as well as to the priest there, at whose
house he died. This gentleman did not think fit to divulge
the story till he met with Mr. Holt at St. Omer's. And
the latter kept it back for his own purpose, and until he
had learned whether my mother was alive or no. She is
dead years since: my poor patron told me with his dying
breath; and I doubt him not. I do not know even whether
I could prove a marriage. I would not if I could. I do
not care to bring shame on our name, or grief upon those
whom I love, however hardly they may use me. My father's
son, madam, won't aggravate the wrong my father did you.
Continue to be his widow, and give me your kindness.
'Tis all I ask from you; and I shall never speak of this
matter again.”




“Mais vous êtes
un noble jeune homme!” breaks out my
lady, speaking, as usual with her when she was agitated,
in the French language.




“Noblesse oblige,”
says Mr. Esmond, making her a low
bow. “There are those alive to whom, in return for their
love to me, I often fondly said I would give my life away.
Shall I be their enemy now, and quarrel about a title?
What matters who has it? 'Tis with the family still.”




“What can there be in that little prude of a woman, that
makes men so raffoler about her?” cries out my lady
dowager. “She was here for a month petitioning the
king. She is pretty, and well conserved; but she has not
the bel air. In his late Majesty's Court all the men
pretended to admire her; and she was no better than a little wax
doll. She is better now, and looks the sister of her daughter:
but what mean you all by bepraising her? Mr. Steele,
who was in waiting on Prince George, seeing her with her
two children going to Kensington, writ a poem about her;
and says he shall wear her colours, and dress in black for
the future. Mr. Congreve says he will write a Mourning
Widow, that shall be better than his Mourning Bride.
Though their husbands quarrelled and fought when that
wretch Churchill deserted the king (for which he deserved
to be hung), Lady Marlborough has again gone wild about
the little widow; insulted me in my own drawing-room, by
saying that 'twas not the old widow, but the young viscountess,
she had come to see. Little Castlewood and little
Lord Churchill are to be sworn friends, and have boxed
[pg 187]
each other twice or thrice like brothers already. 'Twas
that wicked young Mohun who, coming back from the
provinces last year, where he had disinterred her, raved
about her all the winter; said she was a pearl set before
swine; and killed poor stupid Frank. The quarrel was
all about his wife. I know 'twas all about her. Was there
anything between her and Mohun, nephew? Tell me now;
was there anything? About yourself, I do not ask you
to answer questions.” Mr. Esmond blushed up. “My
lady's virtue is like that of a saint in heaven, madam,” he
cried out.




“Eh!—mon neveu. Many saints get to Heaven after
having a deal to repent of. I believe you are like all the
rest of the fools, and madly in love with her.”




“Indeed, I loved and honoured her before all the world,”
Esmond answered. “I take no shame in that.”




“And she has shut her door on you—given the living to
that horrid young cub, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher,
and says she will never see you more.
Monsieur mon neveu—we
are all like that. When I was a young woman, I'm
positive that a thousand duels were fought about me. And
when poor Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself in the
canal at Bruges because I danced with Count Springbock,
I couldn't squeeze out a single tear, but danced till five
o'clock the next morning. 'Twas the count—no, 'twas my
Lord Ormonde that paid the fiddles, and his Majesty did
me the honour of dancing all night with me.—How you are
grown! You have got the bel air. You are a black man.
Our Esmonds are all black. The little prude's son is fair; so
was his father—fair and stupid. You were an ugly little
wretch when you came to Castlewood—you were all eyes,
like a young crow. We intended you should be a priest.
That awful Father Holt—how he used to frighten me when
I was ill! I have a comfortable director now—the Abbé
Douillette—a dear man. We make meagre on Fridays
always. My cook is a devout pious man. You, of course,
are of the right way of thinking. They say the Prince
of Orange is very ill indeed.”




In this way the old dowager rattled on remorselessly to
Mr. Esmond, who was quite astounded with her present
volubility, contrasting it with her former haughty behaviour
to him. But she had taken him into favour for the moment,
and chose not only to like him, as far as her nature permitted,
[pg 188]
but to be afraid of him; and he found himself to be as
familiar with her now as a young man, as when a boy,
he had been timorous and silent. She was as good as her
word respecting him. She introduced him to her company,
of which she entertained a good deal—of the adherents of
King James of course—and a great deal of loud intriguing
took place over her card-tables. She presented Mr. Esmond
as her kinsman to many persons of honour; she supplied
him not illiberally with money, which he had no scruple
in accepting from her, considering the relationship which
he bore to her, and the sacrifices which he himself was
making in behalf of the family. But he had made up his
mind to continue at no woman's apron-strings longer; and
perhaps had cast about how he should distinguish himself,
and make himself a name, which his singular fortune had
denied him. A discontent with his former bookish life and
quietude,—a bitter feeling of revolt at that slavery in which
he had chosen to confine himself for the sake of those whose
hardness towards him made his heart bleed,—a restless wish
to see men and the world,—led him to think of the military
profession: at any rate, to desire to see a few campaigns,
and accordingly he pressed his new patroness to get him
a pair of colours; and one day had the honour of finding
himself appointed an ensign in Colonel Quin's regiment of
Fusiliers on the Irish establishment.




Mr. Esmond's commission was scarce three weeks old
when that accident befell King William which ended the
life of the greatest, the wisest, the bravest, and most clement
sovereign whom England ever knew. 'Twas the fashion
of the hostile party to assail this great prince's reputation
during his life; but the joy which they and all his enemies
in Europe showed at his death, is a proof of the terror in
which they held him. Young as Esmond was, he was wise
enough (and generous enough too, let it be said) to scorn
that indecency of gratulation which broke out amongst the
followers of King James in London, upon the death of this
illustrious prince, this invincible warrior, this wise and
moderate statesman. Loyalty to the exiled king's family
was traditional, as has been said, in that house to which
Mr. Esmond belonged. His father's widow had all her
hopes, sympathies, recollections, prejudices, engaged on
King James's side; and was certainly as noisy a conspirator
as ever asserted the king's rights, or abused his opponent's,
[pg 189]
over a quadrille table or a dish of bohea. Her ladyship's
house swarmed with ecclesiastics, in disguise and out; with
tale-bearers from St. Germains; and quidnuncs that knew
the last news from Versailles; nay, the exact force and
number of the next expedition which the French king was
to send from Dunkirk, and which was to swallow up the
Prince of Orange, his army, and his Court. She had
received the Duke of Berwick when he landed here in '96.
She kept the glass he drank from, vowing she never would
use it till she drank King James the Third's health in it
on his Majesty's return; she had tokens from the queen,
and relics of the saint who, if the story was true, had not
always been a saint as far as she and many others were concerned.
She believed in the miracles wrought at his tomb,
and had a hundred authentic stories of wondrous cures
effected by the blessed king's rosaries, the medals which he
wore, the locks of his hair, or what not. Esmond remembered
a score of marvellous tales which the credulous old woman
told him. There was the Bishop of Autun, that was healed
of a malady he had for forty years, and which left him
after he said mass for the repose of the king's soul. There
was Monsieur Marais, a surgeon in Auvergne, who had a
palsy in both his legs, which was cured through the king's
intercession. There was Philip Pitet, of the Benedictines,
who had a suffocating cough, which wellnigh killed him, but
he besought relief of Heaven through the merits and intercession
of the blessed king, and he straightway felt a profuse
sweat breaking out all over him, and was recovered perfectly.
And there was the wife of Monsieur Lepervier, dancing-master
to the Duke of Saxe-Gotha, who was entirely eased
of a rheumatism by the king's intercession, of which miracle
there could be no doubt, for her surgeon and his apprentice
had given their testimony, under oath, that they did not
in any way contribute to the cure. Of these tales, and
a thousand like them, Mr. Esmond believed as much as
he chose. His kinswoman's greater faith had swallow for
them all.




The English High Church party did not adopt these
legends. But truth and honour, as they thought, bound
them to the exiled king's side; nor had the banished
family any warmer supporter than that kind lady of Castlewood,
in whose house Esmond was brought up. She influenced
her husband, very much more perhaps than my
[pg 190]
lord knew, who admired his wife prodigiously though he
might be inconstant to her, and who, adverse to the trouble
of thinking himself, gladly enough adopted the opinions
which she chose for him. To one of her simple and faithful
heart, allegiance to any sovereign but the one was impossible.
To serve King William for interest's sake would have been
a monstrous hypocrisy and treason. Her pure conscience
could no more have consented to it than to a theft, a forgery,
or any other base action. Lord Castlewood might have
been won over, no doubt, but his wife never could: and
he submitted his conscience to hers in this case as he did
in most others, when he was not tempted too sorely. And
it was from his affection and gratitude most likely, and
from that eager devotion for his mistress, which characterized
all Esmond's youth, that the young man subscribed
to this, and other articles of faith, which his fond benefactress
set him. Had she been a Whig, he had been one;
had she followed Mr. Fox, and turned Quaker, no doubt
he would have abjured ruffles and a periwig, and have
forsworn swords, lace coats, and clocked stockings. In
the scholars' boyish disputes at the University, where
parties ran very high, Esmond was noted as a Jacobite,
and very likely from vanity as much as affection took the
side of his family.




Almost the whole of the clergy of the country and more
than a half of the nation were on this side. Ours is the
most loyal people in the world surely; we admire our
kings, and are faithful to them long after they have ceased
to be true to us. 'Tis a wonder to any one who looks back
at the history of the Stuart family to think how they kicked
their crowns away from them; how they flung away chances
after chances; what treasures of loyalty they dissipated,
and how fatally they were bent on consummating their
own ruin. If ever men had fidelity, 'twas they; if ever
men squandered opportunity, 'twas they; and, of all the
enemies they had, they themselves were the most fatal.8




When the Princess Anne succeeded, the wearied nation
was glad enough to cry a truce from all these wars, controversies,
and conspiracies, and to accept in the person of
[pg 191]
a princess of the blood royal a compromise between the
parties into which the country was divided. The Tories
could serve under her with easy consciences; though a
Tory herself, she represented the triumph of the Whig
opinion. The people of England, always liking that their
princes should be attached to their own families, were
pleased to think the princess was faithful to hers; and up
to the very last day and hour of her reign, and but for that
fatality which he inherited from his fathers along with their
claims to the English crown, King James the Third might
have worn it. But he neither knew how to wait an opportunity,
nor to use it when he had it; he was venturesome
when he ought to have been cautious, and cautious when
he ought to have dared everything. 'Tis with a sort of
rage at his inaptitude that one thinks of his melancholy
story. Do the Fates deal more specially with kings than
with common men? One is apt to imagine so, in considering
the history of that royal race, in whose behalf so much
fidelity, so much valour, so much blood were desperately
and bootlessly expended.




The king dead then, the Princess Anne (ugly Anne Hyde's
daughter, our dowager at Chelsey called her) was proclaimed
by trumpeting heralds all over the town from
Westminster to Ludgate Hill, amidst immense jubilations
of the people.




Next week my Lord Marlborough was promoted to the
Garter, and to be captain-general of her Majesty's forces
at home and abroad. This appointment only inflamed the
dowager's rage, or, as she thought it, her fidelity to her
rightful sovereign. “The princess is but a puppet in the
hands of that fury of a woman, who comes into my drawing-room
and insults me to my face. What can come to a
country that is given over to such a woman?” says the
dowager: “As for that double-faced traitor, my Lord
Marlborough, he has betrayed every man and every woman
with whom he has had to deal, except his horrid wife,
who makes him tremble. 'Tis all over with the country
when it has got into the clutches of such wretches as these.”




Esmond's old kinswoman saluted the new powers in this
way; but some good fortune at least occurred to a family
which stood in great need of it, by the advancement of
these famous personages who benefited humbler people that
had the luck of being in their favour. Before Mr. Esmond
[pg 192]
left England in the month of August, and being then at
Portsmouth, where he had joined his regiment, and was
busy at drill, learning the practice and mysteries of the
musket and pike, he heard that a pension on the Stamp
Office had been got for his late beloved mistress, and that
the young Mistress Beatrix was also to be taken into Court.
So much good, at least, had come of the poor widow's visit
to London, not revenge upon her husband's enemies, but
reconcilement to old friends, who pitied, and seemed inclined
to serve her. As for the comrades in prison and the late
misfortune; Colonel Westbury was with the captain-general
gone to Holland; Captain Macartney was now at Portsmouth,
with his regiment of Fusiliers and the force under command
of his grace the Duke of Ormonde, bound for Spain it was
said; my Lord Warwick was returned home; and Lord
Mohun, so far from being punished for the homicide which
had brought so much grief and change into the Esmond
family, was gone in company of my Lord Macclesfield's
splendid embassy to the Elector of Hanover, carrying the
Garter to his highness, and a complimentary letter from the
queen.









 Chapter IV. Recapitulations



From such fitful lights as could be cast upon his dark
history by the broken narrative of his poor patron, torn
by remorse and struggling in the last pangs of dissolution,
Mr. Esmond had been made to understand so far, that his
mother was long since dead; and so there could be no
question as regarded her or her honour, tarnished by her
husband's desertion and injury, to influence her son in any
steps which he might take either for prosecuting or relinquishing
his own just claims. It appeared from my poor
lord's hurried confession, that he had been made acquainted
with the real facts of the case only two years since, when
Mr. Holt visited him, and would have implicated him in
one of those many conspiracies by which the secret leaders
of King James's party in this country were ever endeavouring
to destroy the Prince of Orange's life or power; conspiracies
so like murder, so cowardly in the means used,
[pg 193]
so wicked in the end, that our nation has sure done well
in throwing off all allegiance and fidelity to the unhappy
family that could not vindicate its right except by such
treachery—by such dark intrigue and base agents. There
were designs against King William that were no more
honourable than the ambushes of cut-throats and footpads.
'Tis humiliating to think that a great prince, possessor of
a great and sacred right, and upholder of a great cause,
should have stooped to such baseness of assassination and
treasons as are proved by the unfortunate King James's
own warrant and sign-manual given to his supporters in
this country. What he and they called levying war was,
in truth, no better than instigating murder. The noble
Prince of Orange burst magnanimously through those feeble
meshes of conspiracy in which his enemies tried to envelop
him: it seemed as if their cowardly daggers broke upon
the breast of his undaunted resolution. After King James's
death, the queen and her people at St. Germains—priests
and women for the most part—continued their intrigues in
behalf of the young prince, James the Third, as he was
called in France and by his party here (this prince, or
Chevalier de St. George, was born in the same year with
Esmond's young pupil Frank, my lord viscount's son): and
the prince's affairs, being in the hands of priests and women,
were conducted as priests and women will conduct them,
artfully, cruelly, feebly, and to a certain bad issue. The
moral of the Jesuit's story I think as wholesome a one as
ever was writ: the artfullest, the wisest, the most toilsome,
and dexterous plot-builders in the world—there always
comes a day when the roused public indignation kicks their
flimsy edifice down, and sends its cowardly enemies a-flying.
Mr. Swift hath finely described that passion for intrigue,
that love of secrecy, slander, and lying, which belongs to
weak people, hangers-on of weak courts. 'Tis the nature
of such to hate and envy the strong, and conspire their
ruin; and the conspiracy succeeds very well, and everything
presages the satisfactory overthrow of the great
victim; until one day Gulliver rouses himself, shakes off
the little vermin of an enemy, and walks away unmolested.
Ah! the Irish soldiers might well say after the Boyne,
“Change kings with us, and we will fight it over again.”
Indeed, the fight was not fair between the two. 'Twas
a weak priest-ridden, woman-ridden man, with such puny
[pg 194]
allies and weapons as his own poor nature led him to choose,
contending against the schemes, the generalship, the wisdom,
and the heart of a hero.




On one of these many coward's errands, then (for, as
I view them now, I can call them no less), Mr. Holt had
come to my lord at Castlewood, proposing some infallible
plan for the Prince of Orange's destruction, in which my
lord viscount, loyalist as he was, had indignantly refused
to join. As far as Mr. Esmond could gather from his dying
words, Holt came to my lord with a plan of insurrection,
and offer of the renewal, in his person, of that marquis's
title which King James had conferred on the preceding
viscount; and on refusal of this bribe, a threat was made,
on Holt's part, to upset my lord viscount's claim to his
estate and title of Castlewood altogether. To back this
astounding piece of intelligence, of which Henry Esmond's
patron now had the first light, Holt came armed with the
late lord's dying declaration, after the affair of the Boyne,
at Trim, in Ireland, made both to the Irish priest and a
French ecclesiastic of Holt's order, that was with King
James's army. Holt showed, or pretended to show, the
marriage certificate of the late Viscount Esmond with my
mother, in the city of Brussels, in the year 1677, when the
viscount, then Thomas Esmond, was serving with the
English army in Flanders; he could show, he said, that
this Gertrude, deserted by her husband long since, was
alive, and a professed nun in the year 1685, at Brussels,
in which year Thomas Esmond married his uncle's daughter,
Isabella, now called Viscountess Dowager of Castlewood;
and leaving him, for twelve hours, to consider this astounding
news (so the poor dying lord said), disappeared with
his papers in the mysterious way in which he came. Esmond
knew how, well enough: by that window from which he
had seen the father issue:—but there was no need to explain
to my poor lord, only to gather from his parting lips the
words which he would soon be able to utter no more.




Ere the twelve hours were over, Holt himself was a
prisoner, implicated in Sir John Fenwick's conspiracy, and
locked up at Hexton first, whence he was transferred to the
Tower; leaving the poor lord viscount, who was not aware
of the others being taken, in daily apprehension of his return,
when (as my Lord Castlewood declared, calling God to
witness, and with tears in his dying eyes) it had been his
[pg 195]
intention at once to give up his estate and his title to their
proper owner, and to retire to his own house at Walcote
with his family. “And would to God I had done it,” the poor
lord said; “I would not be here now, wounded to death, a
miserable, stricken man!”




My lord waited day after day, and, as may be supposed,
no messenger came; but at a month's end Holt got means
to convey to him a message out of the Tower, which was
to this effect: that he should consider all unsaid that had
been said, and that things were as they were.




“I had a sore temptation,” said my poor lord. “Since
I had come into this cursed title of Castlewood, which hath
never prospered with me, I have spent far more than the
income of that estate and my paternal one, too. I calculated
all my means down to the last shilling, and found
I never could pay you back, my poor Harry, whose fortune
I had had for twelve years. My wife and children must
have gone out of the house dishonoured, and beggars. God
knows, it hath been a miserable one for me and mine. Like
a coward, I clung to that respite which Holt gave me.
I kept the truth from Rachel and you. I tried to win
money of Mohun, and only plunged deeper into debt;
I scarce dared look thee in the face when I saw thee. This
sword hath been hanging over my head these two years.
I swear I felt happy when Mohun's blade entered my side.”




After lying ten months in the Tower, Holt, against whom
nothing could be found except that he was a Jesuit priest,
known to be in King James's interest, was put on shipboard
by the incorrigible forgiveness of King William, who promised
him, however, a hanging if ever he should again set foot
on English shore. More than once, whilst he was in prison
himself, Esmond had thought where those papers could be,
which the Jesuit had shown to his patron, and which had
such an interest for himself. They were not found on Mr.
Holt's person when that father was apprehended, for had
such been the case my lords of the council had seen them,
and this family history had long since been made public.
However, Esmond cared not to seek the papers. His resolution
being taken; his poor mother dead; what matter to
him that documents existed proving his right to a title
which he was determined not to claim, and of which he
vowed never to deprive that family which he loved best in
the world? Perhaps he took a greater pride out of his
[pg 196]
sacrifice than he would have had in those honours which
he was resolved to forgo. Again, as long as these titles
were not forthcoming, Esmond's kinsman, dear young
Francis, was the honourable and undisputed owner of the
Castlewood estate and title. The mere word of a Jesuit could
not overset Frank's right of occupancy, and so Esmond's
mind felt actually at ease to think the papers were missing,
and in their absence his dear mistress and her son the lawful
lady and lord of Castlewood.




Very soon after his liberation, Mr. Esmond made it his
business to ride to that village of Ealing where he had
passed his earliest years in this country, and to see if his
old guardians were still alive and inhabitants of that place.
But the only relic which he found of old Monsieur Pastoureau
was a stone in the churchyard, which told that Athanasius
Pastoureau, a native of Flanders, lay there buried, aged
87 years. The old man's cottage, which Esmond perfectly
recollected, and the garden (where in his childhood he had
passed many hours of play and reverie, and had many
a beating from his termagant of a foster-mother), were now
in the occupation of quite a different family; and it was
with difficulty that he could learn in the village what had
come of Pastoureau's widow and children. The clerk of the
parish recollected her—the old man was scarce altered in
the fourteen years that had passed since last Esmond set
eyes on him. It appeared she had pretty soon consoled
herself after the death of her old husband, whom she ruled
over, by taking a new one younger than herself, who spent
her money and ill-treated her and her children. The girl
died; one of the boys 'listed; the other had gone apprentice.
Old Mr. Rogers, the clerk, said he had heard that
Mrs. Pastoureau was dead too. She and her husband had
left Ealing this seven year; and so Mr. Esmond's hopes
of gaining any information regarding his parentage from
this family, were brought to an end. He gave the old clerk
a crown-piece for his news, smiling to think of the time
when he and his little playfellows had slunk out of the
churchyard, or hidden behind the gravestones, at the
approach of this awful authority.




Who was his mother? What had her name been?
When did she die? Esmond longed to find some one who
could answer these questions to him, and thought even of
putting them to his aunt the viscountess, who had innocently
[pg 197]
taken the name which belonged of right to Henry's
mother. But she knew nothing, or chose to know nothing,
on this subject, nor, indeed, could Mr. Esmond press her
much to speak on it. Father Holt was the only man who
could enlighten him, and Esmond felt he must wait until
some fresh chance or new intrigue might put him face to
face with his old friend, or bring that restless indefatigable
spirit back to England again.




The appointment to his ensigncy, and the preparations
necessary for the campaign, presently gave the young gentleman
other matters to think of. His new patroness treated
him very kindly and liberally; she promised to make
interest and pay money, too, to get him a company speedily;
she bade him procure a handsome outfit, both of clothes
and of arms, and was pleased to admire him when he made
his first appearance in his laced scarlet coat, and to permit
him to salute her on the occasion of this interesting investiture.
“Red,” says she, tossing up her old head, “hath
always been the colour worn by the Esmonds.” And so her
ladyship wore it on her own cheeks very faithfully to the
last. She would have him be dressed, she said, as became
his father's son, and paid cheerfully for his five-pound
beaver, his black buckled periwig, and his fine holland
shirts, and his swords, and his pistols, mounted with silver.
Since the day he was born, poor Harry had never looked
such a fine gentleman: his liberal stepmother filled his
purse with guineas, too, some of which Captain Steele and
a few choice spirits helped Harry to spend in an entertainment
which Dick ordered (and, indeed, would have paid
for, but that he had no money when the reckoning was
called for; nor would the landlord give him any more
credit) at the “Garter”, over against the gate of the Palace,
in Pall Mall.




The old viscountess, indeed, if she had done Esmond any
wrong formerly, seemed inclined to repair it by the present
kindness of her behaviour: she embraced him copiously
at parting, wept plentifully, bade him write by every packet,
and gave him an inestimable relic, which she besought him
to wear round his neck—a medal, blessed by I know not
what Pope, and worn by his late sacred Majesty King James.
So Esmond arrived at his regiment with a better equipage
than most young officers could afford. He was older than
most of his seniors, and had a further advantage which
[pg 198]
belonged but to very few of the army gentlemen in his day—many
of whom could do little more than write their
names—that he had read much, both at home and at the
University, was master of two or three languages, and had
that further education which neither books nor years will
give, but which some men get from the silent teaching of
adversity. She is a great schoolmistress, as many a poor
fellow knows, that hath held his hand out to her ferule,
and whimpered over his lesson before her awful chair.









 Chapter V. I Go On The Vigo Bay Expedition, Taste Salt Water And Smell
Powder



The first expedition in which Mr. Esmond had the honour
to be engaged, rather resembled one of the invasions projected
by the redoubted Captain Avory or Captain Kid,
than a war between crowned heads, carried on by generals
of rank and honour. On the 1st day of July, 1702, a great
fleet, of a hundred and fifty sail, set sail from Spithead,
under the command of Admiral Shovell, having on board
12,000 troops, with his grace the Duke of Ormond as the
captain-general of the expedition. One of these 12,000
heroes having never been to sea before, or, at least, only
once in his infancy, when he made the voyage to England
from that unknown country where he was born—one of
those 12,000—the junior ensign of Colonel Quin's regiment
of Fusiliers—was in a quite unheroic state of corporal prostration
a few hours after sailing; and an enemy, had he
boarded the ship, would have had easy work of him. From
Portsmouth we put into Plymouth, and took in fresh reinforcements.
We were off Finisterre on the 31st of July,
so Esmond's table-book informs him; and on the 8th of
August made the rock of Lisbon. By this time the ensign
was grown as bold as an admiral, and a week afterwards
had the fortune to be under fire for the first time—and
under water, too—his boat being swamped in the surf in
Toros Bay, where the troops landed. The ducking of his
new coat was all the harm the young soldier got in this
expedition, for, indeed, the Spaniards made no stand before
our troops, and were not in strength to do so.


[pg 199]


But the campaign, if not very glorious, was very pleasant.
New sights of nature, by sea and land—a life of action,
beginning now for the first time—occupied and excited the
young man. The many accidents, and the routine of ship-board—the
military duty—the new acquaintances, both of
his comrades in arms, and of the officers of the fleet—served
to cheer and occupy his mind, and waken it out of
that selfish depression into which his late unhappy fortunes
had plunged him. He felt as if the ocean separated him
from his past care, and welcomed the new era of life which
was dawning for him. Wounds heal rapidly in a heart
of two-and-twenty; hopes revive daily; and courage
rallies, in spite of a man. Perhaps, as Esmond thought of
his late despondency and melancholy, and how irremediable
it had seemed to him, as he lay in his prison a few months
back, he was almost mortified in his secret mind at finding
himself so cheerful.




To see with one's own eyes men and countries, is better
than reading all the books of travel in the world: and it
was with extreme delight and exultation that the young
man found himself actually on his grand tour, and in the
view of people and cities which he had read about as a boy.
He beheld war for the first time—the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of it, at least, if not much of the danger. He
saw actually, and with his own eyes, those Spanish cavaliers
and ladies whom he had beheld in imagination in that
immortal story of Cervantes, which had been the delight
of his youthful leisure. 'Tis forty years since Mr. Esmond
witnessed those scenes, but they remain as fresh in his
memory as on the day when first he saw them as a young
man. A cloud, as of grief, that had lowered over him, and
had wrapped the last years of his life in gloom, seemed to
clear away from Esmond during this fortunate voyage and
campaign. His energies seemed to awaken and to expand,
under a cheerful sense of freedom. Was his heart secretly
glad to have escaped from that fond but ignoble bondage
at home? Was it that the inferiority to which the idea
of his base birth had compelled him, vanished with the
knowledge of that secret, which though, perforce, kept to
himself, was yet enough to cheer and console him? At
any rate, young Esmond of the army was quite a different
being to the sad little dependant of the kind Castlewood
household, and the melancholy student of Trinity Walks;
[pg 200]
discontented with his fate, and with the vocation into
which that drove him, and thinking, with a secret indignation,
that the cassock and bands, and the very sacred office
with which he had once proposed to invest himself, were, in
fact, but marks of a servitude which was to continue all his
life long. For, disguise it as he might to himself, he had
all along felt that to be Castlewood's chaplain was to be
Castlewood's inferior still, and that his life was but to be
a long, hopeless servitude. So, indeed, he was far from
grudging his old friend Tom Tusher's good fortune (as Tom,
no doubt, thought it). Had it been a mitre and Lambeth
which his friends offered him, and not a small living and
a country parsonage, he would have felt as much a slave
in one case as in the other, and was quite happy and thankful
to be free.




The bravest man I ever knew in the army, and who had
been present in most of King William's actions, as well as
in the campaigns of the great Duke of Marlborough, could
never be got to tell us of any achievement of his, except
that once Prince Eugene ordered him up a tree to reconnoitre
the enemy, which feat he could not achieve on account of
the horseman's boots he wore; and on another day that
he was very nearly taken prisoner because of these jackboots,
which prevented him from running away. The
present narrator shall imitate this laudable reserve, and
doth not intend to dwell upon his military exploits, which
were in truth not very different from those of a thousand
other gentlemen. This first campaign of Mr. Esmond's
lasted but a few days; and as a score of books have been
written concerning it, it may be dismissed very briefly here.




When our fleet came within view of Cadiz, our commander
sent a boat with a white flag and a couple of officers to the
Governor of Cadiz, Don Scipio de Brancaccio, with a letter
from his grace, in which he hoped that as Don Scipio had
formerly served with the Austrians against the French in
England, 'twas to be hoped that his excellency would now
declare himself against the French king and for the Austrian
in the war between King Philip and King Charles. But his
excellency, Don Scipio, prepared a reply, in which he
announced that, having served his former king with honour
and fidelity, he hoped to exhibit the same loyalty and
devotion towards his present sovereign, King Philip V;
and by the time this letter was ready, the officers who had
[pg 201]
been taken to see the town, and the Alameda, and the
theatre, where bull-fights are fought, and the convents,
where the admirable works of Don Bartholomew Murillo
inspired one of them with a great wonder and delight—such
as he had never felt before—concerning this divine
art of painting; and these sights over, and a handsome
refection and chocolate being served to the English gentlemen,
they were accompanied back to their shallop with
every courtesy, and were the only two officers of the English
army that saw at that time that famous city.




The general tried the power of another proclamation on
the Spaniards, in which he announced that we only came
in the interest of Spain and King Charles, and for ourselves
wanted to make no conquest nor settlement in Spain at all.
But all this eloquence was lost upon the Spaniards, it would
seem: the Captain-General of Andalusia would no more
listen to us than the Governor of Cadiz; and in reply to
his grace's proclamation, the Marquis of Villadarias fired
off another, which those who knew the Spanish thought
rather the best of the two; and of this number was Harry
Esmond, whose kind Jesuit in old days had instructed him,
and now had the honour of translating for his grace these
harmless documents of war. There was a hard touch for
his grace, and, indeed, for other generals in her Majesty's
service, in the concluding sentence of the Don: “That he
and his council had the generous example of their ancestors
to follow, who had never yet sought their elevation in the
blood or in the flight of their kings.
‘Mori pro patria’
was his device, which the duke might communicate to the
princess who governed England.”




Whether the troops were angry at this repartee or no,
'tis certain something put them in a fury; for, not being
able to get possession of Cadiz, our people seized upon
Port St. Mary's and sacked it, burning down the merchants'
storehouses, getting drunk with the famous wines
there, pillaging and robbing quiet houses and convents,
murdering and doing worse. And the only blood which
Mr. Esmond drew in this shameful campaign, was the
knocking down an English sentinel with a half-pike, who
was offering insult to a poor trembling nun. Is she going
to turn out a beauty? or a princess? or perhaps Esmond's
mother that he had lost and never seen? Alas no, it was
but a poor wheezy old dropsical woman, with a wart on
[pg 202]
her nose. But having been early taught a part of the
Roman religion, he never had the horror of it that some
Protestants have shown, and seem to think to be a part
of ours.




After the pillage and plunder of St. Mary's, and an
assault upon a fort or two, the troops all took shipping, and
finished their expedition, at any rate, more brilliantly
than it had begun. Hearing that the French fleet with
a great treasure was in Vigo Bay, our admirals, Rooke
and Hopson, pursued the enemy thither; the troops
landed and carried the forts that protected the bay, Hopson
passing the boom first on board his ship the Torbay, and
the rest of the ships, English and Dutch, following him.
Twenty ships were burned or taken in the port of Redondilla,
and a vast deal more plunder than was ever accounted
for; but poor men before that expedition were rich afterwards,
and so often was it found and remarked that the
Vigo officers came home with pockets full of money, that
the notorious Jack Shafto, who made such a figure at the
coffee-houses and gaming-tables in London, and gave out
that he had been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when he was
about to be hanged, that Bagshot Heath had been his
Vigo, and that he only spoke of La Redondilla to turn
away people's eyes from the real place where the booty lay.
Indeed, Hounslow or Vigo—which matters much? The
latter was a bad business, though Mr. Addison did sing its
praises in Latin. That honest gentleman's muse had an
eye to the main chance; and I doubt whether she saw
much inspiration in the losing side.




But though Esmond, for his part, got no share of this
fabulous booty, one great prize which he had out of the
campaign was, that excitement of action and change of
scene, which shook off a great deal of his previous melancholy.
He learnt at any rate to bear his fate cheerfully.
He brought back a browned face, a heart resolute enough,
and a little pleasant store of knowledge and observation,
from that expedition, which was over with the autumn,
when the troops were back in England again; and Esmond
giving up his post of secretary to General Lumley, whose
command was over, and parting with that officer with
many kind expressions of goodwill on the general's side,
had leave to go to London, to see if he could push his
fortunes any way further, and found himself once more
[pg 203]
in his dowager aunt's comfortable quarters at Chelsey,
and in greater favour than ever with the old lady. He
propitiated her with a present of a comb, a fan, and a black
mantle, such as the ladies of Cadiz wear, and which my
lady viscountess pronounced became her style of beauty
mightily. And she was greatly edified at hearing of that
story of his rescue of the nun, and felt very little doubt
but that her King James's relic, which he had always
dutifully worn in his desk, had kept him out of danger,
and averted the shot of the enemy. My lady made feasts
for him, introduced him to more company, and pushed
his fortunes with such enthusiasm and success, that she
got a promise of a company for him through the Lady
Marlborough's interest, who was graciously pleased to
accept of a diamond worth a couple of hundred guineas,
which Mr. Esmond was enabled to present to her ladyship
through his aunt's bounty, and who promised that she
would take charge of Esmond's fortune. He had the
honour to make his appearance at the queen's drawing-room
occasionally, and to frequent my Lord Marlborough's
levees. That great man received the young one with very
especial favour, so Esmond's comrades said, and deigned to
say that he had received the best reports of Mr. Esmond,
both for courage and ability, whereon you may be sure
the young gentleman made a profound bow, and expressed
himself eager to serve under the most distinguished captain
in the world.




Whilst his business was going on thus prosperously,
Esmond had his share of pleasure, too, and made his
appearance along with other young gentlemen at the
coffee-houses, the theatres, and the Mall. He longed to
hear of his dear mistress and her family: many a time,
in the midst of the gaieties and pleasures of the town, his
heart fondly reverted to them; and often as the young
fellows of his society were making merry at the tavern,
and calling toasts (as the fashion of that day was) over
their wine, Esmond thought of persons—of two fair women,
whom he had been used to adore almost, and emptied his
glass with a sigh.




By this time the elder viscountess had grown tired again
of the younger, and whenever she spoke of my lord's
widow, 'twas in terms by no means complimentary towards
that poor lady: the younger woman not needing her
[pg 204]
protection any longer, the elder abused her. Most of the
family quarrels that I have seen in life (saving always
those arising from money disputes, when a division of
twopence-halfpenny will often drive the dearest relatives
into war and estrangement), spring out of jealousy and
envy. Jack and Tom, born of the same family and to the
same fortune, live very cordially together, not until Jack
is ruined when Tom deserts him, but until Tom makes
a sudden rise in prosperity, which Jack can't forgive.
Ten times to one 'tis the unprosperous man that is angry,
not the other who is in fault. 'Tis Mrs. Jack, who can
only afford a chair that sickens at Mrs. Tom's new coach-and-six,
cries out against her sister's airs, and sets her
husband against his brother. 'Tis Jack who sees his
brother shaking hands with a lord (with whom Jack would
like to exchange snuff-boxes himself), that goes home and
tells his wife how poor Tom is spoiled, he fears, and no
better than a sneak, parasite, and beggar on horseback.
I remember how furious the coffee-house wits were with
Dick Steele when he set up his coach, and fine house in
Bloomsbury: they began to forgive him when the bailiffs
were after him, and abused Mr. Addison for selling Dick's
country-house. And yet Dick in the spunging-house, or
Dick in the Park, with his four mares and plated harness,
was exactly the same gentle, kindly, improvident, jovial
Dick Steele: and yet Mr. Addison was perfectly right in
getting the money which was his, and not giving up the
amount of his just claim, to be spent by Dick upon champagne
and fiddlers, laced clothes, fine furniture, and parasites,
Jew and Christian, male and female, who clung to
him. As, according to the famous maxim of Monsieur de
Rochefoucault, “in our friends' misfortunes there's something
secretly pleasant to us”; so, on the other hand,
their good fortune is disagreeable. If 'tis hard for a man
to bear his own good luck, 'tis harder still for his friends
to bear it for him; and but few of them ordinarily can
stand that trial: whereas one of the “precious uses” of
adversity is, that it is a great reconciler; that it brings
back averted kindness, disarms animosity, and causes
yesterday's enemy to fling his hatred aside, and hold out
a hand to the fallen friend of old days. There's pity and
love, as well as envy, in the same heart and towards the same
person. The rivalry stops when the competitor tumbles;
[pg 205]
and, as I view it, we should look at these agreeable and
disagreeable qualities of our humanity humbly alike. They
are consequent and natural, and our kindness and meanness
both manly.




So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of
Esmond's two kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty,
when that had lost somewhat of its freshness, perhaps;
and forgot most her grievances against the other, when
the subject of them was no longer prosperous and enviable;
or we may say more benevolently (but the sum comes to the
same figures, worked either way), that Isabella repented
of her unkindness towards Rachel, when Rachel was
unhappy; and, bestirring herself in behalf of the poor
widow and her children, gave them shelter and friendship.
The ladies were quite good friends as long as the weaker
one needed a protector. Before Esmond went away on his
first campaign, his mistress was still on terms of friendship
(though a poor little chit, a woman that had evidently no
spirit in her, &c.) with the elder Lady Castlewood; and
Mistress Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty.




But between the first year of Queen Anne's reign, and
the second, sad changes for the worse had taken place in
the two younger ladies, at least in the elder's description
of them. Rachel, Viscountess Castlewood, had no more
face than a dumpling, and Mrs. Beatrix was grown quite
coarse, and was losing all her beauty. Little Lord Blandford
(she never would call him Lord Blandford; his
father was Lord Churchill—the king, whom he betrayed,
had made him Lord Churchill, and he was Lord Churchill
still)—might be making eyes at her; but his mother, that
vixen of a Sarah Jennings, would never hear of such a folly.
Lady Marlborough had got her to be a maid of honour
at Court to the princess, but she would repent of it. The
widow Francis (she was but Mrs. Francis Esmond) was
a scheming, artful, heartless hussy. She was spoiling her
brat of a boy, and she would end by marrying her chaplain.




“What, Tusher?” cried Mr. Esmond, feeling a strange
pang of rage and astonishment.




“Yes—Tusher, my maid's son; and who has got all the
qualities of his father, the lackey in black, and his accomplished
mamma, the waiting-woman,” cries my lady.
“What, do you suppose that a sentimental widow, who
will live down in that dingy dungeon of a Castlewood,
[pg 206]
where she spoils her boy, kills the poor with her drugs,
has prayers twice a day and sees nobody but the chaplain—what
do you suppose she can do, mon cousin, but
let the horrid parson, with his great square toes, and hideous
little green eyes, make love to her? Cela c'est vu, mon
cousin. When I was a girl at Castlewood, all the chaplains
fell in love with me—they've nothing else to do.”




My lady went on with more talk of this kind, though,
in truth, Esmond had no idea of what she said further, so
entirely did her first words occupy his thought. Were
they true? Not all, nor half, nor a tenth part of what the
garrulous old woman said, was true. Could this be so?
No ear had Esmond for anything else, though his patroness
chattered on for an hour.




Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond
had made acquaintance, had promised to present him to
that most charming of actresses, and lively and agreeable
of women, Mrs. Bracegirdle, about whom Harry's old
adversary Mohun had drawn swords, a few years before
my poor lord and he fell out. The famous Mr. Congreve
had stamped with his high approval, to the which there
was no gainsaying, this delightful person: and she was
acting in Dick Steele's comedies, and finally, and for
twenty-four hours after beholding her, Mr. Esmond felt
himself, or thought himself, to be as violently enamoured
of this lovely brunette, as were a thousand other young
fellows about the city. To have once seen her was to long
to behold her again; and to be offered the delightful
privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very idea
of which set the young lieutenant's heart on fire. A man
cannot live with comrades under the tents without finding
out that he too is five-and-twenty. A young fellow cannot
be cast down by grief and misfortune ever so severe but
some night he begins to sleep sound, and some day when
dinner-time comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak. Time,
youth, and good health, new scenes and the excitement of
action and a campaign, had pretty well brought Esmond's
mourning to an end; and his comrades said that Don
Dismal, as they called him, was Don Dismal no more. So
when a party was made to dine at the “Rose”, and go to the
playhouse afterward, Esmond was as pleased as another
to take his share of the bottle and the play.




How was it that the old aunt's news, or it might be
[pg 207]
scandal, about Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and
sudden excitement in Tom's old playfellow? Hadn't he
sworn a thousand times in his own mind that the lady
of Castlewood, who had treated him with such kindness
once, and then had left him so cruelly, was, and was to
remain henceforth, indifferent to him for ever? Had his
pride and his sense of justice not long since helped him to
cure the pain of that desertion—was it even a pain to him
now? Why, but last night as he walked across the fields
and meadows to Chelsey from Pall Mall, had he not composed
two or three stanzas of a song, celebrating Bracegirdle's
brown eyes, and declaring them a thousand times
more beautiful than the brightest blue ones that ever
languished under the lashes of an insipid fair beauty!
But Tom Tusher! Tom Tusher, the waiting-woman's son,
raising up his little eyes to his mistress! Tom Tusher
presuming to think of Castlewood's widow! Rage and
contempt filled Mr. Harry's heart at the very notion; the
honour of the family, of which he was the chief, made it
his duty to prevent so monstrous an alliance, and to
chastise the upstart who could dare to think of such an
insult to their house. 'Tis true Mr. Esmond often boasted
of republican principles, and could remember many fine
speeches he had made at college and elsewhere, with worth
and not birth for a text: but Tom Tusher to take the
place of the noble Castlewood—faugh! 'twas as monstrous
as King Hamlet's widow taking off her weeds for Claudius.
Esmond laughed at all widows, all wives, all women; and
were the banns about to be published, as no doubt they
were, that very next Sunday at Walcote Church, Esmond
swore that he would be present to shout No! in the face
of the congregation, and to take a private revenge upon
the ears of the bridegroom.




Instead of going to dinner then at the “Rose” that night,
Mr. Esmond bade his servant pack a portmanteau and get
horses, and was at Farnham, half-way on the road to
Walcote, thirty miles off, before his comrades had got to
their supper after the play. He bade his man give no hint
to my lady dowager's household of the expedition on
which he was going: and as Chelsey was distant from
London, the roads bad, and infested by footpads, and
Esmond often in the habit, when engaged in a party of
pleasure, of lying at a friend's lodging in town, there was
[pg 208]
no need that his old aunt should be disturbed at his absence—indeed,
nothing more delighted the old lady than to
fancy that mon cousin, the incorrigible young
sinner, was abroad boxing the watch, or scouring St. Giles's. When
she was not at her books of devotion, she thought Etheridge
and Sedley very good reading. She had a hundred pretty
stories about Rochester, Harry Jermyn, and Hamilton;
and if Esmond would but have run away with the wife
even of a citizen, 'tis my belief she would have pawned her
diamonds (the best of them went to our Lady of Chaillot)
to pay his damages.




My lord's little house of Walcote, which he inhabited
before he took his title and occupied the house of Castlewood—lies
about a mile from Winchester, and his widow
had returned to Walcote after my lord's death as a place
always dear to her, and where her earliest and happiest
days had been spent, cheerfuller than Castlewood, which
was too large for her straitened means, and giving her,
too, the protection of the ex-dean, her father. The young
viscount had a year's schooling at the famous college there,
with Mr. Tusher as his governor. So much news of them
Mr. Esmond had had during the past year from the old
viscountess, his own father's widow; from the young one
there had never been a word.




Twice or thrice in his benefactor's lifetime, Esmond had
been to Walcote; and now, taking but a couple of hours'
rest only at the inn on the road, he was up again long
before daybreak, and made such good speed that he was
at Walcote by two o'clock of the day. He rid to the inn
of the village, where he alighted and sent a man thence
to Mr. Tusher, with a message that a gentleman from
London would speak with him on urgent business. The
messenger came back to say the doctor was in town, most
likely at prayers in the cathedral. My lady viscountess
was there too; she always went to cathedral prayers
every day.




The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester.
Esmond mounted again, and rode on to the “George”;
whence he walked, leaving his grumbling domestic at last
happy with a dinner, straight to the cathedral. The
organ was playing: the winter's day was already growing
grey: as he passed under the street-arch into the cathedral-yard,
and made his way into the ancient solemn edifice.




[pg 209]





 Chapter VI. The 29th December



There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral
besides the dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers,
young and old, that performed the beautiful evening
prayer. But Dr. Tusher was one of the officiants, and read
from the eagle, in an authoritative voice, and a great
black periwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's
hood, sat Esmond's dear mistress, her son by her side,
very much grown, and indeed a noble-looking youth, with
his mother's eyes, and his father's curling brown hair, that
fell over his point de Venise—a pretty picture
such as Vandyke might have painted. Monsieur Rigaud's portrait
of my lord viscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but
a French version of his manly, frank, English face. When
he looked up there were two sapphire beams out of his
eyes, such as no painter's palette has the colour to match,
I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing
that particular beauty of my young lord's countenance;
for the truth is, he kept his eyes shut for the most part,
and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep.




But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about
him, and his eyes lighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting
opposite him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy
upon two persons who had had so much of his heart
for so many years; Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled
at his mother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from
her book), and said, “Look, mother!” so loud, that Esmond
could hear on the other side of the church, and the old
dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewood looked for
an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning
finger to Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and
his heart throbbing, as that dear lady beheld him once
more. The rest of the prayers were speedily over: Mr.
Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, very
likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and
who never lifted her head again until the service was over,
the blessing given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of
ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel.


[pg 210]


Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls
before the clergy were fairly gone, and, running up to
Esmond, eagerly embraced him. “My dear, dearest old
Harry,” he said, “are you come back? Have you been
to the wars? You'll take me with you when you go again?
Why didn't you write to us? Come to mother.”




Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a “God bless
you, my boy”, for his heart was very full and grateful at
all this tenderness on the lad's part; and he was as much
moved at seeing Frank, as he was fearful about that other
interview which was now to take place; for he knew not
if the widow would reject him as she had done so cruelly
a year ago.




“It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry,” Lady
Esmond said, “I thought you might come.”




“We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did
you not come from Portsmouth?” Frank asked, or my
lord viscount, as he now must be called.




Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given
one of his eyes so that he might see his dear friends again
once more; but believing that his mistress had forbidden
him her house, he had obeyed her, and remained at a
distance.




“You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here,”
he said.




She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was
only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over.
The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They
never had been separated. His mistress had never been
out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in
the prison; nor in the camp; nor on shore before the
enemy; nor at sea under the stars of solemn midnight,
nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn: not
even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends,
or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that
other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there
might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear—no
voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had
been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth—goddess
now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses;
and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings,
was older now than she; but more fondly cherished as
woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity.


[pg 211]


What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one
little hand the dearest of all? Whoever can unriddle
that mystery? Here she was, her son by his side, his
dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She took
his hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture
of reconciliation.




“Here comes Squaretoes,” says Frank. “Here's Tusher.”




Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creaking on his great
heels. Mr. Tom had divested himself of his alb or surplice,
and came forward habited in his cassock and great black
periwig. How had Harry Esmond ever been for a moment
jealous of this fellow?




“Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher,” he said. The chaplain
made him a very low and stately bow. “I am charmed
to see Captain Esmond,” says he. “My lord and I have
read the Reddas incolumem precor, and applied it, I am
sure, to you. You come back with Gaditanian laurels:
when I heard you were bound thither, I wished, I am sure,
I was another Septimius. My lord viscount, your lordship
remembers Septimi, Gades aditure mecum?”




“There's an angle of earth that I love better than Gades,
Tusher,” says Mr. Esmond. “'Tis that one where your
reverence hath a parsonage, and where our youth was
brought up.”




“A house that has so many sacred recollections to me,”
says Mr. Tusher (and Harry remembered how Tom's father
used to flog him there)—“a house near to that of my
respected patron, my most honoured patroness, must ever
be a dear abode to me. But, madam, the verger waits to
close the gates on your ladyship.”




“And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!”
cries my lord. “Mother, shall I run home and bid Beatrix
put her ribbons on? Beatrix is a maid of honour, Harry.
Such a fine set-up minx!”




“Your heart was never in the Church, Harry,” the widow
said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together.
(Now, it seemed they had never been parted, and again,
as if they had been ages asunder.) “I always thought you
had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity to shut
you out from the world. You would but have pined and
chafed at Castlewood: and 'tis better you should make
a name for yourself. I often said so to my dear lord. How
he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made you stay with us.”


[pg 212]


“I asked no better than to stay near you always,” said
Mr. Esmond.




“But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot
give peace, you will know where to find it; but one of
your strong imagination and eager desires must try the
world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to be thought
of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness that you
should remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and
tutor to a little boy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds,
kinsman; and that was always wild in youth. Look at
Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keep him in
my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs
to serve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young
Lord Churchill shall go the next. Lord Marlborough has
been good to us. You know how kind they were in my
misfortune. And so was your—your father's widow. No
one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us.
'Tis through my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix
hath her place at Court; and Frank is under my Lord
Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow,
has promised to provide for you—has she not?”




Esmond said, “Yes. As far as present favour went,
Lady Castlewood was very good to him. And should her
mind change,” he added gaily, “as ladies' minds will, I am
strong enough to bear my own burden, and make my way
somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands
have a better genius for that than I, but there are many
ways in which a young man of good parts and education
can get on in the world; and I am pretty sure, one way
or other, of promotion!” Indeed, he had found patrons
already in the army, and amongst persons very able to
serve him, too; and told his mistress of the flattering
aspect of fortune. They walked as though they had never
been parted, slowly, with the grey twilight closing round
them.




“And now we are drawing near to home,” she continued.
“I knew you would come, Harry, if—if it was but to
forgive me for having spoken unjustly to you after that
horrid—horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with grief
then when I saw you. And I know now—they have told
me. That wretch, whose name I can never mention, even
has said it: how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would
have taken it on yourself, my poor child: but it was God's
[pg 213]
will that I should be punished, and that my dear lord
should fall.”




“He gave me his blessing on his death-bed,” Esmond
said. “Thank God for that legacy!”




“Amen, amen! dear Henry,” says the lady, pressing his
arm. “I knew it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was
called to him, told me so. And I thanked God, too, and
in my prayers ever since remembered it.”




“You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told
me sooner,” Mr. Esmond said.




“I know it, I know it,” she answered, in a tone of such
sweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should
ever have dared to reproach her. “I know how wicked
my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear.
I confessed to Mr. Atterbury—I must not tell any more.
He—I said I would not write to you or go to you—and
it was better even that, having parted, we should part.
But I knew you would come back—I own that. That is
no one's fault. And to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when
they sang it, ‘When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion,
we were like them that dream’, I thought, yes, like them
that dream—them that dream. And then it went, ‘They
that sow in tears shall reap in joy; and he that goeth
forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come home again with
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him’; I looked up
from the book, and saw you. I was not surprised when
I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw
the gold sunshine round your head.”




She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him.
The moon was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty
sky. He could see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet
careworn face.




“Do you know what day it is?” she continued. “It is
the 29th of December—it is your birthday! But last year
we did not drink it—no, no. My lord was cold, and my
Harry was likely to die; and my brain was in a fever; and
we had no wine. But now—now you are come again,
bringing your sheaves with you, my dear.” She burst into
a wild flood of weeping as she spoke; she laughed and
sobbed on the young man's heart, crying out wildly, “bringing
your sheaves with you—your sheaves with you!”




As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at
midnight into the boundless starlit depths overhead, in
[pg 214]
a rapture of devout wonder at that endless brightness and
beauty—in some such a way as now, the depth of this pure
devotion (which was, for the first time, revealed to him
quite) smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving.
Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless
creature, that such a love should be poured out upon him?
Not in vain, not in vain has he lived—hard and thankless
should he be to think so—that has such a treasure given
him. What is ambition compared to that? but selfish
vanity. To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit
a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours,
when you lie hidden away under the ground, along with
the idle titles engraven on your coffin? But only true
love lives after you—follows your memory with secret
blessing—or precedes you, and intercedes for you. Non
omnis moriar—if dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two;
nor am lost and hopeless living, if a sainted departed soul
still loves and prays for me.




“If—if 'tis so, dear lady,” Mr. Esmond said, “why should
I ever leave you? If God hath given me this great boon—and
near or far from me, as I know now—the heart of my
dearest mistress follows me; let me have that blessing near
me, nor ever part with it till life separate us. Come away—leave
this Europe, this place which has so many sad recollections
for you. Begin a new life in a new world. My good
lord often talked of visiting that land in Virginia which
King Charles gave us—gave his ancestor. Frank will give
us that. No man there will ask if there is a blot on my
name, or inquire in the woods what my title is.”




“And my children—and my duty—and my good father?—Henry,”
she broke out. “He has none but me now; for
soon my sister will leave him, and the old man will be alone.
He has conformed since the new queen's reign; and here
in Winchester, where they love him, they have found a
church for him. When the children leave me, I will stay
with him. I cannot follow them into the great world,
where their way lies—it scares me. They will come and
visit me; and you will, sometimes, Henry—yes, sometimes,
as now, in the holy Advent season, when I have seen and
blessed you once more.”




“I would leave all to follow you,” said Mr. Esmond; “and
can you not be as generous for me, dear lady?”




“Hush, boy!” she said, and it was with a mother's sweet
[pg 215]
plaintive tone and look that she spoke. “The world is
beginning for you. For me, I have been so weak and
sinful that I must leave it, and pray out an expiation, dear
Henry. Had we houses of religion as there were once, and
many divines of our Church would have them again, I often
think I would retire to one and pass my life in penance.
But I would love you still—yes, there is no sin in such
a love as mine now; and my dear lord in heaven may see
my heart; and knows the tears that have washed my sin
away—and now—now my duty is here, by my children
whilst they need me, and by my poor old father, and——”




“And not by me?” Henry said.




“Hush!” she said again, and raised her hand up to his
lip. “I have been your nurse. You could not see me,
Harry, when you were in the small-pox, and I came and
sat by you. Ah! I prayed that I might die, but it would
have been in sin, Henry. Oh, it is horrid to look back to
that time. It is over now and past, and it has been forgiven
me. When you need me again I will come ever so far.
When your heart is wounded, then come to me, my dear.
Be silent! let me say all. You never loved me, dear
Henry—no, you do not now, and I thank Heaven for it.
I used to watch you, and knew by a thousand signs that
it was so. Do you remember how glad you were to go
away to college? 'Twas I sent you. I told my papa that,
and Mr. Atterbury too, when I spoke to him in London.
And they both gave me absolution—both—and they are
godly men, having authority to bind and to loose. And they
forgave me, as my dear lord forgave me before he went to
heaven.”




“I think the angels are not all in heaven,” Mr. Esmond
said. And as a brother folds a sister to his heart; and as
a mother cleaves to her son's breast—so for a few moments
Esmond's beloved mistress came to him and blessed him.




[pg 216]





 Chapter VII. I Am Made Welcome At Walcote



As they came up to the house at Walcote, the windows
from within were lighted up with friendly welcome; the
supper-table was spread in the oak-parlour; it seemed as if
forgiveness and love were awaiting the returning prodigal.
Two or three familiar faces of domestics were on the lookout
at the porch—the old housekeeper was there, and young
Lockwood from Castlewood in my lord's livery of tawny
and blue. His dear mistress pressed his arm as they passed
into the hall. Her eyes beamed out on him with affection
indescribable. “Welcome,” was all she said: as she looked
up, putting back her fair curls and black hood. A sweet
rosy smile blushed on her face: Harry thought he had
never seen her look so charming. Her face was lighted
with a joy that was brighter than beauty—she took a hand
of her son who was in the hall waiting his mother—she
did not quit Esmond's arm.




“Welcome, Harry!” my young lord echoed after her.
“Here, we are all come to say so. Here's old Pincot,
hasn't she grown handsome?” and Pincot, who was older,
and no handsomer than usual, made a curtsy to the captain,
as she called Esmond, and told my lord to “Have done,
now.”




“And here's Jack Lockwood. He'll make a famous
grenadier, Jack; and so shall I; we'll both 'list under you,
cousin. As soon as I am seventeen, I go to the army—every
gentleman goes to the army. Look! who comes
here—ho, ho!” he burst into a laugh. “'Tis Mistress Trix,
with a new ribbon; I knew she would put one on as soon
as she heard a captain was coming to supper.”




This laughing colloquy took place in the hall of Walcote
House: in the midst of which is a staircase that leads from
an open gallery, where are the doors of the sleeping-chambers:
and from one of these, a wax candle in her hand,
and illuminating her, came Mistress Beatrix—the light
falling indeed upon the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and
upon the most brilliant white neck in the world.




Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown
[pg 217]
beyond the common height; and arrived at such a dazzling
completeness of beauty, that his eyes might well show
surprise and delight at beholding her. In hers there was
a brightness so lustrous and melting, that I have seen
a whole assembly follow her as if by an attraction irresistible:
and that night the great duke was at the playhouse after
Ramillies, every soul turned and looked (she chanced to
enter at the opposite side of the theatre at the same moment)
at her, and not at him. She was a brown beauty: that is,
her eyes, hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes, were dark:
her hair curling with rich undulations, and waving over her
shoulders; but her complexion was as dazzling white as
snow in sunshine; except her cheeks, which were a bright
red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper crimson.
Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and full,
and so they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for
a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose
voice was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect
symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot as it planted
itself on the ground, was firm but flexible, and whose
motion, whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace—agile
as a nymph, lofty as a queen—now melting, now
imperious, now sarcastic, there was no single movement
of hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of her, he who
writes feels young again, and remembers a paragon.




So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm,
and her taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet
Esmond.




“She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,”
says my lord, still laughing. “Oh, my fine mistress! is
this the way you set your cap at the captain!” She
approached, shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look
at nothing but her eyes. She advanced holding forward
her head, as if she would have him kiss her as he used to
do when she was a child.




“Stop,” she said, “I am grown too big! Welcome, cousin
Harry,” and she made him an arch curtsy, sweeping down
to the ground almost, with the most gracious bend, looking
up the while with the brightest eyes and sweetest smile.
Love seemed to radiate from her. Harry eyed her with such
a rapture as the first lover is described as having by Milton.




“N'est-ce pas?” says my lady, in a low,
sweet voice, still hanging on his arm.


[pg 218]


Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he
met his mistress's clear eyes. He had forgotten her, wrapt
in admiration of the filia pulcrior.




“Right foot forward, toe turned out, so: now drop the
curtsy, and show the red stockings, Trix. They've silver
clocks, Harry. The dowager sent 'em. She went to put
'em on,” cries my lord.




“Hush, you stupid child!” says miss, smothering her
brother with kisses; and then she must come and kiss her
mamma, looking all the while at Harry, over his mistress's
shoulder. And if she did not kiss him, she gave him both
her hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and said,
“Oh, Harry, we're so, so glad you're come!”




“There are woodcocks for supper,” says my lord: “huzzay!
It was such a hungry sermon.”




“And it is the 29th of December; and our Harry has
come home.”




“Huzzay, old Pincot!” again says my lord; and my
dear lady's lips looked as if they were trembling with
a prayer. She would have Harry lead in Beatrix to the
supper-room, going herself with my young lord viscount;
and to this party came Tom Tusher directly, whom four
at least out of the company of five wished away. Away
he went, however, as soon as the sweetmeats were put
down, and then, by the great crackling fire, his mistress
or Beatrix, with her blushing graces, filling his glass for him,
Harry told the story of his campaign, and passed the most
delightful night his life had ever known. The sun was up
long ere he was, so deep, sweet, and refreshing was his
slumber. He woke as if angels had been watching at his
bed all night. I dare say one that was as pure and loving
as an angel had blest his sleep with her prayers.




Next morning the chaplain read prayers to the little
household at Walcote, as the custom was; Esmond thought
Mistress Beatrix did not listen to Tusher's exhortation
much: her eyes were wandering everywhere during the
service, at least whenever he looked up he met them.
Perhaps he also was not very attentive to his reverence the
chaplain. “This might have been my life,” he was thinking;
“this might have been my duty from now till old age.
Well, were it not a pleasant one to be with these dear
friends and part from 'em no more? Until—until the
destined lover comes and takes away pretty Beatrix”—and
[pg 219]
the best part of Tom Tusher's exposition, which may
have been very learned and eloquent, was quite lost to poor
Harry by this vision of the destined lover, who put the
preacher out.




All the while of the prayers, Beatrix knelt a little way
before Harry Esmond. The red stockings were changed
for a pair of grey, and black shoes, in which her feet looked
to the full as pretty. All the roses of spring could not
vie with the brightness of her complexion; Esmond thought
he had never seen anything like the sunny lustre of her
eyes. My lady viscountess looked fatigued, as if with
watching, and her face was pale.




Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her
mother, and deplored them. “I am an old woman,” says
my lady, with a kind smile; “I cannot hope to look as
young as you do, my dear.”




“She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's
a hundred,” says my lord, taking his mother by the waist,
and kissing her hand.




“Do I look very wicked, cousin?” says Beatrix, turning
full round on Esmond, with her pretty face so close under
his chin, that the soft perfumed hair touched it. She laid
her finger-tips on his sleeve as she spoke; and he put his
other hand over hers.




“I'm like your looking-glass,” says he, “and that can't
flatter you.”




“He means that you are always looking at him, my dear,”
says her mother, archly. Beatrix ran away from Esmond
at this, and flew to her mamma, whom she kissed, stopping
my lady's mouth with her pretty hand.




“And Harry is very good to look at,” says my lady, with
her fond eyes regarding the young man.




“If 'tis good to see a happy face,” says he, “you see that.”
My lady said “Amen”, with a sigh; and Harry thought the
memory of her dead lord rose up and rebuked her back
again into sadness; for her face lost the smile, and resumed
its look of melancholy.




“Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver,
and our black periwig,” cries my lord. “Mother, I am
tired of my own hair. When shall I have a peruke?
Where did you get your steenkirk, Harry?”




“It's some of my lady dowager's lace,” says Harry; “she
gave me this and a number of other fine things.”


[pg 220]


“My lady dowager isn't such a bad woman,” my lord
continued.




“She's not so—so red as she's painted,” says Miss Beatrix.




Her brother broke into a laugh. “I'll tell her you said
so; by the lord, Trix, I will,” he cries out.




“She'll know that you hadn't the wit to say it, my lord,”
says Miss Beatrix.




“We won't quarrel the first day Harry's here, will we,
mother?” said the young lord. “We'll see if we can get
on to the new year without a fight. Have some of this
Christmas pie? and here comes the tankard; no, it's
Pincot with the tea.”




“Will the captain choose a dish?” asks Mistress Beatrix.




“I say, Harry,” my lord goes on, “I'll show thee my horses
after breakfast; and we'll go a bird-netting to-night, and
on Monday there's a cock-match at Winchester—do you
love cock-fighting, Harry?—between the gentlemen of
Sussex and the gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten pound the
battle, and fifty pound the odd battle to show one-and-twenty
cocks.”




“And what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman?”
asks my lady.




“I'll listen to him,” says Beatrix; “I am sure he has
a hundred things to tell us. And I'm jealous already of
the Spanish ladies. Was that a beautiful nun at Cadiz that
you rescued from the soldiers? Your man talked of it last
night in the kitchen, and Mrs. Betty told me this morning
as she combed my hair. And he says you must be in love,
for you sat on deck all night, and scribbled verses all day
in your table-book.” Harry thought if he had wanted a
subject for verses yesterday, to-day he had found one: and
not all the Lindamiras and Ardelias of the poets were half
so beautiful as this young creature; but he did not say so,
though some one did for him.




This was his dear lady who, after the meal was over, and
the young people were gone, began talking of her children
with Mr. Esmond, and of the characters of one and the
other, and of her hopes and fears for both of them. “'Tis
not while they are at home,” she said, “and in their mother's
nest, I fear for them—'tis when they are gone into the world,
whither I shall not be able to follow them. Beatrix will
begin her service next year. You may have heard a rumour
about—about my Lord Blandford. They were both children;
[pg 221]
and it is but idle talk. I know my kinswoman would
never let him make such a poor marriage as our Beatrix
would be. There's scarce a princess in Europe that she
thinks is good enough for him or for her ambition.”




“There's not a princess in Europe to compare with her,”
says Esmond.




“In beauty? No, perhaps not,” answered my lady.
“She is most beautiful, isn't she? 'Tis not a mother's
partiality that deceives me. I marked you yesterday when
she came down the stair: and read it in your face. We
look when you don't fancy us looking, and see better than
you think, dear Harry: and just now when they spoke
about your poems—you writ pretty lines when you were
but a boy—you thought Beatrix was a pretty subject for
verse, did not you, Harry?” (The gentleman could only
blush for a reply.) “And so she is—nor are you the first
her pretty face has captivated. 'Tis quickly done. Such
a pair of bright eyes as hers learn their power very soon,
and use it very early.” And, looking at him keenly with
hers, the fair widow left him.




And so it is—a pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances
suffice to subdue a man; to enslave him, and inflame him;
to make him even forget; they dazzle him so that the past
becomes straightway dim to him; and he so prizes them
that he would give all his life to possess 'em. What is the
fond love of dearest friends compared to this treasure?
Is memory as strong as expectancy? fruition, as hunger?
gratitude, as desire? I have looked at royal diamonds in
the jewel-rooms in Europe, and thought how wars have been
made about 'em: Mogul sovereigns deposed and strangled
for them, or ransomed with them: millions expended to
buy them; and daring lives lost in digging out the little
shining toys that I value no more than the button in my
hat. And so there are other glittering baubles (of rare
water too) for which men have been set to kill and quarrel
ever since mankind began; and which last but for a score
of years, when their sparkle is over. Where are those
jewels now that beamed under Cleopatra's forehead, or
shone in the sockets of Helen?




The second day after Esmond's coming to Walcote, Tom
Tusher had leave to take a holiday, and went off in his very
best gown and bands to court the young woman whom his
reverence desired to marry, and who was not a viscount's
[pg 222]
widow, as it turned out, but a brewer's relict at Southampton,
with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune:
for honest Tom's heart was under such excellent control,
that Venus herself without a portion would never have
caused it to flutter. So he rode away on his heavy-paced
gelding to pursue his jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond to the
society of his dear mistress and her daughter, and with
his young lord for a companion, who was charmed not only
to see an old friend, but to have the tutor and his Latin
books put out of the way.




The boy talked of things and people, and not a little
about himself, in his frank artless way. 'Twas easy to see
that he and his sister had the better of their fond mother,
for the first place in whose affections, though they fought
constantly, and though the kind lady persisted that she
loved both equally, 'twas not difficult to understand that
Frank was his mother's darling and favourite. He ruled
the whole household (always excepting rebellious Beatrix)
not less now than when he was a child marshalling the
village boys in playing at soldiers, and caning them lustily
too, like the sturdiest corporal. As for Tom Tusher, his
reverence treated the young lord with that politeness and
deference which he always showed for a great man, whatever
his age or his stature was. Indeed, with respect to
this young one, it was impossible not to love him, so frank
and winning were his manners, his beauty, his gaiety, the
ring of his laughter, and the delightful tone of his voice.
Wherever he went, he charmed and domineered. I think
his old grandfather, the dean, and the grim old housekeeper,
Mrs. Pincot, were as much his slaves as his mother was:
and as for Esmond, he found himself presently submitting
to a certain fascination the boy had, and slaving it like the
rest of the family. The pleasure which he had in Frank's
mere company and converse exceeded that which he ever
enjoyed in the society of any other man, however delightful
in talk, or famous for wit. His presence brought sunshine
into a room, his laugh, his prattle, his noble beauty and
brightness of look cheered and charmed indescribably. At
the least tale of sorrow, his hands were in his purse, and he
was eager with sympathy and bounty. The way in which
women loved and petted him, when, a year or two afterwards,
he came upon the world, yet a mere boy, and the
follies which they did for him (as indeed he for them),
[pg 223]
recalled the career of Rochester, and outdid the successes
of Grammont. His very creditors loved him; and the
hardest usurers, and some of the rigid prudes of the other
sex too, could deny him nothing. He was no more witty
than another man, but what he said, he said and looked
as no man else could say or look it. I have seen the women
at the comedy at Bruxelles crowd round him in the lobby:
and as he sat on the stage more people looked at him than
at the actors, and watched him; and I remember at
Ramillies, when he was hit and fell, a great big red-haired
Scotch sergeant flung his halbert down, burst out a-crying
like a woman, seizing him up as if he had been an infant,
and carrying him out of the fire. This brother and sister
were the most beautiful couple ever seen; though after
he winged away from the maternal nest this pair were
seldom together.




Sitting at dinner two days after Esmond's arrival (it was
the last day of the year), and so happy a one to Harry
Esmond, that to enjoy it was quite worth all the previous
pain which he had endured and forgot: my young lord,
filling a bumper, and bidding Harry take another, drank
to his sister, saluting her under the title of “marchioness”.




“Marchioness!” says Harry, not without a pang of
wonder, for he was curious and jealous already.




“Nonsense, my lord,” says Beatrix, with a toss of her
head. My lady viscountess looked up for a moment at
Esmond, and cast her eyes down.




“The Marchioness of Blandford,” says Frank, “don't you
know—hath not Rouge Dragon told you?” (My lord used
to call the dowager at Chelsey by this and other names.)
“Blandford has a lock of her hair: the duchess found him
on his knees to Mistress 'Trix, and boxed his ears, and said
Dr. Hare should whip him.”




“I wish Mr. Tusher would whip you too,” says Beatrix.




My lady only said: “I hope you will tell none of these
silly stories elsewhere than at home, Francis.”




“'Tis true, on my word,” continues Frank: “look at
Harry scowling, mother, and see how Beatrix blushes as
red as the silver-clocked stockings.”




“I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine
and their talk,” says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the
air of a young queen, tossing her rustling, flowing draperies
about her, and quitting the room, followed by her mother.


[pg 224]


Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped
down and kissed Frank. “Do not tell those silly stories,
child,” she said: “do not drink much wine, sir; Harry
never loved to drink wine.” And she went away, too, in
her black robes, looking back on the young man with her
fair, fond face.




“Egad! it's true,” says Frank, sipping his wine with the
air of a lord. “What think you of this Lisbon—real
Collares? 'Tis better than your heady port: we got it out
of one of the Spanish ships that came from Vigo last year:
my mother bought it at Southampton, as the ship was lying
there—the Rose, Captain Hawkins.”




“Why, I came home in that ship,” says Harry.




“And it brought home a good fellow and good wine,” says
my lord. “I say, Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed
bar sinister.”




“And why not the bar sinister?” asks the other.




“Suppose I go to the army and am killed—every gentleman
goes to the army—who is to take care of the women?
'Trix will never stop at home; mother's in love with you,—yes,
I think mother's in love with you. She was always
praising you, and always talking about you; and when
she went to Southampton, to see the ship, I found her out.
But you see it is impossible: we are of the oldest blood in
England; we came in with the Conqueror; we were only
baronets,—but what then? we were forced into that.
James the First forced our great-grandfather. We are above
titles; we old English gentry don't want 'em; the queen
can make a duke any day. Look at Blandford's father,
Duke Churchill, and Duchess Jennings, what were they,
Harry? Damn it, sir, what are they, to turn up their
noses at us? Where were they, when our ancestor rode
with King Henry at Agincourt, and filled up the French
king's cup after Poictiers? 'Fore George, sir, why shouldn't
Blandford marry Beatrix? By G——! he shall marry
Beatrix, or tell me the reason why. We'll marry with the
best blood of England, and none but the best blood of
England. You are an Esmond, and you can't help your
birth, my boy. Let's have another bottle. What! no
more? I've drunk three parts of this myself. I had many
a night with my father; you stood to him like a man,
Harry. You backed your blood; you can't help your misfortune,
you know,—no man can help that.”


[pg 225]


The elder said he would go in to his mistress's tea-table.
The young lad, with a heightened colour and voice, began
singing a snatch of a song, and marched out of the room.
Esmond heard him presently calling his dogs about him,
and cheering and talking to them; and by a hundred of
his looks and gestures, tricks of voice and gait, was reminded
of the dead lord, Frank's father.




And so, the Sylvester Night passed away; the family
parted long before midnight, Lady Castlewood remembering,
no doubt, former New-Year's Eves, when healths were
drunk, and laughter went round in the company of him to
whom years, past, and present, and future, were to be as
one; and so cared not to sit with her children and hear the
cathedral bells ringing the birth of the year 1703. Esmond
heard the chimes as he sat in his own chamber, ruminating
by the blazing fire there, and listened to the last notes of
them, looking out from his window towards the city, and
the great grey towers of the cathedral lying under the frosty
sky, with the keen stars shining above.




The sight of these brilliant orbs no doubt made him think
of other luminaries. “And so her eyes have already done
execution,” thought Esmond—“on whom?—who can tell
me?” Luckily his kinsman was by, and Esmond knew he
would have no difficulty in finding out Mistress Beatrix's
history from the simple talk of the boy.









 Chapter VIII. Family Talk



What Harry admired and submitted to in the pretty lad,
his kinsman, was (for why should he resist it?) the calmness
of patronage which my young lord assumed, as if to command
was his undoubted right, and all the world (below his degree)
ought to bow down to Viscount Castlewood.




“I know my place, Harry,” he said. “I'm not proud—the
boys at Winchester College say I'm proud: but I'm
not proud. I am simply Francis James Viscount Castlewood
in the peerage of Ireland. I might have been (do you
know that?) Francis James Marquis and Earl of Esmond in
that of England. The late lord refused the title which was
[pg 226]
offered to him by my godfather, his late Majesty. You
should know that—you are of our family, you know—you
cannot help your bar sinister, Harry, my dear fellow; and
you belong to one of the best families in England, in spite of
that; and you stood by my father, and by G——! I'll stand
by you. You shall never want a friend, Harry, while
Francis James Viscount Castlewood has a shilling. It's
now 1703—I shall come of age in 1709. I shall go back
to Castlewood; I shall live at Castlewood; I shall build
up the house. My property will be pretty well restored
by then. The late viscount mismanaged my property, and
left it in a very bad state. My mother is living close, as
you see, and keeps me in a way hardly befitting a peer of
these realms; for I have but a pair of horses, a governor,
and a man that is valet and groom. But when I am of
age, these things will be set right, Harry. Our house will
be as it should be. You'll always come to Castlewood,
won't you? You shall always have your two rooms in
the court kept for you; and if anybody slights you, d——
them! let them have a care of me. I shall marry early—'Trix
will be a duchess by that time, most likely; for
a cannon-ball may knock over his grace any day, you
know.”




“How?” says Harry.




“Hush, my dear!” says my lord viscount. “You are of
the family—you are faithful to us, by George, and I tell
you everything. Blandford will marry her—or ——” and
here he put his little hand on his sword—“you understand
the rest. Blandford knows which of us two is the best
weapon. At small-sword, or back-sword, or sword and
dagger, if he likes: I can beat him. I have tried him,
Harry; and begad, he knows I am a man not to be trifled
with.”




“But you do not mean,” says Harry, concealing his
laughter, but not his wonder, “that you can force my Lord
Blandford, the son of the first man of this kingdom, to
marry your sister at sword's point?”




“I mean to say that we are cousins by the mother's side,
though that's nothing to boast of. I mean to say that an
Esmond is as good as a Churchill; and when the king comes
back, the Marquis of Esmond's sister may be a match for
any nobleman's daughter in the kingdom. There are but
two marquises in all England, William Herbert, Marquis of
[pg 227]
Powis, and Francis James, Marquis of Esmond; and hark
you, Harry, now swear you'll never mention this. Give
me your honour as a gentleman, for you are a gentleman,
though you are a——”




“Well, well,” says Harry, a little impatient.




“Well, then, when after my late viscount's misfortune,
my mother went up with us to London, to ask for justice
against you all (as for Mohun, I'll have his blood, as sure
as my name is Francis Viscount Esmond), we went to stay
with our cousin my Lady Marlborough, with whom we had
quarrelled for ever so long. But when misfortune came,
she stood by her blood:—so did the dowager viscountess
stand by her blood,—so did you. Well, sir, whilst my
mother was petitioning the late Prince of Orange—for I will
never call him king—and while you were in prison, we lived
at my Lord Marlborough's house, who was only a little
there, being away with the army in Holland. And then ...
I say, Harry, you won't tell, now?”




Harry again made a vow of secrecy.




“Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, you know: my
Lady Marlborough was very fond of us, and she said I was
to be her page; and she got 'Trix to be a maid of honour,
and while she was up in her room crying, we used to be
always having fun, you know; and the duchess used to
kiss me, and so did her daughters, and Blandford fell tremendous
in love with 'Trix, and she liked him; and one day
he—he kissed her behind a door—he did though,—and the
duchess caught him, and she banged such a box of the ear
both to 'Trix and Blandford—you should have seen it!
And then she said that we must leave directly, and abused
my mamma, who was cognizant of the business; but she
wasn't—never thinking about anything but father. And
so we came down to Walcote. Blandford being locked
up, and not allowed to see 'Trix. But I got at him. I
climbed along the gutter, and in through the window, where
he was crying.




“ ‘Marquis,’ says I, when he had opened it and helped
me in, ‘you know I wear a sword,’ for I had brought it.




“ ‘Oh, viscount,’ says he—‘oh, my dearest Frank!’
and he threw himself into my arms and burst out a-crying.
‘I do love Mistress Beatrix so, that I shall die if I don't
have her.’




“ ‘My dear Blandford,’ says I, ‘you are young to think
[pg 228]
of marrying;’ for he was but fifteen, and a young fellow
of that age can scarce do so, you know.




“ ‘But I'll wait twenty years, if she'll have me,’ says he.
‘I'll never marry—no never, never, never, marry anybody
but her. No, not a princess, though they would have me do
it ever so. If Beatrix will wait for me, her Blandford
swears he will be faithful.’ And he wrote a paper (it wasn't
spelt right, for he wrote: ‘I'm ready to sine with my blode’,
which you know, Harry, isn't the way of spelling it), and
vowing that he would marry none other but the Honourable
Mistress Gertrude Beatrix Esmond, only sister of his dearest
friend Francis James, fourth Viscount Esmond. And so I
gave him a locket of her hair.”




“A locket of her hair!” cries Esmond.




“Yes. 'Trix gave me one after the fight with the duchess
that very day. I am sure I didn't want it; and so I gave
it him, and we kissed at parting, and said—‘Good-bye,
brother.’ And I got back through the gutter; and we
set off home that very evening. And he went to King's
College, in Cambridge, and I'm going to Cambridge soon;
and if he doesn't stand to his promise (for he's only wrote
once),—he knows I wear a sword, Harry. Come along, and
let's go see the cocking-match at Winchester.




“....But I say,” he added laughing, after a pause,
“I don't think 'Trix will break her heart about him. Law
bless you! Whenever she sees a man, she makes eyes at
him; and young Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's Crawley,
and Anthony Henley of Alresford, were at swords drawn
about her, at the Winchester Assembly, a month ago.”




That night Mr. Harry's sleep was by no means so pleasant or
sweet as it had been on the first two evenings after his arrival
at Walcote. “So the bright eyes have been already shining
on another,” thought he, “and the pretty lips, or the cheeks
at any rate, have begun the work which they were made for.
Here's a girl not sixteen, and one young gentleman is already
whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country squires
are ready to cut each other's throats that they may have
the honour of a dance with her. What a fool am I to be
dallying about this passion, and singeing my wings in this
foolish flame. Wings!—why not say crutches? There is
but eight years' difference between us, to be sure; but in
life I am thirty years older. How could I ever hope to
please such a sweet creature as that, with my rough ways
[pg 229]
and glum face? Say that I have merit ever so much, and
won myself a name, could she ever listen to me? She must
be my lady marchioness, and I remain a nameless bastard.
O my master, my master!” (here he fell to thinking with
a passionate grief of the vow which he had made to his
poor dying lord); “O my mistress, dearest and kindest,
will you be contented with the sacrifice which the poor
orphan makes for you, whom you love, and who so loves
you?”




And then came a fiercer pang of temptation. “A word
from me,” Harry thought, “a syllable of explanation, and
all this might be changed; but no, I swore it over the dying
bed of my benefactor. For the sake of him and his; for
the sacred love and kindness of old days; I gave my
promise to him, and may kind Heaven enable me to keep
my vow!”




The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what
was going on in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily
gay and cheerful when he met his friends at the
morning meal, his dear mistress, whose clear eyes it seemed
no emotion of his could escape, perceived that something
troubled him, for she looked anxiously towards him more
than once during the breakfast, and when he went up to
his chamber afterwards she presently followed him, and
knocked at his door.




As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to
her at once, for she found our young gentleman packing
his valise, pursuant to the resolution which he had come to
over-night of making a brisk retreat out of this temptation.




She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then
leant against it, very pale, her hands folded before her,
looking at the young man, who was kneeling over his work
of packing. “Are you going so soon?” she said.




He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so
discovered, in the very act, as it were, and took one of
her fair little hands—it was that which had her marriage
ring on—and kissed it.




“It is best that it should be so, dearest lady,” he said.




“I knew you were going, at breakfast. I—I thought
you might stay. What has happened? Why can't you
remain longer with us? What has Frank told you—you
were talking together late last night?”




“I had but three days' leave from Chelsea,” Esmond said,
[pg 230]
as gaily as he could. “My aunt—she lets me call her aunt—is
my mistress now; I owe her my lieutenancy and my
laced coat. She has taken me into high favour; and my
new general is to dine at Chelsea to-morrow—General
Lumley, madam—who has appointed me his aide de camp,
and on whom I must have the honour of waiting. See,
here is a letter from the dowager; the post brought it last
night; and I would not speak of it, for fear of disturbing
our last merry meeting.”




My lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with
a smile that was somewhat contemptuous. “I have no
need to read the letter,” says she—(indeed, 'twas as well
she did not; for the Chelsea missive, in the poor dowager's
usual French jargon, permitted him a longer holiday than
he said. “Je vous
donne,” quoth her ladyship, “oui jour,
pour vous fatigay parfaictement de vos parens fatigans”)—“I
have no need to read the letter,” says she. “What was
it Frank told you last night?”




“He told me little I did not know,” Mr. Esmond answered.
“But I have thought of that little, and here's the result;
I have no right to the name I bear, dear lady; and it is
only by your sufferance that I am allowed to keep it. If
I thought for an hour of what has perhaps crossed your
mind too——”




“Yes, I did, Harry,” said she; “I thought of it; and think
of it. I would sooner call you my son than the greatest
prince in Europe—yes, than the greatest prince. For who
is there so good and so brave, and who would love her as
you would? But there are reasons a mother can't tell.”




“I know them,” said Mr. Esmond, interrupting her with
a smile.—“I know there's Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen's
Crawley, and Mr. Anthony Henley of the Grange, and my
Lord Marquis of Blandford, that seems to be the favoured
suitor. You shall ask me to wear my lady marchioness's
favours and to dance at her ladyship's wedding.”




“Oh, Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that
frighten me,” cried out Lady Castlewood. “Lord Churchill
is but a child, his outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish
folly. His parents would rather see him buried than
married to one below him in rank. And do you think that
I would stoop to sue for a husband for Francis Esmond's
daughter; or submit to have my girl smuggled into that
proud family to cause a quarrel between son and parents,
[pg 231]
and to be treated only as an inferior? I would disdain such
a meanness. Beatrix would scorn it. Ah! Henry, 'tis
not with you the fault lies, 'tis with her. I know you both,
and love you: need I be ashamed of that love now? No,
never, never, and 'tis not you, dear Harry, that is unworthy.
'Tis for my poor Beatrix I tremble—whose headstrong will
frightens me; whose jealous temper (they say I was jealous
too, but, pray God, I am cured of that sin) and whose vanity
no words or prayers of mine can cure—only suffering, only
experience, and remorse afterwards. Oh, Henry, she will
make no man happy who loves her. Go away, my son,
leave her: love us always, and think kindly of us: and for
me, my dear, you know that these walls contain all that
I love in the world.”




In after-life, did Esmond find the words true which his
fond mistress spoke from her sad heart? Warning he had:
but I doubt others had warning before his time, and since:
and he benefited by it as most men do.




My young lord viscount was exceeding sorry when he
heard that Harry could not come to the cock-match with
him, and must go to London, but no doubt my lord consoled
himself when the Hampshire cocks won the match;
and he saw every one of the battles, and crowed properly
over the conquered Sussex gentlemen.




As Esmond rode towards town his servant, coming up
to him, informed him with a grin, that Mistress Beatrix had
brought out a new gown and blue stockings for that day's
dinner, in which she intended to appear, and had flown into
a rage and given her maid a slap on the face soon after she
heard he was going away. Mistress Beatrix's woman, the
fellow said, came down to the servants' hall, crying, and
with the mark of a blow still on her cheek: but Esmond
peremptorily ordered him to fall back and be silent, and
rode on with thoughts enough of his own to occupy him—some
sad ones, some inexpressibly dear and pleasant.




His mistress, from whom he had been a year separated,
was his dearest mistress again. The family from which he
had been parted, and which he loved with the fondest devotion,
was his family once more. If Beatrix's beauty shone
upon him, it was with a friendly lustre, and he could regard
it with much such a delight as he brought away after
seeing the beautiful pictures of the smiling Madonnas in
the convent at Cadiz, when he was dispatched thither with
[pg 232]
a flag: and as for his mistress, 'twas difficult to say with
what a feeling he regarded her. 'Twas happiness to have
seen her: 'twas no great pang to part; a filial tenderness,
a love that was at once respect and protection, filled his
mind as he thought of her; and near her or far from her,
and from that day until now, and from now till death
is past, and beyond it, he prays that sacred flame may
ever burn.









 Chapter IX. I Make The Campaign Of 1704



Mr. Esmond rode up to London then, where, if the dowager
had been angry at the abrupt leave of absence he took, she
was mightily pleased at his speedy return.




He went immediately and paid his court to his new
general, General Lumley, who received him graciously,
having known his father, and also, he was pleased to say,
having had the very best accounts of Mr. Esmond from the
officer whose aide de camp he had been at Vigo. During
this winter Mr. Esmond was gazetted to a lieutenancy in
Brigadier Webb's regiment of Fusiliers, then with their
colonel in Flanders; but being now attached to the suite
of Mr. Lumley, Esmond did not join his own regiment until
more than a year afterwards, and after his return from the
campaign of Blenheim, which was fought the next year.
The campaign began very early, our troops marching out of
their quarters before the winter was almost over, and investing
the city of Bonn, on the Rhine, under the duke's command.
His grace joined the army in deep grief of mind,
with crape on his sleeve, and his household in mourning;
and the very same packet which brought the commander-in-chief
over, brought letters to the forces which preceded
him, and one from his dear mistress to Esmond, which
interested him not a little.




The young Marquis of Blandford, his grace's son, who
had been entered in King's College in Cambridge (whither
my lord viscount had also gone, to Trinity, with Mr. Tusher
as his governor), had been seized with small-pox, and was
dead at sixteen years of age, and so poor Frank's schemes
[pg 233]
for his sister's advancement were over, and that innocent
childish passion nipped in the birth.




Esmond's mistress would have had him return, at least
her letters hinted as much; but in the presence of the
enemy this was impossible, and our young man took his
humble share in the siege, which need not be described here,
and had the good luck to escape without a wound of any
sort, and to drink his general's health after the surrender.
He was in constant military duty this year, and did not
think of asking for a leave of absence, as one or two of his
less fortunate friends did, who were cast away in that
tremendous storm which happened towards the close of
November, that “which of late o'er pale Britannia past”
(as Mr. Addison sang of it), and in which scores of our
greatest ships and 15,000 of our seamen went down.




They said that our duke was quite heartbroken by the
calamity which had befallen his family; but his enemies
found that he could subdue them, as well as master his grief.
Successful as had been this great general's operations in the
past year, they were far enhanced by the splendour of his
victory in the ensuing campaign. His grace the captain-general
went to England after Bonn, and our army fell back
into Holland, where, in April, 1704, his grace again found
the troops embarking from Harwich and landing at Maesland
Sluys: thence his grace came immediately to the Hague,
where he received the foreign ministers, general officers,
and other people of quality. The greatest honours were
paid to his grace everywhere—at the Hague, Utrecht,
Ruremonde, and Maestricht; the civic authorities coming
to meet his coaches: salvos of cannon saluting him,
canopies of state being erected for him where he stopped,
and feasts prepared for the numerous gentlemen following
in his suite. His grace reviewed the troops of the States-General
between Liége and Maestricht, and afterwards the
English forces, under the command of General Churchill,
near Bois-le-Duc. Every preparation was made for a long
march; and the army heard, with no small elation, that it
was the commander-in-chief's intention to carry the war
out of the Low Countries, and to march on the Mozelle.
Before leaving our camp at Maestricht, we heard that the
French, under the Marshal Villeroy, were also bound towards
the Mozelle.




Towards the end of May, the army reached Coblentz; and
[pg 234]
next day, his grace, and the generals accompanying him,
went to visit the Elector of Treves at his Castle of Ehrenbreitstein,
the horse and dragoons passing the Rhine whilst
the duke was entertained at a grand feast by the Elector.
All as yet was novelty, festivity, and splendour—a brilliant
march of a great and glorious army through a friendly
country, and sure through some of the most beautiful scenes
of nature which I ever witnessed.




The foot and artillery, following after the horse as quick
as possible, crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbreitstein, and so
to Castel, over against Mayntz, in which city his grace, his
generals, and his retinue were received at the landing-place
by the Elector's coaches, carried to his highness's palace
amidst the thunder of cannon, and then once more magnificently
entertained. Gidlingen, in Bavaria, was appointed
as the general rendezvous of the army, and thither, by
different routes, the whole forces of English, Dutch, Danes,
and German auxiliaries took their way. The foot and
artillery under General Churchill passed the Neckar, at
Heidelberg; and Esmond had an opportunity of seeing
that city and palace, once so famous and beautiful (though
shattered and battered by the French, under Turenne, in
the late war), where his grandsire had served the beautiful
and unfortunate Electress-Palatine, the first King Charles's
sister.




At Mindelsheim, the famous Prince of Savoy came to
visit our commander, all of us crowding eagerly to get a sight
of that brilliant and intrepid warrior; and our troops were
drawn up in battalia before the prince, who was pleased to
express his admiration of this noble English army. At
length we came in sight of the enemy between Dillingen and
Lawingen, the Brentz lying between the two armies. The
Elector, judging that Donauwort would be the point of
his grace's attack, sent a strong detachment of his best
troops to Count Darcos, who was posted at Schellenberg,
near that place, where great entrenchments were thrown
up, and thousands of pioneers employed to strengthen the
position.




On the 2nd of July, his grace stormed the post, with what
success on our part need scarce be told. His grace advanced
with six thousand foot, English and Dutch, thirty squadrons
and three regiments of Imperial cuirassiers, the duke
crossing the river at the head of the cavalry. Although our
[pg 235]
troops made the attack with unparalleled courage and fury—rushing
up to the very guns of the enemy, and being
slaughtered before their works—we were driven back many
times, and should not have carried them, but that the
Imperialists came up under the Prince of Baden, when the
enemy could make no head against us: we pursued him
into the trenches, making a terrible slaughter there, and
into the very Danube, where a great part of his troops,
following the example of their generals, Count Darcos
and the Elector himself, tried to save themselves by swimming.
Our army entered Donauwort, which the Bavarians
evacuated; and where 'twas said the Elector purposed to
have given us a warm reception, by burning us in our beds;
the cellars of the houses, when we took possession of them,
being found stuffed with straw. But though the links
were there, the link-boys had run away. The townsmen
saved their houses, and our general took possession of the
enemy's ammunition in the arsenals, his stores, and magazines.
Five days afterwards a great Te Deum was sung
in Prince Lewis's army, and a solemn day of thanksgiving
held in our own; the Prince of Savoy's compliments coming
to his grace the captain-general during the day's religious
ceremony, and concluding, as it were, with an amen.




And now, having seen a great military march through
a friendly country; the pomps and festivities of more than
one German court; the severe struggle of a hotly-contested
battle, and the triumph of victory; Mr. Esmond beheld
another part of military duty; our troops entering the
enemy's territory, and putting all around them to fire and
sword; burning farms, wasted fields, shrieking women,
slaughtered sons and fathers, and drunken soldiery, cursing
and carousing in the midst of tears, terror, and murder.
Why does the stately Muse of History, that delights in
describing the valour of heroes and the grandeur of conquest,
leave out these scenes, so brutal, mean, and degrading,
that yet form by far the greater part of the drama of war?
You, gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease, and
compliment yourselves in the songs of triumph with which
our chieftains are bepraised—you pretty maidens, that come
tumbling down the stairs when the fife and drum call you,
and huzzah for the British Grenadiers—do you take account
that these items go to make up the amount of the triumph
you admire, and form part of the duties of the heroes you
[pg 236]
fondle? Our chief, whom England and all Europe, saving
only the Frenchmen, worshipped almost, had this of the
godlike in him, that he was impassible before victory, before
danger, before defeat. Before the greatest obstacle or the
most trivial ceremony; before a hundred thousand men
drawn in battalia, or a peasant slaughtered at the door of
his burning hovel; before a carouse of drunken German
lords, or a monarch's court, or a cottage-table, where his plans
were laid, or an enemy's battery, vomiting flame and death,
and strewing corpses round about him;—he was always
cold, calm, resolute, like fate. He performed a treason or
a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black as Styx, as easily
as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He
took a mistress, and left her; he betrayed his benefactor,
and supported him, or would have murdered him, with the
same calmness always, and having no more remorse than
Clotho when she weaves the thread, or Lachesis when she
cuts it. In the hour of battle I have heard the Prince of
Savoy's officers say, the prince became possessed with a sort
of warlike fury; his eyes lighted up; he rushed hither and
thither, raging; he shrieked curses and encouragement,
yelling and harking his bloody war-dogs on, and himself
always at the first of the hunt. Our duke was as calm at
the mouth of the cannon as at the door of a drawing-room.
Perhaps he could not have been the great man he was, had
he had a heart either for love or hatred, or pity or fear, or
regret, or remorse. He achieved the highest deed of daring,
or deepest calculation of thought, as he performed the very
meanest action of which a man is capable; told a lie, or
cheated a fond woman, or robbed a poor beggar of a halfpenny,
with a like awful serenity and equal capacity of the
highest and lowest acts of our nature.




His qualities were pretty well known in the army, where
there were parties of all politics, and of plenty of shrewdness
and wit; but there existed such a perfect confidence in him,
as the first captain of the world, and such a faith and admiration
in his prodigious genius and fortune, that the very men
whom he notoriously cheated of their pay, the chiefs whom
he used and injured—(for he used all men, great and small,
that came near him, as his instruments alike, and took
something of theirs, either some quality or some property—the
blood of a soldier, it might be, or a jewelled hat, or a
hundred thousand crowns from a king, or a portion out of
[pg 237]
a starving sentinel's three farthings; or (when he was young)
a kiss from a woman, and the gold chain off her neck, taking
all he could from woman or man, and having, as I have said,
this of the godlike in him, that he could see a hero perish
or a sparrow fall, with the same amount of sympathy for
either. Not that he had no tears; he could always order
up this reserve at the proper moment to battle; he could
draw upon tears or smiles alike, and whenever need was for
using this cheap coin. He would cringe to a shoeblack,
as he would flatter a minister or a monarch; be haughty,
be humble, threaten, repent, weep, grasp your hand, or
stab you whenever he saw occasion)—But yet those of the
army, who knew him best and had suffered most from him,
admired him most of all: and as he rode along the lines to
battle or galloped up in the nick of time to a battalion
reeling from before the enemy's charge or shot, the fainting
men and officers got new courage as they saw the splendid
calm of his face, and felt that his will made them irresistible.




After the great victory of Blenheim the enthusiasm of the
army for the duke, even of his bitterest personal enemies in
it, amounted to a sort of rage—nay, the very officers who
cursed him in their hearts, were among the most frantic
to cheer him. Who could refuse his meed of admiration to
such a victory and such a victor? Not he who writes:
a man may profess to be ever so much a philosopher; but
he who fought on that day must feel a thrill of pride as he
recalls it.




The French right was posted near to the village of Blenheim,
on the Danube, where the Marshal Tallard's quarters
were; their line extending through, it may be a league and
a half, before Lutzingen and up to a woody hill, round the
base of which, and acting against the Prince of Savoy, were
forty of his squadrons. Here was a village that the Frenchmen
had burned, the wood being, in fact, a better shelter
and easier of guard than any village.




Before these two villages and the French lines ran a little
stream, not more than two foot broad, through a marsh
(that was mostly dried up from the heats of the weather),
and this stream was the only separation between the two
armies—ours coming up and ranging themselves in line of
battle before the French, at six o'clock in the morning; so
that our line was quite visible to theirs; and the whole of
[pg 238]
this great plain was black and swarming with troops for
hours before the cannonading began.




On one side and the other this cannonading lasted many
hours. The French guns being in position in front of their
line, and doing severe damage among our horse especially,
and on our right wing of Imperialists under the Prince of
Savoy, who could neither advance his artillery nor his lines,
the ground before him being cut up by ditches, morasses,
and very difficult of passage for the guns.




It was past midday when the attack began on our left,
where Lord Cutts commanded, the bravest and most beloved
officer in the English army. And now, as if to make his
experience in war complete, our young aide de camp having
seen two great armies facing each other in line of battle, and
had the honour of riding with orders from one end to other
of the line, came in for a not uncommon accompaniment of
military glory, and was knocked on the head, along with
many hundred of brave fellows, almost at the very commencement
of this famous day of Blenheim. A little after
noon, the disposition for attack being completed with much
delay and difficulty, and under a severe fire from the
enemy's guns, that were better posted and more numerous
than ours, a body of English and Hessians, with Major-General
Wilkes commanding at the extreme left of our line,
marched upon Blenheim, advancing with great gallantry,
the major-general on foot, with his officers, at the head of the
column, and marching, with his hat off, intrepidly in the face
of the enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous fire from
his guns and musketry, to which our people were instructed
not to reply, except with pike and bayonet when they
reached the French palisades. To these Wilkes walked
intrepidly, and struck the woodwork with his sword before
our people charged it. He was shot down at the instant,
with his colonel, major, and several officers; and our troops
cheering and huzzaing, and coming on, as they did, with
immense resolution and gallantry, were nevertheless stopped
by the murderous fire from behind the enemy's defences,
and then attacked in flank by a furious charge of French
horse which swept out of Blenheim, and cut down our men
in great numbers. Three fierce and desperate assaults of
our foot were made and repulsed by the enemy; so that
our columns of foot were quite shattered, and fell back,
scrambling over the little rivulet, which we had crossed so
[pg 239]
resolutely an hour before, and pursued by the French
cavalry, slaughtering us and cutting us down.




And now the conquerors were met by a furious charge of
English horse under Esmond's general, General Lumley,
behind whose squadrons the flying foot found refuge, and
formed again, whilst Lumley drove back the French horse,
charging up to the village of Blenheim and the palisades
where Wilkes, and many hundred more gallant Englishmen,
lay in slaughtered heaps. Beyond this moment, and of
this famous victory, Mr. Esmond knows nothing; for a shot
brought down his horse and our young gentleman on it, who
fell crushed and stunned under the animal; and came to his
senses he knows not how long after, only to lose them again
from pain and loss of blood. A dim sense, as of people
groaning round about him, a wild incoherent thought or
two for her who occupied so much of his heart now, and
that here his career, and his hopes, and misfortunes were
ended, he remembers in the course of these hours. When
he woke up it was with a pang of extreme pain, his breast-plate
was taken off, his servant was holding his head up, the
good and faithful lad of Hampshire9 was blubbering over his
master, whom he found and had thought dead, and a surgeon
was probing a wound in the shoulder, which he must have
got at the same moment when his horse was shot and fell
over him. The battle was over at this end of the field, by
this time: the village was in possession of the English, its
brave defenders prisoners, or fled, or drowned, many of them,
in the neighbouring waters of the Donau. But for honest
Lockwood's faithful search after his master, there had no
doubt been an end of Esmond here, and of this his story.
The marauders were out rifling the bodies as they lay on the
field, and Jack had brained one of these gentry with the
club-end of his musket, who had eased Esmond of his hat
and periwig, his purse, and fine silver-mounted pistols which
the dowager gave him, and was fumbling in his pockets
for further treasure, when Jack Lockwood came up and
put an end to the scoundrel's triumph.




Hospitals for our wounded were established at Blenheim,
and here for several weeks Esmond lay in very great danger
of his life; the wound was not very great from which he
suffered, and the ball extracted by the surgeon on the spot
[pg 240]
where our young gentleman received it; but a fever set in
next day, as he was lying in hospital, and that almost
carried him away. Jack Lockwood said he talked in the
wildest manner during his delirium; that he called himself
the Marquis of Esmond, and seizing one of the surgeon's
assistants who came to dress his wounds, swore that he was
Madam Beatrix, and that he would make her a duchess if she
would but say yes. He was passing the days in these crazy
fancies, and vana somnia,
whilst the army was singing Te
Deum for the victory, and those famous festivities were
taking place at which our duke, now made a Prince of the
Empire, was entertained by the King of the Romans and his
nobility. His grace went home by Berlin and Hanover,
and Esmond lost the festivities which took place at those
cities, and which his general shared in company of the other
general officers who travelled with our great captain. When
he could move it was by the Duke of Wirtemburg's city of
Stuttgard that he made his way homewards, revisiting
Heidelberg again, whence he went to Manheim, and hence
had a tedious but easy water journey down the river of
Rhine, which he had thought a delightful and beautiful
voyage indeed, but that his heart was longing for home, and
something far more beautiful and delightful.




As bright and welcome as the eyes almost of his mistress
shone the lights of Harwich, as the packet came in from
Holland. It was not many hours ere he, Esmond, was in
London, of that you may be sure, and received with open
arms by the old dowager of Chelsea, who vowed, in her
jargon of French and English, that he had the air noble,
that his pallor embellished him, that he was an Amadis and
deserved a Gloriana; and, O flames and darts! what
was his joy at hearing that his mistress was come into
waiting, and was now with her Majesty at Kensington!
Although Mr. Esmond had told Jack Lockwood to get horses
and they would ride for Winchester that night; when he
heard this news he countermanded the horses at once; his
business lay no longer in Hants; all his hope and desire lay
within a couple of miles of him in Kensington Park wall.
Poor Harry had never looked in the glass before so eagerly
to see whether he had the bel air, and his paleness
really did become him; he never took such pains about the curl of
his periwig, and the taste of his embroidery and point-lace,
as now, before Mr. Amadis presented himself to Madam
[pg 241]
Gloriana. Was the fire of the French lines half so murderous
as the killing glances from her ladyship's eyes? O darts
and raptures, how beautiful were they!




And as, before the blazing sun of morning, the moon fades
away in the sky almost invisible; Esmond thought, with
a blush perhaps, of another sweet pale face, sad and faint,
and fading out of sight, with its sweet fond gaze of affection;
such a last look it seemed to cast as Eurydice might have
given, yearning after her lover, when Fate and Pluto summoned
her, and she passed away into the shades.









 Chapter X. An Old Story About A Fool And A Woman



Any taste for pleasure which Esmond had (and he liked to
desipere in loco, neither more nor less than most young
men of his age) he could now gratify to the utmost extent, and
in the best company which the town afforded. When the
army went into winter quarters abroad, those of the officers
who had interest or money easily got leave of absence, and
found it much pleasanter to spend their time in Pall Mall
and Hyde Park, than to pass the winter away behind the
fortifications of the dreary old Flanders towns, where the
English troops were gathered. Yatches and packets passed
daily between the Dutch and Flemish ports and Harwich;
the roads thence to London and the great inns were crowded
with army gentlemen; the taverns and ordinaries of the
town swarmed with red-coats; and our great duke's levees
at St. James's were as thronged as they had been at Ghent
and Brussels, where we treated him, and he us, with the
grandeur and ceremony of a sovereign. Though Esmond
had been appointed to a lieutenancy in the Fusilier regiment,
of which that celebrated officer, Brigadier John Richmond
Webb, was colonel, he had never joined the regiment, nor
been introduced to its excellent commander, though they
had made the same campaign together, and been engaged
in the same battle. But being aide de camp to General
Lumley, who commanded the division of horse, and the
army marching to its point of destination on the Danube
by different routes, Esmond had not fallen in, as yet, with
[pg 242]
his commander and future comrades of the fort; and it
was in London, in Golden Square, where Major-General
Webb lodged, that Captain Esmond had the honour of first
paying his respects to his friend, patron, and commander
of after-days.




Those who remember this brilliant and accomplished
gentleman may recollect his character, upon which he
prided himself, I think, not a little, of being the handsomest
man in the army; a poet who writ a dull copy of verses
upon the battle of Oudenarde three years after, describing
Webb, says:—







To noble danger Webb conducts the way,


His great example all his troops obey;


Before the front the general sternly rides,


With such an air as Mars to battle strides:


Propitious Heaven must sure a hero save,


Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave.







Mr. Webb thought these verses quite as fine as Mr. Addison's
on the Blenheim campaign, and, indeed, to be Hector
à la mode de Paris,
was part of this gallant gentleman's
ambition. It would have been difficult to find an officer
in the whole army, or amongst the splendid courtiers and
cavaliers of the Maison-du-Roy, that fought under Vendosme
and Villeroy in the army opposed to ours, who was a more
accomplished soldier and perfect gentleman, and either
braver or better-looking. And, if Mr. Webb believed of
himself what the world said of him, and was deeply convinced
of his own indisputable genius, beauty, and valour,
who has a right to quarrel with him very much? This self-content
of his kept him in general good humour, of which
his friends and dependants got the benefit.




He came of a very ancient Wiltshire family, which he
respected above all families in the world: he could prove
a lineal descent from King Edward the First, and his first
ancestor, Roaldus de Richmond, rode by William the Conqueror's
side on Hastings field. “We were gentlemen,
Esmond,” he used to say, “when the Churchills were horseboys.”
He was a very tall man, standing in his pumps six
feet three inches (in his great jack-boots, with his tall, fair
periwig, and hat and feather, he could not have been less
than eight feet high). “I am taller than Churchill,” he would
say, surveying himself in the glass, “and I am a better made
[pg 243]
man; and if the women won't like a man that hasn't a wart
on his nose, faith, I can't help myself, and Churchill has the
better of me there.” Indeed, he was always measuring himself
with the duke, and always asking his friends to measure
them. And talking in this frank way, as he would do, over
his cups, wags would laugh and encourage him; friends
would be sorry for him; schemers and flatterers would egg
him on, and tale-bearers carry the stories to head quarters,
and widen the difference which already existed there between
the great captain and one of the ablest and bravest
lieutenants he ever had.




His rancour against the duke was so apparent, that one
saw it in the first half-hour's conversation with General
Webb; and his lady, who adored her general, and thought
him a hundred times taller, handsomer, and braver than a
prodigal nature had made him, hated the great duke with
such an intensity as it becomes faithful wives to feel against
their husbands' enemies. Not that my lord duke was
so yet; Mr. Webb had said a thousand things against him,
which his superior had pardoned; and his grace, whose
spies were everywhere, had heard a thousand things more
that Webb had never said. But it cost this great man no
pains to pardon; and he passed over an injury or a benefit
alike easily.




Should any child of mine take the pains to read these, his
ancestor's memoirs, I would not have him judge of the
great duke10 by what a contemporary has written of him.
No man hath been so immensely lauded and decried as this
great statesman and warrior; as, indeed, no man ever
deserved better the very greatest praise and the strongest
censure. If the present writer joins with the latter faction,
very likely a private pique of his own may be the cause
of his ill-feeling.




On presenting himself at the commander-in-chief's levee,
his grace had not the least remembrance of General Lumley's
aide de camp, and though he knew Esmond's family perfectly
well, having served with both lords (my Lord Francis
and the viscount, Esmond's father) in Flanders, and in the
Duke of York's Guard, the Duke of Marlborough, who
was friendly and serviceable to the (so-styled) legitimate
[pg 244]
representatives of the Viscount Castlewood, took no sort of
notice of the poor lieutenant who bore their name. A word
of kindness or acknowledgement, or a single glance of approbation,
might have changed Esmond's opinion of the great
man; and instead of a satire, which his pen cannot help
writing, who knows but that the humble historian might
have taken the other side of panegyric? We have but
to change the point of view, and the greatest action looks
mean; as we turn the perspective-glass, and a giant appears
a pigmy. You may describe, but who can tell whether
your sight is clear or not, or your means of information
accurate? Had the great man said but a word of kindness
to the small one (as he would have stepped out of his gilt
chariot to shake hands with Lazarus in rags and sores, if he
thought Lazarus could have been of any service to him), no
doubt Esmond would have fought for him with pen and
sword to the utmost of his might; but my lord the lion did
not want master mouse at this moment, and so Muscipulus
went off and nibbled in opposition.




So it was, however, that a young gentleman, who, in the
eyes of his family, and in his own, doubtless, was looked upon
as a consummate hero, found that the great hero of the day
took no more notice of him than of the smallest drummer
in his grace's army. The dowager at Chelsea was furious
against this neglect of her family, and had a great battle
with Lady Marlborough (as Lady Castlewood insisted on
calling the duchess). Her grace was now mistress of the
robes to her Majesty, and one of the greatest personages in
this kingdom, as her husband was in all Europe, and the
battle between the two ladies took place in the queen's
drawing-room.




The duchess, in reply to my aunt's eager clamour, said
haughtily, that she had done her best for the legitimate
branch of the Esmonds, and could not be expected to provide
for the bastard brats of the family.




“Bastards,” says the viscountess, in a fury, “there are
bastards amongst the Churchills, as your grace knows, and
the Duke of Berwick is provided for well enough.”




“Madam,” says the duchess, “you know whose fault it is
that there are no such dukes in the Esmond family too, and
how that little scheme of a certain lady miscarried.”




Esmond's friend, Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the
prince, heard the controversy between the ladies at Court,
[pg 245]
“And faith,” says Dick, “I think, Harry, thy kinswoman
had the worst of it.”




He could not keep the story quiet; 'twas all over the
coffee-houses ere night; it was printed in a News Letter
before a month was over, and “The Reply of her Grace the
Duchess of M-rlb-r-gh, to a Popish Lady of the Court, once
a favourite of the late K— J-m-s,” was printed in half a dozen
places, with a note stating that this duchess, when the head
of this lady's family came by his death lately in a fatal
duel, never rested until she got a pension for the orphan
heir, and widow, from her Majesty's bounty. The squabble
did not advance poor Esmond's promotion much, and indeed
made him so ashamed of himself that he dared not show his
face at the commander-in-chief's levees again.






During those eighteen months which had passed since
Esmond saw his dear mistress, her good father, the old
dean, quitted this life, firm in his principles to the very last,
and enjoining his family always to remember that the
queen's brother, King James the Third, was their rightful
sovereign. He made a very edifying end, as his daughter
told Esmond, and, not a little to her surprise, after his
death (for he had lived always very poorly) my lady found
that her father had left no less a sum than 3,000l. behind
him, which he bequeathed to her.




With this little fortune Lady Castlewood was enabled,
when her daughter's turn at Court came, to come to London,
where she took a small genteel house at Kensington, in the
neighbourhood of the Court, bringing her children with her,
and here it was that Esmond found his friends.




As for the young lord, his University career had ended
rather abruptly. Honest Tusher, his governor, had found
my young gentleman quite ungovernable. My lord worried
his life away with tricks; and broke out, as home-bred lads
will, into a hundred youthful extravagances, so that
Dr. Bentley, the new master of Trinity, thought fit to write
to the Viscountess Castlewood, my lord's mother, and beg
her to remove the young nobleman from a college where he
declined to learn, and where he only did harm by his riotous
example. Indeed, I believe he nearly set fire to Nevil's
Court, that beautiful new quadrangle of our college, which
Sir Christopher Wren had lately built. He knocked down
a proctor's man that wanted to arrest him in a midnight
[pg 246]
prank; he gave a dinner party on the Prince of Wales's
birthday, which was within a fortnight of his own, and the
twenty young gentlemen then present sallied out after their
wine, having toasted King James's health with open windows,
and sung cavalier songs, and shouted, “God save the
King!” in the great court, so that the master came out of
his lodge at midnight, and dissipated the riotous assembly.




This was my lord's crowning freak, and the Rev. Thomas
Tusher, domestic chaplain to the Right Honourable the
Lord Viscount Castlewood, finding his prayers and sermons
of no earthly avail to his lordship, gave up his duties of
governor; went and married his brewer's widow at
Southampton, and took her and her money to his parsonage-house
at Castlewood.




My lady could not be angry with her son for drinking
King James's health, being herself a loyal Tory, as all the
Castlewood family were, and acquiesced with a sigh,
knowing, perhaps, that her refusal would be of no avail to
the young lord's desire for a military life. She would have
liked him to be in Mr. Esmond's regiment, hoping that
Harry might act as guardian and adviser to his wayward
young kinsman; but my young lord would hear of nothing
but the Guards, and a commission was got for him in the
Duke of Ormonde's regiment; so Esmond found my lord,
ensign and lieutenant, when he returned from Germany
after the Blenheim campaign.




The effect produced by both Lady Castlewood's children
when they appeared in public was extraordinary, and the
whole town speedily rang with their fame; such a beautiful
couple, it was declared, never had been seen; the young
maid of honour was toasted at every table and tavern,
and as for my young lord, his good looks were even more
admired than his sister's. A hundred songs were written
about the pair, and as the fashion of that day was, my
young lord was praised in these Anacreontics as warmly
as Bathyllus. You may be sure that he accepted very
complacently the town's opinion of him, and acquiesced
with that frankness and charming good humour he always
showed in the idea that he was the prettiest fellow in all
London.




The old dowager at Chelsea, though she could never be
got to acknowledge that Mrs. Beatrix was any beauty at all
(in which opinion, as it may be imagined, a vast number
[pg 247]
of the ladies agreed with her), yet, on the very first sight
of young Castlewood, she owned she fell in love with him;
and Henry Esmond, on his return to Chelsea, found himself
quite superseded in her favour by her younger kinsman.
That feat of drinking the king's health at Cambridge
would have won her heart, she said, if nothing else did.
“How had the dear young fellow got such beauty?” she
asked. “Not from his father—certainly not from his
mother. How had he come by such noble manners, and
the perfect bel air? That countrified Walcote widow could
never have taught him.” Esmond had his own opinion
about the countrified Walcote widow, who had a quiet
grace, and serene kindness, that had always seemed to
him the perfection of good breeding, though he did not
try to argue this point with his aunt. But he could agree
in most of the praises which the enraptured old dowager
bestowed on my lord viscount, than whom he never
beheld a more fascinating and charming gentleman. Castlewood
had not wit so much as enjoyment. “The lad looks
good things,” Mr. Steele used to say; “and his laugh lights
up a conversation as much as ten repartees from Mr.
Congreve. I would as soon sit over a bottle with him
as with Mr. Addison; and rather listen to his talk than
hear Nicolini. Was ever man so gracefully drunk as my
Lord Castlewood? I would give anything to carry my
wine (though, indeed, Dick bore his very kindly, and
plenty of it, too) like this incomparable young man. When
he is sober he is delightful; and when tipsy, perfectly
irresistible.” And referring to his favourite, Shakespeare
(who was quite out of fashion until Steele brought him
back into the mode), Dick compared Lord Castlewood to
Prince Hal, and was pleased to dub Esmond as ancient
Pistol.




The mistress of the robes, the greatest lady in England
after the queen, or even before her Majesty, as the world
said, though she never could be got to say a civil word to
Beatrix, whom she had promoted to her place as maid of
honour, took her brother into instant favour. When
young Castlewood, in his new uniform, and looking like
a prince out of a fairy-tale, went to pay his duty to her
grace, she looked at him for a minute in silence, the young
man blushing and in confusion before her, then fairly
burst out a-crying, and kissed him before her daughters
[pg 248]
and company. “He was my boy's friend,” she said, through
her sobs. “My Blandford might have been like him.”
And everybody saw, after this mark of the duchess's
favour, that my young lord's promotion was secure, and
people crowded round the favourite's favourite, who became
vainer and gayer, and more good-humoured than ever.




Meanwhile Madam Beatrix was making her conquests on
her own side, and amongst them was one poor gentleman,
who had been shot by her young eyes two years before,
and had never been quite cured of that wound; he knew,
to be sure, how hopeless any passion might be, directed in
that quarter, and had taken that best, though ignoble,
remedium amoris, a speedy retreat from before the
charmer, and a long absence from her; and not being dangerously
smitten in the first instance, Esmond pretty soon got the
better of his complaint, and if he had it still, did not know
he had it, and bore it easily. But when he returned after
Blenheim, the young lady of sixteen, who had appeared
the most beautiful object his eyes had ever looked on two
years back, was now advanced to a perfect ripeness and
perfection of beauty, such as instantly enthralled the poor
devil, who had already been a fugitive from her charms.
Then he had seen her but for two days, and fled; now he
beheld her day after day, and when she was at Court,
watched after her; when she was at home, made one of
the family party; when she went abroad, rode after her
mother's chariot; when she appeared in public places,
was in the box near her, or in the pit looking at her; when
she went to church was sure to be there, though he might
not listen to the sermon, and be ready to hand her to her
chair if she deigned to accept of his services, and select
him from a score of young men who were always hanging
round about her. When she went away, accompanying
her Majesty to Hampton Court, a darkness fell over London.
Gods, what nights has Esmond passed, thinking of her,
rhyming about her, talking about her! His friend Dick
Steele was at this time courting the young lady, Mrs.
Scurlock, whom he married; she had a lodging in Kensington
Square, hard by my Lady Castlewood's house there.
Dick and Harry, being on the same errand, used to meet
constantly at Kensington. They were always prowling
about that place, or dismally walking thence, or eagerly
running thither. They emptied scores of bottles at the
[pg 249]
“King's Arms”, each man prating of his love, and allowing
the other to talk on condition that he might have his own
turn as a listener. Hence arose an intimacy between them,
though to all the rest of their friends they must have been
insufferable. Esmond's verses to “Gloriana at the Harpsichord”,
to “Gloriana's Nosegay”, to “Gloriana at Court”,
appeared this year in the Observator.—Have you never read
them? They were thought pretty poems, and attributed
by some to Mr. Prior.




This passion did not escape—how should it?—the clear
eyes of Esmond's mistress: he told her all; what will
a man not do when frantic with love? To what baseness
will he not demean himself? What pangs will he not make
others suffer, so that he may ease his selfish heart of a part
of its own pain? Day after day he would seek his dear
mistress, pour insane hopes, supplications, rhapsodies,
raptures, into her ear. She listened, smiled, consoled,
with untiring pity and sweetness. Esmond was the eldest
of her children, so she was pleased to say; and as for her
kindness, who ever had or would look for aught else from
one who was an angel of goodness and pity? After what
has been said, 'tis needless almost to add that poor Esmond's
suit was unsuccessful. What was a nameless, penniless
lieutenant to do, when some of the greatest in the land
were in the field? Esmond never so much as thought of
asking permission to hope so far above his reach as he knew
this prize was—and passed his foolish, useless life in mere
abject sighs and impotent longing. What nights of rage,
what days of torment, of passionate unfulfilled desire, of
sickening jealousy, can he recall! Beatrix thought no
more of him than of the lackey that followed her chair.
His complaints did not touch her in the least; his raptures
rather fatigued her; she cared for his verses no more than
for Dan Chaucer's, who's dead these ever so many hundred
years; she did not hate him; she rather despised him,
and just suffered him.




One day, after talking to Beatrix's mother, his dear,
fond, constant mistress—for hours—for all day long—pouring
out his flame and his passion, his despair and rage,
returning again and again to the theme, pacing the room,
tearing up the flowers on the table, twisting and breaking
into bits the wax out of the standish, and performing
a hundred mad freaks of passionate folly; seeing his
[pg 250]
mistress at last quite pale and tired out with sheer weariness
of compassion, and watching over his fever for the hundredth
time, Esmond seized up his hat, and took his leave. As
he got into Kensington Square, a sense of remorse came
over him for the wearisome pain he had been inflicting
upon the dearest and kindest friend ever man had. He
went back to the house, where the servant still stood at
the open door, ran up the stairs, and found his mistress
where he had left her in the embrasure of the window,
looking over the fields towards Chelsea. She laughed,
wiping away at the same time the tears which were in her
kind eyes; he flung himself down on his knees, and buried
his head in her lap. She had in her hand the stalk of one
of the flowers, a pink, that he had torn to pieces. “Oh,
pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and kindest,” he said;
“I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings me a drop
of water.”




“I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you
always,” she said, holding her hands over him; and he
went away comforted and humbled in mind, as he thought
of that amazing and constant love and tenderness with
which this sweet lady ever blessed and pursued him.









 Chapter XI. The Famous Mr. Joseph Addison



The gentlemen ushers had a table at Kensington, and the
Guard a very splendid dinner daily at St. James's, at either
of which ordinaries Esmond was free to dine. Dick Steele
liked the Guard-table better than his own at the gentleman
ushers', where there was less wine and more ceremony;
and Esmond had many a jolly afternoon in company of
his friend, and a hundred times at least saw Dick into his
chair. If there is verity in wine, according to the old
adage, what an amiable-natured character Dick's must
have been! In proportion as he took in wine he overflowed
with kindness. His talk was not witty so much
as charming. He never said a word that could anger anybody,
and only became the more benevolent the more
tipsy he grew. Many of the wags derided the poor fellow
[pg 251]
in his cups, and chose him as a butt for their satire; but
there was a kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy,
that seemed to Esmond far more charming than the pointed
talk of the brightest wits, with their elaborate repartees
and affected severities. I think Steele shone rather than
sparkled. Those famous beaux-esprits
of the coffee-houses (Mr. William Congreve, for instance, when his gout and his
grandeur permitted him to come among us) would make
many brilliant hits—half a dozen in a night sometimes—but,
like sharpshooters, when they had fired their shot,
they were obliged to retire under cover till their pieces
were loaded again, and wait till they got another chance
at their enemy; whereas Dick never thought that his
bottle-companion was a butt to aim at—only a friend to
shake by the hand. The poor fellow had half the town
in his confidence; everybody knew everything about his
loves and his debts, his creditors or his mistress's obduracy.
When Esmond first came on to the town, honest Dick was
all flames and raptures for a young lady, a West India
fortune, whom he married. In a couple of years the lady
was dead, the fortune was all but spent, and the honest
widower was as eager in pursuit of a new paragon of beauty
as if he had never courted and married and buried the
last one.




Quitting the Guard-table on one sunny afternoon, when
by chance Dick had a sober fit upon him, he and his friend
were making their way down Germain Street, and Dick
all of a sudden left his companion's arm, and ran after
a gentleman who was poring over a folio volume at the
book-shop near to St. James's Church. He was a fair,
tall man, in a snuff-coloured suit, with a plain sword, very
sober, and almost shabby in appearance—at least when
compared to Captain Steele, who loved to adorn his jolly
round person with the finest of clothes, and shone in
scarlet and gold lace. The captain rushed up, then, to
the student of the bookstall, took him in his arms, hugged
him, and would have kissed him—for Dick was always
hugging and bussing his friends—but the other stepped
back with a flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this
public manifestation of Steele's regard.




“My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this
age?” cries the captain, still holding both his friend's
hands; “I have been languishing for thee this fortnight.”


[pg 252]


“A fortnight is not an age, Dick,” says the other, very
good-humouredly. (He had light blue eyes, extraordinary
bright, and a face perfectly regular and handsome, like
a tinted statue.) “And I have been hiding myself—where
do you think?”




“What! not across the water, my dear Joe?” says
Steele, with a look of great alarm: “thou knowest I have
always——”




“No,” says his friend, interrupting him with a smile:
“we are not come to such straits as that, Dick. I have
been hiding, sir, at a place where people never think of finding
you—at my own lodgings, whither I am going to smoke
a pipe now and drink a glass of sack; will your honour
come?”




“Harry Esmond, come hither,” cries out Dick. “Thou
hast heard me talk over and over again at my dearest Joe,
my guardian angel.”




“Indeed,” says Mr. Esmond, with a bow, “it is not from
you only that I have learnt to admire Mr. Addison. We
loved good poetry at Cambridge, as well as at Oxford;
and I have some of yours by heart, though I have put on
a red-coat ... ‘O qui canoro blandius Orpheo vocale
ducis carmen’; shall I go on, sir?” says Mr. Esmond,
who indeed had read and loved the charming Latin poems
of Mr. Addison, as every scholar of that time knew and
admired them.




“This is Captain Esmond who was at Blenheim,” says
Steele.




“Lieutenant Esmond,” says the other, with a low bow;
“at Mr. Addison's service.”




“I have heard of you,” says Mr. Addison, with a smile;
as, indeed, everybody about town had heard that unlucky
story about Esmond's dowager aunt and the duchess.




“We were going to the ‘George’, to take a bottle before
the play,” says Steele; “wilt thou be one, Joe?”




Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard by, where
he was still rich enough to give a good bottle of wine to his
friends; and invited the two gentlemen to his apartment
in the Haymarket, whither we accordingly went.




“I shall get credit with my landlady,” says he, with
a smile, “when she sees two such fine gentlemen as you
come up my stair.” And he politely made his visitors
welcome to his apartment, which was indeed but a shabby
[pg 253]
one, though no grandee of the land could receive his guests
with a more perfect and courtly grace than this gentleman.
A frugal dinner, consisting of a slice of meat and a penny
loaf, was awaiting the owner of the lodgings. “My wine
is better than my meat,” says Mr. Addison; “my Lord
Halifax sent me the burgundy.” And he set a bottle and
glasses before his friends, and eat his simple dinner in
a very few minutes, after which the three fell to, and
began to drink. “You see,” says Mr. Addison, pointing
to his writing-table, whereon was a map of the action at
Hochstedt, and several other gazettes and pamphlets
relating to the battle, “that I, too, am busy about your
affairs, captain. I am engaged as a poetical gazetteer, to
say truth, and am writing a poem on the campaign.”




So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what
he knew about the famous battle, drew the river on the
table, aliquo mero,
and with the aid of some bits of tobacco-pipe,
showed the advance of the left wing, where he had
been engaged.




A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table
beside our bottles and glasses, and Dick having plentifully
refreshed himself from the latter, took up the pages of
manuscript, writ out with scarce a blot or correction, in
the author's slim, neat handwriting, and began to read
therefrom with great emphasis and volubility. At pauses
of the verse the enthusiastic reader stopped and fired off
a great salvo of applause.




Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend.




“You are like the German burghers,” says he, “and the
princes on the Mozelle; when our army came to a halt,
they always sent a deputation to compliment the chief,
and fired a salute with all their artillery from their walls.”




“And drunk the great chief's health afterward, did not
they?” says Captain Steele, gaily filling up a bumper;—he
never was tardy at that sort of acknowledgement of
a friend's merit.




“And the duke, since you will have me act his grace's
part,” says Mr. Addison, with a smile and something of
a blush, “pledged his friends in return. Most serene
Elector of Covent Garden, I drink to your highness's
health,” and he filled himself a glass. Joseph required
scarce more pressing than Dick to that sort of amusement;
but the wine never seemed at all to fluster Mr. Addison's
[pg 254]
brains; it only unloosed his tongue, whereas Captain
Steele's head and speech were quite overcome by a single
bottle.




No matter what the verses were, and, to say truth, Mr.
Esmond found some of them more than indifferent, Dick's
enthusiasm for his chief never faltered, and in every line
from Addison's pen, Steele found a master-stroke. By the
time Dick had come to that part of the poem, wherein the
bard describes as blandly as though he were recording
a dance at the Opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic cudgelling
at a village fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our
campaign, with the remembrance whereof every soldier who
bore a part in it must sicken with shame—when we were
ordered to ravage and lay waste the Elector's country;
and with fire and murder, slaughter and crime, a great
part of his dominions was overrun: when Dick came to
the lines—







In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand


With sword and fire, and ravages the land.


In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn,


A thousand villages to ashes turn.


To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat,


And mixed with bellowing herds confusedly bleat.


Their trembling lords the common shade partake,


And cries of infants found in every brake.


The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands,


Loath to obey his leader's just commands.


The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed,


To see his just commands so well obeyed:







by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick
to a perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccuped out the
last line with a tenderness that set one of his auditors
a-laughing.




“I admire the licence of you poets,” says Esmond to Mr.
Addison. (Dick, after reading of the verses, was fain to
go off, insisting on kissing his two dear friends before his
departure, and reeling away with his periwig over his
eyes.) “I admire your art: the murder of the campaign
is done to military music, like a battle at the Opera, and
the virgins shriek in harmony, as our victorious grenadiers
march into their villages. Do you know what a scene it
was” (by this time, perhaps, the wine had warmed Mr.
Esmond's head too),—“what a triumph you are celebrating?
[pg 255]
what scenes of shame and horror were enacted, over which
the commander's genius presided, as calm as though he
didn't belong to our sphere? You talk of the ‘listening
soldier fixed in sorrow’, the ‘leader's grief swayed by
generous pity’; to my belief the leader cared no more
for bleating flocks than he did for infants' cries, and many
of our ruffians butchered one or the other with equal
alacrity. I was ashamed of my trade when I saw those
horrors perpetrated, which came under every man's eyes.
You hew out of your polished verses a stately image of
smiling victory; I tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted,
savage idol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous. The rites
performed before it are shocking to think of. You great
poets should show it as it is—ugly and horrible, not beautiful
and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, believe
me, you never would have sung it so.”




During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listening,
smoking out of his long pipe, and smiling very placidly.
“What would you have?” says he. “In our polished days,
and according to the rules of art, 'tis impossible that the
Muse should depict tortures or begrime her hands with the
horrors of war. These are indicated rather than described;
as in the Greek tragedies, that, I dare say, you have read
(and sure there can be no more elegant specimens of
composition); Agamemnon is slain, or Medea's children
destroyed, away from the scene;—the chorus occupying
the stage and singing of the action to pathetic music.
Something of this I attempt, my dear sir, in my humble
way: 'tis a panegyric I mean to write, and not a satire.
Were I to sing as you would have me, the town would tear
the poet in pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the
common hangman. Do you not use tobacco? Of all the
weeds grown on earth, sure the nicotian is the most soothing
and salutary. We must paint our great duke,” Mr. Addison
went on, “not as a man, which no doubt he is, with weaknesses
like the rest of us, but as a hero. 'Tis in a triumph,
not a battle, that your humble servant is riding his sleek
Pegasus. We college-poets trot, you know, on very easy
nags; it hath been, time out of mind, part of the poet's
profession to celebrate the actions of heroes in verse, and
to sing the deeds which you men of war perform. I must
follow the rules of my art, and the composition of such
a strain as this must be harmonious and majestic, not
[pg 256]
familiar, or too near the vulgar truth. Si
parva licet: if
Virgil could invoke the divine Augustus, a humbler poet
from the banks of the Isis may celebrate a victory and a conqueror
of our own nation, in whose triumphs every Briton
has a share, and whose glory and genius contributes to every
citizen's individual honour. When hath there been, since
our Henrys' and Edwards' days, such a great feat of arms
as that from which you yourself have brought away marks
of distinction? If 'tis in my power to sing that song
worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my Muse. If
I fail as a poet, as a Briton at least I will show my loyalty
and fling up my cap and huzzah for the conqueror:







————“Rheni pacator et Istri


Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit


Ordinibus; laetatur eques, plauditque senator,


Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.”







“There were as brave men on that field,” says Mr.
Esmond (who never could be made to love the Duke of
Marlborough, nor to forget those stories which he used to
hear in his youth regarding that great chief's selfishness
and treachery)—“there were men at Blenheim as good as
the leader, whom neither knights nor senators applauded,
nor voices plebeian or patrician favoured, and who lie there
forgotten, under the clods. What poet is there to sing
them?”




“To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades!”
says Mr. Addison, with a smile: “would you celebrate
them all? If I may venture to question anything in such
an admirable work, the catalogue of the ships in Homer
hath always appeared to me as somewhat wearisome;
what had the poem been, supposing the writer had chronicled
the names of captains, lieutenants, rank and file?
One of the greatest of a great man's qualities is success;
'tis the result of all the others; 'tis a latent power in him
which compels the favour of the gods, and subjugates
fortune. Of all his gifts I admire that one in the great
Marlborough. To be brave? every man is brave. But
in being victorious, as he is, I fancy there is something
divine. In presence of the occasion, the great soul of
the leader shines out, and the god is confessed. Death
itself respects him, and passes by him to lay others low.
War and carnage flee before him to ravage other parts of
[pg 257]
the field, as Hector from before the divine Achilles. You
say he hath no pity; no more have the gods, who are
above it, and superhuman. The fainting battle gathers
strength at his aspect; and, wherever he rides, victory
charges with him.”




A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited his
poetic friend, he found this thought, struck out in the
fervour of conversation, improved and shaped into those
famous lines, which are in truth the noblest in the poem
of the Campaign. As the two gentlemen sat engaged
in talk, Mr. Addison solacing himself with his customary
pipe; the little maidservant that waited on his lodging
came up, preceding a gentleman in fine laced clothes, that
had evidently been figuring at Court or a great man's
levee. The courtier coughed a little at the smoke of the
pipe, and looked round the room curiously, which was
shabby enough, as was the owner in his worn snuff-coloured
suit and plain tie-wig.




“How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?” says
the Court gentleman on looking down at the papers that
were on the table.




“We were but now over it,” says Addison (the greatest
courtier in the land could not have a more splendid politeness,
or greater dignity of manner); “here is the plan,”
says he, “on the table; hac
ibat Simois, here ran the little
river Nebel: hic est Sigeia tellus,
here are Tallard's quarters,
at the bowl of this pipe, at the attack of which Captain
Esmond was present. I have the honour to introduce him
to Mr. Boyle; and Mr. Esmond was but now depicting
aliquo praelia mixta mero, when you came in.” In truth
the two gentlemen had been so engaged when the visitor
arrived, and Addison, in his smiling way, speaking of
Mr. Webb, colonel of Esmond's regiment (who commanded
a brigade in the action, and greatly distinguished himself
there), was lamenting that he could find never a suitable
rhyme for Webb, otherwise the brigade should have had
a place in the poet's verses. “And for you, you are but
a lieutenant,” says Addison, “and the Muse can't occupy
herself with any gentleman under the rank of a field-officer.”




Mr. Boyle was all impatient to hear, saying that my
Lord Treasurer and my Lord Halifax were equally anxious;
and Addison, blushing, began reading of his verses, and,
[pg 258]
I suspect, knew their weak parts as well as the most critical
hearer. When he came to the lines describing the
angel, that







Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,


And taught the doubtful battle where to rage,







he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much
as to say, “You know where that simile came from—from
our talk, and our bottle of burgundy, the other day.”




The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm,
and applauded the verses with all their might. The
gentleman of the Court sprang up in great delight. “Not
a word more, my dear sir,” says he. “Trust me with the
papers—I'll defend them with my life. Let me read them
over to my Lord Treasurer, whom I am appointed to see
in half an hour. I venture to promise, the verses shall
lose nothing by my reading, and then, sir, we shall see
whether Lord Halifax has a right to complain that his
friend's pension is no longer paid.” And without more
ado, the courtier in lace seized the manuscript pages,
placed them in his breast with his ruffled hand over his
heart, executed a most gracious wave of the hat with the
disengaged hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room,
leaving an odour of pomander behind him.




“Does not the chamber look quite dark,” says Addison,
surveying it, “after the glorious appearance and disappearance
of that gracious messenger? Why, he illuminated the
whole room. Your scarlet, Mr. Esmond, will bear any
light; but this threadbare old coat of mine, how very
worn it looked under the glare of that splendour! I wonder
whether they will do anything for me,” he continued.
“When I came out of Oxford into the world, my patrons
promised me great things; and you see where their promises
have landed me, in a lodging up two pair of stairs,
with a sixpenny dinner from the cook's shop. Well,
I suppose this promise will go after the others, and fortune
will jilt me, as the jade has been doing any time these
seven years. ‘I puff the prostitute away,’ ” says he,
smiling, and blowing a cloud out of his pipe. “There is
no hardship in poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable; no
hardship even in honest dependence that an honest man
may not put up with. I came out of the lap of Alma
Mater, puffed up with her praises of me, and thinking to
[pg 259]
make a figure in the world with the parts and learning
which had got me no small name in our college. The
world is the ocean, and Isis and Charwell are but little
drops, of which the sea takes no account. My reputation
ended a mile beyond Maudlin Tower; no one took note
of me; and I learned this, at least, to bear up against
evil fortune with a cheerful heart. Friend Dick hath
made a figure in the world, and has passed me in the race
long ago. What matters a little name or a little fortune?
There is no fortune that a philosopher cannot endure.
I have been not unknown as a scholar, and yet forced to live
by turning bear-leader, and teaching a boy to spell. What
then? The life was not pleasant, but possible—the bear
was bearable. Should this venture fail, I will go back to
Oxford; and some day, when you are a general, you shall
find me a curate in a cassock and bands, and I shall welcome
your honour to my cottage in the country, and to a mug
of penny ale. 'Tis not poverty that's the hardest to bear,
or the least happy lot in life,” says Mr. Addison, shaking
the ash out of his pipe. “See, my pipe is smoked out.
Shall we have another bottle? I have still a couple in the
cupboard, and of the right sort. No more?—let us go
abroad and take a turn on the Mall, or look in at the theatre
and see Dick's comedy. 'Tis not a masterpiece of wit;
but Dick is a good fellow, though he doth not set the
Thames on fire.”




Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket had
come up a prodigious prize in the lottery of life. All the
town was in an uproar of admiration of his poem, the
Campaign, which Dick Steele was spouting at every coffee-house
in Whitehall and Covent Garden. The wits on the
other side of Temple Bar saluted him at once as the
greatest poet the world had seen for ages; the people
huzza'ed for Marlborough and for Addison, and, more
than this, the party in power provided for the meritorious
poet, and Mr. Addison got the appointment of
Commissioner of Excise, which the famous Mr. Locke
vacated, and rose from this place to other dignities and
honours; his prosperity from henceforth to the end of his
life being scarce ever interrupted. But I doubt whether
he was not happier in his garret in the Haymarket, than
ever he was in his splendid palace at Kensington; and
I believe the fortune that came to him in the shape of
[pg 260]
the countess his wife, was no better than a shrew and
a vixen.






Gay as the town was, 'twas but a dreary place for Mr.
Esmond, whether his charmer was in it or out of it, and
he was glad when his general gave him notice that he was
going back to his division of the army which lay in winter
quarters at Bois-le-Duc. His dear mistress bade him
farewell with a cheerful face; her blessing he knew he had
always, and wheresoever fate carried him. Mrs. Beatrix
was away in attendance on her Majesty at Hampton Court,
and kissed her fair finger-tips to him, by way of adieu,
when he rode thither to take his leave. She received her
kinsman in a waiting-room where there were half a dozen
more ladies of the Court, so that his high-flown speeches,
had he intended to make any (and very likely he did),
were impossible; and she announced to her friends that
her cousin was going to the army, in as easy a manner
as she would have said he was going to a chocolate-house.
He asked with a rather rueful face, if she had any orders
for the army? and she was pleased to say that she would
like a mantle of Mechlin lace. She made him a saucy
curtsy in reply to his own dismal bow. She deigned to
kiss her finger-tips from the window, where she stood
laughing with the other ladies, and chanced to see him
as he made his way to the “Toy”. The dowager at Chelsea
was not sorry to part with him this time. “Mon cher,
vous êtes triste comme un sermon,” she did him the honour
to say to him; indeed, gentlemen in his condition are by
no means amusing companions, and besides, the fickle old
woman had now found a much more amiable favourite,
and raffole'd for her darling lieutenant of the Guard.
Frank remained behind for a while, and did not join the army
till later, in the suite of his grace the commander-in-chief.
His dear mother, on the last day before Esmond went
away, and when the three dined together, made Esmond
promise to befriend her boy, and besought Frank to take
the example of his kinsman as of a loyal gentleman and
brave soldier, so she was pleased to say; and at parting,
betrayed not the least sign of faltering or weakness, though,
God knows, that fond heart was fearful enough when others
were concerned, though so resolute in bearing its own pain.




Esmond's general embarked at Harwich. 'Twas a grand
[pg 261]
sight to see Mr. Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck,
waving his hat as our yacht put off, and the guns saluted
from the shore. Harry did not see his viscount again,
until three months after, at Bois-le-Duc, when his grace
the duke came to take the command, and Frank brought
a budget of news from home: how he had supped with
this actress, and got tired of that; how he had got the
better of Mr. St. John, both over the bottle, and with
Mrs. Mountford, of the Haymarket Theatre (a veteran
charmer of fifty, with whom the young scapegrace chose
to fancy himself in love); how his sister was always at
her tricks, and had jilted a young baron for an old earl.
“I can't make out Beatrix,” he said; “she cares for none
of us—she only thinks about herself; she is never happy
unless she is quarrelling; but as for my mother—my
mother, Harry, is an angel.” Harry tried to impress on
the young fellow the necessity of doing everything in his
power to please that angel; not to drink too much; not
to go into debt; not to run after the pretty Flemish girls,
and so forth, as became a senior speaking to a lad. “But
Lord bless thee!” the boy said; “I may do what I like,
and I know she will love me all the same;” and so, indeed,
he did what he liked. Everybody spoiled him, and his
grave kinsman as much as the rest.









 Chapter XII. I Get A Company In The Campaign Of 1706



On Whit Sunday, the famous 23rd of May, 1706, my young
lord first came under the fire of the enemy, whom we
found posted in order of battle, their lines extending three
miles or more, over the high ground behind the little
Gheet river, and having on his left the little village of
Anderkirk or Autre-église, and on his right Ramillies,
which has given its name to one of the most brilliant and
disastrous days of battle that history ever hath recorded.




Our duke here once more met his old enemy of Blenheim,
the Bavarian Elector and the Mareschal Villeroy, over whom
the Prince of Savoy had gained the famous victory of
Chiari. What Englishman or Frenchman doth not know
[pg 262]
the issue of that day? Having chosen his own ground,
having a force superior to the English, and besides the
excellent Spanish and Bavarian troops, the whole Maison-du-Roy
with him, the most splendid body of horse in the
world,—in an hour (and in spite of the prodigious gallantry
of the French Royal Household, who charged through the
centre of our line and broke it), this magnificent army of
Villeroy was utterly routed by troops that had been marching
for twelve hours, and by the intrepid skill of a commander,
who did, indeed, seem in the presence of the enemy
to be the very Genius of Victory.




I think it was more from conviction than policy, though
that policy was surely the most prudent in the world, that
the great duke always spoke of his victories with an extraordinary
modesty, and as if it was not so much his own
admirable genius and courage which achieved these amazing
successes, but as if he was a special and fatal instrument in
the hands of Providence, that willed irresistibly the enemy's
overthrow. Before his actions he always had the church service
read solemnly, and professed an undoubting belief that
our queen's arms were blessed and our victory sure. All the
letters which he writ after his battles show awe rather than
exultation; and he attributes the glory of these achievements,
about which I have heard mere petty officers and
men bragging with a pardonable vainglory, in no wise to
his own bravery or skill, but to the superintending protection
of Heaven, which he ever seemed to think was our
especial ally. And our army got to believe so, and the
enemy learnt to think so too; for we never entered into
a battle without a perfect confidence that it was to end in
a victory; nor did the French, after the issue of Blenheim,
and that astonishing triumph of Ramillies, ever meet us
without feeling that the game was lost before it was begun
to be played, and that our general's fortune was irresistible.
Here, as at Blenheim, the duke's charger was shot, and
'twas thought for a moment he was dead. As he mounted
another, Binfield, his master of the horse, kneeling to
hold his grace's stirrup, had his head shot away by a cannon-ball.
A French gentleman of the Royal Household, that
was a prisoner with us, told the writer that at the time of the
charge of the Household, when their horse and ours were
mingled, an Irish officer recognized the Prince-Duke, and
calling out—“Marlborough, Marlborough!” fired his pistol
[pg 263]
at him à bout
portant, and that a score more carbines and
pistols were discharged at him. Not one touched him: he
rode through the French Cuirassiers sword in hand, and
entirely unhurt, and calm and smiling rallied the German
horse, that was reeling before the enemy, brought these
and twenty squadrons of Orkney's back upon them, and
drove the French across the river again—leading the charge
himself, and defeating the only dangerous move the French
made that day.




Major-General Webb commanded on the left of our line,
and had his own regiment under the orders of their beloved
colonel. Neither he nor they belied their character for
gallantry on this occasion; but it was about his dear young
lord that Esmond was anxious, never having sight of him
save once, in the whole course of the day, when he brought
an order from the commander-in-chief to Mr. Webb. When
our horse, having charged round the right flank of the
enemy by Overkirk, had thrown him into entire confusion,
a general advance was made, and our whole line of foot,
crossing the little river and the morass, ascended the high
ground where the French were posted, cheering as they
went, the enemy retreating before them. 'Twas a service
of more glory than danger, the French battalions never
waiting to exchange push of pike or bayonet with ours;
and the gunners flying from their pieces which our line left
behind us as they advanced, and the French fell back.




At first it was a retreat orderly enough; but presently
the retreat became a rout, and a frightful slaughter of the
French ensued on this panic; so that an army of sixty
thousand men was utterly crushed and destroyed in the course
of a couple of hours. It was as if a hurricane had seized
a compact and numerous fleet, flung it all to the winds,
shattered, sunk, and annihilated it; afflavit Deus, et dissipati
sunt. The French army of Flanders was gone, their artillery,
their standards, their treasure, provisions, and ammunition
were all left behind them: the poor devils had even fled
without their soup-kettles, which are as much the palladia
of the French infantry as of the Grand Signor's Janizaries,
and round which they rally even more than round their lilies.




The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage which ensued (for
the dregs of a battle, however brilliant, are ever a base
residue of rapine, cruelty, and drunken plunder), was carried
far beyond the field of Ramillies.


[pg 264]


Honest Lockwood, Esmond's servant, no doubt wanted
to be among the marauders himself and take his share of the
booty; for when, the action over, and the troops got to
their ground for the night, the captain bade Lockwood get
a horse, he asked, with a very rueful countenance, whether
his honour would have him come too; but his honour only
bade him go about his own business, and Jack hopped away
quite delighted as soon as he saw his master mounted.
Esmond made his way, and not without danger and difficulty,
to his grace's head quarters, and found for himself
very quickly where the aides de camp's quarters were, in an
outbuilding of a farm, where several of these gentlemen
were seated, drinking and singing, and at supper. If he
had any anxiety about his boy, 'twas relieved at once. One
of the gentlemen was singing a song to a tune that Mr.
Farquhar and Mr. Gay both had used in their admirable
comedies, and very popular in the army of that day; after
the song came a chorus, “Over the hills and far away”;
and Esmond heard Frank's fresh voice soaring, as it were,
over the songs of the rest of the young men—a voice that
had always a certain artless, indescribable pathos with it,
and indeed which caused Mr. Esmond's eyes to fill with
tears now, out of thankfulness to God the child was safe
and still alive to laugh and sing.




When the song was over Esmond entered the room, where
he knew several of the gentlemen present, and there sat
my young lord, having taken off his cuirass, his waistcoat
open, his face flushed, his long yellow hair hanging over
his shoulders, drinking with the rest; the youngest, gayest,
handsomest there. As soon as he saw Esmond, he clapped
down his glass, and running towards his friend, put both
his arms round him and embraced him. The other's voice
trembled with joy as he greeted the lad; he had thought
but now as he stood in the courtyard under the clear-shining
moonlight: “Great God! what a scene of murder
is here within a mile of us; what hundreds and thousands
have faced danger to-day; and here are these lads singing
over their cups, and the same moon that is shining over
yonder horrid field is looking down on Walcote very likely,
while my lady sits and thinks about her boy that is at the
war.” As Esmond embraced his young pupil now, 'twas
with the feeling of quite religious thankfulness, and an
almost paternal pleasure that he beheld him.


[pg 265]


Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that was
made of small brilliants and might be worth a hundred
crowns. “Look,” says he, “won't that be a pretty present
for mother?”




“Who gave you the Order?” says Harry, saluting the
gentleman: “did you win it in battle?”




“I won it,” cried the other, “with my sword and my spear.
There was a mousquetaire that had it round his neck—such
a big mousquetaire, as big as General Webb. I called out
to him to surrender, and that I'd give him quarter: he
called me a petit
polisson, and fired his pistol at me, and
then sent it at my head with a curse. I rode at him, sir,
drove my sword right under his arm-hole, and broke it in
the rascal's body. I found a purse in his holster with sixty-five
louis in it, and a bundle of love-letters, and a flask of
Hungary-water. Vive la guerre! there are the ten pieces
you lent me. I should like to have a fight every day;”
and he pulled at his little moustache and bade a servant
bring a supper to Captain Esmond.




Harry fell to with a very good appetite; he had tasted
nothing since twenty hours ago, at early dawn. Master
Grandson, who read this, do you look for the history of
battles and sieges? Go, find them in the proper books;
this is only the story of your grandfather and his family.
Far more pleasant to him than the victory, though for that
too he may say meminisse juvat, it was to find that the
day was over, and his dear young Castlewood was unhurt.




And would you, sirrah, wish to know how it was that
a sedate captain of foot, a studious and rather solitary
bachelor of eight or nine and twenty years of age, who did
not care very much for the jollities which his comrades
engaged in, and was never known to lose his heart in any
garrison town—should you wish to know why such a man
had so prodigious a tenderness, and tended so fondly a boy
of eighteen, wait, my good friend, until thou art in love
with thy schoolfellow's sister, and then see how mighty
tender thou wilt be towards him. Esmond's general and
his grace the prince-duke were notoriously at variance,
and the former's friendship was in no wise likely to advance
any man's promotion, of whose services Webb spoke well;
but rather likely to injure him, so the army said, in the
favour of the greater man. However, Mr. Esmond had the
good fortune to be mentioned very advantageously by
[pg 266]
Major-General Webb in his report after the action; and
the major of his regiment and two of the captains having
been killed upon the day of Ramillies, Esmond, who was
second of the lieutenants, got his company, and had the
honour of serving as Captain Esmond in the next campaign.




My lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid
to follow him. His dear mistress wrote him letters more
than once, thanking him, as mothers know how to thank, for
his care and protection of her boy, extolling Esmond's own
merits with a great deal more praise than they deserved;
for he did his duty no better than any other officer; and
speaking sometimes, though gently and cautiously, of
Beatrix. News came from home of at least half a dozen
grand matches that the beautiful maid of honour was about
to make. She was engaged to an earl, our gentlemen of
St. James's said, and then jilted him for a duke, who, in his
turn, had drawn off. Earl or duke it might be who should
win this Helen, Esmond knew she would never bestow herself
on a poor captain. Her conduct, it was clear, was
little satisfactory to her mother, who scarcely mentioned
her, or else the kind lady thought it was best to say nothing,
and leave time to work out its cure. At any rate, Harry
was best away from the fatal object which always wrought
him so much mischief; and so he never asked for leave to go
home, but remained with his regiment that was garrisoned
in Brussels, which city fell into our hands when the victory
of Ramillies drove the French out of Flanders.









 Chapter XIII. I Meet An Old Acquaintance In Flanders, And Find My Mother's
Grave And My Own Cradle There



Being one day in the Church of St. Gudule, at Brussels,
admiring the antique splendour of the architecture (and
always entertaining a great tenderness and reverence for
the Mother Church, that hath been as wickedly persecuted
in England as ever she herself persecuted in the days of her
prosperity), Esmond saw kneeling at a side altar, an officer
in a green uniform coat, very deeply engaged in devotion.
Something familiar in the figure and posture of the kneeling
man struck Captain Esmond, even before he saw the
[pg 267]
officer's face. As he rose up, putting away into his pocket
a little black breviary, such as priests use, Esmond beheld
a countenance so like that of his friend and tutor of early
days, Father Holt, that he broke out into an exclamation of
astonishment and advanced a step towards the gentleman,
who was making his way out of church. The German
officer too looked surprised when he saw Esmond, and his
face from being pale grew suddenly red. By this mark
of recognition, the Englishman knew that he could not be
mistaken; and though the other did not stop, but on the
contrary rather hastily walked away towards the door,
Esmond pursued him and faced him once more, as the
officer helping himself to holy water, turned mechanically
towards the altar to bow to it ere he quitted the sacred
edifice.




“My father!” says Esmond in English.




“Silence! I do not understand. I do not speak English,”
says the other in Latin.




Esmond smiled at this sign of confusion, and replied in
the same language. “I should know my father in any
garment, black or white, shaven or bearded,” for the
Austrian officer was habited quite in the military manner,
and had as warlike a moustachio as any Pandour.




He laughed—we were on the church steps by this time,
passing through the crowd of beggars that usually is there
holding up little trinkets for sale and whining for alms.
“You speak Latin,” says he, “in the English way, Harry
Esmond; you have forsaken the old true Roman tongue
you once knew.” His tone was very frank, and friendly
quite; the kind voice of fifteen years back; he gave Esmond
his hand as he spoke.




“Others have changed their coats too, my father,” says
Esmond, glancing at his friend's military decoration.




“Hush! I am Mr. or Captain von Holtz, in the Bavarian
Elector's service, and on a mission to his highness the
Prince of Savoy. You can keep a secret I know from
old times.”




“Captain von Holtz,” says Esmond, “I am your very
humble servant.”




“And you, too, have changed your coat,” continues the
other, in his laughing way; “I have heard of you at Cambridge
and afterwards: we have friends everywhere; and
I am told that Mr. Esmond at Cambridge was as good a
[pg 268]
fencer as he was a bad theologian.” (So, thinks Esmond,
my old maitre d'armes was a Jesuit as they said.)




“Perhaps you are right,” says the other, reading his
thoughts quite as he used to do in old days: “you were all
but killed at Hochstedt of a wound in the left side. You
were before that at Vigo, aide de camp to the Duke of
Ormonde. You got your company the other day after
Ramillies; your general and the prince-duke are not
friends; he is of the Webbs of Lydiard Tregoze, in the
county of York, a relation of my Lord St. John. Your
cousin, Monsieur de Castlewood, served his first campaign
this year in the Guard; yes, I do know a few things as
you see.”




Captain Esmond laughed in his turn. “You have
indeed a curious knowledge,” he says. A foible of Mr. Holt's,
who did know more about books and men than, perhaps,
almost any person Esmond had ever met, was omniscience;
thus in every point he here professed to know, he was nearly
right, but not quite. Esmond's wound was in the right
side, not the left, his first general was General Lumley;
Mr. Webb came out of Wiltshire, not out of Yorkshire;
and so forth. Esmond did not think fit to correct his old
master in these trifling blunders, but they served to give
him a knowledge of the other's character, and he smiled to
think that this was his oracle of early days; only now no
longer infallible or divine.




“Yes,” continues Father Holt, or Captain von Holtz,
“for a man who has not been in England these eight years,
I know what goes on in London very well. The old dean
is dead, my Lady Castlewood's father. Do you know that
your recusant bishops wanted to consecrate him Bishop of
Southampton, and that Collier is Bishop of Thetford by
the same imposition? The Princess Anne has the gout and
eats too much; when the king returns, Collier will be an
archbishop.”




“Amen!” says Esmond, laughing; “and I hope to see
your eminence no longer in jack-boots, but red stockings,
at Whitehall.”




“You are always with us—I know that—I heard of that
when you were at Cambridge; so was the late lord; so is
the young viscount.”




“And so was my father before me,” said Mr. Esmond,
looking calmly at the other, who did not, however, show the
[pg 269]
least sign of intelligence in his impenetrable grey eyes—how
well Harry remembered them and their look! only
crows' feet were wrinkled round them—marks of black old
Time had settled there.




Esmond's face chose to show no more sign of meaning
than the father's. There may have been on the one side and
the other just the faintest glitter of recognition, as you see
a bayonet shining out of an ambush; but each party fell
back, when everything was again dark.




“And you, mon
capitaine, where have you been?” says
Esmond, turning away the conversation from this dangerous
ground, where neither chose to engage.




“I may have been in Pekin,” says he, “or I may have
been in Paraguay—who knows where? I am now Captain
von Holtz, in the service of his electoral highness, come to
negotiate exchange of prisoners with his highness of Savoy.”




'Twas well known that very many officers in our army
were well-affected towards the young king at St. Germains,
whose right to the throne was undeniable, and whose
accession to it, at the death of his sister, by far the greater
part of the English people would have preferred, to the
having a petty German prince for a sovereign, about whose
cruelty, rapacity, boorish manners, and odious foreign ways,
a thousand stories were current. It wounded our English pride
to think, that a shabby High-Dutch duke, whose revenues
were not a tithe as great as those of many of the princes
of our ancient English nobility, who could not speak a word
of our language, and whom we chose to represent as a sort
of German boor, feeding on train-oil and sauerkraut, with
a bevy of mistresses in a barn, should come to reign over the
proudest and most polished people in the world. Were we,
the conquerors of the Grand Monarch, to submit to that
ignoble domination? What did the Hanoverian's Protestantism
matter to us? Was it not notorious (we were told
and led to believe so) that one of the daughters of this
Protestant hero was being bred up with no religion at all,
as yet, and ready to be made Lutheran or Roman, according
as the husband might be, whom her parents should find for
her? This talk, very idle and abusive much of it was, went
on at a hundred mess-tables in the army; there was scarce
an ensign that did not hear it, or join in it, and everybody
knew, or affected to know, that the commander-in-chief
himself had relations with his nephew, the Duke of Berwick
[pg 270]
('twas by an Englishman, thank God, that we were beaten
at Almanza), and that his grace was most anxious to restore
the royal race of his benefactors, and to repair his former
treason.




This is certain, that for a considerable period no officer in
the duke's army lost favour with the commander-in-chief
for entertaining or proclaiming his loyalty towards the
exiled family. When the Chevalier de St. George, as the
King of England called himself, came with the dukes of
the French blood royal, to join the French army under
Vendosme, hundreds of ours saw him and cheered him, and
we all said he was like his father in this, who, seeing the
action of La Hogue fought between the French ships and
ours, was on the side of his native country during the
battle. But this, at least the chevalier knew, and every
one knew, that, however well our troops and their general
might be inclined towards the prince personally, in the
face of the enemy there was no question at all. Wherever
my lord duke found a French army, he would fight and
beat it, as he did at Oudenarde, two years after Ramillies,
where his grace achieved another of his transcendent victories;
and the noble young prince, who charged gallantly
along with the magnificent Maison-du-Roy, sent to compliment
his conquerors after the action.




In this battle, where the young Electoral Prince of
Hanover behaved himself very gallantly, fighting on our
side, Esmond's dear General Webb distinguished himself
prodigiously, exhibiting consummate skill and coolness as
a general, and fighting with the personal bravery of a common
soldier. Esmond's good luck again attended him;
he escaped without a hurt, although more than a third of
his regiment was killed, had again the honour to be favourably
mentioned in his commander's report, and was advanced
to the rank of major. But of this action there is
little need to speak, as it hath been related in every Gazette,
and talked of in every hamlet in this country. To return
from it to the writer's private affairs, which here, in his old
age, and at a distance, he narrates for his children who
come after him. Before Oudenarde, and after that chance
rencontre with Captain von Holtz at Brussels, a space of
more than a year elapsed, during which the captain of
Jesuits and the captain of Webb's Fusiliers were thrown
very much together. Esmond had no difficulty in finding
[pg 271]
out (indeed, the other made no secret of it to him, being
assured from old times of his pupil's fidelity), that the
negotiator of prisoners was an agent from St. Germains,
and that he carried intelligence between great personages
in our camp and that of the French. “My business,” said he,
“and I tell you, both because I can trust you, and your
keen eyes have already discovered it, is between the King
of England and his subjects, here engaged in fighting the
French king. As between you and them, all the Jesuits
in the world will not prevent your quarrelling: fight it out,
gentlemen. St. George for England, I say—and you know
who says so, wherever he may be.”




I think Holt loved to make a parade of mystery, as it
were, and would appear and disappear at our quarters as
suddenly as he used to return and vanish in the old days
at Castlewood. He had passes between both armies, and
seemed to know (but with that inaccuracy which belonged
to the good father's omniscience) equally well what passed
in the French camp and in ours. One day he would give
Esmond news of a great feste that took place in the
French quarters, of a supper of Monsieur de Rohan's, where there
was play and violins, and then dancing and masques: the
king drove thither in Marshal Villar's own guinguette.
Another day he had the news of his Majesty's ague, the
king had not had a fit these ten days, and might be said
to be well. Captain Holtz made a visit to England during
this time, so eager was he about negotiating prisoners; and
'twas on returning from this voyage that he began to open
himself more to Esmond, and to make him, as occasion
served, at their various meetings, several of those confidences
which are here set down all together.




The reason of his increased confidence was this: upon
going to London, the old director of Esmond's aunt, the
dowager, paid her ladyship a visit at Chelsey, and there
learnt from her that Captain Esmond was acquainted with
the secret of his family, and was determined never to divulge
it. The knowledge of this fact raised Esmond in his old
tutor's eyes, so Holt was pleased to say, and he admired
Harry very much for his abnegation.




“The family at Castlewood have done far more for me
than my own ever did,” Esmond said. “I would give my
life for them. Why should I grudge the only benefit that
'tis in my power to confer on them?” The good father's
[pg 272]
eyes filled with tears at this speech, which to the other
seemed very simple: he embraced Esmond, and broke out
into many admiring expressions; he said he was a noble
cœur, that he was proud of him, and fond of him as his pupil
and friend—regretted more than ever that he had lost him,
and been forced to leave him in those early times, when he
might have had an influence over him, have brought him
into that only true Church to which the father belonged,
and enlisted him in the noblest army in which a man ever
engaged—meaning his own Society of Jesus, which numbers
(says he) in its troops the greatest heroes the world ever
knew;—warriors, brave enough to dare or endure anything,
to encounter any odds, to die any death;—soldiers that
have won triumphs a thousand times more brilliant than
those of the greatest general; that have brought nations
on their knees to their sacred banner, the Cross; that have
achieved glories and palms incomparably brighter than
those awarded to the most splendid earthly conquerors—crowns
of immortal light, and seats in the high places of
Heaven.




Esmond was thankful for his old friend's good opinion,
however little he might share the Jesuit father's enthusiasm.
“I have thought of that question, too,” says he, “dear father,”
and he took the other's hand—“thought it out for myself,
as all men must, and contrive to do the right, and trust to
Heaven as devoutly in my way as you in yours. Another
six months of you as a child, and I had desired no better.
I used to weep upon my pillow at Castlewood as I thought
of you, and I might have been a brother of your order;
and who knows,” Esmond added, with a smile, “a priest in
full orders, and with a pair of moustachios, and a Bavarian
uniform.”




“My son,” says Father Holt, turning red, “in the cause
of religion and loyalty all disguises are fair.”




“Yes,” broke in Esmond, “all disguises are fair, you say;
and all uniforms, say I, black or red,—a black cockade or
a white one—or a laced hat, or a sombrero, with a tonsure
under it. I cannot believe that St. Francis Xavier sailed
over the sea in a cloak, or raised the dead—I tried; and
very nearly did once, but cannot. Suffer me to do the
right, and to hope for the best in my own way.”




Esmond wished to cut short the good father's theology,
and succeeded; and the other, sighing over his pupil's
[pg 273]
invincible ignorance, did not withdraw his affection from
him, but gave him his utmost confidence—as much, that is
to say, as a priest can give: more than most do; for he
was naturally garrulous, and too eager to speak.




Holt's friendship encouraged Captain Esmond to ask,
what he long wished to know, and none could tell him, some
history of the poor mother whom he had often imagined in
his dreams, and whom he never knew. He described to
Holt those circumstances which are already put down in the
first part of this story—the promise he had made to his dear
lord, and that dying friend's confession; and he besought
Mr. Holt to tell him what he knew regarding the poor woman
from whom he had been taken.




“She was of this very town,” Holt said, and took Esmond
to see the street where her father lived, and where, as he
believed, she was born. “In 1676, when your father came
hither in the retinue of the late king, then Duke of York,
and banished hither in disgrace, Captain Thomas Esmond
became acquainted with your mother, pursued her, and
made a victim of her; he hath told me in many subsequent
conversations, which I felt bound to keep private then,
that she was a woman of great virtue and tenderness, and
in all respects a most fond, faithful creature. He called
himself Captain Thomas, having good reason to be ashamed
of his conduct towards her, and hath spoken to me many
times with sincere remorse for that, as with fond love for
her many amiable qualities. He owned to having treated
her very ill; and that at this time his life was one of profligacy,
gambling, and poverty. She became with child
of you; was cursed by her own parents at that discovery;
though she never upbraided, except by her involuntary
tears, and the misery depicted on her countenance, the
author of her wretchedness and ruin.




“Thomas Esmond—Captain Thomas, as he was called—became
engaged in a gaming-house brawl, of which the
consequence was a duel, and a wound so severe that he
never—his surgeon said—could outlive it. Thinking his
death certain, and touched with remorse, he sent for a priest
of the very Church of St. Gudule where I met you; and on
the same day, after his making submission to our Church,
was married to your mother a few weeks before you were
born. My Lord Viscount Castlewood, Marquis of Esmond,
by King James's patent, which I myself took to your father,
[pg 274]
your lordship was christened at St. Gudule by the same
curé who married your parents, and by the name of Henry
Thomas, son of E. Thomas, officier Anglais, and Gertrude
Maes. You see you belong to us from your birth, and why
I did not christen you when you became my dear little pupil
at Castlewood.




“Your father's wound took a favourable turn—perhaps
his conscience was eased by the right he had done—and to
the surprise of the doctors he recovered. But as his health
came back, his wicked nature, too, returned. He was tired
of the poor girl, whom he had ruined; and receiving some
remittance from his uncle, my lord the old viscount then in
England, he pretended business, promised return, and never
saw your poor mother more.




“He owned to me, in confession first, but afterwards in
talk before your aunt, his wife, else I never could have
disclosed what I now tell you, that on coming to London
he writ a pretended confession to poor Gertrude Maes—Gertrude
Esmond—of his having been married in England
previously, before uniting himself with her; said that his
name was not Thomas; that he was about to quit Europe
for the Virginia plantations, where, indeed, your family
had a grant of land from King Charles the First; sent her
a supply of money, the half of the last hundred guineas he
had, entreated her pardon, and bade her farewell.




“Poor Gertrude never thought that the news in this letter
might be untrue as the rest of your father's conduct to her.
But though a young man of her own degree, who knew her
history, and whom she liked before she saw the English
gentleman who was the cause of all her misery, offered to
marry her, and to adopt you as his own child, and give you
his name, she refused him. This refusal only angered her
father, who had taken her home; she never held up her
head there, being the subject of constant unkindness after
her fall; and some devout ladies of her acquaintance
offering to pay a little pension for her, she went into a convent,
and you were put out to nurse.




“A sister of the young fellow, who would have adopted
you as his son, was the person who took charge of you.
Your mother and this person were cousins. She had just
lost a child of her own, which you replaced, your own mother
being too sick and feeble to feed you; and presently your
nurse grew so fond of you, that she even grudged letting
[pg 275]
you visit the convent where your mother was, and where
the nuns petted the little infant, as they pitied and loved
its unhappy parent. Her vocation became stronger every
day, and at the end of two years she was received as a sister
of the house.




“Your nurse's family were silk-weavers out of France,
whither they returned to Arras in French Flanders, shortly
before your mother took her vows, carrying you with them,
then a child of three years old. 'Twas a town, before the
late vigorous measures of the French king, full of Protestants,
and here your nurse's father, old Pastoureau, he with
whom you afterwards lived at Ealing, adopted the reformed
doctrines, perverting all his house with him. They were
expelled thence by the edict of his most Christian Majesty,
and came to London, and set up their looms in Spittlefields.
The old man brought a little money with him, and carried
on his trade, but in a poor way. He was a widower; by
this time his daughter, a widow too, kept house for him,
and his son and he laboured together at their vocation.
Meanwhile your father had publicly owned his conversion
just before King Charles's death (in whom our Church had
much such another convert), was reconciled to my Lord
Viscount Castlewood, and married, as you know, to his
daughter.




“It chanced that the younger Pastoureau, going with a
piece of brocade to the mercer, who employed him, on
Ludgate Hill, met his old rival coming out of an ordinary
there. Pastoureau knew your father at once, seized him
by the collar, and upbraided him as a villain, who had
seduced his mistress, and afterwards deserted her and her
son. Mr. Thomas Esmond also recognized Pastoureau at
once, besought him to calm his indignation, and not to bring
a crowd round about them; and bade him to enter into the
tavern, out of which he had just stepped, when he would
give him any explanation. Pastoureau entered, and heard
the landlord order the drawer to show Captain Thomas to
a room; it was by his Christian name that your father was
familiarly called at his tavern haunts, which, to say the
truth, were none of the most reputable.




“I must tell you that Captain Thomas, or my lord viscount
afterwards, was never at a loss for a story, and could
cajole a woman or a dun with a volubility, and an air of
simplicity at the same time, of which many a creditor of
[pg 276]
his has been the dupe. His tales used to gather verisimilitude
as he went on with them. He strung together fact after
fact with a wonderful rapidity and coherence. It required,
saving your presence, a very long habit of acquaintance
with your father to know when his lordship was l——,—telling
the truth or no.




“He told me with rueful remorse when he was ill—for the
fear of death set him instantly repenting, and with shrieks
of laughter when he was well, his lordship having a very
great sense of humour—how in half an hour's time, and
before a bottle was drunk, he had completely succeeded in
biting poor Pastoureau. The seduction he owned too:
that he could not help: he was quite ready with tears at
a moment's warning, and shed them profusely to melt his
credulous listener. He wept for your mother even more
than Pastoureau did, who cried very heartily, poor fellow,
as my lord informed me; he swore upon his honour that
he had twice sent money to Brussels, and mentioned the
name of the merchant with whom it was lying for poor
Gertrude's use. He did not even know whether she had a
child or no, or whether she was alive or dead; but got these
facts easily out of honest Pastoureau's answers to him.
When he heard that she was in a convent, he said he hoped
to end his days in one himself, should he survive his wife,
whom he hated, and had been forced by a cruel father to
marry; and when he was told that Gertrude's son was alive,
and actually in London, ‘I started,’ says he; ‘for then,
damme, my wife was expecting to lie-in, and I thought
should this old Put, my father-in-law, run rusty, here would
be a good chance to frighten him.’




“He expressed the deepest gratitude to the Pastoureau
family for their care of the infant; you were now near six
years old; and on Pastoureau bluntly telling him, when he
proposed to go that instant and see the darling child, that
they never wished to see his ill-omened face again within
their doors; that he might have the boy, though they should
all be very sorry to lose him; and that they would take his
money, they being poor, if he gave it; or bring him up,
by God's help, as they had hitherto done, without: he
acquiesced in this at once, with a sigh, said, ‘Well, 'twas
better that the dear child should remain with friends who
had been so admirably kind to him’; and in his talk to
me afterwards, honestly praised and admired the weaver's
[pg 277]
conduct and spirit; owned that the Frenchman was a right
fellow, and he, the Lord have mercy upon him, a sad villain.




“Your father,” Mr. Holt went on to say, “was good-natured
with his money when he had it; and having that
day received a supply from his uncle, gave the weaver ten
pieces with perfect freedom, and promised him further
remittances. He took down eagerly Pastoureau's name
and place of abode in his table-book, and when the other
asked him for his own, gave, with the utmost readiness, his
name as Captain Thomas, New Lodge, Penzance, Cornwall;
he said he was in London for a few days only on business
connected with his wife's property; described her as a shrew,
though a woman of kind disposition; and depicted his
father as a Cornish squire, in an infirm state of health, at
whose death he hoped for something handsome, when he
promised richly to reward the admirable protector of his
child, and to provide for the boy. ‘And by Gad, sir,’ he
said to me in his strange laughing way, ‘I ordered a piece
of brocade of the very same pattern as that which the fellow
was carrying, and presented it to my wife for a morning
wrapper, to receive company after she lay-in of our little
boy.’




“Your little pension was paid regularly enough; and when
your father became Viscount Castlewood on his uncle's
demise, I was employed to keep a watch over you, and 'twas
at my instance that you were brought home. Your foster-mother
was dead; her father made acquaintance with
a woman whom he married, who quarrelled with his son.
The faithful creature came back to Brussels to be near the
woman he loved, and died, too, a few months before her.
Will you see her cross in the convent cemetery? The
superior is an old penitent of mine, and remembers Sœur
Marie Madeleine fondly still.”






Esmond came to this spot in one sunny evening of spring,
and saw, amidst a thousand black crosses, casting their
shadows across the grassy mounds, that particular one
which marked his mother's resting-place. Many more of
those poor creatures that lay there had adopted that same
name, with which sorrow had rebaptized her, and which
fondly seemed to hint their individual story of love and
grief. He fancied her in tears and darkness, kneeling at
the foot of her cross, under which her cares were buried.


[pg 278]


Surely he knelt down, and said his own prayer there, not
in sorrow so much as in awe (for even his memory had no
recollection of her), and in pity for the pangs which the
gentle soul in life had been made to suffer. To this cross
she brought them; for this heavenly bridegroom she
exchanged the husband who had wooed her, the traitor who
had left her. A thousand such hillocks lay round about,
the gentle daisies springing out of the grass over them, and
each bearing its cross and requiescat. A nun, veiled in
black, was kneeling hard by, at a sleeping sister's bedside
(so fresh made, that the spring had scarce had time to spin
a coverlid for it); beyond the cemetery walls you had
glimpses of life and the world, and the spires and gables
of the city. A bird came down from a roof opposite, and
lit first on a cross, and then on the grass below it, whence
it flew away presently with a leaf in its mouth: then came
a sound as of chanting, from the chapel of the sisters hard
by; others had long since filled the place, which poor Mary
Magdalene once had there, were kneeling at the same stall,
and hearing the same hymns and prayers in which her
stricken heart had found consolation. Might she sleep in
peace—might she sleep in peace; and we, too, when our
struggles and pains are over! But the earth is the Lord's
as the heaven is; we are alike His creatures here and
yonder. I took a little flower off the hillock, and kissed it,
and went my way, like the bird that had just lighted on
the cross by me, back into the world again. Silent receptacle
of death! tranquil depth of calm, out of reach of
tempest and trouble! I felt as one who had been walking
below the sea, and treading amidst the bones of shipwrecks.




[pg 279]





 Chapter XIV. The Campaign Of 1707, 1708



During the whole of the year which succeeded that in which
the glorious battle of Ramillies had been fought, our army
made no movement of importance, much to the disgust of
very many of our officers remaining inactive in Flanders,
who said that his grace the captain-general had had fighting
enough, and was all for money now, and the enjoyment of his
five thousand a year and his splendid palace at Woodstock,
which was now being built. And his grace had sufficient
occupation fighting his enemies at home this year, where
it begun to be whispered that his favour was decreasing,
and his duchess losing her hold on the queen, who was
transferring her royal affections to the famous Mrs. Masham,
and Mrs. Masham's humble servant, Mr. Harley. Against
their intrigues, our duke passed a great part of his time
intriguing. Mr. Harley was got out of office, and his grace,
in so far, had a victory. But her Majesty, convinced
against her will, was of that opinion still, of which the
poet says people are when so convinced, and Mr. Harley
before long had his revenge.




Meanwhile the business of fighting did not go on any way
to the satisfaction of Marlborough's gallant lieutenants.
During all 1707, with the French before us, we had never
so much as a battle; our army in Spain was utterly routed
at Almanza by the gallant Duke of Berwick; and we of
Webb's, which regiment the young duke had commanded
before his father's abdication, were a little proud to think
that it was our colonel who had achieved this victory.
“I think if I had had Galway's place, and my Fusiliers,”
says our general, “we would not have laid down our arms,
even to our old colonel, as Galway did; and Webb's officers
swore if we had had Webb, at least we would not have been
taken prisoners.” Our dear old general talked incautiously
of himself and of others; a braver or a more brilliant
soldier never lived than he; but he blew his honest trumpet
rather more loudly than became a commander of his station,
and, mighty man of valour as he was, shook his great spear,
and blustered before the army too fiercely.


[pg 280]


Mysterious Mr. Holtz went off on a secret expedition in
the early part of 1708, with great elation of spirits, and
a prophecy to Esmond that a wonderful something was about
to take place. This secret came out on my friend's return
to the army, whither he brought a most rueful and dejected
countenance, and owned that the great something he had
been engaged upon had failed utterly. He had been indeed
with that luckless expedition of the Chevalier de St. George,
who was sent by the French king with ships and an army
from Dunkirk, and was to have invaded and conquered
Scotland. But that ill wind which ever opposed all the
projects upon which the prince ever embarked, prevented
the Chevalier's invasion of Scotland, as 'tis known, and
blew poor Monsieur von Holtz back into our camp again,
to scheme and foretell, and to pry about as usual. The
Chevalier (the King of England, as some of us held him)
went from Dunkirk to the French army to make the campaign
against us. The Duke of Burgundy had the command
this year, having the Duke of Berry with him, and the
famous Mareschal Vendosme and the Duke of Matignon
to aid him in the campaign. Holtz, who knew everything
that was passing in Flanders and France (and the Indies
for what I know), insisted that there would be no more
fighting in 1708 than there had been in the previous year,
and that our commander had reasons for keeping him quiet.
Indeed, Esmond's general, who was known as a grumbler,
and to have a hearty mistrust of the great duke, and
hundreds more officers besides, did not scruple to say that
these private reasons came to the duke in the shape of
crown-pieces from the French king, by whom the generalissimo
was bribed to avoid a battle. There were plenty of
men in our lines, quidnuncs, to whom Mr. Webb listened
only too willingly, who could specify the exact sums the
duke got, how much fell to Cadogan's share, and what was
the precise fee given to Doctor Hare.




And the successes with which the French began the
campaign of 1708, served to give strength to these reports
of treason, which were in everybody's mouth. Our general
allowed the enemy to get between us and Ghent, and
declined to attack him, though for eight-and-forty hours
the armies were in presence of each other. Ghent was
taken, and on the same day Monsieur de la Mothe summoned
Bruges; and these two great cities fell into the hands of
[pg 281]
the French without firing a shot. A few days afterwards
La Mothe seized upon the fort of Plashendall: and it began
to be supposed that all Spanish Flanders, as well as Brabant,
would fall into the hands of the French troops; when the
Prince Eugene arrived from the Mozelle, and then there was
no more shilly-shallying.




The Prince of Savoy always signalized his arrival at the
army by a great feast (my lord duke's entertainments
were both seldom and shabby): and I remember our general
returning from this dinner with the two commanders-in-chief;
his honest head a little excited by wine, which was
dealt out much more liberally by the Austrian than by the
English commander:—“Now,” says my general, slapping the
table, with an oath, “he must fight; and when he is forced
to it, d—— it, no man in Europe can stand up against
Jack Churchill.” Within a week the battle of Oudenarde
was fought, when, hate each other as they might, Esmond's
general and the commander-in-chief were forced to admire
each other, so splendid was the gallantry of each upon
this day.




The brigade commanded by Major-General Webb gave
and received about as hard knocks as any that were delivered
in that action, in which Mr. Esmond had the fortune to serve
at the head of his own company in his regiment, under the
command of their own colonel as major-general; and it
was his good luck to bring the regiment out of action as
commander of it, the four senior officers above him being
killed in the prodigious slaughter which happened on that
day. I like to think that Jack Haythorn, who sneered at
me for being a bastard and a parasite of Webb's, as he chose
to call me, and with whom I had had words, shook hands
with me the day before the battle begun. Three days
before, poor Brace, our lieutenant-colonel, had heard of his
elder brother's death, and was heir to a baronetcy in Norfolk,
and four thousand a year. Fate, that had left him harmless
through a dozen campaigns, seized on him just as the world
was worth living for, and he went into action, knowing, as
he said, that the luck was going to turn against him. The
major had just joined us—a creature of Lord Marlborough,
put in much to the dislike of the other officers, and to be
a spy upon us, as it was said. I know not whether the
truth was so, nor who took the tattle of our mess to head
quarters, but Webb's regiment, as its colonel, was known
[pg 282]
to be in the commander-in-chief's black books: “And if
he did not dare to break it up at home,” our gallant old
chief used to say, “he was determined to destroy it before
the enemy;” so that poor Major Proudfoot was put into
a post of danger.




Esmond's dear young viscount, serving as aide de camp
to my lord duke, received a wound, and won an honourable
name for himself in the Gazette; and Captain Esmond's
name was sent in for promotion by his general, too, whose
favourite he was. It made his heart beat to think that
certain eyes at home, the brightest in the world, might read
the page on which his humble services were recorded; but
his mind was made up steadily to keep out of their dangerous
influence, and to let time and absence conquer that passion
he had still lurking about him. Away from Beatrix, it did
not trouble him; but he knew as certain that if he returned
home, his fever would break out again, and avoided Walcote
as a Lincolnshire man avoids returning to his fens, where
he is sure that the ague is lying in wait for him.




We of the English party in the army, who were inclined
to sneer at everything that came out of Hanover, and to
treat as little better than boors and savages the Elector's
court and family, were yet forced to confess that, on the
day of Oudenarde, the young electoral prince, then making
his first campaign, conducted himself with the spirit and
courage of an approved soldier. On this occasion his
electoral highness had better luck than the King of England,
who was with his cousins in the enemy's camp, and had
to run with them at the ignominious end of the day. With
the most consummate generals in the world before them,
and an admirable commander on their own side, they chose
to neglect the councils, and to rush into a combat with the
former, which would have ended in the utter annihilation
of their army but for the great skill and bravery of the Duke
of Vendosme, who remedied, as far as courage and genius
might, the disasters occasioned by the squabbles and follies
of his kinsmen, the legitimate princes of the blood royal.




“If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the army, the
fate of the day would have been very different,” was all
that poor Mr. von Holtz could say; “and you would have
seen that the hero of Almanza was fit to measure swords
with the conqueror of Blenheim.”




The business relative to the exchange of prisoners was
[pg 283]
always going on, and was at least that ostensible one which
kept Mr. Holtz perpetually on the move between the forces
of the French and the Allies. I can answer for it, that he
was once very near hanged as a spy by Major-General
Wayne, when he was released and sent on to head quarters
by a special order of the commander-in-chief. He came
and went, always favoured, wherever he was, by some high
though occult protection. He carried messages between
the Duke of Berwick and his uncle, our duke. He seemed
to know as well what was taking place in the prince's quarter
as our own: he brought the compliments of the King of
England to some of our officers, the gentlemen of Webb's
among the rest, for their behaviour on that great day; and
after Wynendael, when our general was chafing at the
neglect of our commander-in-chief, he said he knew how
that action was regarded by the chiefs of the French army,
and that the stand made before Wynendael wood was the
passage by which the Allies entered Lille.




“Ah!” says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to
listen to him), “if the king came by his own, how changed
the conduct of affairs would be! His Majesty's very exile
has this advantage, that he is enabled to read England
impartially, and to judge honestly of all the eminent men.
His sister is always in the hand of one greedy favourite or
another, through whose eyes she sees, and to whose flattery
or dependants she gives away everything. Do you suppose
that his Majesty, knowing England so well as he does,
would neglect such a man as General Webb? He ought to
be in the House of Peers as Lord Lydiard. The enemy and
all Europe know his merit; it is that very reputation
which certain great people, who hate all equality and independence,
can never pardon.” It was intended that these
conversations should be carried to Mr. Webb. They were
welcome to him, for great as his services were, no man could
value them more than John Richmond Webb did himself,
and the differences between him and Marlborough being
notorious, his grace's enemies in the army and at home
began to court Webb, and set him up against the all-grasping
domineering chief. And soon after the victory of Oudenarde,
a glorious opportunity fell into General Webb's way, which
that gallant warrior did not neglect, and which gave him
the means of immensely increasing his reputation at home.




After Oudenarde, and against the counsels of Marlborough,
[pg 284]
it was said, the Prince of Savoy sat down before Lille, the
capital of French Flanders, and commenced that siege, the
most celebrated of our time, and almost as famous as the
siege of Troy itself, for the feats of valour performed in the
assault and the defence. The enmity of that Prince of Savoy
against the French king was a furious personal hate, quite
unlike the calm hostility of our great English general, who
was no more moved by the game of war than that of billiards,
and pushed forward his squadrons, and drove his red
battalions hither and thither as calmly as he would combine
a stroke or make a cannon with the balls. The game over
(and he played it so as to be pretty sure to win it), not the
least animosity against the other party remained in the
breast of this consummate tactician. Whereas between the
Prince of Savoy and the French it was
guerre à mort. Beaten
off in one quarter, as he had been at Toulon in the last year,
he was back again on another frontier of France, assailing
it with his indefatigable fury. When the prince came to
the army, the smouldering fires of war were lighted up and
burst out into a flame. Our phlegmatic Dutch allies were
made to advance at a quick march—our calm duke forced
into action. The prince was an army in himself against the
French; the energy of his hatred prodigious, indefatigable—infectious
over hundreds of thousands of men. The
emperor's general was repaying, and with a vengeance, the
slight the French king had put upon the fiery little Abbé of
Savoy. Brilliant and famous as a leader himself, and beyond
all measure daring and intrepid, and enabled to cope with
almost the best of those famous men of war who commanded
the armies of the French king, Eugene had a weapon, the
equal of which could not be found in France, since the
cannon-shot of Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, and
could hurl Marlborough at the heads of the French host,
and crush them as with a rock, under which all the gathered
strength of their strongest captains must go down.




The English duke took little part in that vast siege of
Lille, which the Imperial generalissimo pursued with all
his force and vigour, further than to cover the besieging
lines from the Duke of Burgundy's army, between which
and the Imperialists our duke lay. Once, when Prince
Eugene was wounded, our duke took his highness's place
in the trenches; but the siege was with the Imperialists,
not with us. A division under Webb and Rantzau was
[pg 285]
detached into Artois and Picardy upon the most painful
and odious service that Mr. Esmond ever saw in the course
of his military life. The wretched towns of the defenceless
provinces, whose young men had been drafted away into
the French armies, which year after year the insatiable war
devoured, were left at our mercy; and our orders were to
show them none. We found places garrisoned by invalids,
and children and women: poor as they were, and as the costs
of this miserable war had made them, our commission was
to rob these almost starving wretches—to tear the food out
of their granaries, and strip them of their rags. 'Twas an expedition
of rapine and murder we were sent on: our soldiers
did deeds such as an honest man must blush to remember.
We brought back money and provisions in quantity to the
duke's camp; there had been no one to resist us, and yet
who dares to tell with what murder and violence, with what
brutal cruelty, outrage, insult, that ignoble booty had
been ravished from the innocent and miserable victims of
the war?




Meanwhile, gallantly as the operations before Lille had
been conducted, the Allies had made but little progress,
and 'twas said when we returned to the Duke of Marlborough's
camp, that the siege would never be brought to
a satisfactory end, and that the Prince of Savoy would be
forced to raise it. My Lord Marlborough gave this as his
opinion openly; those who mistrusted him, and Mr. Esmond
owns himself to be of the number, hinted that the duke
had his reasons why Lille should not be taken, and that he
was paid to that end by the French king. If this was so,
and I believe it, General Webb had now a remarkable
opportunity of gratifying his hatred of the commander-in-chief,
of balking that shameful avarice, which was one of
the basest and most notorious qualities of the famous duke,
and of showing his own consummate skill as a commander.
And when I consider all the circumstances preceding the event
which will now be related, that my lord duke was actually
offered certain millions of crowns provided that the siege
of Lille should be raised; that the Imperial army before it
was without provisions and ammunition, and must have
decamped but for the supplies that they received; that
the march of the convoy destined to relieve the siege was
accurately known to the French; and that the force
covering it was shamefully inadequate to that end, and by
[pg 286]
six times inferior to Count de la Mothe's army, which was
sent to intercept the convoy; when 'tis certain that the
Duke of Berwick, de la Mothe's chief, was in constant
correspondence with his uncle, the English generalissimo:
I believe on my conscience that 'twas my Lord Marlborough's
intention to prevent those supplies, of which the Prince of
Savoy stood in absolute need, from ever reaching his highness;
that he meant to sacrifice the little army which
covered this convoy, and to betray it as he had betrayed
Tollemache at Brest; as he betrayed every friend he had,
to further his own schemes of avarice or ambition. But
for the miraculous victory which Esmond's general won over
an army six or seven times greater than his own, the siege
of Lille must have been raised; and it must be remembered
that our gallant little force was under the command of
a general whom Marlborough hated, that he was furious
with the conqueror, and tried by the most open and shameless
injustice afterwards to rob him of the credit of his
victory.









 Chapter XV. General Webb Wins The Battle Of Wynendael



By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most
brilliant feats of valour were performed that ever illustrated
any war. On the French side (whose gallantry was prodigious,
the skill and bravery of Marshal Boufflers actually
eclipsing those of his conqueror, the Prince of Savoy) may
be mentioned that daring action of Messieurs de Luxembourg
and Tournefort, who, with a body of horse and dragoons,
carried powder into the town, of which the besieged were
in extreme want, each soldier bringing a bag with forty
pounds of powder behind him; with which perilous provision
they engaged our own horse, faced the fire of the foot brought
out to meet them: and though half of the men were blown
up in the dreadful errand they rode on, a part of them got
into the town with the succours of which the garrison was
so much in want. A French officer, Monsieur du Bois,
performed an act equally daring, and perfectly successful.
The duke's great army lying at Helchin, and covering the
siege, and it being necessary for Monsieur de Vendosme to get
[pg 287]
news of the condition of the place, Captain du Bois performed
his famous exploit: not only passing through the lines of
the siege, but swimming afterwards no less than seven moats
and ditches: and coming back the same way, swimming
with his letters in his mouth.




By these letters Monsieur de Boufflers said that he could
undertake to hold the place till October; and that, if one
of the convoys of the Allies could be intercepted, they must
raise the siege altogether.




Such a convoy as hath been said was now prepared at
Ostend, and about to march for the siege; and on the
27th September, we (and the French too) had news that it was
on its way. It was composed of 700 waggons, containing
ammunition of all sorts, and was escorted out of Ostend
by 2,000 infantry and 300 horse. At the same time
Monsieur de la Mothe quitted Bruges, having with him
five-and-thirty battalions, and upwards of sixty squadrons
and forty guns, in pursuit of the convoy.




Major-General Webb had meanwhile made up a force of
twenty battalions, and three squadrons of dragoons, at
Turout, whence he moved to cover the convoy and pursue
la Mothe: with whose advanced guard ours came up upon
the great plain of Turout, and before the little wood
and castle of Wynendael; behind which the convoy was
marching.




As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced
troops were halted, with the wood behind them, and the
rest of our force brought up as quickly as possible, our little
body of horse being brought forward to the opening of the
plain, as our general said, to amuse the enemy. When
Monsieur la Mothe came up he found us posted in two lines
in front of the wood; and formed his own army in battle
facing ours, in eight lines, four of infantry in front, and
dragoons and cavalry behind.




The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade
which lasted three hours, when they made their attack,
advancing in twelve lines, four of foot and four of horse,
upon the allied troops in the wood where we were posted.
Their infantry behaved ill; they were ordered to charge
with the bayonet, but, instead, began to fire, and almost
at the very first discharge from our men, broke and fled.
The cavalry behaved better; with these alone, who were
three or four times as numerous as our whole force, Monsieur
[pg 288]
de la Mothe might have won victory: but only two of our
battalions were shaken in the least; and these speedily
rallied: nor could the repeated attacks of the French horse
cause our troops to budge an inch from the position in the
wood in which our general had placed them.




After attacking for two hours, the French retired at night-fall
entirely foiled. With all the loss we had inflicted upon
him, the enemy was still three times stronger than we: and
it could not be supposed that our general could pursue
M. de la Mothe, or do much more than hold our ground
about the wood, from which the Frenchman had in vain
attempted to dislodge us. La Mothe retired behind his
forty guns, his cavalry protecting them better than it had
been enabled to annoy us; and meanwhile the convoy,
which was of more importance than all our little force, and
the safe passage of which we would have dropped to the
last man to accomplish, marched away in perfect safety
during the action, and joyfully reached the besieging camp
before Lille.




Major-General Cadogan, my lord duke's quartermaster-general
(and between whom and Mr. Webb there was no
love lost), accompanied the convoy, and joined Mr. Webb
with a couple of hundred horse just as the battle was over,
and the enemy in full retreat. He offered, readily enough,
to charge with his horse upon the French as they fell back;
but his force was too weak to inflict any damage upon them;
and Mr. Webb, commanding as Cadogan's senior, thought
enough was done in holding our ground before an enemy
that might still have overwhelmed us had we engaged him
in the open territory, and in securing the safe passage of
the convoy. Accordingly, the horse brought up by Cadogan
did not draw a sword; and only prevented, by the good
countenance they showed, any disposition the French might
have had to renew the attack on us. And no attack coming,
at nightfall General Cadogan drew off with his squadron,
being bound for head quarters, the two generals at parting
grimly saluting each other.




“He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my lord duke's
trenchers at supper,” says Mr. Webb.




Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that
night, and our general had his supper in the little castle
there.




“If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day's
[pg 289]
work,” General Webb said; “and Harry, thou shouldst
have a regiment. Thou hast been reported in the last two
actions: thou wert near killed in the first. I shall mention
thee in my dispatch to his grace the commander-in-chief,
and recommend thee to poor Dick Harwood's vacant
majority. Have you ever a hundred guineas to give
Cardonnel? Slip them into his hand to-morrow, when you
go to head quarters with my report.”




In this report the major-general was good enough to
mention Captain Esmond's name with particular favour;
and that gentleman carried the dispatch to head quarters
the next day, and was not a little pleased to bring back
a letter by his grace's secretary, addressed to Lieutenant-General
Webb. The Dutch officer dispatched by Count
Nassau Woudenbourg, Vælt-Mareschal Auverquerque's son,
brought back also a complimentary letter to his commander,
who had seconded Mr. Webb in the action with great valour
and skill.




Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented
his dispatch, and saluted Mr. Webb as Lieutenant-General,
as he gave it in. The gentlemen round about him—he was
riding with his suite on the road to Menin as Esmond
came up with him—gave a cheer, and he thanked them,
and opened the dispatch with rather a flushed eager face.




He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had
read it. “'Tis not even writ with his own hand. Read it
out, Esmond.” And Esmond read it out:—




“Sir—Mr. Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted me
with the success of the action you had yesterday in the afternoon
against the body of troops commanded by Monsieur de la Mothe, at
Wynendael, which must be attributed chiefly to your good conduct
and resolution. You may be sure I shall do you justice at home,
and be glad on all occasions to own the service you have done in
securing this convoy.—Yours, &c., M.”




“Two lines by that d——d Cardonnel, and no more, for
the taking of Lille—for beating five times our number—for
an action as brilliant as the best he ever fought,” says
poor Mr. Webb. “Lieutenant-General! That's not his
doing. I was the oldest major-general. By ——, I believe
he had been better pleased if I had been beat.”




The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer
and more complimentary than that to Mr. Webb.


[pg 290]


“And this is the man,” he broke out, “that's gorged with
gold—that's covered with titles and honours that we won
for him—and that grudges even a line of praise to a comrade
in arms! Hasn't he enough? Don't we fight that he
may roll in riches? Well, well, wait for the Gazette, gentlemen.
The queen and the country will do us justice if his
grace denies it us.” There were tears of rage in the brave
warrior's eyes as he spoke; and he dashed them off his
face on to his glove. He shook his fist in the air. “Oh,
by the Lord!” says he, “I know what I had rather have
than a peerage!”




“And what is that, sir?” some of them asked.




“I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John
Churchill, on a fair green field, and only a pair of rapiers
between my shirt and his ——”




“Sir!” interposes one.




“Tell him so! I know that's what you mean. I know
every word goes to him that's dropped from every general
officer's mouth. I don't say he's not brave. Curse him!
he's brave enough; but we'll wait for the Gazette, gentlemen.
God save her Majesty! she'll do us justice.”




The Gazette did not come to us till a month afterwards;
when my general and his officers had the honour to dine
with Prince Eugene in Lille; his highness being good enough
to say that we had brought the provisions, and ought to
share in the banquet. 'Twas a great banquet. His grace
of Marlborough was on his highness's right, and on his left
the Mareschal de Boufflers, who had so bravely defended
the place. The chief officers of either army were present;
and you may be sure Esmond's general was splendid this
day: his tall noble person, and manly beauty of face, made
him remarkable anywhere; he wore, for the first time, the
star of the Order of Generosity, that his Prussian Majesty
had sent to him for his victory. His Highness, the Prince
of Savoy, called a toast to the conqueror of Wynendael.
My lord duke drank it with rather a sickly smile. The
aides de camp were present; and Harry Esmond and his
dear young lord were together, as they always strove to
be when duty would permit: they were over against the
table where the generals were, and could see all that passed
pretty well. Frank laughed at my lord duke's glum face:
the affair of Wynendael, and the captain-general's conduct
to Webb, had been the talk of the whole army. When his
[pg 291]
highness spoke, and gave—“Le vainqueur de
Wynendael; son armée et sa victoire,” adding,
“qui nous font diner à
Lille aujourdhuy”—there was a great cheer through the
hall; for Mr. Webb's bravery, generosity, and very weaknesses
of character caused him to be beloved in the army.




“Like Hector, handsome, and like Paris, brave!” whispers
Frank Castlewood. “A Venus, an elderly Venus, couldn't
refuse him a pippin. Stand up, Harry. See, we are drinking
the army of Wynendael. Ramillies is nothing to it.
Huzzay! Huzzay!”




At this very time, and just after our general had made
his acknowledgement, some one brought in an English
Gazette—and was passing it from hand to hand down the
table. Officers were eager enough to read it; mothers and
sisters at home must have sickened over it. There scarce
came out a Gazette for six years that did not tell of some
heroic death or some brilliant achievement.




“Here it is—Action of Wynendael—here you are, general,”
says Frank, seizing hold of the little dingy paper that
soldiers love to read so; and, scrambling over from our
bench, he went to where the general sat, who knew him,
and had seen many a time at his table his laughing, handsome
face, which everybody loved who saw. The generals
in their great perukes made way for him. He handed the
paper over General Dohna's buff coat to our general on the
opposite side.




He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat: “I
thought he'd like it, Harry,” the young fellow whispered.
“Didn't I like to read my name after Ramillies, in the
London Gazette?—Viscount Castlewood serving a
volunteer—I say, what's yonder?”




Mr. Webb, reading the Gazette, looked very strange—slapped
it down on the table—then sprung up in his place,
and began,—“Will your highness please to ——”




His grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too—“There's
some mistake, my dear General Webb.”




“Your grace had better rectify it,” says Mr. Webb, holding
out the letter; but he was five off his grace the prince
duke, who, besides, was higher than the general (being
seated with the Prince of Savoy, the Electoral Prince of
Hanover, and the envoys of Prussia and Denmark, under
a baldaquin), and Webb could not reach him, tall as
he was.


[pg 292]


“Stay,” says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea,
and then, with a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he
ran the Gazette through with the point, and said, “Permit
me to hand it to your grace.”




The duke looked very black. “Take it,” says he, to his
master of the horse, who was waiting behind him.




The lieutenant-general made a very low bow, and retired
and finished his glass. The Gazette in which Mr. Cardonnel,
the duke's secretary, gave an account of the victory of
Wynendael, mentioned Mr. Webb's name, but gave the sole
praise and conduct of the action to the duke's favourite,
Mr. Cadogan.




There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this
strange behaviour of General Webb, who had almost drawn
a sword upon the commander-in-chief; but the general,
after the first outbreak of his anger, mastered it outwardly
altogether; and, by his subsequent behaviour, had the
satisfaction of even more angering the commander-in-chief,
than he could have done by any public exhibition of resentment.




On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his
chief adviser, Mr. Esmond, who was now entirely in the
general's confidence, and treated by him as a friend, and
almost a son, Mr. Webb writ a letter to his grace the
commander-in-chief, in which he said:—






Your grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of the
London Gazette, in which your grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel,
hath mentioned Major-General Cadogan's name, as the officer
commanding in the late action of Wynendael, must have caused a
feeling of anything but pleasure to the general who fought that
action.




Your grace must be aware that Mr. Cadogan was not even
present at the battle, though he arrived with squadrons of horse
at its close, and put himself under the command of his superior
officer. And as the result of the battle of Wynendael, in which
Lieutenant-General Webb had the good fortune to command, was
the capture of Lille, the relief of Brussels, then invested by the
enemy under the Elector of Bavaria, the restoration of the great
cities of Ghent and Bruges, of which the enemy (by treason within
the walls) had got possession in the previous year: Mr. Webb cannot
consent to forgo the honours of such a success and service, for
the benefit of Mr. Cadogan, or any other person.




As soon as the military operations of the year are over, Lieutenant-General
Webb will request permission to leave the army, and return
to his place in Parliament, where he gives notice to his grace the
[pg 293]
commander-in-chief, that he shall lay his case before the House of
Commons, the country, and her majesty the queen.




By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the Gazette,
which had been written by his grace's secretary, Mr. Cardonnel,
Mr. Webb, not being able to reach his grace the commander-in-chief
on account of the gentlemen seated between them, placed the
paper containing the false statement on his sword, so that it might
more readily arrive in the hands of his Grace the Duke of Marlborough,
who surely would wish to do justice to every officer of
his army.




Mr. Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubordination
to his superior officer, or of using his sword in a campaign against
any but the enemies of her majesty. He solicits permission to return
to England immediately the military duties will permit, and take
with him to England Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who acted
as his aide de camp, and was present during the entire action, and
noted by his watch the time when Mr. Cadogan arrived at its close.






The commander-in-chief could not but grant this permission,
nor could he take notice of Webb's letter, though
it was couched in terms the most insulting. Half the army
believed that the cities of Ghent and Bruges were given
up by a treason, which some in our army very well understood;
that the commander-in-chief would not have
relieved Lille if he could have helped himself; that he
would not have fought that year had not the Prince of
Savoy forced him. When the battle once began, then,
for his own renown, my Lord Marlborough would fight
as no man in the world ever fought better; and no bribe
on earth could keep him from beating the enemy.11


[pg 294]


But the matter was taken up by the subordinates; and
half the army might have been by the ears, if the quarrel
had not been stopped. General Cadogan sent an intimation
to General Webb to say that he was ready if Webb liked,
and would meet him. This was a kind of invitation our
stout old general was always too ready to accept, and
'twas with great difficulty we got the general to reply
that he had no quarrel with Mr. Cadogan, who had behaved
with perfect gallantry, but only with those at head quarters,
who had belied him. Mr. Cardonnel offered General Webb
reparation; Mr. Webb said he had a cane at the service
of Mr. Cardonnel, and the only satisfaction he wanted
from him was one he was not likely to get, namely, the
truth. The officers in our staff of Webb's, and those in
the immediate suite of the general, were ready to come
to blows; and hence arose the only affair in which Mr.
Esmond ever engaged as principal, and that was from
a revengeful wish to wipe off an old injury.




My Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield's
regiment of the Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the
duke. He had sunk by this time to the very worst reputation;
he had had another fatal duel in Spain; he had
married, and forsaken his wife; he was a gambler, a
profligate, and debauchee. He joined just before Oudenarde;
and, as Esmond feared, as soon as Frank Castlewood
heard of his arrival, Frank was for seeking him out, and
killing him. The wound my lord got at Oudenarde prevented
their meeting, but that was nearly healed, and
Mr. Esmond trembled daily lest any chance should bring
his boy and this known assassin together. They met at
the mess-table of Handyside's regiment at Lille; the
officer commanding not knowing of the feud between the
two noblemen.




Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of
Mohun for nine years, since they had met on that fatal
night in Leicester Field. It was degraded with crime and
passion now; it wore the anxious look of a man who has
three deaths—and who knows how many hidden shames
and lusts, and crimes, on his conscience. He bowed with
a sickly low bow, and slunk away when our host presented
[pg 295]
us round to one another. Frank Castlewood had not known
him till then, so changed was he. He knew the boy well
enough.




'Twas curious to look at the two—especially the young
man, whose face flushed up when he heard the hated
name of the other; and who said in his bad French and
his brave boyish voice—“He had long been anxious to
meet my Lord Mohun.” The other only bowed, and moved
away from him. I do him justice, he wished to have no
quarrel with the lad.




Esmond put himself between them at table. “D—— it,”
says Frank, “why do you put yourself in the place of
a man who is above you in degree? My Lord Mohun
should walk after me. I want to sit by my Lord Mohun.”




Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun, that Frank was hurt
in the leg at Oudenarde; and besought the other to be
quiet. Quiet enough he was for some time; disregarding
the many taunts which young Castlewood flung at him,
until after several healths, when my Lord Mohun got to be
rather in liquor.




“Will you go away, my lord?” Mr. Esmond said to him,
imploring him to quit the table.




“No, by G——,” says my Lord Mohun. “I'll not go
away for any man;” he was quite flushed with wine by
this time.




The talk got round to the affairs of yesterday. Webb
had offered to challenge the commander-in-chief: Webb
had been ill-used: Webb was the bravest, handsomest,
vainest man in the army. Lord Mohun did not know that
Esmond was Webb's aide de camp. He began to tell some
stories against the general; which, from t'other side of
Esmond, young Castlewood contradicted.




“I can't bear any more of this,” says my Lord Mohun.




“Nor can I, my lord,” says Mr. Esmond, starting up.
“The story my Lord Mohun has told respecting General
Webb is false, gentlemen—false, I repeat,” and making
a low bow to Lord Mohun, and without a single word more,
Esmond got up and left the dining-room. These affairs
were common enough among the military of those days.
There was a garden behind the house, and all the party
turned instantly into it; and the two gentlemen's coats
were off and their points engaged within two minutes after
Esmond's words had been spoken. If Captain Esmond
[pg 296]
had put Mohun out of the world, as he might, a villain
would have been punished and spared further villanies—but
who is one man to punish another? I declare upon
my honour that my only thought was to prevent Lord
Mohun from mischief with Frank, and the end of this
meeting was, that after half a dozen passes my lord went
home with a hurt which prevented him from lifting his
right arm for three months.




“Oh, Harry, why didn't you kill the villain?” young
Castlewood asked. “I can't walk without a crutch: but
I could have met him on horseback with sword and pistol.”
But Harry Esmond said, “'Twas best to have no man's
life on one's conscience, not even that villain's”; and this
affair, which did not occupy three minutes, being over,
the gentlemen went back to their wine, and my Lord
Mohun to his quarters, where he was laid up with a fever
which had spared mischief had it proved fatal. And very
soon after this affair Harry Esmond and his general left
the camp for London; whither a certain reputation had
preceded the captain, for my Lady Castlewood of Chelsea
received him as if he had been a conquering hero. She
gave a great dinner to Mr. Webb, where the general's
chair was crowned with laurels; and her ladyship called
Esmond's health in a toast, to which my kind general was
graciously pleased to bear the strongest testimony: and
took down a mob of at least forty coaches to cheer our
general as he came out of the House of Commons, the day
when he received the thanks of Parliament for his action.
The mob huzza'ed and applauded him, as well as the fine
company: it was splendid to see him waving his hat, and
bowing, and laying his hand upon his Order of Generosity.
He introduced Mr. Esmond to Mr. St. John and the Right
Honourable Robert Harley, Esquire, as he came out of the
House walking between them; and was pleased to make
many flattering observations regarding Mr. Esmond's
behaviour during the three last campaigns.




Mr. St. John (who had the most winning presence of any
man I ever saw, excepting always my peerless young
Frank Castlewood) said he had heard of Mr. Esmond
before from Captain Steele, and how he had helped Mr.
Addison to write his famous poem of the Campaign.




“'Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim
itself,” Mr. Harley said, who was famous as a judge
[pg 297]
and patron of letters, and so, perhaps, it may be—though
for my part I think there are twenty beautiful lines, but all
the rest is commonplace, and Mr. Addison's hymn worth
a thousand such poems.




All the town was indignant at my lord duke's unjust
treatment of General Webb, and applauded the vote of
thanks which the House of Commons gave to the general
for his victory at Wynendael. 'Tis certain that the capture
of Lille was the consequence of that lucky achievement,
and the humiliation of the old French king, who was said
to suffer more at the loss of this great city, than from any
of the former victories our troops had won over him.
And, I think, no small part of Mr. Webb's exultation at
his victory, arose from the idea that Marlborough had been
disappointed of a great bribe the French king had promised
him, should the siege be raised. The very sum of money
offered to him was mentioned by the duke's enemies;
and honest Mr. Webb chuckled at the notion, not only of
beating the French, but of beating Marlborough too, and
intercepting a convoy of three millions of French crowns,
that were on their way to the generalissimo's insatiable
pockets. When the general's lady went to the queen's
drawing-room, all the Tory women crowded round her with
congratulations, and made her a train greater than the
Duchess of Marlborough's own. Feasts were given to the
general by all the chiefs of the Tory party, who vaunted
him as the duke's equal in military skill; and perhaps
used the worthy soldier as their instrument, whilst he
thought they were but acknowledging his merits as a commander.
As the general's aide de camp, and favourite
officer, Mr. Esmond came in for a share of his chief's
popularity, and was presented to her Majesty, and advanced
to the rank of lieutenant-colonel, at the request of his
grateful chief.




We may be sure there was one family in which any good
fortune that happened to Esmond, caused such a sincere
pride and pleasure, that he, for his part, was thankful he
could make them so happy. With these fond friends,
Blenheim and Oudenarde seemed to be mere trifling incidents
of the war; and Wynendael was its crowning victory.
Esmond's mistress never tired to hear accounts of the
battle; and I think General Webb's lady grew jealous of
her, for the general was for ever at Kensington, and talking
[pg 298]
on that delightful theme. As for his aide de camp, though,
no doubt, Esmond's own natural vanity was pleased at
the little share of reputation which his good fortune had
won him, yet it was chiefly precious to him (he may say so,
now that he hath long since outlived it) because it pleased
his mistress, and, above all, because Beatrix valued it.




As for the old dowager of Chelsea, never was an old
woman in all England more delighted nor more gracious
than she. Esmond had his quarters in her ladyship's
house, where the domestics were instructed to consider him
as their master. She bade him give entertainments, of
which she defrayed the charges, and was charmed when
his guests were carried away tipsy in their coaches. She
must have his picture taken; and accordingly he was
painted by Mr. Jervas, in his red coat, and smiling upon
a bombshell, which was bursting at the corner of the
piece. She vowed that unless he made a great match, she
should never die easy, and was for ever bringing young
ladies to Chelsea, with pretty faces and pretty fortunes,
at the disposal of the colonel. He smiled to think how
times were altered with him, and of the early days in his
father's lifetime, when a trembling page he stood before
her, with her ladyship's basin and ewer, or crouched in her
coach-step. The only fault she found with him was, that
he was more sober than an Esmond ought to be; and would
neither be carried to bed by his valet, nor lose his heart to
any beauty, whether of St. James's or Covent Garden.




What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the
birth of it? 'Tis a state of mind that men fall into, and
depending on the man rather than the woman. We love
being in love, that's the truth on't. If we had not met
Joan, we should have met Kate, and adored her. We
know our mistresses are no better than many other women,
nor no prettier, nor no wiser, nor no wittier. 'Tis not for
these reasons we love a woman, or for any special quality
or charm I know of; we might as well demand that a lady
should be the tallest woman in the world, like the Shropshire
giantess,12 as that she should be a paragon in any
other character, before we began to love her. Esmond's
mistress had a thousand faults beside her charms: he knew
both perfectly well! She was imperious, she was light-minded,
[pg 299]
she was flighty, she was false, she had no reverence
in her character; she was in everything, even in beauty,
the contrast of her mother, who was the most devoted
and the least selfish of women. Well, from the very first
moment he saw her on the stairs at Walcote, Esmond
knew he loved Beatrix. There might be better women—he
wanted that one. He cared for none other. Was it
because she was gloriously beautiful? Beautiful as she
was, he had heard people say a score of times in their
company, that Beatrix's mother looked as young, and
was the handsomer of the two. Why did her voice thrill
in his ear so? She could not sing near so well as Nicolini
or Mrs. Tofts; nay, she sang out of tune, and yet he liked
to hear her better than St. Cecilia. She had not a finer
complexion than Mrs. Steele (Dick's wife, whom he had
now got, and who ruled poor Dick with a rod of pickle),
and yet to see her dazzled Esmond; he would shut his
eyes, and the thought of her dazzled him all the same. She
was brilliant and lively in talk, but not so incomparably
witty as her mother, who, when she was cheerful, said the
finest things; but yet to hear her, and to be with her,
was Esmond's greatest pleasure. Days passed away between
him and these ladies, he scarce knew how. He poured his
heart out to them, so as he never could in any other company,
where he hath generally passed for being moody, or
supercilious and silent. This society13 was more delightful
than that of the greatest wits to him. May Heaven pardon
him the lies he told the dowager at Chelsea, in order to
get a pretext for going away to Kensington; the business
at the Ordnance which he invented; the interview with
his general, the courts and statesman's levees which he
didn't frequent and describe; who wore a new suit on
Sunday at St. James's or at the queen's birthday; how
many coaches filled the street at Mr. Harley's levee; how
many bottles he had had the honour to drink overnight
with Mr. St. John at the “Cocoa Tree,” or at the “Garter”
with Mr. Walpole and Mr. Steele.




Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the
point of making great matches, so the Court scandal said;
but for his part Esmond never would believe the stories
against her; and came back, after three years' absence
[pg 300]
from her, not so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still
hungering after her and no other; still hopeful, still kneeling,
with his heart in his hand for the young lady to take.
We were now got to 1709. She was near twenty-two years
old, and three years at Court, and without a husband.




“'Tis not for want of being asked,” Lady Castlewood said,
looking into Esmond's heart, as she could, with that
perceptiveness affection gives. “But she will make no
mean match, Harry: she will not marry as I would have
her; the person whom I should like to call my son, and
Henry Esmond knows who that is, is best served by my
not pressing his claim. Beatrix is so wilful, that what
I would urge on her, she would be sure to resist. The
man who would marry her will not be happy with her,
unless he be a great person, and can put her in a great
position. Beatrix loves admiration more than love; and
longs, beyond all things, for command. Why should
a mother speak so of her child? You are my son, too,
Harry. You should know the truth about your sister.
I thought you might cure yourself of your passion,” my
lady added fondly. “Other people can cure themselves
of that folly, you know. But I see you are still as infatuated
as ever. When we read your name in the Gazette, I pleaded
for you, my poor boy. Poor boy, indeed! You are
growing a grave old gentleman now, and I am an old
woman. She likes your fame well enough, and she likes
your person. She says you have wit, and fire, and good
breeding, and are more natural than the fine gentlemen
of the Court. But this is not enough. She wants a commander-in-chief,
and not a colonel. Were a duke to ask her,
she would leave an earl whom she had promised. I told
you so before. I know not how my poor girl is so worldly.”




“Well,” says Esmond, “a man can but give his best and
his all. She has that from me. What little reputation
I have won, I swear I cared for it because I thought Beatrix
would be pleased with it. What care I to be a colonel
or a general? Think you 'twill matter a few score years
hence, what our foolish honours to-day are? I would
have had a little fame, that she might wear it in her hat.
If I had anything better, I would endow her with it. If
she wants my life, I would give it her. If she marries
another, I will say God bless him. I make no boast, nor
no complaint. I think my fidelity is folly, perhaps. But
[pg 301]
so it is. I cannot help myself. I love her. You are
a thousand times better: the fondest, the fairest, the
dearest, of women. Sure, my dear lady, I see all Beatrix's
faults as well as you do. But she is my fate. 'Tis endurable.
I shall not die for not having her. I think I should
be no happier if I won her. Que voulez-vous?
as my lady of Chelsea would say. Je l'aime.”




“I wish she would have you,” said Harry's fond mistress,
giving a hand to him. He kissed the fair hand ('twas the
prettiest dimpled little hand in the world, and my Lady
Castlewood, though now almost forty years old, did not
look to be within ten years of her age). He kissed and
kept her fair hand, as they talked together.




“Why,” says he, “should she hear me? She knows
what I would say. Far or near, she knows I'm her slave.
I have sold myself for nothing, it may be. Well, 'tis the
price I choose to take. I am worth nothing, or I am
worth all.”




“You are such a treasure,” Esmond's mistress was pleased
to say, “that the woman who has your love, shouldn't
change it away against a kingdom, I think. I am a country-bred
woman, and cannot say but the ambitions of the
town seem mean to me. I never was awe-stricken by my
lady duchess's rank and finery, or afraid,” she added,
with a sly laugh, “of anything but her temper. I hear of
Court ladies who pine because her Majesty looks cold on
them; and great noblemen who would give a limb that
they might wear a garter on the other. This worldliness,
which I can't comprehend, was born with Beatrix, who,
on the first day of her waiting, was a perfect courtier.
We are like sisters, and she the eldest sister, somehow.
She tells me I have a mean spirit. I laugh, and say she
adores a coach-and-six. I cannot reason her out of her
ambition. 'Tis natural to her, as to me to love quiet,
and be indifferent about rank and riches. What are they,
Harry? and for how long do they last? Our home is
not here.” She smiled as she spoke, and looked like an
angel that was only on earth on a visit. “Our home is
where the just are, and where our sins and sorrows enter
not. My father used to rebuke me, and say that I was
too hopeful about Heaven. But I cannot help my nature,
and grow obstinate as I grow to be an old woman; and
as I love my children so, sure our Father loves us with
[pg 302]
a thousand and a thousand times greater love. It must
be that we shall meet yonder, and be happy. Yes, you—and
my children, and my dear lord. Do you know, Harry,
since his death, it has always seemed to me as if his love
came back to me, and that we are parted no more. Perhaps
he is here now, Harry—I think he is. Forgiven I am sure
he is: even Mr. Atterbury absolved him, and he died
forgiving. Oh, what a noble heart he had! How generous
he was! I was but fifteen, and a child when he married
me. How good he was to stoop to me! He was always
good to the poor and humble.” She stopped, then presently,
with a peculiar expression, as if her eyes were looking into
Heaven, and saw my lord there, she smiled, and gave a little
laugh. “I laugh to see you, sir,” she says; “when you
come, it seems as if you never were away.” One may
put her words down, and remember them, but how describe
her sweet tones, sweeter than music.




My young lord did not come home at the end of the
campaign, and wrote that he was kept at Bruxelles on
military duty. Indeed, I believe he was engaged in laying
siege to a certain lady, who was of the suite of Madame
de Soissons, the Prince of Savoy's mother, who was just
dead, and who, like the Flemish fortresses, was taken and
retaken a great number of times during the war, and
occupied by French, English, and Imperialists. Of course,
Mr. Esmond did not think fit to enlighten Lady Castlewood
regarding the young scapegrace's doings: nor had he said
a word about the affair with Lord Mohun, knowing how
abhorrent that man's name was to his mistress. Frank
did not waste much time or money on pen and ink; and,
when Harry came home with his general, only writ two
lines to his mother, to say his wound in the leg was almost
healed, that he would keep his coming of age next year—that
the duty aforesaid would keep him at Bruxelles, and
that Cousin Harry would tell all the news.




But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood
always liked to have a letter about the famous 29th of
December, my lord writ her a long and full one, and in this
he must have described the affair with Mohun; for when
Mr. Esmond came to visit his mistress one day, early in
the new year, to his great wonderment, she and her daughter
both came up and saluted him, and after them the dowager
of Chelsea, too, whose chairman had just brought her
[pg 303]
ladyship from her village to Kensington across the fields.
After this honour, I say, from the two ladies of Castlewood,
the dowager came forward in great state, with her grand
tall head-dress of King James's reign, that she never forsook,
and said, “Cousin Henry, all our family have met;
and we thank you, cousin, for your noble conduct towards
the head of our house.” And pointing to her blushing
cheek, she made Mr. Esmond aware that he was to enjoy
the rapture of an embrace there. Having saluted one
cheek, she turned to him the other. “Cousin Harry,” said
both the other ladies, in a little chorus, “we thank you for
your noble conduct;” and then Harry became aware that
the story of the Lille affair had come to his kinswomen's
ears. It pleased him to hear them all saluting him as one
of their family.




The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great
entertainment; and the ladies were in gala dresses—my
lady of Chelsea in her highest tour, my lady viscountess
out of black, and looking fair and happy, à ravir; and
the maid of honour attired with that splendour which
naturally distinguished her, and wearing on her beautiful
breast the French officer's star which Frank had sent home
after Ramillies.




“You see, 'tis a gala day with us,” says she, glancing
down to the star complacently, “and we have our orders
on. Does not mamma look charming? 'Twas I dressed
her!” Indeed, Esmond's dear mistress, blushing as he
looked at her, with her beautiful fair hair and an elegant
dress, according to the mode, appeared to have the shape
and complexion of a girl of twenty.




On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard,
and a beautiful chased silver handle, with a blue ribbon
for a sword-knot. “What is this?” says the captain,
going up to look at this pretty piece.




Mrs. Beatrix advanced towards it. “Kneel down,” says
she: “we dub you our knight with this”—and she waved
the sword over his head—“my lady dowager hath given
the sword; and I give the ribbon, and mamma hath sewn
on the fringe.”




“Put the sword on him, Beatrix,” says her mother. “You
are our knight, Harry—our true knight. Take a mother's
thanks and prayers for defending her son, my dear, dear
friend.” She could say no more, and even the dowager was
[pg 304]
affected, for a couple of rebellious tears made sad marks
down those wrinkled old roses which Esmond had just
been allowed to salute.




“We had a letter from dearest Frank,” his mother said,
“three days since, whilst you were on your visit to your
friend Captain Steele, at Hampton. He told us all that
you had done, and how nobly you had put yourself between
him and that—that wretch.”




“And I adopt you from this day,” says the dowager;
“and I wish I was richer, for your sake, son Esmond,” she
added, with a wave of her hand; and as Mr. Esmond
dutifully went down on his knee before her ladyship,
she cast her eyes up to the ceiling (the gilt chandelier,
and the twelve wax candles in it, for the party was numerous),
and invoked a blessing from that quarter upon the
newly adopted son.




“Dear Frank,” says the other viscountess, “how fond he
is of his military profession! He is studying fortification
very hard. I wish he were here. We shall keep his coming
of age at Castlewood next year.”




“If the campaign permit us,” says Mr. Esmond.




“I am never afraid when he is with you,” cries the boy's
mother. “I am sure my Henry will always defend him.”




“But there will be a peace before next year; we know it
for certain,” cries the maid of honour. “Lord Marlborough
will be dismissed, and that horrible duchess turned out of
all her places. Her Majesty won't speak to her now. Did
you see her at Bushy, Harry? she is furious, and she ranges
about the park like a lioness, and tears people's eyes out.”




“And the Princess Anne will send for somebody,” says
my lady of Chelsea, taking out her medal and kissing it.




“Did you see the king at Oudenarde, Harry?” his
mistress asked. She was a stanch Jacobite, and would no
more have thought of denying her king than her God.




“I saw the young Hanoverian only:” Harry said, “the
Chevalier de St. George——”




“The king, sir, the king!” said the ladies and Miss
Beatrix; and she clapped her pretty hands, and cried,
“Vive le Roy!”




By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove
in the doors of the house almost. It was three o'clock,
and the company were arriving; and presently the servant
announced Captain Steele and his lady.


[pg 305]


Captain and Mrs. Steele, who were the first to arrive, had
driven to Kensington from their country-house, the Hovel
at Hampton Wick, “Not from our mansion in Bloomsbury
Square,” as Mrs. Steele took care to inform the ladies.
Indeed Harry had ridden away from Hampton that very
morning, leaving the couple by the ears; for from the
chamber where he lay, in a bed that was none of the
cleanest, and kept awake by the company which he had
in his own bed, and the quarrel which was going on in the
next room, he could hear both night and morning the
curtain lecture which Mrs. Steele was in the habit of
administering to poor Dick.




At night it did not matter so much for the culprit;
Dick was fuddled, and when in that way no scolding could
interrupt his benevolence. Mr. Esmond could hear him
coaxing and speaking in that maudlin manner, which
punch and claret produce, to his beloved Prue, and beseeching
her to remember that there was a distiwisht officer ithe nex
roob, who would overhear her. She went on, nevertheless,
calling him a drunken wretch, and was only interrupted
in her harangues by the captain's snoring.




In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache
and consciousness, and the dialogue of the night was
resumed. “Why do you bring captains home to dinner
when there's not a guinea in the house? How am I to
give dinners when you leave me without a shilling? How
am I to go trapesing to Kensington in my yellow satin sack
before all the fine company? I've nothing fit to put on;
I never have:” and so the dispute went on—Mr. Esmond
interrupting the talk when it seemed to be growing too
intimate by blowing his nose as loudly as ever he could, at
the sound of which trumpet there came a lull. But Dick
was charming, though his wife was odious, and 'twas to
give Mr. Steele pleasure, that the ladies of Castlewood,
who were ladies of no small fashion, invited Mrs. Steele.




Besides the captain and his lady, there was a great and
notable assemblage of company: my lady of Chelsea
having sent her lackeys and liveries to aid the modest
attendance at Kensington. There was Lieutenant-General
Webb, Harry's kind patron, of whom the dowager took
possession, and who resplended in velvet and gold lace;
there was Harry's new acquaintance, the Right Honourable
Henry St. John, Esquire, the general's kinsman, who was
[pg 306]
charmed with the Lady Castlewood, even more than with
her daughter; there was one of the greatest noblemen in
the kingdom, the Scots Duke of Hamilton, just created
Duke of Brandon in England; and two other noble lords
of the Tory party, my Lord Ashburnham, and another
I have forgot; and for ladies, her grace the Duchess of
Ormonde and her daughters, the Lady Mary and the Lady
Betty, the former one of Mistress Beatrix's colleagues in
waiting on the queen.




“What a party of Tories!” whispered Captain Steele to
Esmond, as we were assembled in the parlour before
dinner. Indeed, all the company present, save Steele, were
of that faction.




Mr. St. John made his special compliments to Mrs. Steele,
and so charmed her that she declared she would have Steele
a Tory too.




“Or will you have me a Whig?” says Mr. St. John.
“I think, madam, you could convert a man to anything.”




“If Mr. St. John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will
teach him what I know,” says Mrs. Steele, dropping her
handsome eyes. “Do you know Bloomsbury Square?”




“Do I know the Mall? Do I know the Opera? Do
I know the reigning toast? Why, Bloomsbury is the very
height of the mode,” says Mr. St. John. “'Tis
rus in urbe.
You have gardens all the way to Hampstead, and palaces
round about you—Southampton House and Montague
House.”




“Where you wretches go and fight duels,” cries Mrs. Steele.




“Of which the ladies are the cause!” says her entertainer.
“Madam, is Dick a good swordsman? How charming the
Tatler is! We all recognized your portrait in the 49th
number, and I have been dying to know you ever since
I read it. ‘Aspasia must be allowed to be the first of the
beauteous order of love.’ Doth not the passage run so?
‘In this accomplished lady love is the constant effect,
though it is never the design; yet though her mien carries
much more invitation than command, to behold her is an
immediate check to loose behaviour, and to love her is
a liberal education.’ ”




“Oh, indeed!” says Mrs. Steele, who did not seem to
understand a word of what the gentleman was saying.




“Who could fail to be accomplished under such a mistress?”
says Mr. St. John, still gallant and bowing.


[pg 307]


“Mistress! upon my word, sir!” cries the lady. “If
you mean me, sir, I would have you know that I am the
captain's wife.”




“Sure we all know it,” answers Mr. St. John, keeping his
countenance very gravely; and Steele broke in, saying,
“'Twas not about Mrs. Steele I writ that paper—though
I am sure she is worthy of any compliment I can pay her—but
of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings.”14




“I hear Mr. Addison is equally famous as a wit and
a poet,” says Mr. St. John. “Is it true that his hand is to
be found in your Tatler, Mr. Steele?”




“Whether 'tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can
come near him,” cries Steele.




“A fig, Dick, for your Mr. Addison!” cries out his lady:
“a gentleman who gives himself such airs and holds his head
so high now. I hope your ladyship thinks as I do: I can't
bear those very fair men with white eyelashes—a black
man for me.” (All the black men at table applauded, and
made Mrs. Steele a bow for this compliment.) “As for this
Mr. Addison,” she went on, “he comes to dine with the
captain sometimes, never says a word to me, and then
they walk upstairs, both tipsy, to a dish of tea. I remember
your Mr. Addison when he had but one coat to his back,
and that with a patch at the elbow.”




“Indeed—a patch at the elbow! You interest me,” says
Mr. St. John. “'Tis charming to hear of one man of letters
from the charming wife of another.”




“Law, I could tell you ever so much about 'em,” continues
the voluble lady. “What do you think the captain
has got now?—a little hunchback fellow—a little hop-o'-my-thumb
creature that he calls a poet—a little Popish
brat!”




“Hush, there are two in the room,” whispers her companion.




“Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,” says
the lady. “'Tis only my joking way. And this little
dwarf of a fellow has wrote a pastoral poem—all about
shepherds and shepherdesses, you know.”




“A shepherd should have a little crook,” says my mistress,
laughing from her end of the table: on which Mrs. Steele
said, “She did not know, but the captain brought home
this queer little creature when she was in bed with her
[pg 308]
first boy, and it was a mercy he had come no sooner; and
Dick raved about his genus, and was always raving about
some nonsense or other.”




“Which of the Tatlers do you prefer, Mrs. Steele?”
asked Mr. St. John.




“I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish,
sir,” says the lady. “Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and
Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as it all is! There's the captain
going on still with the burgundy—I know he'll be tipsy
before he stops—Captain Steele!”




“I drink to your eyes, my dear,” says the captain, who
seemed to think his wife charming, and to receive as
genuine all the satiric compliments which Mr. St. John paid
her.




All this while the maid of honour had been trying to get
Mr. Esmond to talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow.
For, by some mistake, just as he was going to pop into the
vacant place, he was placed far away from Beatrix's chair,
who sat between his grace and my Lord Ashburnham, and
shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and cast a look as if to
say, “Pity me,” to her cousin. My lord duke and his young
neighbour were presently in a very animated and close
conversation. Mrs. Beatrix could no more help using her
eyes than the sun can help shining, and setting those it
shines on a-burning. By the time the first course was
done the dinner seemed long to Esmond: by the time the
soup came he fancied they must have been hours at table:
and as for the sweets and jellies he thought they never would
be done.




At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian
glance at her duke as she retreated; a fresh bottle and
glasses were fetched, and toasts were called. Mr. St. John
asked his grace the Duke of Hamilton and the company
to drink to the health of his grace the Duke of Brandon.
Another lord gave General Webb's health, “and may he get
the command the bravest officer in the world deserves.”
Mr. Webb thanked the company, complimented his aide
de camp, and fought his famous battle over again.




“Il est fatiguant,”
whispers Mr. St. John, “avec sa trompette
de Wynendael.”




Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the
health of the Duke of Marlborough, the greatest general of
the age.


[pg 309]


“I drink to the greatest general with all my heart,” says
Mr. Webb; “there can be no gainsaying that character of
him. My glass goes to the general, and not to the duke,
Mr. Steele.” And the stout old gentleman emptied his bumper;
to which Dick replied by filling and emptying a pair
of brimmers, one for the general and one for the duke.




And now his grace of Hamilton, rising up, with flashing
eyes (we had all been drinking pretty freely), proposed
a toast to the lovely, to the incomparable Mrs. Beatrix
Esmond; we all drank it with cheers, and my Lord Ashburnham
especially, with a shout of enthusiasm.




“What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton,” whispers
St. John, who drank more wine and yet was more steady
than most of the others, and we entered the drawing-room
where the ladies were at their tea. As for poor Dick, we
were obliged to leave him alone at the dining-table, where
he was hiccupping out the lines from the Campaign, in
which the greatest poet had celebrated the greatest general
in the world; and Harry Esmond found him, half an hour
afterwards, in a more advanced stage of liquor, and weeping
about the treachery of Tom Boxer.




The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of
the grand illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him.
When my lord duke went away, she practised upon the
next in rank, and plied my young Lord Ashburnham with
all the fire of her eyes and the fascinations of her wit.
Most of the party were set to cards, and Mr. St. John, after
yawning in the face of Mrs. Steele, whom he did not care
to pursue any more, and talking in his most brilliant
animated way to Lady Castlewood, whom he pronounced
to be beautiful, of a far higher order of beauty than her
daughter, presently took his leave, and went his way. The
rest of the company speedily followed, my Lord Ashburnham
the last, throwing fiery glances at the smiling young
temptress, who had bewitched more hearts than his in her
thrall.




No doubt, as a kinsman of the house, Mr. Esmond thought
fit to be the last of all in it; he remained after the coaches
had rolled away—after his dowager aunt's chair and flambeaux
had marched off in the darkness towards Chelsea, and
the town's-people had gone to bed, who had been drawn into
the square to gape at the unusual assemblage of chairs and
chariots, lackeys and torchmen. The poor mean wretch
[pg 310]
lingered yet for a few minutes, to see whether the girl would
vouchsafe him a smile, or a parting word of consolation.
But her enthusiasm of the morning was quite died out, or
she chose to be in a different mood. She fell to joking
about the dowdy appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked
the vulgarity of Mrs. Steele; and then she put up her little
hand to her mouth and yawned, lighted a taper, and shrugged
her shoulders, and dropping Mr. Esmond a saucy curtsy,
sailed off to bed.




“The day began so well, Henry, that I had hoped it
might have ended better,” was all the consolation that poor
Esmond's fond mistress could give him; and as he trudged
home through the dark alone, he thought, with bitter rage
in his heart, and a feeling of almost revolt against the
sacrifice he had made:—“She would have me,” thought he,
“had I but a name to give her. But for my promise to her
father, I might have my rank and my mistress too.”




I suppose a man's vanity is stronger than any other
passion in him; for I blush, even now, as I recall the
humiliation of those distant days, the memory of which
still smarts, though the fever of baulked desire has passed
away more than a score of years ago. When the writer's
descendants come to read this memoir, I wonder will they
have lived to experience a similar defeat and shame? Will
they ever have knelt to a woman, who has listened to them,
and played with them, and laughed at them—who beckoning
them with lures and caresses, and with Yes, smiling from
her eyes, has tricked them on to their knees, and turned
her back and left them? All this shame Mr. Esmond had
to undergo; and he submitted, and revolted, and presently
came crouching back for more.




After this feste, my young Lord Ashburnham's coach
was for ever rolling in and out of Kensington Square; his
lady-mother came to visit Esmond's mistress, and at every
assembly in the town, wherever the maid of honour made
her appearance, you might be pretty sure to see the young
gentleman in a new suit every week, and decked out in all
the finery that his tailor or embroiderer could furnish for
him. My lord was for ever paying Mr. Esmond compliments,
bidding him to dinner, offering him horses to ride,
and giving him a thousand uncouth marks of respect and
goodwill. At last, one night at the coffee-house, whither
my lord came considerably flushed and excited with drink,
[pg 311]
he rushes up to Mr. Esmond, and cries out—“Give me joy,
my dearest colonel; I am the happiest of men.”




“The happiest of men needs no dearest colonel to give him
joy,” says Mr. Esmond. “What is the cause of this supreme
felicity?”




“Haven't you heard?” says he. “Don't you know?
I thought the family told you everything: the adorable
Beatrix hath promised to be mine.”




“What!” cries out Mr. Esmond, who had spent happy
hours with Beatrix that very morning—had writ verses for
her, that she had sung at the harpsichord.




“Yes,” says he; “I waited on her to-day. I saw you
walking towards Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach;
and she looked so lovely, and spoke so kind, that I couldn't
help going down on my knees, and—and—sure I'm the
happiest of men in all the world; and I'm very young; but
she says I shall get older: and you know I shall be of age
in four months; and there's very little difference between
us; and I'm so happy. I should like to treat the company
to something. Let us have a bottle—a dozen bottles—and
drink the health of the finest woman in England.”






Esmond left the young lord tossing off bumper after
bumper, and strolled away to Kensington to ask whether the
news was true. 'Twas only too sure: his mistress's sad, compassionate
face told him the story; and then she related
what particulars of it she knew, and how my young lord
had made his offer, half an hour after Esmond went away
that morning, and in the very room where the song lay
yet on the harpsichord, which Esmond had writ, and they
had sung together.






[pg 313]





 Book III. Containing The End Of Mr. Esmond's Adventures In England






 Chapter I. I Come To An End Of My Battles And Bruises



That feverish desire to gain a little reputation which
Esmond had had, left him now perhaps that he had attained
some portion of his wish, and the great motive of his ambition
was over. His desire for military honour was that it
might raise him in Beatrix's eyes. 'Twas next to nobility
and wealth the only kind of rank she valued. It was the
stake quickest won or lost too; for law is a very long game
that requires a life to practise; and to be distinguished in
letters or the Church would not have forwarded the poor
gentleman's plans in the least. So he had no suit to play
but the red one, and he played it; and this, in truth, was
the reason of his speedy promotion; for he exposed himself
more than most gentlemen do, and risked more to win
more. Is he the only man that hath set his life against a
stake which may be not worth the winning? Another risks
his life (and his honour, too, sometimes) against a bundle of
bank-notes, or a yard of blue ribbon, or a seat in Parliament;
and some for the mere pleasure and excitement of the sport;
as a field of a hundred huntsmen will do, each out-bawling
and out-galloping the other at the tail of a dirty fox, that
is to be the prize of the foremost happy conqueror.




When he heard this news of Beatrix's engagement in
marriage, Colonel Esmond knocked under to his fate, and
resolved to surrender his sword, that could win him nothing
now he cared for; and in this dismal frame of mind he
determined to retire from the regiment, to the great delight
of the captain next in rank to him, who happened to be
a young gentleman of good fortune, who eagerly paid
Mr. Esmond a thousand guineas for his majority in Webb's
[pg 314]
regiment, and was knocked on the head the next campaign.
Perhaps Esmond would not have been sorry to share his
fate. He was more the Knight of the Woful Countenance
than ever he had been. His moodiness must have made
him perfectly odious to his friends under the tents, who like
a jolly fellow, and laugh at a melancholy warrior always
sighing after Dulcinea at home.




Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr. Esmond
quitting the army, and his kind general coincided in his
wish of retirement, and helped in the transfer of his commission,
which brought a pretty sum into his pocket. But
when the commander-in-chief came home, and was forced,
in spite of himself, to appoint Lieutenant-General Webb
to the command of a division of the army in Flanders, the
lieutenant-general prayed Colonel Esmond so urgently to
be his aide de camp and military secretary, that Esmond
could not resist his kind patron's entreaties, and again took
the field, not attached to any regiment, but under Webb's
orders. What must have been the continued agonies of
fears15 and apprehensions which racked the gentle breasts
of wives and matrons in those dreadful days, when every
Gazette brought accounts of deaths and battles, and when
the present anxiety over, and the beloved person escaped,
the doubt still remained that a battle might be fought,
possibly, of which the next Flanders letter would bring the
account; so they, the poor tender creatures, had to go on
sickening and trembling through the whole campaign.
Whatever these terrors were on the part of Esmond's mistress
(and that tenderest of women must have felt them
most keenly for both her sons, as she called them), she
never allowed them outwardly to appear, but hid her
apprehension as she did her charities and devotion. 'Twas
only by chance that Esmond, wandering in Kensington,
found his mistress coming out of a mean cottage there, and
heard that she had a score of poor retainers, whom she visited
and comforted in their sickness and poverty, and who blessed
her daily. She attended the early church daily (though of
a Sunday especially, she encouraged and advanced all sorts
of cheerfulness and innocent gaiety in her little household):
and by notes entered into a table-book of hers at this time,
and devotional compositions writ with a sweet artless fervour,
such as the best divines could not surpass, showed
[pg 315]
how fond her heart was, how humble and pious her spirit,
what pangs of apprehension she endured silently, and with
what a faithful reliance she committed the care of those she
loved to the awful Dispenser of death and life.




As for her ladyship at Chelsea, Esmond's newly-adopted
mother, she was now of an age when the danger of any
second party doth not disturb the rest much. She cared
for trumps more than for most things in life. She was firm
enough in her own faith, but no longer very bitter against
ours. She had a very good-natured, easy French director,
Monsieur Gauthier by name, who was a gentleman of the
world, and would take a hand of cards with Dean Atterbury,
my lady's neighbour at Chelsea, and was well with all the
High Church party. No doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew
what Esmond's peculiar position was, for he corresponded
with Holt, and always treated Colonel Esmond with particular
respect and kindness; but for good reasons the
colonel and the abbé never spoke on this matter together,
and so they remained perfect good friends.




All the frequenters of my lady of Chelsea's house were
of the Tory and High Church party. Madame Beatrix was
as frantic about the king as her elderly kinswoman: she
wore his picture on her heart; she had a piece of his hair;
she vowed he was the most injured, and gallant, and accomplished,
and unfortunate, and beautiful of princes. Steele,
who quarrelled with very many of his Tory friends, but
never with Esmond, used to tell the colonel that his kinswoman's
house was a rendezvous of Tory intrigues; that
Gauthier was a spy; that Atterbury was a spy; that
letters were constantly going from that house to the queen
at St. Germains; on which Esmond, laughing, would reply,
that they used to say in the army the Duke of Marlborough
was a spy too, and as much in correspondence with that
family as any Jesuit. And without entering very eagerly
into the controversy, Esmond had frankly taken the side
of his family. It seemed to him that King James the Third
was undoubtedly King of England by right: and at his
sister's death it would be better to have him than a foreigner
over us. No man admired King William more; a hero
and a conqueror, the bravest, justest, wisest of men—but
'twas by the sword he conquered the country, and held and
governed it by the very same right that the great Cromwell
held it, who was truly and greatly a sovereign. But that
[pg 316]
a foreign despotic prince, out of Germany, who happened
to be descended from King James the First, should take
possession of this empire, seemed to Mr. Esmond a monstrous
injustice—at least, every Englishman had a right to protest,
and the English prince, the heir-at-law, the first of all.
What man of spirit with such a cause would not back it?
What man of honour with such a crown to win would not
fight for it? But that race was destined. That prince
had himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome.
He never dared to draw his sword, though he had it. He
let his chances slip by as he lay in the lap of opera-girls,
or snivelled at the knees of priests asking pardon; and the
blood of heroes, and the devotedness of honest hearts, and
endurance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him in vain.




But let us return to my lady of Chelsea, who, when her
son Esmond announced to her ladyship that he proposed
to make the ensuing campaign, took leave of him with
perfect alacrity, and was down to piquet with her gentlewoman
before he had well quitted the room on his last visit.
“Tierce to a king,” were the last words he ever heard her
say: the game of life was pretty nearly over for the good
lady, and three months afterwards she took to her bed,
where she flickered out without any pain, so the Abbé
Gauthier wrote over to Mr. Esmond, then with his general
on the frontier of France. The Lady Castlewood was with
her at her ending, and had written too, but these letters must
have been taken by a privateer in the packet that brought
them; for Esmond knew nothing of their contents until
his return to England.




My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel
Esmond, “as a reparation for the wrong done to him”;
'twas writ in her will. But her fortune was not much, for
it never had been large, and the honest viscountess had
wisely sunk most of the money she had upon an annuity
which terminated with her life. However, there was the
house and furniture, plate and pictures at Chelsea, and
a sum of money lying at her merchant's, Sir Josiah Child,
which altogether would realize a sum of near three hundred
pounds per annum, so that Mr. Esmond found himself, if
not rich, at least easy for life. Likewise, there were the
famous diamonds which had been said to be worth fabulous
sums, though the goldsmith pronounced they would fetch
no more than four thousand pounds. These diamonds,
[pg 317]
however, Colonel Esmond reserved, having a special use
for them: but the Chelsea house, plate, goods, &c., with
the exception of a few articles which he kept back, were sold
by his orders; and the sums resulting from the sale invested
in the public securities so as to realize the aforesaid annual
income of three hundred pounds.




Having now something to leave, he made a will, and
dispatched it home. The army was now in presence of the
enemy; and a great battle expected every day. 'Twas
known that the general-in-chief was in disgrace, and the
parties at home strong against him; and there was no
stroke this great and resolute player would not venture to
recall his fortune when it seemed desperate. Frank Castlewood
was with Colonel Esmond; his general having gladly
taken the young nobleman on to his staff. His studies of
fortifications at Bruxelles were over by this time. The fort
he was besieging had yielded, I believe, and my lord had
not only marched in with flying colours, but marched out
again. He used to tell his boyish wickednesses with
admirable humour, and was the most charming young
scapegrace in the army.




'Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every
penny of his little fortune to this boy. It was the colonel's
firm conviction that the next battle would put an end to him:
for he felt aweary of the sun, and quite ready to bid that
and the earth farewell. Frank would not listen to his
comrade's gloomy forebodings, but swore they would keep
his birthday at Castlewood that autumn, after the campaign.
He had heard of the engagement at home. “If Prince
Eugene goes to London,” says Frank, “and Trix can get
hold of him, she'll jilt Ashburnham for his highness. I tell
you, she used to make eyes at the Duke of Marlborough,
when she was only fourteen and ogling poor little Blandford.
I wouldn't marry her, Harry, no not if her eyes were twice
as big. I'll take my fun. I'll enjoy for the next three
years every possible pleasure. I'll sow my wild oats then,
and marry some quiet, steady, modest, sensible viscountess;
hunt my harriers; and settle down at Castlewood. Perhaps
I'll represent the county—no, damme, you shall represent
the county. You have the brains of the family. By the
Lord, my dear old Harry, you have the best head and the
kindest heart in all the army; and every man says so—and
when the queen dies, and the king comes back, why shouldn't
[pg 318]
you go to the House of Commons and be a minister, and
be made a peer, and that sort of thing? You be shot in the
next action! I wager a dozen of burgundy you are not
touched. Mohun is well of his wound. He is always with
Corporal John now. As soon as ever I see his ugly face I'll
spit in it. I took lessons of Father—of Captain Holtz at
Bruxelles. What a man that is! He knows everything.”
Esmond bade Frank have a care; that Father Holt's knowledge
was rather dangerous; not, indeed, knowing as yet
how far the father had pushed his instructions with his
young pupil.




The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and
English side, have given accounts sufficient of that bloody
battle of Blarignies or Malplaquet, which was the last and
the hardest-earned of the victories of the great Duke of
Marlborough. In that tremendous combat, near upon two
hundred and fifty thousand men were engaged, more than
thirty thousand of whom were slain or wounded (the Allies
lost twice as many men as they killed of the French, whom
they conquered): and this dreadful slaughter very likely
took place because a great general's credit was shaken at
home, and he thought to restore it by a victory. If such
were the motives which induced the Duke of Marlborough
to venture that prodigious stake, and desperately sacrifice
thirty thousand brave lives, so that he might figure once
more in a Gazette, and hold his places and pensions a little
longer, the event defeated the dreadful and selfish design,
for the victory was purchased at a cost which no nation,
greedy of glory as it may be, would willingly pay for any
triumph. The gallantry of the French was as remarkable
as the furious bravery of their assailants. We took a few
score of their flags, and a few pieces of their artillery; but
we left twenty thousand of the bravest soldiers of the world
round about the entrenched lines, from which the enemy
was driven. He retreated in perfect good order; the panic-spell
seemed to be broke, under which the French had
laboured ever since the disaster of Hochstedt; and, fighting
now on the threshold of their country, they showed an
heroic ardour of resistance, such as had never met us in the
course of their aggressive war. Had the battle been more
successful, the conqueror might have got the price for which
he waged it. As it was (and justly, I think), the party
adverse to the duke in England were indignant at the lavish
[pg 319]
extravagance of slaughter, and demanded more eagerly
than ever the recall of a chief, whose cupidity and desperation
might urge him further still. After this bloody fight
of Malplaquet, I can answer for it, that in the Dutch
quarters and our own, and amongst the very regiments and
commanders, whose gallantry was most conspicuous upon
this frightful day of carnage, the general cry was, that there
was enough of the war. The French were driven back into
their own boundary, and all their conquests and booty of
Flanders disgorged. As for the Prince of Savoy, with
whom our commander-in-chief, for reasons of his own,
consorted more closely than ever, 'twas known that he was
animated not merely by a political hatred, but by personal
rage against the old French king: the Imperial Generalissimo
never forgot the slight put by Lewis upon the Abbé de
Savoie; and in the humiliation or ruin of his most Christian
Majesty, the Holy Roman Emperor found his account.
But what were these quarrels to us, the free citizens of
England and Holland? Despot as he was, the French
monarch was yet the chief of European civilization, more
venerable in his age and misfortunes than at the period of
his most splendid successes; whilst his opponent was but
a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a pillaging murderous horde
of Croats and Pandours, composing a half of his army,
filling our camp with their strange figures, bearded like the
miscreant Turks their neighbours, and carrying into
Christian warfare their native heathen habits of rapine,
lust, and murder. Why should the best blood in England
and France be shed in order that the Holy Roman and
Apostolic master of these ruffians should have his revenge
over the Christian king? And it was to this end we were
fighting; for this that every village and family in England
was deploring the death of beloved sons and fathers. We
dared not speak to each other, even at table, of Malplaquet,
so frightful were the gaps left in our army by the cannon
of that bloody action. 'Twas heartrending, for an officer
who had a heart, to look down his line on a parade-day
afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces of comrades—humble
or of high rank—that had gathered but yesterday full of
courage and cheerfulness round the torn and blackened
flags. Where were our friends? As the great duke
reviewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of
prancing aides de camp and generals, stopping here and
[pg 320]
there to thank an officer with those eager smiles and bows
of which his grace was always lavish, scarce a huzzah could
be got for him, though Cadogan, with an oath, rode up and
cried—“D—n you, why don't you cheer?” But the men
had no heart for that: not one of them but was thinking,
“Where's my comrade?—where's my brother that fought
by me, or my dear captain that led me yesterday?” 'Twas
the most gloomy pageant I ever looked on; and the Te
Deum, sung by our chaplains, the most woful and dreary
satire.




Esmond's general added one more to the many marks of
honour which he had received in the front of a score of
battles, and got a wound in the groin, which laid him on
his back; and you may be sure he consoled himself by
abusing the commander-in-chief, as he lay groaning:—“Corporal
John's as fond of me,” he used to say, “as King
David was of General Uriah; and so he always gives me the
post of danger.” He persisted, to his dying day, in believing
that the duke intended he should be beat at Wynendael,
and sent him purposely with a small force, hoping that he
might be knocked on the head there. Esmond and Frank
Castlewood both escaped without hurt, though the division
which our general commanded suffered even more than any
other, having to sustain not only the fury of the enemy's
cannonade, which was very hot and well-served, but the
furious and repeated charges of the famous Maison-du-Roy,
which we had to receive and beat off again and again, with
volleys of shot and hedges of iron, and our four lines of
musketeers and pikemen. They said the King of England
charged us no less than twelve times that day, along with
the French Household. Esmond's late regiment, General
Webb's own Fusiliers, served in the division which their
colonel commanded. The general was thrice in the centre of
the square of the Fusiliers, calling the fire at the French
charges; and, after the action, his grace the Duke of Berwick
sent his compliments to his old regiment and their
colonel for their behaviour on the field.




We drank my Lord Castlewood's health and majority,
the 25th of September, the army being then before Mons:
and here Colonel Esmond was not so fortunate as he had
been in actions much more dangerous, and was hit by a
spent ball just above the place where his former wound was,
which caused the old wound to open again, fever, spitting
[pg 321]
of blood, and other ugly symptoms, to ensue; and, in a
word, brought him near to death's door. The kind lad, his
kinsman, attended his elder comrade with a very praiseworthy
affectionateness and care until he was pronounced
out of danger by the doctors, when Frank went off, passed
the winter at Bruxelles, and besieged, no doubt, some other
fortress there. Very few lads would have given up their
pleasures so long and so gaily as Frank did; his cheerful
prattle soothed many long days of Esmond's pain and
languor. Frank was supposed to be still at his kinsman's
bedside for a month after he had left it, for letters came
from his mother at home full of thanks to the younger gentleman
for his care of his elder brother (so it pleased Esmond's
mistress now affectionately to style him); nor was Mr.
Esmond in a hurry to undeceive her, when the good young
fellow was gone for his Christmas holiday. It was as
pleasant to Esmond on his couch to watch the young man's
pleasure at the idea of being free, as to note his simple efforts
to disguise his satisfaction on going away. There are days
when a flask of champagne at a cabaret, and a red-cheeked
partner to share it, are too strong temptations for any young
fellow of spirit. I am not going to play the moralist, and
cry “Fie!” For ages past, I know how old men preach, and
what young men practise; and that patriarchs have had
their weak moments, too, long since Father Noah toppled
over after discovering the vine. Frank went off, then, to
his pleasures at Bruxelles, in which capital many young
fellows of our army declared they found infinitely greater
diversion even than in London: and Mr. Henry Esmond
remained in his sick-room, where he writ a fine comedy, that
his mistress pronounced to be sublime, and that was acted
no less than three successive nights in London in the next
year.




Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr. Holtz
reappeared, and stopped a whole month at Mons, where
he not only won over Colonel Esmond to the king's side in
politics (that side being always held by the Esmond family);
but where he endeavoured to reopen the controversial
question between the Churches once more, and to recall
Esmond to that religion in which, in his infancy, he had
been baptized. Holtz was a casuist, both dexterous and
learned, and presented the case between the English Church
and his own in such a way that those who granted his
[pg 322]
premisses ought certainly to allow his conclusions. He
touched on Esmond's delicate state of health, chance of
dissolution, and so forth; and enlarged upon the immense
benefits that the sick man was likely to forgo—benefits
which the Church of England did not deny to those of the
Roman communion, as how should she, being derived from
that Church, and only an offshoot from it. But Mr. Esmond
said that his Church was the church of his country, and to
that he chose to remain faithful: other people were welcome
to worship and to subscribe any other set of articles, whether
at Rome or at Augsburg. But if the good father meant
that Esmond should join the Roman communion for fear of
consequences, and that all England ran the risk of being
damned for heresy, Esmond, for one, was perfectly willing to
take his chance of the penalty along with the countless
millions of his fellow countrymen, who were bred in the
same faith, and along with some of the noblest, the truest,
the purest, the wisest, the most pious and learned men and
women in the world.




As for the political question, in that Mr. Esmond could
agree with the father much more readily, and had come to
the same conclusion, though, perhaps, by a different way.
The right-divine, about which Dr. Sacheverel and the High
Church party in England were just now making a bother,
they were welcome to hold as they chose. If Henry Cromwell
and his father before him, had been crowned and
anointed (and bishops enough would have been found to do
it), it seemed to Mr. Esmond that they would have had the
right-divine just as much as any Plantagenet, or Tudor, or
Stuart. But the desire of the country being unquestionably
for an hereditary monarchy, Esmond thought an
English king out of St. Germains was better and fitter than
a German prince from Herrenhausen, and that if he failed
to satisfy the nation, some other Englishman might be
found to take his place; and so, though with no frantic
enthusiasm, or worship of that monstrous pedigree which
the Tories chose to consider divine, he was ready to say,
“God save King James!” when Queen Anne went the way
of kings and commoners.




“I fear, colonel, you are no better than a republican at
heart,” says the priest, with a sigh.




“I am an Englishman,” says Harry, “and take my country
as I find her. The will of the nation being for Church and
[pg 323]
King, I am for Church and King, too; but English Church,
and English King; and that is why your Church isn't mine,
though your king is.”




Though they lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French
who were elated by that action, whilst the conquerors were
dispirited by it; and the enemy gathered together a larger
army than ever, and made prodigious efforts for the next
campaign. Marshal Berwick was with the French this year;
and we heard that Mareschal Villars was still suffering of
his wound, was eager to bring our duke to action, and
vowed he would fight us in his coach. Young Castlewood
came flying back from Bruxelles, as soon as he heard that
righting was to begin; and the arrival of the Chevalier de
St. George was announced about May. “It's the king's
third campaign, and it's mine,” Frank liked saying. He
was come back a greater Jacobite than ever, and Esmond
suspected that some fair conspirators at Bruxelles had been
inflaming the young man's ardour. Indeed, he owned that
he had a message from the queen, Beatrix's godmother,
who had given her name to Frank's sister the year before
he and his sovereign were born.




However desirous Marshal Villars might be to fight, my
lord duke did not seem disposed to indulge him this campaign.
Last year his grace had been all for the Whigs and Hanoverians;
but finding, on going to England, his country cold
towards himself, and the people in a ferment of High-Church
loyalty, the duke comes back to his army cooled towards
the Hanoverians, cautious with the Imperialists, and particularly
civil and polite towards the Chevalier de St. George.
'Tis certain that messengers and letters were continually
passing between his grace and his brave nephew, the Duke
of Berwick, in the opposite camp. No man's caresses were
more opportune than his grace's, and no man ever uttered
expressions of regard and affection more generously. He
professed to Monsieur de Torcy, so Mr. St. John told the
writer, quite an eagerness to be cut in pieces for the exiled
queen and her family; nay more, I believe, this year he
parted with a portion of the most precious part of himself—his
money—which he sent over to the royal exiles. Mr.
Tunstal, who was in the prince's service, was twice or thrice
in and out of our camp; the French, in theirs of Arlieu and
about Arras. A little river, the Canihe, I think 'twas called
(but this is writ away from books and Europe; and the
[pg 324]
only map the writer hath of these scenes of his youth, bears
no mark of this little stream), divided our pickets from the
enemy's. Our sentries talked across the stream, when they
could make themselves understood to each other, and when
they could not, grinned, and handed each other their
brandy-flasks or their pouches of tobacco. And one fine
day of June, riding thither with the officer who visited the
outposts (Colonel Esmond was taking an airing on horseback,
being too weak for military duty), they came to this
river, where a number of English and Scots were assembled,
talking to the good-natured enemy on the other
side.




Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long
fellow, with a great curling red moustache, and blue eyes,
that was half a dozen inches taller than his swarthy little
comrades on the French side of the stream, and being asked
by the colonel, saluted him, and said that he belonged to
the Royal Cravats.




From his way of saying “Royal Cravat”, Esmond at once
knew that the fellow's tongue had first wagged on the banks
of the Liffey, and not the Loire; and the poor soldier—a
deserter probably—did not like to venture very deep into
French conversation, lest his unlucky brogue should peep
out. He chose to restrict himself to such few expressions
in the French language as he thought he had mastered
easily; and his attempt at disguise was infinitely amusing.
Mr. Esmond whistled “Lillibullero,” at which Teague's eyes
began to twinkle, and then flung him a dollar, when the
poor boy broke out with a “God bless—that is, Dieu
bénisse votre honor”, that would infallibly have sent him
to the provost-marshal had he been on our side of the
river.




Whilst this parley was going on, three officers on horseback,
on the French side, appeared at some little distance,
and stopped as if eyeing us, when one of them left the other
two, and rode close up to us who were by the stream. “Look,
look!” says the Royal Cravat, with great agitation, “pas
lui, that's he; not him,
l'autre,” and pointed to the distant
officer on a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun,
and over it a broad blue ribbon.




“Please to take Mr. Hamilton's services to my Lord
Marlborough—my lord duke,” says the gentleman in
English; and, looking to see that the party were not
[pg 325]
hostilely disposed, he added, with a smile, “There's a friend
of yours, gentlemen, yonder; he bids me to say that he
saw some of your faces on the 11th of September last
year.”




As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up,
and came quite close. We knew at once who it was. It
was the king, then two-and-twenty years old, tall and slim,
with deep brown eyes, that looked melancholy, though his
lips wore a smile. We took off our hats and saluted him.
No man, sure, could see for the first time, without emotion,
the youthful inheritor of so much fame and misfortune.
It seemed to Mr. Esmond that the prince was not unlike
young Castlewood, whose age and figure he resembled. The
Chevalier de St. George acknowledged the salute, and looked
at us hard. Even the idlers on our side of the river set up
a hurrah. As for the Royal Cravat, he ran to the prince's
stirrup, knelt down and kissed his boot, and bawled and
looked a hundred ejaculations and blessings. The prince
bade the aide de camp give him a piece of money; and when
the party saluting us had ridden away, Cravat spat upon
the piece of gold by way of benediction, and swaggered
away, pouching his coin and twirling his honest carroty
moustache.




The officer in whose company Esmond was, the same
little captain of Handyside's regiment, Mr. Sterne, who had
proposed the garden at Lille, when my Lord Mohun and
Esmond had their affair, was an Irishman too, and as brave
a little soul as ever wore a sword. “Bedad,” says Roger
Sterne, “that long fellow spoke French so beautiful that
I shouldn't have known he wasn't a foreigner, till he broke
out with his hulla-balloing, and only an Irish calf can bellow
like that.”—And Roger made another remark in his wild
way, in which there was sense as well as absurdity—“If that
young gentleman,” says he, “would but ride over to our
camp instead of Villars's, toss up his hat and say, ‘Here
am I, the king, who'll follow me?’ by the Lord, Esmond,
the whole army would rise and carry him home again, and
beat Villars, and take Paris by the way.”




The news of the prince's visit was all through the camp
quickly, and scores of ours went down in hopes to see him.
Major Hamilton, whom we had talked with, sent back by
a trumpet several silver pieces for officers with us. Mr.
Esmond received one of these: and that medal, and a
[pg 326]
recompense not uncommon amongst princes, were the only
rewards he ever had from a royal person, whom he endeavoured
not very long after to serve.




Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this,
following his general home; and, indeed, being advised to
travel in the fine weather and attempt to take no further
part in the campaign. But he heard from the army, that
of the many who crowded to see the Chevalier de St. George,
Frank Castlewood had made himself most conspicuous:
my lord viscount riding across the little stream bareheaded
to where the prince was, and dismounting and kneeling
before him to do him homage. Some said that the prince
had actually knighted him, but my lord denied that statement,
though he acknowledged the rest of the story, and
said:—“From having been out of favour with Corporal
John,” as he called the duke, before, his grace warned him
not to commit those follies, and smiled on him cordially
ever after.




“And he was so kind to me,” Frank writ, “that I thought
I would put in a good word for Master Harry, but when
I mentioned your name he looked as black as thunder, and
said he had never heard of you.”









 Chapter II. I Go Home, And Harp On The Old String



After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting
for a packet at Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his
young kinsman Castlewood at Bruxelles, conveying intelligence
whereof Frank besought him to be the bearer
to London, and which caused Colonel Esmond no small
anxiety.




The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old,
and being anxious to sow his “wild otes”, as he wrote, had
married Mademoiselle de Wertheim, daughter of Count de
Wertheim, Chamberlain to the Emperor, and having a post
in the Household of the Governor of the Netherlands.




PS. (the young gentleman wrote): Clotilda is older than me,
which perhaps may be objected to her: but I am so old a raik
[pg 327]
that the age makes no difference, and I am determined to reform.
We were married at St. Gudule, by Father Holt. She is heart
and soul for the good cause. And here the cry is
Vif-le-Roy, which
my mother will join in, and Trix too. Break this news to 'em
gently: and tell Mr. Finch, my agent, to press the people for
their rents, and send me the ryno anyhow. Clotilda sings, and
plays on the Spinet beautifully. She is a fair beauty. And if it's
a son, you shall stand Godfather. I'm going to leave the army,
having had enuf of soldering; and my lord duke recommends me.
I shall pass the winter here: and stop at least until Clo's lying-in.
I call her old Clo, but nobody else shall. She is the cleverest
woman in all Bruxelles: understanding painting, music, poetry, and perfect
at cookery and puddens. I borded with the count, that's how
I came to know her. There are four counts her brothers. One
an abbey—three with the prince's army. They have a lawsuit
for an immense fortune: but are now in a pore way. Break this
to mother, who'll take anything from you. And write, and bid
Finch write amediately. Hostel de 'l'Aigle Noire, Bruxelles,
Flanders.




So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an
heir was expected, and Mr. Esmond was to carry this intelligence
to his mistress at London. 'Twas a difficult embassy;
and the colonel felt not a little tremor as he neared the
capital.




He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington
to announce his arrival and visit the next morning.
The messenger brought back news that the Court was at
Windsor, and the fair Beatrix absent and engaged in her
duties there. Only Esmond's mistress remained in her
house at Kensington. She appeared in Court but once in
the year; Beatrix was quite the mistress and ruler of the
little mansion, inviting the company thither, and engaging
in every conceivable frolic of town pleasure. Whilst her
mother, acting as the young lady's protectress and elder
sister, pursued her own path, which was quite modest and
secluded.




As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been
awake long before the town), he took a coach for Kensington,
and reached it so early that he met his dear mistress coming
home from morning prayers. She carried her Prayer-book,
never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybody else did:
and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what her
occupation had been. He called to the coachman to stop,
and jumped out as she looked towards him. She wore her
hood as usual, and she turned quite pale when she saw him.
[pg 328]
To feel that kind little hand near to his heart seemed to
give him strength. They soon were at the door of her ladyship's
house—and within it.




With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it.




“How ill you have been: how weak you look, my dear
Henry,” she said.




'Tis certain the colonel did look like a ghost, except that
ghosts do not look very happy, 'tis said. Esmond always
felt so on returning to her after absence, indeed whenever
he looked in her sweet kind face.




“I am come back to be nursed by my family,” says he.
“If Frank had not taken care of me after my wound, very
likely I should have gone altogether.”




“Poor Frank, good Frank!” says his mother. “You'll
always be kind to him, my lord,” she went on. “The poor
child never knew he was doing you a wrong.”




“My lord!” cries out Colonel Esmond. “What do you
mean, dear lady?”




“I am no lady,” says she; “I am Rachel Esmond, Francis
Esmond's widow, my lord. I cannot bear that title.
Would we never had taken it from him who has it now.
But we did all in our power, Henry: we did all in our
power; and my lord and I—that is——”




“Who told you this tale, dearest lady?” asked the colonel.




“Have you not had the letter I writ you? I writ to you
at Mons directly I heard it,” says Lady Esmond.




“And from whom?” again asked Colonel Esmond—and
his mistress then told him that on her death-bed the dowager
countess, sending for her, had presented her with this
dismal secret as a legacy. “'Twas very malicious of the
dowager,” Lady Esmond said, “to have had it so long, and to
have kept the truth from me. ‘Cousin Rachel,’ she said,”
and Esmond's mistress could not forbear smiling as she
told the story, “ ‘cousin Rachel,’ cries the dowager, ‘I
have sent for you, as the doctors say I may go off any day
in this dysentery; and to ease my conscience of a great
load that has been on it. You always have been a poor
creature and unfit for great honour, and what I have to
say won't, therefore, affect you so much. You must know,
cousin Rachel, that I have left my house, plate, and furniture,
three thousand pounds in money, and my diamonds that
my late revered saint and sovereign, King James, presented
me with, to my Lord Viscount Castlewood.’


[pg 329]


“ ‘To my Frank?’ ” says Lady Castlewood: “ ‘I was in
hopes——




“ ‘To Viscount Castlewood, my dear, Viscount Castlewood,
and Baron Esmond of Shandon in the kingdom of
Ireland, Earl and Marquis of Esmond under patent of his
Majesty King James the Second, conferred upon my husband
the late marquis—for I am Marchioness of Esmond
before God and man.’




“ ‘And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear marchioness?’ ”
asks Lady Castlewood (she hath told me the story
completely since with her quiet arch way; the most charming
any woman ever had: and I set down the narrative
here at length so as to have done with it). “ ‘And have you
left poor Harry nothing?’ ” asks my dear lady: “for you
know, Henry,” she says with her sweet smile, “I used always
to pity Esau—and I think I am on his side—though papa
tried very hard to convince me the other way.




“ ‘Poor Harry!’ says the old lady. ‘So you want
something left to poor Harry: he, he! (reach me the drops,
cousin). Well then, my dear, since you want poor Harry
to have a fortune: you must understand that ever since
the year 1691, a week after the battle of the Boyne, where
the Prince of Orange defeated his royal sovereign and father,
for which crime he is now suffering in flames (ugh, ugh),
Henry Esmond hath been Marquis of Esmond and Earl
of Castlewood in the United Kingdom, and Baron and
Viscount Castlewood of Shandon in Ireland, and a baronet—and
his eldest son will be, by courtesy, styled Earl of
Castlewood—he! he! What do you think of that, my dear?’




“ ‘Gracious mercy! how long have you known this?’ ”
cries the other lady (thinking perhaps that the old marchioness
was wandering in her wits).




“ ‘My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked
wretch,’ ” the sick sinner continued. “ ‘When he was in the
Low Countries he seduced a weaver's daughter; and added
to his wickedness by marrying her. And then he came to
this country and married me—a poor girl—a poor innocent
young thing—I say,’ though she was past forty, you know,
Harry, when she married: and as for being innocent—‘Well,’
she went on, ‘I knew nothing of my lord's wickedness
for three years after our marriage, and after the burial
of our poor little boy I had it done over again, my dear.
I had myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel,
[pg 330]
as soon as ever I heard the creature was dead—and having
a great illness then, arising from another sad disappointment
I had, the priest came and told me that my lord had
a son before our marriage, and that the child was at nurse
in England; and I consented to let the brat be brought
home, and a queer little melancholy child it was when it
came.




“ ‘Our intention was to make a priest of him: and he
was bred for this, until you perverted him from it, you
wicked woman. And I had again hopes of giving an heir
to my lord, when he was called away upon the king's business,
and died fighting gloriously at the Boyne Water.




“ ‘Should I be disappointed—I owed your husband no
love, my dear, for he had jilted me in the most scandalous
way; and I thought there would be time to declare the
little weaver's son for the true heir. But I was carried
off to prison, where your husband was so kind to me—urging
all his friends to obtain my release, and using all
his credit in my favour—that I relented towards him,
especially as my director counselled me to be silent; and
that it was for the good of the king's service that the title
of our family should continue with your husband the late
viscount, whereby his fidelity would be always secured to
the king. And a proof of this is, that a year before your
husband's death, when he thought of taking a place under the
Prince of Orange, Mr. Holt went to him, and told him what
the state of the matter was, and obliged him to raise a large
sum for his Majesty: and engaged him in the true cause
so heartily, that we were sure of his support on any day
when it should be considered advisable to attack the usurper.
Then his sudden death came; and there was a thought of
declaring the truth. But 'twas determined to be best for
the king's service to let the title still go with the younger
branch; and there's no sacrifice a Castlewood wouldn't
make for that cause, my dear.




“ ‘As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already’
(and then, Harry,” my mistress said, “she told me of what
had happened at my dear husband's death-bed). ‘He doth
not intend to take the title, though it belongs to him. But
it eases my conscience that you should know the truth, my
dear. And your son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood so
long as his cousin doth not claim the rank.’ ”




This was the substance of the dowager's revelation.
[pg 331]
Dean Atterbury had knowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said,
and Esmond very well knows how: that divine being the
clergyman for whom the late lord had sent on his death-bed:
and when Lady Castlewood would instantly have written
to her son, and conveyed the truth to him, the dean's advice
was that a letter should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather;
that the matter should be submitted to his decision, by
which alone the rest of the family were bound to abide.




“And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be?”
says the colonel.




“It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house.”




“It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord's
bedside,” says Colonel Esmond. “The children must know
nothing of this. Frank and his heirs after him must bear
our name. 'Tis his rightfully; I have not even a proof
of that marriage of my father and mother, though my poor
lord, on his death-bed, told me that Father Holt had brought
such a proof to Castlewood. I would not seek it when I was
abroad. I went and looked at my poor mother's grave in
her convent. What matter to her now? No court of law
on earth, upon my mere word, would deprive my lord
viscount and set me up. I am the head of the house, dear
lady; but Frank is Viscount of Castlewood still. And
rather than disturb him, I would turn monk, or disappear
in America.”




As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would
have been willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice
any day, the fond creature flung herself down on her knees
before him, and kissed both his hands in an outbreak of
passionate love and gratitude, such as could not but melt
his heart, and make him feel very proud and thankful that
God had given him the power to show his love for her, and
to prove it by some little sacrifice on his own part. To be
able to bestow benefits or happiness on those one loves is
sure the greatest blessing conferred upon a man—and what
wealth or name, or gratification of ambition or vanity,
could compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being
able to confer some kindness upon his best and dearest
friends?




“Dearest saint,” says he—“purest soul, that has had so
much to suffer, that has blest the poor lonely orphan with
such a treasure of love. 'Tis for me to kneel, not for you:
'tis for me to be thankful that I can make you happy. Hath
[pg 332]
my life any other aim? Blessed be God that I can serve
you! What pleasure, think you, could all the world give
me compared to that?”




“Don't raise me,” she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who
would have lifted her. “Let me kneel—let me kneel, and—and—worship
you.”






Before such a partial judge, as Esmond's dear mistress
owned herself to be, any cause which he might plead was
sure to be given in his favour; and accordingly he found
little difficulty in reconciling her to the news whereof he
was bearer, of her son's marriage to a foreign lady, Papist
though she was. Lady Castlewood never could be brought
to think so ill of that religion as other people in England
thought of it: she held that ours was undoubtedly a branch
of the Church Catholic, but that the Roman was one of the
main stems on which, no doubt, many errors had been grafted
(she was, for a woman, extraordinarily well versed in this
controversy, having acted, as a girl, as secretary to her
father, the late dean, and written many of his sermons,
under his dictation); and if Frank had chosen to marry
a lady of the Church of South Europe, as she would call the
Roman communion, that was no need why she should not
welcome her as a daughter-in-law: and accordingly she
writ to her new daughter a very pretty, touching letter
(as Esmond thought, who had cognizance of it before it
went), in which the only hint of reproof was a gentle
remonstrance that her son had not written to herself, to
ask a fond mother's blessing for that step which he was
about taking. “Castlewood knew very well,” so she wrote
to her son, “that she never denied him anything in her
power to give, much less would she think of opposing
a marriage that was to make his happiness, as she trusted,
and keep him out of wild courses, which had alarmed her
a good deal: and she besought him to come quickly to
England, to settle down in his family house of Castlewood
(‘It is his family house,’ says she, to Colonel Esmond,
‘though only his own house by your forbearance’), and to
receive the accompt of her stewardship during his ten years'
minority.” By care and frugality, she had got the estate
into a better condition than ever it had been since the
Parliamentary wars; and my lord was now master of a
pretty, small income, not encumbered of debts, as it had
[pg 333]
been, during his father's ruinous time. “But in saving my
son's fortune,” says she, “I fear I have lost a great part of
my hold on him.” And, indeed, this was the case; her
ladyship's daughter complaining that their mother did all
for Frank, and nothing for her; and Frank himself being
dissatisfied at the narrow, simple way of his mother's
living at Walcote, where he had been brought up more like
a poor parson's son, than a young nobleman that was to
make a figure in the world. 'Twas this mistake in his early
training, very likely, that set him so eager upon pleasure
when he had it in his power; nor is he the first lad that
has been spoiled by the over-careful fondness of women.
No training is so useful for children, great or small, as the
company of their betters in rank or natural parts; in whose
society they lose the overweening sense of their own importance,
which stay-at-home people very commonly learn.




But, as a prodigal that's sending in a schedule of his debts
to his friends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure,
the rogue keeps back some immense swingeing bill, that he
doesn't dare to own; so the poor Frank had a very heavy
piece of news to break to his mother, and which he hadn't
the courage to introduce into his first confession. Some
misgivings Esmond might have, upon receiving Frank's
letter, and knowing into what hands the boy had fallen;
but whatever these misgivings were, he kept them to himself,
not caring to trouble his mistress with any fears that
might be groundless.




However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after
Frank had received his mother's letter there, brought back
a joint composition from himself and his wife, who could
spell no better than her young scapegrace of a husband,
full of expressions of thanks, love, and duty to the dowager
viscountess, as my poor lady now was styled; and along
with this letter (which was read in a family council, namely,
the viscountess, Mistress Beatrix, and the writer of this
memoir, and which was pronounced to be vulgar by the
maid of honour, and felt to be so by the other two), there
came a private letter for Colonel Esmond from poor Frank,
with another dismal commission for the colonel to execute,
at his best opportunity; and this was to announce that
Frank had seen fit, “by the exhortation of Mr. Holt, the
influence of his Clotilda, and the blessing of Heaven and
the saints,” says my lord, demurely, “to change his religion,
[pg 334]
and be received into the bosom of that Church of which
his sovereign, many of his family, and the greater part of
the civilized world, were members.” And his lordship added
a postscript, of which Esmond knew the inspiring genius
very well, for it had the genuine twang of the seminary,
and was quite unlike poor Frank's ordinary style of writing
and thinking; in which he reminded Colonel Esmond that
he too was, by birth, of that Church; and that his mother
and sister should have his lordship's prayers to the saints
(an inestimable benefit, truly!) for their conversion.




If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret he could not;
for a day or two after receiving this letter, a notice from
Bruxelles appeared in the Post-Boy, and other prints,
announcing that “a young Irish lord, the Viscount C-stle-w—d,
just come to his majority, and who had served the
last campaigns with great credit, as aide de camp to his
grace the Duke of Marlborough, had declared for the Popish
religion at Bruxelles, and had walked in a procession
barefoot, with a wax taper in his hand.” The notorious
Mr. Holt, who had been employed as a Jacobite agent
during the last reign, and many times pardoned by King
William, had been, the Post-Boy said, the agent of this
conversion.




The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this
news as Miss Beatrix was indignant at it. “So,” says she,
“Castlewood is no longer a home for us, mother. Frank's
foreign wife will bring her confessor, and there will be
frogs for dinner; and all Tusher's and my grandfather's
sermons are flung away upon my brother. I used to tell
you that you killed him with the Catechism, and that he
would turn wicked as soon as he broke from his mammy's
leading-strings. Oh, mother, you would not believe that
the young scapegrace was playing you tricks, and that
sneak of a Tusher was not a fit guide for him. Oh, those
parsons! I hate 'em all,” says Mistress Beatrix, clapping
her hands together; “yes, whether they wear cassocks
and buckles, or beards and bare feet. There's a horrid
Irish wretch who never misses a Sunday at Court, and who
pays me compliments there, the horrible man; and if you
want to know what parsons are, you should see his behaviour,
and hear him talk of his own cloth. They're all
the same, whether they're bishops or bonzes, or Indian
fakirs. They try to domineer, and they frighten us with
[pg 335]
kingdom come; and they wear a sanctified air in public, and
expect us to go down on our knees and ask their blessing;
and they intrigue, and they grasp, and they backbite, and
they slander worse than the worst courtier or the wickedest
old woman. I heard this Mr. Swift sneering at my Lord
Duke of Marlborough's courage the other day. He! that
Teague from Dublin! because his grace is not in favour,
dares to say this of him; and he says this that it may get
to her Majesty's ear, and to coax and wheedle Mrs. Masham.
They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen of mistresses
in his Court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king
over us, I wager that the bishops and Mr. Swift, that wants
to be one, will coax and wheedle them. Oh, those priests
and their grave airs! I'm sick of their square toes and their
rustling cassocks. I should like to go to a country where
there was not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of 'em; and
I would, only the dress is not becoming, and I've much
too pretty a figure to hide it. Haven't I, cousin?” and
here she glanced at her person and the looking-glass, which
told her rightly that a more beautiful shape and face never
were seen.




“I made that onslaught on the priests,” says Miss Beatrix,
afterwards, “in order to divert my poor dear mother's
anguish about Frank. Frank is as vain as a girl, cousin.
Talk of us girls being vain, what are we to you? It was
easy to see that the first woman who chose would make
a fool of him, or the first robe—I count a priest and a woman
all the same. We are always caballing; we are not answerable
for the fibs we tell; we are always cajoling and coaxing,
or threatening; and we are always making mischief,
Colonel Esmond—mark my word for that, who know the
the world, sir, and have to make my way in it. I see as well
as possible how Frank's marriage hath been managed. The
count, our papa-in-law, is always away at the coffee-house.
The countess, our mother, is always in the kitchen looking
after the dinner. The countess, our sister, is at the spinet.
When my lord comes to say he is going on the campaign,
the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears, and faints so; he
catches her in his arms—no, sir, keep your distance, cousin,
if you please—she cries on his shoulder, and he says, ‘Oh,
my divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, are you sorry
to part with me?’ ‘Oh, my Francisco,’ says she, ‘oh,
my lord!’ and at this very instant mamma and a couple
[pg 336]
of young brothers, with moustachios and long rapiers, come
in from the kitchen, where they have been eating bread
and onions. Mark my word, you will have all this woman's
relations at Castlewood three months after she has arrived
there. The old count and countess, and the young counts
and all the little countesses her sisters. Counts! every
one of these wretches says he is a count. Guiscard, that
stabbed Mr. Harvy, said he was a count; and I believe
he was a barber. All Frenchmen are barbers—Fiddle-dee!
don't contradict me—or else dancing-masters, or else
priests;” and so she rattled on.




“Who was it taught you to dance, cousin Beatrix?” says
the colonel.




She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low
curtsy, coming up to the recover with the prettiest little
foot in the world pointed out. Her mother came in as
she was in this attitude; my lady had been in her closet,
having taken poor Frank's conversion in a very serious
way; the madcap girl ran up to her mother, put her arms
round her waist, kissed her, tried to make her dance, and
said: “Don't be silly, you kind little mamma, and cry
about Frank turning Papist. What a figure he must be,
with a white sheet and a candle walking in a procession
barefoot!” And she kicked off her little slippers (the
wonderfullest little shoes with wonderful tall red heels,
Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close beside him), and
she put on the drollest little moue, and marched up and
down the room holding Esmond's cane by way of taper. Serious
as her mood was, Lady Castlewood could not refrain from
laughing; and as for Esmond he looked on with that
delight with which the sight of this fair creature always
inspired him: never had he seen any woman so arch, so
brilliant, and so beautiful.




Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her
slipper. The colonel knelt down: “If you will be Pope
I will turn Papist,” says he; and her holiness gave him
gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged foot before he
put the slipper on.




Mamma's feet began to pat on the floor during this
operation, and Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped,
saw that little mark of impatience. She ran up and embraced
her mother, with her usual cry of, “Oh, you silly little mamma:
your feet are quite as pretty as mine,” says she: “they are,
[pg 337]
cousin, though she hides 'em; but the shoemaker will tell
you that he makes for both off the same last.”




“You are taller than I am, dearest,” says her mother,
blushing over her whole sweet face—“and—and it is your
hand, my dear, and not your foot he wants you to give him,”
and she said it with a hysteric laugh, that had more of tears
than laughter in it; laying her head on her daughter's
fair shoulder, and hiding it there. They made a very pretty
picture together, and looked like a pair of sisters—the
sweet simple matron seeming younger than her years, and
her daughter, if not older, yet somehow, from a commanding
manner and grace which she possessed above most women,
her mother's superior and protectress.




“But, oh!” cries my mistress, recovering herself after
this scene, and returning to her usual sad tone, “'tis a shame
that we should laugh and be making merry on a day when
we ought to be down on our knees and asking pardon.”




“Asking pardon for what?” says saucy Mrs. Beatrix,—“because
Frank takes it into his head to fast on Fridays,
and worship images? You know if you had been born
a Papist, mother, a Papist you would have remained to
the end of your days. 'Tis the religion of the king and of
some of the best quality. For my part, I'm no enemy to
it, and think Queen Bess was not a penny better than Queen
Mary.”




“Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and
remember of what parentage you come,” cries my lady.
Beatrix was ordering her ribbons, and adjusting her tucker,
and performing a dozen provoking pretty ceremonies, before
the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She never
at that time could be brought to think but of the world
and her beauty; and seemed to have no more sense of
devotion than some people have of music, that cannot
distinguish one air from another. Esmond saw this fault
in her, as he saw many others—a bad wife would Beatrix
Esmond make, he thought, for any man under the degree
of a prince. She was born to shine in great assemblies,
and to adorn palaces, and to command everywhere—to
conduct an intrigue of politics, or to glitter in a queen's
train. But to sit at a homely table, and mend the stockings
of a poor man's children! that was no fitting duty for her,
or at least one that she wouldn't have broke her heart in
trying to do. She was a princess, though she had scarce
[pg 338]
a shilling to her fortune; and one of her subjects—the
most abject and devoted wretch, sure, that ever drivelled
at a woman's knees—was this unlucky gentleman; who
bound his good sense, and reason, and independence, hand
and foot; and submitted them to her.




And who does not know how ruthlessly women will
tyrannize when they are let to domineer? and who does
not know how useless advice is? I could give good counsel
to my descendants, but I know they'll follow their own
way, for all their grandfather's sermon. A man gets his
own experience about women, and will take nobody's hearsay;
nor, indeed, is the young fellow worth a fig that would.
'Tis I that am in love with my mistress, not my old grandmother
that counsels me; 'tis I that have fixed the value
of the thing I would have, and know the price I would pay
for it. It may be worthless to you, but 'tis all my life
to me. Had Esmond possessed the Great Mogul's crown
and all his diamonds, or all the Duke of Marlborough's
money, or all the ingots sunk at Vigo, he would have given
them all for this woman. A fool he was, if you will; but
so is a sovereign a fool, that will give half a principality
for a little crystal as big as a pigeon's egg, and called
a diamond: so is a wealthy nobleman a fool, that will
face danger or death, and spend half his life, and all his
tranquillity, caballing for a blue ribbon: so is a Dutch
merchant a fool, that hath been known to pay ten thousand
crowns for a tulip. There's some particular prize we all
of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture his
life for. With this, it may be to achieve a great reputation
for learning; with that, to be a man of fashion, and the
admiration of the town; with another, to consummate
a great work of art or poetry, and go to immortality that
way; and with another, for a certain time of his life, the
sole object and aim is a woman.




Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion,
he remembers many a talk he had with his intimates, who
used to rally our Knight of the Rueful Countenance at his
devotion, whereof he made no disguise, to Beatrix; and
it was with replies such as the above he met his friends'
satire. “Granted, I am a fool,” says he, “and no better
than you; but you are no better than I. You have your
folly you labour for; give me the charity of mine. What
flatteries do you, Mr. St. John, stoop to whisper in the ears
[pg 339]
of a queen's favourite? What nights of labour doth not
the laziest man in the world endure, forgoing his bottle,
and his boon companions, forgoing Lais, in whose lap he
would like to be yawning, that he may prepare a speech
full of lies, to cajole three hundred stupid country gentlemen
in the House of Commons, and get the hiccuping cheers
of the October Club! What days will you spend in your
jolting chariot!” (Mr. Esmond often rode to Windsor, and
especially, of later days, with the secretary.) “What hours
will you pass on your gouty feet—and how humbly will
you kneel down to present a dispatch—you, the proudest
man in the world, that has not knelt to God since you were
a boy, and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore almost,
a stupid woman, that's often boozy with too much meat
and drink, when Mr. Secretary goes for his audience! If
my pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too.” And then the
secretary would fly out in such a rich flow of eloquence,
as this pen cannot pretend to recall; advocating his scheme
of ambition, showing the great good he would do for his
country when he was the undisputed chief of it; backing
his opinion with a score of pat sentences from Greek and
Roman authorities (of which kind of learning he made
rather an ostentatious display), and scornfully vaunting the
very arts and meannesses by which fools were to be made
to follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters
converted, and enemies overawed.




“I am Diogenes,” says Esmond, laughing, “that is taken
up for a ride in Alexander's chariot. I have no desire to
vanquish Darius or to tame Bucephalus. I do not want
what you want, a great name or a high place: to have
them would bring me no pleasure. But my moderation is
taste, not virtue; and I know that what I do want, is as
vain as that which you long after. Do not grudge me my
vanity, if I allow yours; or rather, let us laugh at both
indifferently, and at ourselves, and at each other.”




“If your charmer holds out,” says St. John, “at this
rate, she may keep you twenty years besieging her, and
surrender by the time you are seventy, and she is old
enough to be a grandmother. I do not say the pursuit of
a particular woman is not as pleasant a pastime as any
other kind of hunting,” he added; “only, for my part,
I find the game won't run long enough. They knock under
too soon—that's the fault I find with 'em.”


[pg 340]


“The game which you pursue is in the habit of being
caught, and used to being pulled down,” says Mr. Esmond.




“But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh?” says the
other. “Well, honest Harry, go and attack windmills—perhaps
thou art not more mad than other people,” St. John
added, with a sigh.









 Chapter III. A Paper Out Of The “Spectator”



Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may
read his old grandfather's papers, chance to be presently
suffering under the passion of Love? There is a humiliating
cure, but one that is easy and almost specific for the
malady—which is, to try an alibi. Esmond went away
from his mistress and was cured a half-dozen times; he
came back to her side, and instantly fell ill again of the
fever. He vowed that he could leave her and think no
more of her, and so he could pretty well, at least, succeed
in quelling that rage and longing he had whenever he was
with her; but as soon as he returned he was as bad as
ever again. Truly a ludicrous and pitiable object, at least
exhausting everybody's pity but his dearest mistress's,
Lady Castlewood's, in whose tender breast he reposed all
his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hearing him
and pleading for him.




Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then
again he would be plagued with despair, at some impertinence
or coquetry of his mistress. For days they would
be like brother and sister, or the dearest friends—she, simple,
fond, and charming—he, happy beyond measure at her
good behaviour. But this would all vanish on a sudden.
Either he would be too pressing, and hint his love, when
she would rebuff him instantly, and give his vanity a box
on the ear: or he would be jealous, and with perfect good
reason, of some new admirer that had sprung up, or some
rich young gentleman newly arrived in the town, that this
incorrigible flirt would set her nets and baits to draw in.
If Esmond remonstrated, the little rebel would say—“Who
are you? I shall go my own way, sirrah, and that
way is towards a husband, and I don't want you on the
[pg 341]
way. I am for your betters, colonel, for your betters:
do you hear that? You might do if you had an estate
and were younger; only eight years older than I, you say!
pish, you are a hundred years older. You are an old, old
Graveairs, and I should make you miserable, that would be
the only comfort I should have in marrying you. But
you have not money enough to keep a cat decently after
you have paid your man his wages, and your landlady
her bill. Do you think I'm going to live in a lodging, and
turn the mutton at a string whilst your honour nurses the
baby? Fiddlestick, and why did you not get this nonsense
knocked out of your head when you were in the wars?
You are come back more dismal and dreary than ever.
You and mamma are fit for each other. You might be
Darby and Joan, and play cribbage to the end of your
lives.”




“At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix,”
says her mother.




“Worldliness—O my pretty lady! Do you think that
I am a child in the nursery, and to be frightened by Bogey?
Worldliness, to be sure; and pray, madam, where is the
harm of wishing to be comfortable? When you are gone,
you dearest old woman, or when I am tired of you and
have run away from you, where shall I go? Shall I go
and be head nurse to my Popish sister-in-law, take the
children their physic, and whip 'em, and put 'em to bed
when they are naughty? Shall I be Castlewood's upper
servant, and perhaps marry Tom Tusher? Merci!
I have been long enough Frank's humble servant. Why am I not
a man? I have ten times his brains, and had I worn the—well,
don't let your ladyship be frightened—had I worn
a sword and periwig instead of this mantle and commode,
to which nature has condemned me—(though 'tis a pretty
stuff, too—cousin Esmond! you will go to the Exchange
to-morrow, and get the exact counterpart of this ribbon,
sir, do you hear?)—I would have made our name talked
about. So would Graveairs here have made something
out of our name if he had represented it. My Lord Graveairs
would have done very well. Yes, you have a very
pretty way, and would have made a very decent, grave
speaker;” and here she began to imitate Esmond's way
of carrying himself, and speaking to his face, and so
ludicrously that his mistress burst out a-laughing, and even
[pg 342]
he himself could see there was some likeness in the fantastical
malicious caricature.




“Yes,” says she, “I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that
I want a good husband. Where's the harm of one? My
face is my fortune. Who'll come?—buy, buy, buy!
I cannot toil, neither can I spin, but I can play twenty-three
games on the cards. I can dance the last dance, I can
hunt the stag, and I think I could shoot flying. I can
talk as wicked as any woman of my years, and know
enough stories to amuse a sulky husband for at least one
thousand and one nights. I have a pretty taste for dress,
diamonds, gambling, and old china. I love sugar-plums,
Malines lace (that you brought me, cousin, is very pretty),
the opera, and everything that is useless and costly. I have
got a monkey and a little black boy—Pompey, sir, go and
give a dish of chocolate to Colonel Graveairs,—and a parrot
and a spaniel, and I must have a husband. Cupid, you
hear?”




“Iss, missis,” says Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord
Peterborow gave her, with a bird of Paradise in his turbant,
and a collar with his mistress's name on it.




“Iss, missis!” says Beatrix, imitating the child. “And
if husband not come, Pompey must go fetch one.”




And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate
tray, as Miss Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her
sally of mischief in her common way, with a kiss—no
wonder that upon paying such a penalty her fond judge
pardoned her.






When Mr. Esmond came home, his health was still
shattered; and he took a lodging near to his mistress's,
at Kensington, glad enough to be served by them, and to
see them day after day. He was enabled to see a little
company—and of the sort he liked best. Mr. Steele and
Mr. Addison both did him the honour to visit him: and
drank many a flask of good claret at his lodging, whilst
their entertainer, through his wound, was kept to diet
drink and gruel. These gentlemen were Whigs, and great
admirers of my Lord Duke of Marlborough; and Esmond
was entirely of the other party. But their different views
of politics did not prevent the gentlemen from agreeing in
private, nor from allowing, on one evening when Esmond's
kind old patron, Lieutenant-General Webb, with a stick
[pg 343]
and a crutch, hobbled up to the colonel's lodging (which
was prettily situate at Knightsbridge, between London and
Kensington, and looking over the Gardens), that the lieutenant-general
was a noble and gallant soldier—and even
that he had been hardly used in the Wynendael affair. He
took his revenge in talk, that must be confessed; and if
Mr. Addison had had a mind to write a poem about Wynendael,
he might have heard from the commander's own lips
the story a hundred times over.




Mr. Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to
literature for a relaxation, and composed his comedy,
whereof the prompter's copy lieth in my walnut escritoire,
sealed up and docketed, The Faithful Fool, a Comedy,
as it was performed by her Majesty's servants. 'Twas
a very sentimental piece; and Mr. Steele, who had more
of that kind of sentiment than Mr. Addison, admired it,
whilst the other rather sneered at the performance; though
he owned that, here and there, it contained some pretty
strokes. He was bringing out his own play of Cato
at the time, the blaze of which quite extinguished Esmond's
farthing candle: and his name was never put to the piece,
which was printed as by a Person of Quality. Only nine
copies were sold, though Mr. Dennis, the great critic,
praised it, and said 'twas a work of great merit; and
Colonel Esmond had the whole impression burned one day
in a rage, by Jack Lockwood, his man.




All this comedy was full of bitter satiric strokes against
a certain young lady. The plot of the piece was quite
a new one. A young woman was represented with a great
number of suitors, selecting a pert fribble of a peer, in
place of the hero (but ill-acted, I think, by Mr. Wilks, the
Faithful Fool), who persisted in admiring her. In the fifth
act, Teraminta was made to discover the merits of Eugenio
(the F. F.), and to feel a partiality for him too late; for
he announced that he had bestowed his hand and estate
upon Rosaria, a country lass, endowed with every virtue.
But it must be owned that the audience yawned through
the play; and that it perished on the third night, with
only half a dozen persons to behold its agonies. Esmond
and his two mistresses came to the first night, and Miss
Beatrix fell asleep; whilst her mother, who had not been
to a play since King James the Second's time, thought the
piece, though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral.


[pg 344]


Mr. Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose
and verse at this time of leisure. When displeased with
the conduct of Miss Beatrix, he would compose a satire,
in which he relieved his mind. When smarting under the
faithlessness of women, he dashed off a copy of verses, in
which he held the whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one
of these moods, he made a little joke, in which (swearing
him to secrecy) he got his friend Dick Steele to help him;
and, composing a paper, he had it printed exactly like
Steele's paper, and by his printer, and laid on his mistress's
breakfast-table the following:—




“SPECTATOR.




No. 341. Tuesday, April 1, 1712.




Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur.—Horace.




Thyself the moral of the Fable see.—Creech.




“Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion,
and as one of the most amiable persons of this Court and
country. She is at home two mornings of the week, and
all the wits and a few of the beauties of London flock to
her assemblies. When she goes abroad to Tunbridge or
the Bath, a retinue of adorers rides the journey with her;
and, besides the London beaux, she has a crowd of admirers
at the Wells, the polite amongst the natives of Sussex and
Somerset pressing round her tea-tables, and being anxious
for a nod from her chair. Jocasta's acquaintance is thus
very numerous. Indeed, 'tis one smart writer's work to
keep her visiting-book—a strong footman is engaged to
carry it; and it would require a much stronger head, even
than Jocasta's own, to remember the names of all her dear
friends.




“Either at Epsom Wells or at Tunbridge (for of this
important matter Jocasta cannot be certain) it was her
ladyship's fortune to become acquainted with a young
gentleman, whose conversation was so sprightly, and
manners amiable, that she invited the agreeable young
spark to visit her if ever he came to London, where her
house in Spring Garden should be open to him. Charming
as he was, and without any manner of doubt a pretty
fellow, Jocasta hath such a regiment of the like continually
marching round her standard, that 'tis no wonder her
[pg 345]
attention is distracted amongst them. And so, though
this gentleman made a considerable impression upon her,
and touched her heart for at least three-and-twenty minutes,
it must be owned that she has forgotten his name. He
is a dark man, and may be eight-and-twenty years old.
His dress is sober, though of rich materials. He has a mole
on his forehead over his left eye; has a blue ribbon to his
cane and sword, and wears his own hair.




“Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer
(for that everybody admires who sees her is a point which
she never can for a moment doubt) in the next pew to
her at St. James's Church last Sunday; and the manner
in which he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon—though
from under his fringed eyelids it was evident he
was casting glances of respectful rapture towards Jocasta—deeply
moved and interested her. On coming out of
church, he found his way to her chair, and made her an
elegant bow as she stepped into it. She saw him at Court
afterwards, where he carried himself with a most distinguished
air, though none of her acquaintances knew his
name; and the next night he was at the play, where her
ladyship was pleased to acknowledge him from the side-box.




“During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains
so to remember his name, that she did not hear a word
of the piece: and having the happiness to meet him once
more in the lobby of the playhouse, she went up to him
in a flutter, and bade him remember that she kept two
nights in the week, and that she longed to see him at
Spring Garden.




“He appeared on Tuesday, in a rich suit, showing a very
fine taste both in the tailor and wearer; and though
a knot of us were gathered round the charming Jocasta,
fellows who pretended to know every face upon the town,
not one could tell the gentleman's name in reply to Jocasta's
eager inquiries, flung to the right and left of her as he
advanced up the room with a bow that would become
a duke.




“Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those
smiles and curtsies of which that lady hath the secret.
She curtsies with a languishing air, as if to say, ‘You are
come at last. I have been pining for you:’ and then
she finishes her victim with a killing look, which declares:
‘O Philander! I have no eyes but for you.’ Camilla
[pg 346]
hath as good a curtsy perhaps, and Thalestris much such
another look; but the glance and the curtsy together
belong to Jocasta of all the English beauties alone.




“ ‘Welcome to London, sir,’ says she. ‘One can see
you are from the country by your looks.’ She would have
said ‘Epsom’, or ‘Tunbridge’, had she remembered
rightly at which place she had met the stranger; but,
alas! she had forgotten.




“The gentleman said, ‘he had been in town but three
days; and one of his reasons for coming hither was to
have the honour of paying his court to Jocasta.’




“She said, ‘the waters had agreed with her but indifferently.’




“ ‘The waters were for the sick,’ the gentleman said:
‘the young and beautiful came but to make them sparkle.
And, as the clergyman read the service on Sunday,’ he
added, ‘your ladyship reminded me of the angel that
visited the pool.’ A murmur of approbation saluted this
sally. Manilio, who is a wit when he is not at cards, was
in such a rage that he revoked when he heard it.




“Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters; but at which
of the Bethesdas? She was puzzled more and more; and,
as her way always is, looked the more innocent and simple,
the more artful her intentions were.




“ ‘We were discoursing,’ says she, ‘about spelling of
names and words when you came. Why should we say
goold and write gold, and call china chayny, and Cavendish
Candish, and Cholmondeley Chumley? If we call
Pulteney Poltney, why shouldn't we call poultry pultry—and——’




“ ‘Such an enchantress as your ladyship,’ says he, ‘is
mistress of all sorts of spells.’ But this was Dr. Swift's
pun, and we all knew it.




“ ‘And—and how do you spell your name?’ says she,
coming to the point, at length; for this sprightly conversation
had lasted much longer than is here set down,
and been carried on through at least three dishes of tea.




“ ‘Oh, madam,’ says he, ‘I spell my name with the y.’
And laying down his dish, my gentleman made another
elegant bow, and was gone in a moment.




“Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and
the stranger's disappearance. If balked in anything, she
is sure to lose her health and temper; and we, her servants,
[pg 347]
suffer, as usual, during the angry fits of our queen. Can
you help us, Mr. Spectator, who know everything, to read
this riddle for her, and set at rest all our minds? We find
in her list, Mr. Berty, Mr. Smith, Mr. Pike, Mr. Tyler—who
may be Mr. Bertie, Mr. Smyth, Mr. Pyke, Mr. Tiler,
for what we know. She hath turned away the clerk of her
visiting-book, a poor fellow with a great family of children.
Read me this riddle, good Mr. Shortface, and oblige your
admirer—Oedipus.”




The “Trumpet” Coffee-house, Whitehall.




“Mr. Spectator—I am a gentleman but little
acquainted with the town, though I have had a university education,
and passed some years serving my country abroad, where
my name is better known than in the coffee-houses and
St. James's.




“Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty
estate in the county of Kent; and being at Tunbridge
Wells last summer, after my mourning was over, and on
the look-out, if truth must be told, for some young lady
who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish
house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman
can do a great deal more good than the best-intentioned
man can), I was greatly fascinated by a young lady of
London, who was the toast of all the company at the Wells.
Everyone knows Saccharissa's beauty; and I think, Mr.
Spectator, no one better than herself.




“My table-book informs me that I danced no less than
seven-and-twenty sets with her at the assembly. I treated
her to the fiddles twice. I was admitted on several days
to her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of
distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. It
was only when I found, from common talk of the company
at the Wells, and from narrowly watching one, who I once
thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put
to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she was to be
a country gentleman's wife; and that this fair creature
was but a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections
that she never meant to return, and, indeed, incapable of
returning them. 'Tis admiration such women want, not
love that touches them; and I can conceive, in her old
age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be,
[pg 348]
when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers
have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion
to console her.




“Business calling me to London, I went to St. James's
Church last Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty
of the Wells. Her behaviour during the whole service was
so pert, languishing, and absurd; she flirted her fan, and
ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was
obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and
whenever I opened them beheld hers (and very bright they
are) still staring at me. I fell in with her afterwards at
Court, and at the playhouse; and here nothing would
satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowd and
speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she
holds at her house, nor very far from Ch-r-ng Cr-ss.




“Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept
my promise; and found the young widow in the midst of
a half-dozen of card-tables, and a crowd of wits and
admirers. I made the best bow I could, and advanced
towards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her
face, though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had
forgotten even my name.




“Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had
guessed aright. She turned the conversation most ridiculously
upon the spelling of names and words; and I replied
with as ridiculous, fulsome compliments as I could pay
her: indeed, one in which I compared her to an angel
visiting the sick-wells, went a little too far; nor should
I have employed it, but that the allusion came from the
Second Lesson last Sunday, which we both had heard,
and I was pressed to answer her.




“Then she came to the question, which I knew was
awaiting me, and asked how I spelt my name? ‘Madam,’
says I, turning on my heel, ‘I spell it with the y.’ And
so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the
town-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and
resolved to look elsewhere for a partner for your constant
reader.




“Cymon Wyldoats.




“You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which
there is no such a letter as hupsilon. But if the lady,
whom I have called Saccharissa, wonders that I appear no
[pg 349]
more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully informed
the reason y.”






The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now
expound the meaning. Jocasta was no other than Miss
Esmond, maid of honour to her Majesty. She had told
Mr. Esmond this little story of having met a gentleman,
somewhere, and forgetting his name, when the gentleman,
with no such malicious intentions as those of “Cymon”
in the above fable, made the answer simply as above;
and we all laughed to think how little Mistress Jocasta-Beatrix
had profited by her artifice and precautions.




As for Cymon he was intended to represent yours and
her very humble servant, the writer of the apologue and
of this story, which we had printed on a Spectator paper
at Mr. Steele's office, exactly as those famous journals were
printed, and which was laid on the table at breakfast in
place of the real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had
plenty of wit, could not live without her Spectator to her
tea; and this sham Spectator was intended to convey to
the young woman that she herself was a flirt, and that
Cymon was a gentleman of honour and resolution, seeing
all her faults, and determined to break the chains once
and for ever.




For though enough hath been said about this love
business already—enough, at least, to prove to the writer's
heirs what a silly fond fool their old grandfather was, who
would like them to consider him a a very wise old gentleman;
yet not near all has been told concerning this matter,
which, if it were allowed to take in Esmond's journal the
space it occupied in his time, would weary his kinsmen
and women of a hundred years' time beyond all endurance;
and form such a diary of folly and drivelling, raptures and
rage, as no man of ordinary vanity would like to leave
behind him.




The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or encouraged
him; whether she smiled or was cold, and turned
her smiles on another—worldly and ambitious, as he knew
her to be; hard and careless, as she seemed to grow with
her Court life, and a hundred admirers that came to her
and left her; Esmond, do what he would, never could get
Beatrix out of his mind; thought of her constantly at
home or away. If he read his name in a Gazette, or
[pg 350]
escaped the shot of a cannon-ball or a greater danger in
the campaign, as has happened to him more than once,
the instant thought after the honour achieved or the
danger avoided, was “What will she say of it?” “Will
this distinction or the idea of this peril elate her or touch
her, so as to be better inclined towards me?” He could
no more help this passionate fidelity of temper than he
could help the eyes he saw with—one or the other seemed
a part of his nature; and knowing every one of her faults
as well as the keenest of her detractors, and the folly of
an attachment to such a woman, of which the fruition
could never bring him happiness for above a week, there
was yet a charm about this Circe from which the poor
deluded gentleman could not free himself; and for a much
longer period than Ulysses (another middle-aged officer,
who had travelled much, and been in the foreign wars),
Esmond felt himself enthralled and besotted by the wiles
of this enchantress. Quit her! He could no more quit
her, as the Cymon of this story was made to quit his false
one, than he could lose his consciousness of yesterday.
She had but to raise her finger, and he would come back
from ever so far; she had but to say, “I have discarded
such-and-such an adorer,” and the poor infatuated wretch
would be sure to come and rôder about her mother's house,
willing to be put on the ranks of suitors, though he knew
he might be cast off the next week. If he were like Ulysses
in his folly at least, she was in so far like Penelope, that
she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day after day and
night after night the handiwork of fascination and the
web of coquetry with which she was wont to allure and
entertain them.




Part of her coquetry may have come from her position
about the Court, where the beautiful maid of honour was
the light about which a thousand beaux came and fluttered;
where she was sure to have a ring of admirers round her,
crowding to listen to her repartees as much as to admire
her beauty; and where she spoke and listened to much
free talk, such as one never would have thought the lips
or ears of Rachel Castlewood's daughter would have uttered
or heard. When in waiting at Windsor or Hampton, the
Court ladies and gentlemen would be making riding parties
together; Mrs. Beatrix in a horseman's coat and hat, the
foremost after the staghounds and over the park fences,
[pg 351]
a crowd of young fellows at her heels. If the English
country ladies at this time were the most pure and modest
of any ladies in the world—the English town and Court
ladies permitted themselves words and behaviour that were
neither modest nor pure; and claimed, some of them,
a freedom which those who love that sex most would never
wish to grant them. The gentlemen of my family that
follow after me (for I don't encourage the ladies to pursue
any such studies), may read in the works of Mr. Congreve,
and Dr. Swift, and others, what was the conversation and
what the habits of our time.




The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when
Esmond returned to this country, a lady of high birth,
and though of no fortune to be sure, with a thousand
fascinations of wit and manners—Beatrix Esmond—was
now six-and-twenty years old, and Beatrix Esmond still.
Of her hundred adorers she had not chosen one for a husband;
and those who had asked had been jilted by her;
and more still had left her. A succession of near ten
years' crops of beauties had come up since her time, and
had been reaped by proper husbandmen, if we may make
an agricultural simile, and had been housed comfortably
long ago. Her own contemporaries were sober mothers by
this time; girls with not a tithe of her charms, or her wit,
having made good matches, and now claiming precedence
over the spinster who but lately had derided and outshone
them. The young beauties were beginning to look down
on Beatrix as an old maid, and sneer, and call her one of
Charles the Second's ladies, and ask whether her portrait
was not in the Hampton Court Gallery? But still she
reigned, at least in one man's opinion, superior over all the
little misses that were the toasts of the young lads; and
in Esmond's eyes was ever perfectly lovely and young.




Who knows how many were nearly made happy by
possessing her, or, rather, how many were fortunate in
escaping this siren? 'Tis a marvel to think that her
mother was the purest and simplest woman in the whole
world, and that this girl should have been born from her.
I am inclined to fancy, my mistress, who never said a harsh
word to her children (and but twice or thrice only to one
person), must have been too fond and pressing with the
maternal authority; for her son and her daughter both
revolted early; nor after their first flight from the nest
[pg 352]
could they ever be brought back quite to the fond mother's
bosom. Lady Castlewood, and perhaps it was as well,
knew little of her daughter's life and real thoughts. How
was she to apprehend what passed in queens' antechambers
and at Court tables? Mrs. Beatrix asserted her own
authority so resolutely that her mother quickly gave in.
The maid of honour had her own equipage; went from
home and came back at her own will: her mother was
alike powerless to resist her or to lead her, or to command
or to persuade her.




She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married,
Esmond believed. When he quitted home, it hath been
said, she was promised to my Lord Ashburnham, and
now, on his return, behold his lordship was just married
to Lady Mary Butler, the Duke of Ormonde's daughter,
and his fine houses, and twelve thousand a year of fortune,
for which Miss Beatrix had rather coveted him, was out
of her power. To her Esmond could say nothing in regard
to the breaking of this match; and, asking his mistress
about it, all Lady Castlewood answered was: “Do not
speak to me about it, Harry. I cannot tell you how or
why they parted, and I fear to inquire. I have told you
before, that with all her kindness, and wit, and generosity,
and that sort of splendour of nature she has; I can say
but little good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at
the marriage she will form. Her mind is fixed on ambition
only, and making a great figure: and, this achieved, she
will tire of it as she does of everything. Heaven help her
husband, whoever he shall be! My Lord Ashburnham
was a most excellent young man, gentle and yet manly,
of very good parts, so they told me, and as my little conversation
would enable me to judge: and a kind temper—kind
and enduring I'm sure he must have been, from all
that he had to endure. But he quitted her at last, from
some crowning piece of caprice or tyranny of hers; and
now he has married a young woman that will make him
a thousand times happier than my poor girl ever could.”




The rupture, whatever its cause was (I heard the scandal,
but indeed shall not take pains to repeat at length in this
diary the trumpery coffee-house story), caused a good deal
of low talk; and Mr. Esmond was present at my lord's
appearance at the birthday with his bride, over whom the
revenge that Beatrix took was to look so imperial and
[pg 353]
lovely that the modest downcast young lady could not
appear beside her, and Lord Ashburnham, who had his
reasons for wishing to avoid her, slunk away quite shamefaced,
and very early. This time his grace the Duke of
Hamilton, whom Esmond had seen about her before, was
constant at Miss Beatrix's side: he was one of the most
splendid gentlemen of Europe, accomplished by books, by
travel, by long command of the best company, distinguished
as a statesman, having been ambassador in King
William's time, and a noble speaker in the Scots Parliament,
where he had led the party that was against the
union, and though now five- or six-and-forty years of age,
a gentleman so high in stature, accomplished in wit, and
favoured in person, that he might pretend to the hand of
any princess in Europe.




“Should you like the duke for a cousin?” says Mr.
Secretary St. John, whispering to Colonel Esmond in
French; “it appears that the widower consoles himself.”




But to return to our little Spectator paper and the
conversation which grew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first was
quite bit (as the phrase of that day was) and did not “smoke”
the authorship of the story: indeed Esmond had tried to
imitate as well as he could Mr. Steele's manner (as for the
other author of the Spectator, his prose style I think is
altogether inimitable); and Dick, who was the idlest and
best-natured of men, would have let the piece pass into
his journal and go to posterity as one of his own lucubrations,
but that Esmond did not care to have a lady's name
whom he loved sent forth to the world in a light so unfavourable.
Beatrix pished and psha'd over the paper; Colonel
Esmond watching with no little interest her countenance
as she read it.




“How stupid your friend Mr. Steele becomes!” cries
Miss Beatrix. “Epsom and Tunbridge! Will he never
have done with Epsom and Tunbridge, and with beaux at
church, and Jocastas and Lindamiras? Why does he not
call women Nelly and Betty, as their godfathers and godmothers
did for them in their baptism?”




“Beatrix, Beatrix!” says her mother, “speak gravely of
grave things.”




“Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from Heaven,
I believe,” says Beatrix, with a laugh, “and was brought
down by a bishop from a mountain. Oh, how I used to
[pg 354]
break my heart over it! Besides, I had a Popish god-mother,
mamma; why did you give me one?”




“I gave you the queen's name,” says her mother, blushing.
“And a very pretty name it is,” said somebody else.




Beatrix went on reading—“Spell my name with a y—why,
you wretch,” says she, turning round to Colonel
Esmond, “you have been telling my story to Mr. Steele—or
stop—you have written the paper yourself to turn me
into ridicule. For shame, sir!”




Poor Mr. Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth,
which was nevertheless an entire falsehood. “Upon my
honour,” says he, “I have not even read the Spectator of
this morning.” Nor had he, for that was not the Spectator,
but a sham newspaper put in its place.




She went on reading: her face rather flushed as she
read. “No,” she says, “I think you couldn't have written
it. I think it must have been Mr. Steele when he was
drunk—and afraid of his horrid vulgar wife. Whenever
I see an enormous compliment to a woman, and some
outrageous panegyric about female virtue, I always feel
sure that the captain and his better half have fallen out
overnight, and that he has been brought home tipsy, or
has been found out in ——”




“Beatrix!” cries the Lady Castlewood.




“Well, mamma! Do not cry out before you are hurt.
I am not going to say anything wrong. I won't give you
more annoyance than I can help, you pretty kind mamma.
Yes, and your little Trix is a naughty little Trix, and she
leaves undone those things which she ought to have done,
and does those things which she ought not to have done,
and there's——well now—I won't go on. Yes, I will,
unless you kiss me.” And with this the young lady
lays aside her paper, and runs up to her mother and
performs a variety of embraces with her ladyship, saying
as plain as eyes could speak to Mr. Esmond—“There,
sir: would not you like to play the very same pleasant
game?”




“Indeed, madam, I would,” says he.




“Would what?” asked Miss Beatrix.




“What you meant when you looked at me in that provoking
way,” answers Esmond.




“What a confessor!” cries Beatrix, with a laugh.




“What is it Henry would like, my dear?” asks her
[pg 355]
mother, the kind soul, who was always thinking what we
would like, and how she could please us.




The girl runs up to her—“Oh, you silly kind mamma,” she
says, kissing her again, “that's what Harry would like;”
and she broke out into a great joyful laugh: and
Lady Castlewood blushed as bashful as a maid of
sixteen.




“Look at her, Harry,” whispers Beatrix, running up, and
speaking in her sweet low tones. “Doesn't the blush become
her? Isn't she pretty? She looks younger than I am:
and I am sure she is a hundred million thousand times
better.”




Esmond's kind mistress left the room, carrying her
blushes away with her.




“If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that,”
continues Beatrix, with her laugh, “what wouldn't we do
to preserve 'em? We'd clip their stalks and put 'em in
salt and water. But those flowers don't bloom at Hampton
Court and Windsor, Henry.” She paused for a minute,
and the smile fading away from her April face, gave place
to a menacing shower of tears: “Oh, how good she is,
Harry,” Beatrix went on to say. “Oh, what a saint she is!
Her goodness frightens me. I'm not fit to live with her.
I should be better, I think, if she were not so perfect. She
has had a great sorrow in her life, and a great secret; and
repented of it. It could not have been my father's death.
She talks freely about that; nor could she have loved him
very much—though who knows what we women do love,
and why?”




“What, and why, indeed,” says Mr. Esmond.




“No one knows,” Beatrix went on, without noticing this
interruption except by a look, “what my mother's life is.
She hath been at early prayer this morning: she passes
hours in her closet; if you were to follow her thither, you
would find her at prayers now. She tends the poor of the
place—the horrid dirty poor! She sits through the curate's
sermons—oh, those dreary sermons! And you see, on a beau
dire; but good as they are, people like her are not fit to
commune with us of the world. There is always, as it
were, a third person present, even when I and my mother
are alone. She can't be frank with me quite; who is always
thinking of the next world, and of her guardian angel,
perhaps that's in company. Oh, Harry, I'm jealous of
[pg 356]
that guardian angel!” here broke out Mistress Beatrix.
“It's horrid, I know; but my mother's life is all for Heaven,
and mine—all for earth. We can never be friends quite;
and then, she cares more for Frank's little finger than she
does for me—I know she does: and she loves you, sir, a great
deal too much; and I hate you for it. I would have had
her all to myself; but she wouldn't. In my childhood, it
was my father she loved—(Oh, how could she? I remember
him kind and handsome, but so stupid, and not being able
to speak after drinking wine). And then, it was Frank;
and now, it is Heaven and the clergyman. How I would
have loved her! From a child I used to be in a rage that
she loved anybody but me; but she loved you all better—all,
I know she did. And now, she talks of the blessed
consolation of religion. Dear soul! she thinks she is
happier for believing, as she must, that we are all of us
wicked and miserable sinners; and this world is only a
pied
à terre for the good, where they stay for a night, as we do,
coming from Walcote, at that great, dreary, uncomfortable
Hounslow inn, in those horrid beds. Oh, do you remember
those horrid beds?—and the chariot comes and fetches them
to Heaven the next morning.”




“Hush, Beatrix,” says Mr. Esmond.




“Hush, indeed. You are a hypocrite, too, Henry, with
your grave airs and your glum face. We are all hypocrites.
Oh dear me! We are all alone, alone, alone,” says
poor Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh.




“It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear,”
says Mr. Esmond. “You are not so worldly as you think
yourself, Beatrix, and better than we believe you. The
good we have in us we doubt of; and the happiness that's
to our hand we throw away. You bend your ambition on a
great marriage and establishment—and why? You'll tire
of them when you win them; and be no happier with a
coronet on your coach——”




“Than riding pillion with Lubin to market,” says Beatrix.
“Thank you, Lubin!”




“I'm a dismal shepherd, to be sure,” answers Esmond,
with a blush; “and require a nymph that can tuck my
bed-clothes up, and make me water-gruel. Well, Tom
Lockwood can do that. He took me out of the fire upon his
shoulders, and nursed me through my illness as love will
scarce ever do. Only good wages, and a hope of my clothes,
[pg 357]
and the contents of my portmanteau. How long was it
that Jacob served an apprenticeship for Rachel?”




“For mamma?” says Beatrix. “Is it mamma your
honour wants, and that I should have the happiness of
calling you papa?”




Esmond blushed again. “I spoke of a Rachel that a
shepherd courted five thousand years ago; when shepherds
were longer lived than now. And my meaning was, that
since I saw you first after our separation—a child you were
then——”




“And I put on my best stockings to captivate you,
I remember, sir.”




“You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was;
and such as you were, I cared for no other woman. What
little reputation I have won, it was that you might be
pleased with it: and, indeed, it is not much; and I think
a hundred fools in the army have got and deserved quite
as much. Was there something in the air of that dismal
old Castlewood that made us all gloomy, and dissatisfied,
and lonely under its ruined old roof? We were all so, even
when together and united, as it seemed, following our
separate schemes, each as we sat round the table.”




“Dear, dreary old place!” cries Beatrix. “Mamma hath
never had the heart to go back thither since we left it, when—never
mind how many years ago,” and she flung back
her curls, and looked over her fair shoulder at the mirror
superbly, as if she said, “Time, I defy you.”




“Yes,” says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of
divining many of her thoughts. “You can afford to look
in the glass still; and only be pleased by the truth it tells
you. As for me, do you know what my scheme is? I think
of asking Frank to give me the Virginia estate King Charles
gave our grandfather.” (She gave a superb curtsy, as much
as to say, “Our grandfather, indeed! Thank you, Mr.
Bastard.”) “Yes, I know you are thinking of my bar-sinister,
and so am I. A man cannot get over it in this
country; unless, indeed, he wears it across a king's arms,
when 'tis a highly honourable coat: and I am thinking of
retiring into the plantations, and building myself a wigwam
in the woods, and perhaps, if I want company, suiting myself
with a squaw. We will send your ladyship furs over for
the winter; and, when you are old, we'll provide you with
tobacco. I am not quite clever enough, or not rogue enough—I
[pg 358]
know not which—for the Old World. I may make a
place for myself in the new, which is not so full; and found
a family there. When you are a mother yourself, and a
great lady, perhaps I shall send you over from the plantation
some day a little barbarian that is half Esmond half
Mohock, and you will be kind to him for his father's sake,
who was, after all, your kinsman; and whom you loved
a little.”




“What folly you are talking, Harry!” says Miss Beatrix,
looking with her great eyes.




“'Tis sober earnest,” says Esmond. And, indeed, the
scheme had been dwelling a good deal in his mind for some
time past, and especially since his return home, when he
found how hopeless, and even degrading to himself, his
passion was. “No,” says he, then, “I have tried half a
dozen times now. I can bear being away from you well
enough; but being with you is intolerable” (another low
curtsy on Mrs. Beatrix's part), “and I will go. I have enough
to buy axes and guns for my men, and beads and blankets
for the savages; and I'll go and live amongst them.”




“Mon ami,”
she says, quite kindly, and taking Esmond's
hand, with an air of great compassion. “You can't think
that in our position anything more than our present friendship
is possible. You are our elder brother—as such we
view you, pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with
it. Why, you are old enough and grave enough to be our
father. I always thought you a hundred years old, Harry,
with your solemn face and grave air. I feel as a sister to
you, and can no more. Isn't that enough, sir?” And she
put her face quite close to his—who knows with what
intention?




“It's too much,” says Esmond, turning away. “I can't
bear this life, and shall leave it. I shall stay, I think, to
see you married, and then freight a ship, and call it the
Beatrix, and bid you all——”




Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his
grace the Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back
with something like an imprecation on his lips, as the nobleman
entered, looking splendid in his star and green ribbon.
He gave Mr. Esmond just that gracious bow which he would
have given to a lackey who fetched him a chair or took
his hat, and seated himself by Miss Beatrix, as the poor
colonel went out of the room with a hang-dog look.


[pg 359]


Esmond's mistress was in the lower room as he passed
downstairs. She often met him as he was coming away
from Beatrix; and she beckoned him into the apartment.




“Has she told you, Harry?” Lady Castlewood said.




“She has been very frank—very,” says Esmond.




“But—but about what is going to happen?”




“What is going to happen?” says he, his heart beating.




“His grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her,”
says my lady. “He made his offer yesterday. They will
marry as soon as his mourning is over; and you have heard
his grace is appointed ambassador to Paris; and the
ambassadress goes with him.”









 Chapter IV. Beatrix's New Suitor



The gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be
sure, twenty years older than the colonel, with whom she
quarrelled for being too old; but this one was but a nameless
adventurer, and the other the greatest duke in Scotland,
with pretensions even to a still higher title. My Lord Duke
of Hamilton had, indeed, every merit belonging to a gentleman,
and he had had the time to mature his accomplishments
fully, being upwards of fifty years old when Madam Beatrix
selected him for a bridegroom. Duke Hamilton, then Earl
of Arran, had been educated at the famous Scottish University
of Glasgow, and, coming to London, became a great
favourite of Charles the Second, who made him a lord of
his bedchamber, and afterwards appointed him ambassador
to the French king, under whom the earl served two campaigns
as his Majesty's aide de camp; and he was absent
on this service when King Charles died.




King James continued my lord's promotion—made him
master of the wardrobe, and colonel of the Royal Regiment
of Horse; and his lordship adhered firmly to King James,
being of the small company that never quitted that unfortunate
monarch till his departure out of England; and
then it was, in 1688, namely, that he made the friendship
with Colonel Francis Esmond, that had always been, more
or less, maintained in the two families.




The earl professed a great admiration for King William
[pg 360]
always, but never could give him his allegiance; and was
engaged in more than one of the plots in the late great king's
reign, which always ended in the plotters' discomfiture,
and generally in their pardon, by the magnanimity of the
king. Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the Tower during
this reign, undauntedly saying, when offered his release,
upon parole not to engage against King William, that he
would not give his word, because “he was sure he could
not keep it”; but, nevertheless, he was both times discharged
without any trial; and the king bore this noble enemy so
little malice, that when his mother, the Duchess of Hamilton,
of her own right, resigned her claim on her husband's
death, the earl was, by patent signed at Loo, 1690, created
Duke of Hamilton, Marquis of Clydesdale, and Earl of
Arran, with precedency from the original creation. His
grace took the oaths and his seat in the Scottish Parliament
in 1700: was famous there for his patriotism and eloquence,
especially in the debates about the Union Bill, which Duke
Hamilton opposed with all his strength, though he would
not go the length of the Scottish gentry, who were for
resisting it by force of arms. 'Twas said he withdrew his
opposition all of a sudden, and in consequence of letters
from the king at St. Germains, who entreated him on his
allegiance not to thwart the queen, his sister, in this measure;
and the duke, being always bent upon effecting the king's
return to his kingdom through a reconciliation between his
Majesty and Queen Anne, and quite averse to his landing
with arms and French troops, held aloof, and kept out of
Scotland during the time when the Chevalier de St. George's
descent from Dunkirk was projected, passing his time in
England in his great estate of Staffordshire.




When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the queen
began to show his grace the very greatest marks of her
favour. He was created Duke of Brandon and Baron of
Dutton in England; having the Thistle already originally
bestowed on him by King James the Second, his grace was
now promoted to the honour of the Garter—a distinction
so great and illustrious, that no subject hath ever borne
them hitherto together. When this objection was made to
her Majesty, she was pleased to say, “Such a subject as the
Duke of Hamilton has a pre-eminent claim to every mark
of distinction which a crowned head can confer. I will
henceforth wear both orders myself.”


[pg 361]


At the Chapter held at Windsor in October, 1712, the
duke and other knights, including Lord-Treasurer, the new-created
Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, were installed; and
a few days afterwards his grace was appointed Ambassador-Extraordinary
to France, and his equipages, plate, and
liveries commanded, of the most sumptuous kind, not only
for his excellency the ambassador, but for her excellency
the ambassadress, who was to accompany him. Her arms
were already quartered on the coach panels, and her
brother was to hasten over on the appointed day to give her
away.




His lordship was a widower, having married, in 1698,
Elizabeth, daughter of Digby, Lord Gerard, by which
marriage great estates came into the Hamilton family;
and out of these estates came, in part, that tragic quarrel
which ended the duke's career.






From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there's no
pang that is not bearable. The apprehension is much more
cruel than the certainty; and we make up our mind to
the misfortune when 'tis irremediable, part with the tormentor,
and mumble our crust on t'other side of the jaws.
I think Colonel Esmond was relieved when a ducal coach-and-six
came and whisked his charmer away out of his
reach, and placed her in a higher sphere. As you have
seen the nymph in the opera-machine go up to the clouds
at the end of the piece where Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, and
all the divine company of Olympians are seated, and quaver
out her last song as a goddess: so when this portentous
elevation was accomplished in the Esmond family, I am
not sure that every one of us did not treat the divine Beatrix
with special honours; at least, the saucy little beauty
carried her head with a toss of supreme authority, and
assumed a touch-me-not air, which all her friends very
good-humouredly bowed to.




An old army acquaintance of Colonel Esmond's, honest
Tom Trett, who had sold his company, married a wife, and
turned merchant in the city, was dreadfully gloomy for
a long time, though living in a fine house on the river, and
carrying on a great trade to all appearance. At length
Esmond saw his friend's name in the Gazette as a bankrupt;
and a week after this circumstance my bankrupt walks into
Mr. Esmond's lodging with a face perfectly radiant with
[pg 362]
good humour, and as jolly and careless as when they had
sailed from Southampton ten years before for Vigo. “This
bankruptcy,” says Tom, “has been hanging over my head
these three years; the thought hath prevented my sleeping,
and I have looked at poor Polly's head on t'other pillow,
and then towards my razor on the table, and thought to
put an end to myself, and so give my woes the slip. But
now we are bankrupts: Tom Trett pays as many shillings
in the pound as he can; his wife has a little cottage at Fulham,
and her fortune secured to herself. I am afraid neither of
bailiff nor of creditor; and for the last six nights have slept
easy.” So it was that when Fortune shook her wings and
left him, honest Tom cuddled himself up in his ragged
virtue, and fell asleep.




Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story
applied to Esmond too; but he laughed at it, and used it;
and having fairly struck his docket in this love transaction,
determined to put a cheerful face on his bankruptcy.
Perhaps Beatrix was a little offended at his gaiety. “Is
this the way, sir, that you receive the announcement of
your misfortune,” says she, “and do you come smiling before
me as if you were glad to be rid of me?”




Esmond would not be put off from his good humour, but
told her the story of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. “I
have been hankering after the grapes on the wall,” says he,
“and lost my temper because they were beyond my reach;
was there any wonder? They're gone now, and another has
them—a taller man than your humble servant has won
them.” And the colonel made his cousin a low bow.




“A taller man, cousin Esmond!” says she. “A man of
spirit would have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them!
A man of courage would have fought for 'em, not gaped
for 'em.”




“A duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth,”
says Esmond, with another low bow.




“Yes, sir,” says she, “a duke is a taller man than you.
And why should I not be grateful to one such as his grace,
who gives me his heart and his great name? It is a great
gift he honours me with; I know 'tis a bargain between us;
and I accept it, and will do my utmost to perform my part
of it. 'Tis no question of sighing and philandering between
a nobleman of his grace's age and a girl who hath little of
that softness in her nature. Why should I not own that
[pg 363]
I am ambitious, Harry Esmond; and if it be no sin in a man
to covet honour, why should a woman too not desire it?
Shall I be frank with you, Harry, and say that if you had
not been down on your knees, and so humble, you might
have fared better with me? A woman of my spirit, cousin,
is to be won by gallantry, and not by sighs and rueful faces.
All the time you are worshipping and singing hymns to me,
I know very well I am no goddess, and grow weary of the
incense. So would you have been weary of the goddess
too—when she was called Mrs. Esmond, and got out of
humour because she had not pin-money enough, and was
forced to go about in an old gown. Eh! cousin, a goddess
in a mob-cap, that has to make her husband's gruel, ceases
to be divine—I am sure of it. I should have been sulky
and scolded; and of all the proud wretches in the world
Mr. Esmond is the proudest, let me tell him that. You
never fall into a passion; but you never forgive, I think.
Had you been a great man, you might have been good
humoured; but being nobody, sir, you are too great a man
for me; and I'm afraid of you, cousin—there; and I won't
worship you, and you'll never be happy except with a
woman who will. Why, after I belonged to you, and after
one of my tantrums, you would have put the pillow over
my head some night, and smothered me, as the black man
does the woman in the play that you're so fond of. What's
the creature's name?—Desdemona. You would, you little
black-eyed Othello!”




“I think I should, Beatrix,” says the colonel.




“And I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a
hundred, and to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and
to play cards every night of my life till the year eighteen
hundred. And I like to be the first of my company, sir; and
I like flattery and compliments, and you give me none; and
I like to be made to laugh, sir, and who's to laugh at your
dismal face, I should like to know; and I like a coach-and-six
or a coach-and-eight; and I like diamonds, and a new
gown every week; and people to say—‘That's the duchess—How
well her grace looks—Make way for Madame l'Ambassadrice
d'Angleterre—Call her excellency's people’—that's
what I like. And as for you, you want a woman to
bring your slippers and cap, and to sit at your feet, and cry,
‘O caro! O bravo!’ whilst you read your Shakespeares,
and Miltons, and stuff. Mamma would have been the wife
[pg 364]
for you, had you been a little older, though you look ten
years older than she does—you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded,
little old man! You might have sat, like Darby
and Joan, and flattered each other; and billed and cooed
like a pair of old pigeons on a perch. I want my wings and
to use them, sir.” And she spread out her beautiful arms,
as if indeed she could fly off like the pretty “Gawrie”, whom
the man in the story was enamoured of.




“And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight?”
says Esmond, who never admired this fair creature more
than when she rebelled and laughed at him.




“A duchess knows her place,” says she, with a laugh.
“Why, I have a son already made for me, and thirty years
old (my Lord Arran), and four daughters. How they will
scold, and what a rage they will be in, when I come to
take the head of the table! But I give them only a month
to be angry; at the end of that time they shall love me
every one, and so shall Lord Arran, and so shall all his
grace's Scots vassals and followers in the Highlands. I'm
bent on it; and, when I take a thing in my head, 'tis done.
His grace is the greatest gentleman in Europe, and I'll try
and make him happy; and, when the king comes back,
you may count on my protection, Cousin Esmond—for
come back the king will and shall: and I'll bring him back
from Versailles, if he comes under my hoop.”




“I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix,” says
Esmond, with a sigh. “You'll be Beatrix till you are my
lady duchess—will you not? I shall then make your
grace my very lowest bow.”




“None of these sighs and this satire, cousin,” she says.
“I take his grace's great bounty thankfully—yes, thankfully;
and will wear his honours becomingly. I do not say
he hath touched my heart; but he has my gratitude,
obedience, admiration—I have told him that, and no more;
and with that his noble heart is content. I have told him
all—even the story of that poor creature that I was engaged
to—and that I could not love; and I gladly gave his word
back to him, and jumped for joy to get back my own.
I am twenty-five years old.”




“Twenty-six, my dear,” says Esmond.




“Twenty-five, sir—I choose to be twenty-five; and, in
eight years, no man hath ever touched my heart. Yes—you
did once, for a little, Harry, when you came back after
[pg 365]
Lille, and engaging with that murderer, Mohun, and saving
Frank's life. I thought I could like you; and mamma
begged me hard, on her knees, and I did—for a day. But
the old chill came over me, Henry, and the old fear of you
and your melancholy; and I was glad when you went
away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, that I might
hear no more of you, that's the truth. You are too good for
me somehow. I could not make you happy, and should
break my heart in trying, and not being able to love you.
But if you had asked me when we gave you the sword, you
might have had me, sir, and we both should have been
miserable by this time. I talked with that silly lord all
night just to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded,
didn't I? How frankly we can talk of these things! It
seems a thousand years ago: and, though we are here
sitting in the same room, there's a great wall between us.
My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin! I can like you
now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are brave,
and very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all—for
all your little mishap at your birth,” says she, wagging
her arch head.




“And now, sir,” says she, with a curtsy, “we must have no
more talk except when mamma is by, as his grace is with
us; for he does not half like you, cousin, and is as jealous
as the black man in your favourite play.”




Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr.
Esmond with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense
of the wound by any look of his (as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards
owned to him), but said, with a perfect command
of himself and an easy smile, “The interview must not end
yet, my dear, until I have had my last word. Stay, here
comes your mother” (indeed she came in here with her sweet
anxious face, and Esmond, going up, kissed her hand
respectfully). “My dear lady may hear, too, the last words,
which are no secrets, and are only a parting benediction
accompanying a present for your marriage from an old
gentleman your guardian; for I feel as if I was the guardian
of all the family, and an old, old fellow that is fit to be the
grandfather of you all; and in this character let me make
my lady duchess her wedding present. They are the
diamonds my father's widow left me. I had thought
Beatrix might have had them a year ago; but they are
good enough for a duchess, though not bright enough for
[pg 366]
the handsomest woman in the world.” And he took the
case out of his pocket in which the jewels were, and presented
them to his cousin.




She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very
handsome, and of great value; and the next minute the
necklace was where Belinda's cross is in Mr. Pope's admirable
poem, and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly-shaped
neck in all England.




The girl's delight at receiving these trinkets was so great,
that after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the
effect they produced upon that fair neck which they surrounded,
Beatrix was running back with her arms extended,
and was perhaps for paying her cousin with a price, that he
would have liked no doubt to receive from those beautiful
rosy lips of hers, but at this moment the door opened, and
his grace the bridegroom elect was announced.




He looked very black upon Mr. Esmond, to whom he made
a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in
his most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair
from the palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the
Garter and the Thistle.




“Look, my lord duke,” says Mrs. Beatrix, advancing to
him, and showing the diamonds on her breast.




“Diamonds,” says his grace. “Hm! they seem pretty.”




“They are a present on my marriage,” says Beatrix.




“From her Majesty?” asks the duke. “The queen is
very good.”




“From my cousin Henry—from our cousin Henry”—cry
both the ladies in a breath.




“I have not the honour of knowing the gentleman.
I thought that my Lord Castlewood had no brother: and
that on your ladyship's side there were no nephews.”




“From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, my lord,” says
Beatrix, taking the colonel's hand very bravely—“who
was left guardian to us by our father, and who has
a hundred times shown his love and friendship for our
family.”




“The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from
her husband, madam,” says the duke—“may I pray you to
restore these to Mr. Esmond?”




“Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman
and benefactor, my lord duke,” says Lady Castlewood,
with an air of great dignity. “She is my daughter yet:
[pg 367]
and if her mother sanctions the gift—no one else hath the
right to question it.”




“Kinsman and benefactor!” says the duke. “I know
of no kinsman: and I do not choose that my wife should
have for benefactor a——”




“My lord,” says Colonel Esmond.




“I am not here to bandy words,” says his grace: “frankly
I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent,
and that I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton
from gentlemen that bear a name they have no right to.”




“My lord!” breaks out Lady Castlewood, “Mr. Esmond
hath the best right to that name of any man in the world:
and 'tis as old and as honourable as your grace's.”




My lord duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood
was mad, that was so talking to him.




“If I called him benefactor,” said my mistress, “it is
because he has been so to us—yes, the noblest, the truest,
the bravest, the dearest of benefactors. He would have
saved my husband's life from Mohun's sword. He did save
my boy's, and defended him from that villain. Are those
no benefits?”




“I ask Colonel Esmond's pardon,” says his grace, if
possible more haughty than before; “I would say not
a word that should give him offence, and thank him for
his kindness to your ladyship's family. My Lord Mohun
and I are connected, you know, by marriage—though
neither by blood nor friendship; but I must repeat what
I said, that my wife can receive no presents from Colonel
Esmond.”




“My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our
House: my daughter may thankfully take kindness from
her father's, her mother's, her brother's dearest friend; and
be grateful for one more benefit besides the thousand we
owe him,” cries Lady Esmond. “What is a string of diamond
stones compared to that affection he hath given us—our
dearest preserver and benefactor? We owe him not only
Frank's life, but our all—yes, our all,” says my mistress,
with a heightened colour and a trembling voice. “The title
we bear is his, if he would claim it. 'Tis we who have no
right to our name: not he that's too great for it. He
sacrificed his name at my dying lord's bedside—sacrificed
it to my orphan children; gave up rank and honour
because he loved us so nobly. His father was Viscount
[pg 368]
of Castlewood and Marquis of Esmond before him; and he
is his father's lawful son and true heir, and we are the
recipients of his bounty, and he the chief of a house that's
as old as your own. And if he is content to forgo his name
that my child may bear it, we love him and honour him
and bless him under whatever name he bears”—and here
the fond and affectionate creature would have knelt to
Esmond again, but that he prevented her; and Beatrix,
running up to her with a pale face and a cry of alarm,
embraced her and said, “Mother, what is this?”




“'Tis a family secret, my lord duke,” says Colonel
Esmond: “poor Beatrix knew nothing of it: nor did my
lady till a year ago. And I have as good a right to resign
my title as your grace's mother to abdicate hers to you.”




“I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,”
said my mistress, “had his grace applied to me for my
daughter's hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken
with you this very day in private, my lord, had not your
words brought about this sudden explanation—and now
'tis fit Beatrix should hear it; and know, as I would
have all the world know, what we owe to our kinsman and
patron.”




And then in her touching way, and having hold of her
daughter's hand, and speaking to her rather than my lord
duke, Lady Castlewood told the story which you know
already—lauding up to the skies her kinsman's behaviour.
On his side Mr. Esmond explained the reasons that seemed
quite sufficiently cogent with him, why the succession in
the family, as at present it stood, should not be disturbed;
and he should remain, as he was, Colonel Esmond.




“And Marquis of Esmond, my lord,” says his grace, with
a low bow. “Permit me to ask your lordship's pardon for
words that were uttered in ignorance; and to beg for the
favour of your friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be
an honour under whatever name you are known” (so his
grace was pleased to say): “and in return for the splendid
present you make my wife, your kinswoman, I hope you
will please to command any service that James Douglas
can perform. I shall never be easy until I repay you a part
of my obligations at least; and ere very long, and with the
mission her Majesty hath given me,” says the duke, “that
may perhaps be in my power. I shall esteem it as a favour,
my lord, if Colonel Esmond will give away the bride.”


[pg 369]


“And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he
is welcome,” says Beatrix, stepping up to him; and as
Esmond kissed her, she whispered, “Oh, why didn't I know
you before?”




My lord duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but
said never a word: Beatrix made him a proud curtsy, and
the two ladies quitted the room together.




“When does your excellency go for Paris?” asks Colonel
Esmond.




“As soon after the ceremony as may be,” his grace
answered. “'Tis fixed for the first of December: it cannot
be sooner. The equipage will not be ready till then. The
queen intends the embassy should be very grand—and
I have law business to settle. That ill-omened Mohun has
come, or is coming, to London again: we are in a lawsuit
about my late Lord Gerard's property; and he hath sent
to me to meet him.”









 Chapter V. Mohun Appears For The Last Time In This History



Besides my Lord Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, who,
for family reasons, had kindly promised his protection and
patronage to Colonel Esmond, he had other great friends
in power now, both able and willing to assist him, and he
might, with such allies, look forward to as fortunate advancement
in civil life at home as he had got rapid promotion
abroad. His grace was magnanimous enough to offer to
take Mr. Esmond as secretary on his Paris embassy, but
no doubt he intended that proposal should be rejected; at
any rate, Esmond could not bear the thoughts of attending
his mistress farther than the church-door after her marriage,
and so declined that offer which his generous rival
made him.




Other gentlemen, in power, were liberal at least of compliments
and promises to Colonel Esmond. Mr. Harley, now
become my Lord Oxford and Mortimer, and installed
Knight of the Garter on the same day as his grace of
Hamilton had received the same honour, sent to the
colonel to say that a seat in Parliament should be at his
[pg 370]
disposal presently, and Mr. St. John held out many flattering
hopes of advancement to the colonel when he should
enter the House. Esmond's friends were all successful, and
the most successful and triumphant of all was his dear old
commander, General Webb, who was now appointed
Lieutenant-General of the Land Forces, and received with
particular honour by the ministry, by the queen, and the
people out of doors, who huzza'd the brave chief when they
used to see him in his chariot, going to the House or to
the Drawing-room, or hobbling on foot to his coach from
St. Stephen's upon his glorious old crutch and stick, and
cheered him as loud as they had ever done Marlborough.




That great duke was utterly disgraced; and honest old
Webb dated all his grace's misfortunes from Wynendael,
and vowed that Fate served the traitor right. Duchess
Sarah had also gone to ruin; she had been forced to give
up her keys, and her places, and her pensions:—“Ah, ah!”
says Webb, “she would have locked up three millions of
French crowns with her keys had I but been knocked on
the head, but I stopped that convoy at Wynendael.” Our
enemy Cardonnel was turned out of the House of Commons
(along with Mr. Walpole) for malversation of public money.
Cadogan lost his place of Lieutenant of the Tower. Marlborough's
daughters resigned their posts of ladies of the
bedchamber; and so complete was the duke's disgrace,
that his son-in-law, Lord Bridgewater, was absolutely
obliged to give up his lodging at St. James's, and had his
half-pension, as Master of the Horse, taken away. But
I think the lowest depth of Marlborough's fall was when he
humbly sent to ask General Webb when he might wait upon
him; he who had commanded the stout old general, who
had injured him and sneered at him, who had kept him
dangling in his antechamber, who could not even after his
great service condescend to write him a letter in his own
hand. The nation was as eager for peace, as ever it had been
hot for war. The Prince of Savoy came amongst us, had
his audience of the queen, and got his famous Sword of
Honour, and strove with all his force to form a Whig party
together, to bring over the young Prince of Hanover—to
do anything which might prolong the war, and consummate
the ruin of the old sovereign whom he hated so implacably.
But the nation was tired of the struggle; so completely
wearied of it that not even our defeat at Denain could rouse
[pg 371]
us into any anger, though such an action so lost two years
before, would have set all England in a fury. 'Twas easy
to see that the great Marlborough was not with the army.
Eugene was obliged to fall back in a rage, and forgo the
dazzling revenge of his life. 'Twas in vain the duke's side
asked, “Would we suffer our arms to be insulted? Would
we not send back the only champion who could repair our
honour?” The nation had had its bellyful of fighting; nor
could taunts or outcries goad up our Britons any more.




For a statesman, that was always prating of liberty, and
had the grandest philosophic maxims in his mouth, it must
be owned that Mr. St. John sometimes rather acted like
a Turkish than a Greek philosopher, and especially fell foul
of one unfortunate set of men, the men of letters, with
a tyranny a little extraordinary in a man who professed
to respect their calling so much. The literary controversy
at this time was very bitter, the Government side was the
winning one, the popular one, and I think might have been
the merciful one. 'Twas natural that the Opposition should
be peevish and cry out; some men did so from their hearts,
admiring the Duke of Marlborough's prodigious talents, and
deploring the disgrace of the greatest general the world
ever knew: 'twas the stomach that caused other patriots
to grumble, and such men cried out because they were poor,
and paid to do so. Against these my Lord Bolingbroke
never showed the slightest mercy, whipping a dozen into
prison or into the pillory without the least commiseration.




From having been a man of arms Mr. Esmond had now
come to be a man of letters, but on a safer side than that
in which the above-cited poor fellows ventured their liberties
and ears. There was no danger on ours, which was
the winning side; besides, Mr. Esmond pleased himself by
thinking that he writ like a gentleman if he did not always
succeed as a wit.




Of the famous wits of that age, who have rendered Queen
Anne's reign illustrious, and whose works will be in all
Englishmen's hands in ages yet to come, Mr. Esmond saw
many, but at public places chiefly; never having a great
intimacy with any of them, except with honest Dick Steele
and Mr. Addison, who parted company with Esmond, however,
when that gentleman became a declared Tory, and
lived on close terms with the leading persons of that party.
Addison kept himself to a few friends, and very rarely
[pg 372]
opened himself except in their company. A man more
upright and conscientious than he, it was not possible to
find in public life, and one whose conversation was so
various, easy, and delightful. Writing now in my mature
years, I own that I think Addison's politics were the right,
and were my time to come over again, I would be a Whig
in England and not a Tory; but with people that take
a side in politics, 'tis men rather than principles that
commonly bind them. A kindness or a slight puts a man
under one flag or the other, and he marches with it to the
end of the campaign. Esmond's master in war was injured
by Marlborough, and hated him: and the lieutenant fought
the quarrels of his leader. Webb coming to London was
used as a weapon by Marlborough's enemies (and true steel
he was, that honest chief); nor was his aide de camp, Mr.
Esmond, an unfaithful or unworthy partisan. 'Tis strange
here, and on a foreign soil, and in a land that is independent
in all but the name (for that the North American colonies
shall remain dependants on yonder little island for twenty
years more, I never can think), to remember how the nation
at home seemed to give itself up to the domination of one
or other aristocratic party, and took a Hanoverian king, or
a French one, according as either prevailed. And while
the Tories, the October Club gentlemen, the High Church
parsons that held by the Church of England, were for
having a Papist king, for whom many of their Scottish and
English leaders, firm churchmen all, laid down their lives
with admirable loyalty and devotion; they were governed
by men who had notoriously no religion at all, but used
it as they would use any opinion for the purpose of forwarding
their own ambition. The Whigs, on the other hand,
who professed attachment to religion and liberty too, were
compelled to send to Holland or Hanover for a monarch
around whom they could rally. A strange series of compromises
is that English history; compromise of principle,
compromise of party, compromise of worship! The lovers
of English freedom and independence submitted their
religious consciences to an Act of Parliament; could not
consolidate their liberty without sending to Zell or the
Hague for a king to live under; and could not find amongst
the proudest people in the world a man speaking their own
language, and understanding their laws, to govern them.
The Tory and High Church patriots were ready to die in
[pg 373]
defence of a Papist family that had sold us to France;
the great Whig nobles, the sturdy Republican recusants
who had cut off Charles Stuart's head for treason, were fain
to accept a king whose title came to him through a royal
grandmother, whose own royal grandmother's head had
fallen under Queen Bess's hatchet. And our proud English
nobles sent to a petty German town for a monarch to come
and reign in London; and our prelates kissed the ugly
hands of his Dutch mistresses, and thought it no dishonour.
In England you can but belong to one party or t'other, and
you take the house you live in with all its encumbrances, its
retainers, its antique discomforts, and ruins even; you
patch up, but you never build up anew. Will we of the
New World submit much longer, even nominally, to this
ancient British superstition? There are signs of the times
which make me think that ere long we shall care as little
about King George here, and peers temporal and peers
spiritual, as we do for King Canute or the Druids.




This chapter began about the wits, my grandson may
say, and hath wandered very far from their company.
The pleasantest of the wits I knew were the Doctors Garth
and Arbuthnot, and Mr. Gay, the author of Trivia, the
most charming kind soul that ever laughed at a joke or
cracked a bottle. Mr. Prior I saw, and he was the earthen
pot swimming with the pots of brass down the stream, and
always and justly frightened lest he should break in the
voyage. I met him both at London and Paris, where he
was performing piteous congees to the Duke of Shrewsbury,
not having courage to support the dignity which his undeniable
genius and talent had won him, and writing
coaxing letters to Secretary St. John, and thinking about
his plate and his place, and what on earth should become
of him should his party go out. The famous Mr. Congreve
I saw a dozen of times at Button's, a splendid wreck of a
man, magnificently attired, and though gouty, and almost
blind, bearing a brave face against fortune.




The great Mr. Pope (of whose prodigious genius I have
no words to express my admiration) was quite a puny lad
at this time, appearing seldom in public places. There
were hundreds of men, wits, and pretty fellows frequenting
the theatres and coffee-houses of that day—whom nunc
prescribere longum est. Indeed I think the most brilliant
of that sort I ever saw was not till fifteen years afterwards,
[pg 374]
when I paid my last visit in England, and met young Harry
Fielding, son of the Fielding that served in Spain and
afterwards in Flanders with us, and who for fun and humour
seemed to top them all. As for the famous Dr. Swift,
I can say of him, “vidi tantum.” He was in London
all these years up to the death of the queen; and in a hundred
public places where I saw him, but no more; he never
missed Court of a Sunday, where once or twice he was
pointed out to your grandfather. He would have sought
me out eagerly enough had I been a great man with a title
to my name, or a star on my coat. At Court the doctor
had no eyes but for the very greatest. Lord Treasurer
and St. John used to call him Jonathan, and they paid him
with this cheap coin for the service they took of him. He
writ their lampoons, fought their enemies, flogged and
bullied in their service, and it must be owned with a consummate
skill and fierceness. 'Tis said he hath lost his
intellect now, and forgotten his wrongs and his rage against
mankind. I have always thought of him and of Marlborough
as the two greatest men of that age. I have read his books
(who doth not know them?) here in our calm woods, and
imagine a giant to myself as I think of him, a lonely
fallen Prometheus, groaning as the vulture tears him.
Prometheus I saw, but when first I ever had any words
with him, the giant stepped out of a sedan-chair in the
Poultry, whither he had come with a tipsy Irish servant
parading before him, who announced him, bawling out his
reverence's name, whilst his master below was as yet
haggling with the chairman. I disliked this Mr. Swift, and
heard many a story about him, of his conduct to men, and
his words to women. He could flatter the great as much
as he could bully the weak; and Mr. Esmond, being younger
and hotter in that day than now, was determined, should
he ever meet this dragon, not to run away from his teeth
and his fire.




Men have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards
in life, and are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be
of distinction, from a hundred different causes. There was
one comrade of Esmond's, an honest little Irish lieutenant
of Handyside's, who owed so much money to a camp sutler,
that he began to make love to the man's daughter, intending
to pay his debt that way; and at the battle of Malplaquet,
flying away from the debt and lady too, he rushed so
[pg 375]
desperately on the French lines, that he got his company;
and came a captain out of the action, and had to marry the
sutler's daughter after all, who brought him his cancelled
debt to her father as poor Rogers's fortune. To run out of
the reach of bill and marriage, he ran on the enemy's pikes;
and as these did not kill him he was thrown back upon
t'other horn of his dilemma. Our great duke at the same
battle was fighting, not the French, but the Tories in England;
and risking his life and the army's, not for his country
but for his pay and places; and for fear of his wife at home,
that only being in life whom he dreaded. I have asked
about men in my own company (new drafts of poor country
boys were perpetually coming over to us during the wars,
and brought from the ploughshare to the sword), and found
that a half of them under the flags were driven thither on
account of a woman: one fellow was jilted by his mistress
and took the shilling in despair; another jilted the girl,
and fled from her and the parish to the tents where the
law could not disturb him. Why go on particularizing?
What can the sons of Adam and Eve expect, but to continue
in that course of love and trouble their father and mother
set out on? O my grandson! I am drawing nigh to the
end of that period of my history, when I was acquainted
with the great world of England and Europe, my years
are past the Hebrew poet's limit, and I say unto thee, all
my troubles and joys too, for that matter, have come from
a woman; as thine will when thy destined course begins.
'Twas a woman that made a soldier of me, that set me
intriguing afterwards; I believe I would have spun smocks
for her had she so bidden me; what strength I had in
my head I would have given her; hath not every man
in his degree had his Omphale and Delilah? Mine befooled
me on the banks of the Thames, and in dear old England;
thou mayest find thine own by Rappahannoc.




To please that woman then I tried to distinguish myself
as a soldier, and afterwards as a wit and a politician; as
to please another I would have put on a black cassock and
a pair of bands, and had done so but that a superior fate
intervened to defeat that project. And I say, I think the
world is like Captain Esmond's company I spoke of anon;
and, could you see every man's career in life, you would
find a woman clogging him; or clinging round his march
and stopping him; or cheering him and goading him; or
[pg 376]
beckoning him out of her chariot, so that he goes up to her,
and leaves the race to be run without him; or bringing
him the apple, and saying “Eat”; or fetching him the
daggers and whispering “Kill! yonder lies Duncan, and
a crown, and an opportunity”.




Your grandfather fought with more effect as a politician
than as a wit; and having private animosities and grievances
of his own and his general's against the great duke in command
of the army, and more information on military
matters than most writers, who had never seen beyond the
fire of a tobacco-pipe at Wills's, he was enabled to do good
service for that cause which he embarked in, and for Mr.
St. John and his party. But he disdained the abuse in
which some of the Tory writers indulged; for instance,
Dr. Swift, who actually chose to doubt the Duke of Marlborough's
courage, and was pleased to hint that his grace's
military capacity was doubtful: nor were Esmond's performances
worse for the effect they were intended to produce
(though no doubt they could not injure the Duke of Marlborough
nearly so much in the public eyes as the malignant
attacks of Swift did, which were carefully directed so as
to blacken and degrade him), because they were writ openly
and fairly by Mr. Esmond, who made no disguise of them,
who was now out of the army, and who never attacked
the prodigious courage and talents, only the selfishness and
rapacity, of the chief.




The colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory
journals, called the Post-Boy (a letter upon Bouchain, that
the town talked about for two whole days, when the appearance
of an Italian singer supplied a fresh subject for conversation),
and having business at the Exchange, where
Mrs. Beatrix wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely,
Esmond went to correct his paper, and was sitting at the
printer's, when the famous Dr. Swift came in, his Irish
fellow with him that used to walk before his chair, and
bawled out his master's name with great dignity.




Mr. Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife
had gone to the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime
engaged in drawing a picture of a soldier on horseback for
a dirty little pretty boy of the printer's wife, whom she
had left behind her.




“I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy, sir?”
says the doctor, in a grating voice that had an Irish twang;
[pg 377]
and he looked at the colonel from under his two bushy
eyebrows with a pair of very clear blue eyes. His complexion
was muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double.
He wore a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat over his black
wig, and he pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks
very fierce.




“I am but a contributor, Dr. Swift,” says Esmond, with
the little boy still on his knee. He was sitting with his
back in the window, so that the doctor could not see him.




“Who told you I was Dr. Swift?” says the doctor,
eyeing the other very haughtily.




“Your reverence's valet bawled out your name,” says the
colonel. “I should judge you brought him from Ireland.”




“And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether
my servant came from Ireland or no? I want to speak
with your employer, Mr. Leach. I'll thank ye go fetch
him.”




“Where's your papa, Tommy?” asks the colonel of the
child, a smutty little wretch in a frock.




Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the doctor's
appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.




“Send that squalling little brat about his business, and
do what I bid ye, sir,” says the doctor.




“I must finish the picture first for Tommy,” says the
colonel, laughing. “Here, Tommy, will you have your
Pandour with whiskers or without?”




“Whisters,” says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.




“Who the devil are ye, sir?” cries the doctor; “are ye
a printer's man or are ye not?” he pronounced it like naught.




“Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am,”
says Colonel Esmond. “Did you ever hear of Dr. Faustus,
little Tommy? or Friar Bacon, who invented gunpowder,
and set the Thames on fire?”




Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. “I did not
intend any offence, sir,” says he.




“I daresay, sir, you offended without meaning,” says the
other drily.




“Who are ye, sir? Do you know who I am, sir? You
are one of the pack of Grub-Street scribblers that my friend
Mr. Secretary hath laid by the heels. How dare ye, sir,
speak to me in this tone?” cries the doctor, in a great fume.




“I beg your honour's humble pardon if I have offended
your honour,” says Esmond, in a tone of great humility.
[pg 378]
“Rather than be sent to the Compter, or be put in the
pillory, there's nothing I wouldn't do. But Mrs. Leach,
the printer's lady, told me to mind Tommy whilst she went
for her husband to the tavern, and I daren't leave the child
lest he should fall into the fire; but if your reverence will
hold him——”




“I take the little beast!” says the doctor, starting back.
“I am engaged to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr. Leach that
when he makes an appointment with Dr. Swift he had
best keep it, do ye hear? And keep a respectful tongue
in your head, sir, when you address a person like me.”




“I'm but a poor broken-down soldier,” says the colonel,
“and I've seen better days, though I am forced now to turn
my hand to writing. We can't help our fate, sir.”




“You're the person that Mr. Leach hath spoken to me of,
I presume. Have the goodness to speak civilly when you
are spoken to—and tell Leach to call at my lodgings in
Bury Street, and bring the papers with him to-night at ten
o'clock. And the next time you see me, you'll know me,
and be civil, Mr. Kemp.”




Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning
of the war, and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of
the Post-Boy, and now took honest Mr. Leach's pay in
place of her Majesty's. Esmond had seen this gentleman,
and a very ingenious, hard-working honest fellow he was,
toiling to give bread to a great family, and watching up
many a long winter night to keep the wolf from his door.
And Mr. St. John, who had liberty always on his tongue,
had just sent a dozen of the Opposition writers into prison,
and one actually into the pillory, for what he called libels,
but libels not half so violent as those writ on our side.
With regard to this very piece of tyranny, Esmond had
remonstrated strongly with the secretary, who laughed and
said, the rascals were served quite right; and told Esmond
a joke of Swift's regarding the matter. Nay, more, this
Irishman, when St. John was about to pardon a poor
wretch condemned to death for rape, absolutely prevented
the secretary from exercising this act of good nature, and
boasted that he had had the man hanged; and great as
the doctor's genius might be, and splendid his ability,
Esmond for one would affect no love for him, and never
desired to make his acquaintance. The doctor was at
Court every Sunday assiduously enough, a place the colonel
[pg 379]
frequented but rarely, though he had a great inducement
to go there in the person of a fair maid of honour of her
Majesty's; and the airs and patronage Mr. Swift gave
himself, forgetting gentlemen of his country whom he knew
perfectly, his loud talk at once insolent and servile, nay,
perhaps his very intimacy with lord treasurer and the
secretary, who indulged all his freaks and called him Jonathan,
you may be sure, were remarked by many a person
of whom the proud priest himself took no note, during that
time of his vanity and triumph.




'Twas but three days after the 15th of November, 1712
(Esmond minds him well of the date), that he went by
invitation to dine with his general, the foot of whose table
he used to take on these festive occasions, as he had done
at many a board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign.
This was a great feast, and of the latter sort; the honest
old gentleman loved to treat his friends splendidly: his
grace of Ormonde, before he joined his army as generalissimo,
my Lord Viscount Bolingbroke, one of her Majesty's
secretaries of state, my Lord Orkney, that had served with
us abroad, being of the party. His grace of Hamilton,
master of the ordnance, and in whose honour the feast had
been given, upon his approaching departure as ambassador
to Paris, had sent an excuse to General Webb at two o'clock,
but an hour before the dinner: nothing but the most
immediate business, his grace said, should have prevented
him having the pleasure of drinking a parting glass to the
health of General Webb. His absence disappointed
Esmond's old chief, who suffered much from his wounds
besides; and though the company was grand, it was rather
gloomy. St. John came last, and brought a friend with
him:—“I'm sure,” says my general, bowing very politely,
“my table hath always a place for Dr. Swift.”




Mr. Esmond went up to the doctor with a bow and
a smile:—“I gave Dr. Swift's message,” says he, “to the
printer: I hope he brought your pamphlet to your lodgings
in time.” Indeed poor Leach had come to his house very
soon after the doctor left it, being brought away rather
tipsy from the tavern by his thrifty wife; and he talked
of cousin Swift in a maudlin way, though of course Mr.
Esmond did not allude to this relationship. The doctor
scowled, blushed, and was much confused, and said scarce
a word during the whole of dinner. A very little stone will
[pg 380]
sometimes knock down these Goliaths of wit; and this one
was often discomfited when met by a man of any spirit;
he took his place sulkily, put water in his wine that the
others drank plentifully, and scarce said a word.




The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about
persons than affairs: my Lady Marlborough's fury, her
daughters in old clothes and mob-caps looking out from
their windows and seeing the company pass to the Drawing-room;
the gentleman-usher's horror when the Prince of
Savoy was introduced to her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man
out of a full-bottomed periwig ever having kissed the royal
hand before; about the Mohawks and the damage they
were doing, rushing through the town, killing and murdering.
Some one said the ill-omened face of Mohun had been seen
at the theatre the night before, and Macartney and Meredith
with him. Meant to be a feast, the meeting, in spite of
drink, and talk, was as dismal as a funeral. Every topic
started subsided into gloom. His grace of Ormonde went
away because the conversation got upon Denain, where we
had been defeated in the last campaign. Esmond's general
was affected at the allusion to this action too, for his comrade
of Wynendael, the Count of Nassau-Woudenberg, had been
slain there. Mr. Swift, when Esmond pledged him, said
he drank no wine, and took his hat from the peg and went
away, beckoning my Lord Bolingbroke to follow him; but
the other bade him take his chariot and save his coach-hire,
he had to speak with Colonel Esmond; and when the rest
of the company withdrew to cards, these two remained
behind in the dark.




Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk
freely. His enemies could get any secret out of him in
that condition; women were even employed to ply him,
and take his words down. I have heard that my Lord
Stair, three years after, when the secretary fled to France
and became the pretender's minister, got all the information
he wanted by putting female spies over St. John in his cups.
He spoke freely now:—“Jonathan knows nothing of this
for certain, though he suspects it, and by George, Webb
will take an archbishopric, and Jonathan a—no, damme—Jonathan
will take an archbishopric from James, I warrant
me, gladly enough. Your duke hath the string of the whole
matter in his hand,” the secretary went on. “We have that
which will force Marlborough to keep his distance, and he
[pg 381]
goes out of London in a fortnight. Prior hath his business;
he left me this morning, and mark me, Harry, should fate
carry off our august, our beloved, our most gouty and plethoric
queen, and defender of the faith, la bonne cause
triomphera. A la santé de la bonne cause! Everything good
comes from France. Wine comes from France; give us
another bumper to the bonne cause.”
We drank it together.




“Will the bonne cause turn
Protestant?” asked Mr. Esmond.




“No, hang it,” says the other, “he'll defend our faith as
in duty bound, but he'll stick by his own. The Hind and
the Panther shall run in the same car, by Jove. Righteousness
and peace shall kiss each other; and we'll have Father
Massillon to walk down the aisle of St. Paul's, cheek by
jowl, with Dr. Sacheverel. Give us more wine; here's
a health to the bonne cause,
kneeling—damme, let's drink
it kneeling.” He was quite flushed and wild with wine as
he was talking.




“And suppose,” says Esmond, who always had this
gloomy apprehension, “the bonne cause
should give us up
to the French, as his father and uncle did before him?”




“Give us up to the French!” starts up Bolingbroke;
“is there any English gentleman that fears that? You who
have seen Blenheim and Ramillies, afraid of the French!
Your ancestors and mine, and brave old Webb's yonder,
have met them in a hundred fields, and our children will
be ready to do the like. Who's he that wishes for more
men from England? My cousin Westmoreland? Give
us up to the French, pshaw!”




“His uncle did,” says Mr. Esmond.




“And what happened to his grandfather?” broke out
St. John, filling out another bumper. “Here's to the
greatest monarch England ever saw; here's to the Englishman
that made a kingdom of her. Our great king came
from Huntingdon, not Hanover; our fathers didn't look
for a Dutchman to rule us. Let him come and we'll keep
him, and we'll show him Whitehall. If he's a traitor let
us have him here to deal with him; and then there are
spirits here as great as any that have gone before. There
are men here that can look at danger in the face and not
be frightened at it. Traitor, treason! what names are
these to scare you and me? Are all Oliver's men dead,
or his glorious name forgotten in fifty years? Are there
[pg 382]
no men equal to him, think you, as good—aye, as good?
God save the king! and, if the monarchy fails us, God
save the British republic!”




He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and
drained it wildly, just as the noise of rapid carriage-wheels
approaching was stopped at our door, and after a hurried
knock and a moment's interval, Mr. Swift came into the
hall, ran upstairs to the room we were dining in, and entered
it with a perturbed face. St. John, excited with drink,
was making some wild quotation out of Macbeth, but Swift
stopped him.




“Drink no more, my lord, for God's sake,” says he,
“I come with the most dreadful news.”




“Is the queen dead?” cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on
a water-glass.




“No, Duke Hamilton is dead, he was murdered an hour
ago by Mohun and Macartney; they had a quarrel this
morning; they gave him not so much time as to write
a letter. He went for a couple of his friends, and he is
dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody villain, who was set on
him. They fought in Hyde Park just before sunset; the
duke killed Mohun, and Macartney came up and stabbed
him, and the dog is fled. I have your chariot below; send
to every part of the country and apprehend that villain;
come to the duke's house and see if any life be left in him.”




“O Beatrix, Beatrix,” thought Esmond, “and here ends
my poor girl's ambition!”









 Chapter VI. Poor Beatrix



There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity
of a separation between him and Beatrix: Fate had done
that completely; and I think from the very moment poor
Beatrix had accepted the duke's offer, she began to assume
the majestic air of a duchess, nay, queen elect, and to
carry herself as one sacred and removed from us common
people. Her mother and kinsman both fell into her ways,
the latter scornfully perhaps, and uttering his usual gibes
at her vanity and his own. There was a certain charm
[pg 383]
about this girl of which neither Colonel Esmond nor his
fond mistress could forgo the fascination; in spite of her
faults and her pride and wilfulness, they were forced to
love her; and, indeed, might be set down as the two chief
flatterers of the brilliant creature's court.




Who, in the course of his life, hath not been so bewitched,
and worshipped some idol or another? Years after this
passion hath been dead and buried, along with a thousand
other worldly cares and ambitions, he who felt it can recall
it out of its grave, and admire, almost as fondly as he did
in his youth, that lovely queenly creature. I invoke that
beautiful spirit from the shades and love her still; or rather
I should say such a past is always present to a man; such a
passion once felt forms a part of his whole being, and cannot
be separated from it; it becomes a portion of the man of
to-day, just as any great faith or conviction, the discovery
of poetry, the awakening of religion, ever afterward influence
him; just as the wound I had at Blenheim, and of which
I wear the scar, hath become part of my frame and influenced
my whole body, nay spirit, subsequently, though 'twas got
and healed forty years ago. Parting and forgetting! What
faithful heart can do these? Our great thoughts, our great
affections, the Truths of our life, never leave us. Surely,
they cannot separate from our consciousness; shall follow
it whithersoever that shall go; and are of their nature
divine and immortal.




With the horrible news of this catastrophe, which was
confirmed by the weeping domestics at the duke's own
door, Esmond rode homewards as quick as his lazy coach
would carry him, devising all the time how he should break
the intelligence to the person most concerned in it; and
if a satire upon human vanity could be needed, that poor
soul afforded it in the altered company and occupations
in which Esmond found her. For days before, her chariot
had been rolling the street from mercer to toyshop—from
goldsmith to laceman: her taste was perfect, or at least
the fond bridegroom had thought so, and had given entire
authority over all tradesmen, and for all the plate, furniture,
and equipages, with which his grace the ambassador wished
to adorn his splendid mission. She must have her picture
by Kneller, a duchess not being complete without a portrait,
and a noble one he made, and actually sketched in, on
a cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear. She
[pg 384]
vowed she would wear it at King James the Third's coronation,
and never a princess in the land would have become
ermine better. Esmond found the antechamber crowded
with milliners and toyshop women, obsequious goldsmiths
with jewels, salvers, and tankards; and mercer's men with
hangings, and velvets, and brocades. My lady duchess
elect was giving audience to one famous silversmith from
Exeter “Change,” who brought with him a great chased salver,
of which he was pointing out the beauties as Colonel Esmond
entered. “Come,” says she, “cousin, and admire the taste
of this pretty thing.” I think Mars and Venus were lying
in the golden bower, that one gilt Cupid carried off the war-god's
casque—another his sword—another his great buckler,
upon which my Lord Duke Hamilton's arms with ours
were to be engraved—and a fourth was kneeling down to
the reclining goddess with the ducal coronet in his hands,
God help us! The next time Mr. Esmond saw that piece
of plate, the arms were changed, the ducal coronet had been
replaced by a viscount's; it formed part of the fortune of
the thrifty goldsmith's own daughter, when she married
my Lord Viscount Squanderfield two years after.




“Isn't this a beautiful piece?” says Beatrix, examining
it, and she pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and
the fine carving of the languid prostrate Mars. Esmond
sickened as he thought of the warrior dead in his chamber,
his servants and children weeping around him; and of this
smiling creature attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial
death-bed. “'Tis a pretty piece of vanity,” says he, looking
gloomily at the beautiful creature: there were flambeaux
in the room lighting up the brilliant mistress of it. She
lifted up the great gold salver with her fair arms.




“Vanity!” says she haughtily. “What is vanity in you,
sir, is propriety in me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr.
Graves; but have it I will, if only to spite Mr. Esmond.”




“O Beatrix, lay it down!” says Mr. Esmond. “Herodias!
you know not what you carry in the charger.”




She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running
to seize his fallen ware. The lady's face caught the fright
from Esmond's pale countenance, and her eyes shone out
like beacons of alarm:—“What is it, Henry?” says she,
running to him, and seizing both his hands. “What do
you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?”




“Come away, come away!” says Esmond, leading her:
[pg 385]
she clung frightened to him, and he supported her upon his
heart, bidding the scared goldsmith leave them. The man
went into the next apartment, staring with surprise, and
hugging his precious charger.




“O my Beatrix, my sister!” says Esmond, still holding
in his arms the pallid and affrighted creature, “you have
the greatest courage of any woman in the world; prepare
to show it now, for you have a dreadful trial to bear.”




She sprang away from the friend who would have protected
her:—“Hath he left me?” says she. “We had words
this morning: he was very gloomy, and I angered him:
but he dared not, he dared not!” As she spoke a burning
blush flushed over her whole face and bosom. Esmond
saw it reflected in the glass by which she stood, with clenched
hands, pressing her swelling heart.




“He has left you,” says Esmond, wondering that rage
rather than sorrow was in her looks.




“And he is alive,” cries Beatrix, “and you bring me this
commission! He has left me, and you haven't dared to
avenge me! You, that pretend to be the champion of our
house, have let me suffer this insult! Where is Castlewood?
I will go to my brother.”




“The duke is not alive, Beatrix,” said Esmond.




She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall
as though shot in the breast:—“And you come here, and—and—you
killed him?”




“No; thank Heaven,” her kinsman said, “the blood of
that noble heart doth not stain my sword! In its last
hour it was faithful to thee, Beatrix Esmond. Vain and
cruel woman! kneel and thank the awful Heaven which
awards life and death, and chastises pride, that the noble
Hamilton died true to you; at least that 'twas not your
quarrel, or your pride, or your wicked vanity, that drove
him to his fate. He died by the bloody sword which already
had drank your own father's blood. O woman, O sister!
to that sad field where two corpses are lying—for the murderer
died too by the hand of the man he slew—can you
bring no mourners but your revenge and your vanity?
God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as He brings this awful
punishment to your hard and rebellious heart.”




Esmond had scarce done speaking, when his mistress
came in. The colloquy between him and Beatrix had lasted
but a few minutes, during which time Esmond's servant
[pg 386]
had carried the disastrous news through the household.
The army of Vanity Fair, waiting without, gathered up
all their fripperies and fled aghast. Tender Lady Castlewood
had been in talk above with Dean Atterbury, the pious
creature's almoner and director; and the dean had entered
with her as a physician whose place was at a sick-bed.
Beatrix's mother looked at Esmond and ran towards her
daughter, with a pale face and open heart and hands, all
kindness and pity. But Beatrix passed her by, nor would
she have any of the medicaments of the spiritual physician.
“I am best in my own room and by myself,” she said. Her
eyes were quite dry; nor did Esmond ever see them otherwise,
save once, in respect to that grief. She gave him
a cold hand as she went out: “Thank you, brother,” she
said, in a low voice, and with a simplicity more touching
than tears; “all you have said is true and kind, and I will
go away and ask pardon.” The three others remained
behind, and talked over the dreadful story. It affected
Dr. Atterbury more even than us, as it seemed. The death
of Mohun, her husband's murderer, was more awful to my
mistress than even the duke's unhappy end. Esmond gave
at length what particulars he knew of their quarrel, and the
cause of it. The two noblemen had long been at war with
respect to the Lord Gerard's property, whose two daughters
my lord duke and Mohun had married. They had met
by appointment that day at the lawyer's in Lincoln's Inn
Fields; had words which, though they appeared very
trifling to those who heard them, were not so to men
exasperated by long and previous enmity. Mohun asked
my lord duke where he could see his grace's friends, and
within an hour had sent two of his own to arrange this
deadly duel. It was pursued with such fierceness, and
sprung from so trifling a cause, that all men agreed at the
time that there was a party, of which these three notorious
brawlers were but agents, who desired to take Duke Hamilton's
life away. They fought three on a side, as in that
tragic meeting twelve years back, which hath been recounted
already, and in which Mohun performed his second murder.
They rushed in, and closed upon each other at once without
any feints or crossing of swords even, and stabbed one at
the other desperately, each receiving many wounds; and
Mohun having his death-wound, and my lord duke lying
by him, Macartney came up and stabbed his grace as he
[pg 387]
lay on the ground, and gave him the blow of which he died.
Colonel Macartney denied this, of which the horror and
indignation of the whole kingdom would nevertheless have
him guilty, and fled the country, whither he never returned.




What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton's death—a
paltry quarrel that might easily have been made up, and
with a ruffian so low, base, profligate, and degraded with
former crimes and repeated murders, that a man of such
a renown and princely rank as my lord duke might have disdained
to sully his sword with the blood of such a villain. But
his spirit was so high that those who wished his death knew
that his courage was like his charity, and never turned any
man away; and he died by the hands of Mohun, and the
other two cut-throats that were set on him. The queen's
ambassador to Paris died, the loyal and devoted servant
of the House of Stuart, and a royal prince of Scotland
himself, and carrying the confidence, the repentance of
Queen Anne along with his own open devotion, and the
goodwill of millions in the country more, to the queen's
exiled brother and sovereign.




That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the
benefit of his service, and now were well rid of such a ruffian.
He, and Meredith, and Macartney, were the Duke of
Marlborough's men; and the two colonels had been broke
but the year before for drinking perdition to the Tories.
His grace was a Whig now and a Hanoverian, and as eager
for war as Prince Eugene himself. I say not that he was
privy to Duke Hamilton's death, I say that his party
profited by it; and that three desperate and bloody instruments
were found to effect that murder.




As Esmond and the dean walked away from Kensington
discoursing of this tragedy, and how fatal it was to the
cause which they both had at heart; the street-criers were
already out with their broadsides, shouting through the
town the full, true, and horrible account of the death of
Lord Mohun and Duke Hamilton in a duel. A fellow had
got to Kensington, and was crying it in the square there
at very early morning, when Mr. Esmond happened to pass
by. He drove the man from under Beatrix's very window,
whereof the casement had been set open. The sun was
shining though 'twas November: he had seen the market-carts
rolling into London, the guard relieved at the Palace,
the labourers trudging to their work in the gardens between
[pg 388]
Kensington and the City—the wandering merchants and
hawkers filling the air with their cries. The world was
going to its business again, although dukes lay dead and
ladies mourned for them; and kings, very likely, lost their
chances. So night and day pass away, and to-morrow
comes, and our place knows us not. Esmond thought of
the courier, now galloping on the north road to inform
him, who was Earl of Arran yesterday, that he was Duke
of Hamilton to-day, and of a thousand great schemes,
hopes, ambitions, that were alive in the gallant heart,
beating a few hours since, and now in a little dust quiescent.









 Chapter VII. I Visit Castlewood Once More



Thus, for a third time, Beatrix's ambitious hopes were
circumvented, and she might well believe that a special
malignant fate watched and pursued her, tearing her prize
out of her hand just as she seemed to grasp it, and leaving
her with only rage and grief for her portion. Whatever
her feelings might have been of anger or of sorrow (and
I fear me that the former emotion was that which most
tore her heart), she would take no confidant, as people of
softer natures would have done under such a calamity;
her mother and her kinsman knew that she would disdain
their pity, and that to offer it would be but to infuriate
the cruel wound which fortune had inflicted. We knew
that her pride was awfully humbled and punished by this
sudden and terrible blow; she wanted no teaching of ours
to point out the sad moral of her story. Her fond mother
could give but her prayers, and her kinsman his faithful
friendship and patience to the unhappy stricken creature;
and it was only by hints, and a word or two uttered months
afterwards, that Beatrix showed she understood their silent
commiseration, and on her part was secretly thankful for
their forbearance. The people about the Court said there
was that in her manner which frightened away scoffing
and condolence: she was above their triumph and their
pity, and acted her part in that dreadful tragedy greatly
and courageously; so that those who liked her least were
[pg 389]
yet forced to admire her. We, who watched her after her
disaster, could not but respect the indomitable courage
and majestic calm with which she bore it. “I would rather
see her tears than her pride,” her mother said, who was
accustomed to bear her sorrows in a very different way,
and to receive them as the stroke of God, with an awful
submission and meekness. But Beatrix's nature was
different to that tender parent's; she seemed to accept
her grief, and to defy it; nor would she allow it (I believe
not even in private, and in her own chamber) to extort
from her the confession of even a tear of humiliation or
a cry of pain. Friends and children of our race, who
come after me, in which way will you bear your trials?
I know one that prays God will give you love rather than
pride, and that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the
humble place. Not that we should judge proud spirits
otherwise than charitably. 'Tis nature hath fashioned
some for ambition and dominion, as it hath formed others
for obedience and gentle submission. The leopard follows
his nature as the lamb does, and acts after leopard law;
she can neither help her beauty, nor her courage, nor her
cruelty; nor a single spot on her shining coat; nor the
conquering spirit which impels her; nor the shot which
brings her down.






During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the
queen should forsake their Hanoverian prince, bound by
oaths and treaties as she was to him, and recall her brother,
who was allied to her by yet stronger ties of nature and
duty; the Prince of Savoy, and the boldest of that party
of the Whigs, were for bringing the young Duke of Cambridge
over, in spite of the queen and the outcry of her
Tory servants, arguing that the electoral prince, a peer
and prince of the blood-royal of this realm too, and in
the line of succession to the crown, had a right to sit in
the Parliament whereof he was a member, and to dwell
in the country which he one day was to govern. Nothing
but the strongest ill will expressed by the queen, and the
people about her, and menaces of the royal resentment,
should this scheme be persisted in, prevented it from being
carried into effect.




The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having
our prince into the country. The undoubted inheritor of
[pg 390]
the right divine; the feelings of more than half the nation,
of almost all the clergy, of the gentry of England and
Scotland with him; entirely innocent of the crime for
which his father suffered—brave, young, handsome, unfortunate—who
in England would dare to molest the prince
should he come among us, and fling himself upon British
generosity, hospitality, and honour? An invader with an
army of Frenchmen behind him, Englishmen of spirit would
resist to the death, and drive back to the shores whence
he came; but a prince, alone, armed with his right only,
and relying on the loyalty of his people, was sure, many
of his friends argued, of welcome, at least of safety, among
us. The hand of his sister the queen, of the people his
subjects, never could be raised to do him a wrong. But
the queen was timid by nature, and the successive ministers
she had, had private causes for their irresolution. The
bolder and honester men, who had at heart the illustrious
young exile's cause, had no scheme of interest of their own
to prevent them from seeing the right done, and, provided
only he came as an Englishman, were ready to venture
their all to welcome and defend him.




St. John and Harley both had kind words in plenty for
the prince's adherents, and gave him endless promises of
future support; but hints and promises were all they
could be got to give; and some of his friends were for
measures much bolder, more efficacious, and more open.
With a party of these, some of whom are yet alive, and some
whose names Mr. Esmond has no right to mention, he found
himself engaged the year after that miserable death of
Duke Hamilton, which deprived the prince of his most
courageous ally in this country. Dean Atterbury was one
of the friends whom Esmond may mention, as the brave
bishop is now beyond exile and persecution, and to him,
and one or two more, the colonel opened himself of a
scheme of his own, that, backed by a little resolution on
the prince's part, could not fail of bringing about the
accomplishment of their dearest wishes.




My young Lord Viscount Castlewood had not come to
England to keep his majority, and had now been absent
from the country for several years. The year when his sister
was to be married and Duke Hamilton died, my lord was
kept at Bruxelles by his wife's lying-in. The gentle
Clotilda could not bear her husband out of her sight;
[pg 391]
perhaps she mistrusted the young scapegrace should he
ever get loose from her leading-strings; and she kept him
by her side to nurse the baby and administer posset to
the gossips. Many a laugh poor Beatrix had had about
Frank's uxoriousness: his mother would have gone to
Clotilda when her time was coming, but that the mother-in-law
was already in possession, and the negotiations for
poor Beatrix's marriage were begun. A few months after
the horrid catastrophe in Hyde Park, my mistress and her
daughter retired to Castlewood, where my lord, it was
expected, would soon join them. But, to say truth, their
quiet household was little to his taste; he could be got to
come to Walcote but once after his first campaign; and then
the young rogue spent more than half his time in London,
not appearing at Court, or in public under his own name
and title, but frequenting plays, bagnios, and the very
worst company, under the name of Captain Esmond (whereby
his innocent kinsman got more than once into trouble);
and so under various pretexts, and in pursuit of all sorts
of pleasures, until he plunged into the lawful one of marriage,
Frank Castlewood had remained away from this country,
and was unknown, save amongst the gentlemen of the
army, with whom he had served abroad. The fond heart
of his mother was pained by this long absence. 'Twas all
that Henry Esmond could do to soothe her natural mortification,
and find excuses for his kinsman's levity.




In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought
of returning home. His first child had been a daughter;
Clotilda was in the way of gratifying his lordship with
a second, and the pious youth thought that, by bringing
his wife to his ancestral home, by prayers to St. Philip of
Castlewood, and what not, Heaven might be induced to
bless him with a son this time, for whose coming the
expectant mamma was very anxious.




The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year
at the end of March; and France was open to us. Just
as Frank's poor mother had made all things ready for
Lord Castlewood's reception, and was eagerly expecting
her son, it was by Colonel Esmond's means that the kind
lady was disappointed of her longing, and obliged to defer
once more the darling hope of her heart.




Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen
its ancient grey towers and well-remembered woods for
[pg 392]
nearly fourteen years, and since he rode thence with my
lord, to whom his mistress with her young children by her
side waved an adieu, what ages seem to have passed since
then, what years of action and passion, of care, love, hope,
disaster! The children were grown up now, and had stories
of their own. As for Esmond, he felt to be a hundred
years old; his dear mistress only seemed unchanged; she
looked and welcomed him quite as of old. There was the
fountain in the court babbling its familiar music, the old
hall and its furniture, the carved chair my late lord used,
the very flagon he drank from. Esmond's mistress knew
he would like to sleep in the little room he used to occupy;
'twas made ready for him, and wall-flowers and sweet herbs
set in the adjoining chamber, the chaplain's room.




In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission
to the awful Dispenser of death and life, of good
and evil fortune, Mr. Esmond passed a part of that first
night at Castlewood, lying awake for many hours as the
clock kept tolling (in tones so well remembered), looking
back, as all men will, that revisit their home of childhood,
over the great gulf of time, and surveying himself on the
distant bank yonder, a sad little melancholy boy, with his
lord still alive—his dear mistress, a girl yet, her children
sporting around her. Years ago, a boy on that very bed,
when she had blessed him and called him her knight, he
had made a vow to be faithful and never desert her dear
service. Had he kept that fond boyish promise? Yes,
before Heaven; yes, praise be to God! His life had been
hers; his blood, his fortune, his name, his whole heart
ever since had been hers and her children's. All night long
he was dreaming his boyhood over again, and waking
fitfully; he half fancied he heard Father Holt calling to
him from the next chamber, and that he was coming in
and out from the mysterious window.




Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next
room, where the air was heavy with the odour of the wall-flowers;
looked into the brasier where the papers had been
burnt, into the old presses where Holt's books and papers
had been kept, and tried the spring, and whether the
window worked still. The spring had not been touched
for years, but yielded at length, and the whole fabric of
the window sank down. He lifted it and it relapsed into
its frame; no one had ever passed thence since Holt used
it sixteen years ago.


[pg 393]


Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last
day of his life, that Holt used to come in and out of the
house like a ghost, and knew that the father liked these
mysteries, and practised such secret disguises, entrances,
and exits; this was the way the ghost came and went,
his pupil had always conjectured. Esmond closed the casement
up again as the dawn was rising over Castlewood
village; he could hear the clinking at the blacksmith's
forge yonder among the trees, across the green, and past
the river, on which a mist still lay sleeping.




Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the woodwork
of the mantelpiece, big enough to hold a man, and
in which Mr. Holt used to keep sundry secret properties
of his. The two swords he remembered so well as a boy,
lay actually there still, and Esmond took them out and
wiped them, with a strange curiosity of emotion. There
were a bundle of papers here, too, which no doubt had
been left at Holt's last visit to the place, in my lord
viscount's life, that very day when the priest had been
arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. Esmond made free
with these papers, and found treasonable matter of King
William's reign, the names of Charnock and Perkins, Sir
John Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood and Lodwick,
Lords Montgomery and Ailesbury, Clarendon and
Yarmouth, that had all been engaged in plots against the
usurper; a letter from the Duke of Berwick too, and one
from the king at St. Germains, offering to confer upon
his trusty and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood
the titles of Earl and Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by
patent royal, and in the fourth year of his reign, upon
Thomas Viscount Castlewood and the heirs male of his
body, in default of which issue the ranks and dignities
were to pass to Francis aforesaid.




This was the paper, whereof my lord had spoken, which
Holt showed him the very day he was arrested, and for
an answer to which he would come back in a week's time.
I put these papers hastily into the crypt whence I had
taken them, being interrupted by a tapping of a light finger
at the ring of the chamber-door: 'twas my kind mistress,
with her face full of love and welcome. She, too, had
passed the night wakefully, no doubt; but neither asked
the other how the hours had been spent. There are things
we divine without speaking, and know though they happen
[pg 394]
out of our sight. This fond lady hath told me that she
knew both days when I was wounded abroad. Who shall
say how far sympathy reaches, and how truly love can
prophesy? “I looked into your room,” was all she said;
“the bed was vacant, the little old bed! I knew I should
find you here.” And tender and blushing faintly with
a benediction in her eyes, the gentle creature kissed him.




They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court,
and to the terrace-walk, where the grass was glistening
with dew, and the birds in the green woods above were
singing their delicious choruses under the blushing morning
sky. How well all things were remembered! The ancient
towers and gables of the hall darkling against the east,
the purple shadows on the green slopes, the quaint devices
and carvings of the dial, the forest-crowned heights, the
fair yellow plain cheerful with crops and corn, the shining
river rolling through it towards the pearly hills beyond;
all these were before us, along with a thousand beautiful
memories of our youth, beautiful and sad, but as real and
vivid in our minds as that fair and always-remembered
scene our eyes beheld once more. We forget nothing. The
memory sleeps, but awakens again; I often think how it
shall be when, after the last sleep of death, the réveillé
shall arouse us for ever, and the past in one flash of self-consciousness
rush back, like the soul, revivified.




The house would not be up for some hours yet (it was
July, and the dawn was only just awake), and here Esmond
opened himself to his mistress, of the business he had in
hand, and what part Frank was to play in it. He knew
he could confide anything to her, and that the fond soul
would die rather than reveal it; and bidding her keep the
secret from all, he laid it entirely before his mistress (always
as stanch a little loyalist as any in the kingdom), and
indeed was quite sure that any plan of his was secure of
her applause and sympathy. Never was such a glorious
scheme to her partial mind, never such a devoted knight
to execute it. An hour or two may have passed whilst
they were having their colloquy. Beatrix came out to
them just as their talk was over; her tall beautiful form
robed in sable (which she wore without ostentation ever
since last year's catastrophe), sweeping over the green
terrace, and casting its shadows before her across the grass.




She made us one of her grand curtsies smiling, and called
[pg 395]
us “the young people”. She was older, paler, and more
majestic than in the year before; her mother seemed the
youngest of the two. She never once spoke of her grief,
Lady Castlewood told Esmond, or alluded, save by a quiet
word or two, to the death of her hopes.




When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to
visiting all the cottages and all the sick. She set up a
school of children, and taught singing to some of them.
We had a pair of beautiful old organs in Castlewood Church,
on which she played admirably, so that the music there
became to be known in the country for many miles round,
and no doubt people came to see the fair organist as well
as to hear her. Parson Tusher and his wife were established
at the vicarage, but his wife had brought him no children
wherewith Tom might meet his enemies at the gate. Honest
Tom took care not to have many such, his great shovel-hat
was in his hand for everybody. He was profuse of
bows and compliments. He behaved to Esmond as if the
colonel had been a commander-in-chief; he dined at the
hall that day, being Sunday, and would not partake of
pudding except under extreme pressure. He deplored my
lord's perversion, but drank his lordship's health very
devoutly; and an hour before at church sent the colonel
to sleep, with a long, learned, and refreshing sermon.




Esmond's visit home was but for two days; the business
he had in hand calling him away and out of the country.
Ere he went, he saw Beatrix but once alone, and then she
summoned him out of the long tapestry room, where he
and his mistress were sitting, quite as in old times, into
the adjoining chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel's
sleeping-apartment, and where Esmond perfectly well
remembered seeing the old lady sitting up in the bed, in
her night-rail, that morning when the troop of guard came
to fetch her. The most beautiful woman in England lay
in that bed now, whereof the great damask hangings were
scarce faded since Esmond saw them last.




Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box
in her hand; 'twas that which Esmond had given her
before her marriage, stamped with a coronet which the
disappointed girl was never to wear; and containing his
aunt's legacy of diamonds.




“You had best take these with you, Harry,” says she;
“I have no need of diamonds any more.” There was not the
[pg 396]
least token of emotion in her quiet low voice. She held out
the black shagreen-case with her fair arm, that did not
shake in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet
bracelet on it, with my lord duke's picture in enamel; he
had given it her but three days before he fell.




Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to
turn off that proffered restoration with a laugh: “Of what
good,” says he, “are they to me? The diamond loop to his
hat did not set off Prince Eugene, and will not make my
yellow face look any handsomer.”




“You will give them to your wife, cousin,” says she. “My
cousin, your wife has a lovely complexion and shape.”




“Beatrix,” Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as
it would at times, “will you wear those trinkets at your
marriage? You whispered once you did not know me: you
know me better now: how I sought, what I have sighed
for, for ten years, what forgone!”




“A price for your constancy, my lord!” says she; “such
a preux chevalier wants
to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!”




“Again,” Esmond spoke out, “if I do something you have
at heart; something worthy of me and you; something
that shall make me a name with which to endow you; will
you take it? There was a chance for me once, you said;
is it impossible to recall it? Never shake your head, but
hear me: say you will hear me a year hence. If I come
back to you and bring you fame, will that please you? If
I do what you desire most—what he who is dead desired
most—will that soften you?”




“What is it, Henry?” says she, her face lighting up;
“what mean you?”




“Ask no questions,” he said, “wait, and give me but time;
if I bring back that you long for, that I have a thousand
times heard you pray for, will you have no reward for
him who has done you that service? Put away those
trinkets, keep them: it shall not be at my marriage, it shall
not be at yours, but if man can do it, I swear a day shall
come when there shall be a feast in your house, and you
shall be proud to wear them. I say no more now; put aside
these words, and lock away yonder box until the day when
I shall remind you of both. All I pray of you now is, to
wait and to remember.”




“You are going out of the country?” says Beatrix, in
some agitation.


[pg 397]


“Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond.




“To Lorraine, cousin?” says Beatrix, laying her hand on
his arm; 'twas the hand on which she wore the duke's
bracelet. “Stay, Harry!” continued she, with a tone that
had more despondency in it than she was accustomed to
show. “Hear a last word. I do love you. I do admire you—who
would not, that has known such love as yours has
been for us all? But I think I have no heart; at least,
I have never seen the man that could touch it; and, had
I found him, I would have followed him in rags had he been
a private soldier, or to sea, like one of those buccaneers you
used to read to us about when we were children. I would
do anything for such a man, bear anything for him: but
I never found one. You were ever too much of a slave to
win my heart; even my lord duke could not command it.
I had not been happy had I married him. I knew that three
months after our engagement—and was too vain to break
it. O Harry! I cried once or twice, not for him, but with
tears of rage because I could not be sorry for him. I was
frightened to find I was glad of his death; and were I joined
to you, I should have the same sense of servitude, the same
longing to escape. We should both be unhappy, and you
the most, who are as jealous as the duke was himself.
I tried to love him; I tried, indeed I did: affected gladness
when he came: submitted to hear when he was by me,
and tried the wife's part I thought I was to play for the
rest of my days. But half an hour of that complaisance
wearied me, and what would a lifetime be? My thoughts
were away when he was speaking; and I was thinking,
Oh that this man would drop my hand, and rise up from
before my feet! I knew his great and noble qualities,
greater and nobler than mine a thousand times, as yours
are, cousin, I tell you, a million and a million times better.
But 'twas not for these I took him. I took him to have
a great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, and do not
deplore him—and I often thought, as I listened to his fond
vows and ardent words, Oh, if I yield to this man, and meet
the other, I shall hate him and leave him! I am not good,
Harry: my mother is gentle and good like an angel. I wonder
how she should have had such a child. She is weak, but
she would die rather than do a wrong; I am stronger than
she, but I would do it out of defiance. I do not care for
what the parsons tell me with their droning sermons:
[pg 398]
I used to see them at Court as mean and as worthless as the
meanest woman there. Oh, I am sick and weary of the
world! I wait but for one thing, and when 'tis done, I will
take Frank's religion and your poor mother's, and go into
a nunnery, and end like her. Shall I wear the diamonds
then?—they say the nuns wear their best trinkets the day
they take the veil. I will put them away as you bid me;
farewell, cousin, mamma is pacing the next room, racking
her little head to know what we have been saying. She is
jealous, all women are. I sometimes think that is the only
womanly quality I have.”




“Farewell. Farewell, brother!” She gave him her cheek
as a brotherly privilege. The cheek was as cold as marble.




Esmond's mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he
returned to the room where she was. She had schooled
herself so as to look quite inscrutably, when she had a mind.
Amongst her other feminine qualities she had that of being
a perfect dissembler.




He rid away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was
bound on, and stand or fall by it; in truth his state of mind
was such, that he was eager for some outward excitement
to counteract that gnawing malady which he was inwardly
enduring.









 Chapter VIII. I Travel To France And Bring Home A Portrait Of Rigaud



Mr. Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to
inform all the world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that
he was about to quit England; and chose to depart in the
most private manner possible. He procured a pass as for
a Frenchman, through Dr. Atterbury, who did that business
for him, getting the signature even from Lord Bolingbroke's
office, without any personal application to the secretary.
Lockwood, his faithful servant, he took with him to Castlewood,
and left behind there: giving out ere he left London
that he himself was sick, and gone to Hampshire for
country air, and so departed as silently as might be upon
his business.




As Frank Castlewood's aid was indispensable for Mr.
Esmond's scheme, his first visit was to Bruxelles (passing
[pg 399]
by way of Antwerp, where the Duke of Marlborough was in
exile), and in the first-named place Harry found his dear
young Benedict, the married man, who appeared to be
rather out of humour with his matrimonial chain, and
clogged with the obstinate embraces which Clotilda kept
round his neck. Colonel Esmond was not presented to her;
but Monsieur Simon was, a gentleman of the Royal Cravat
(Esmond bethought him of the regiment of his honest Irishman,
whom he had seen that day after Malplaquet, when
he first set eyes on the young king); and Monsieur Simon
was introduced to the Viscountess Castlewood,
née Comptesse
Wertheim; to the numerous counts, the Lady Clotilda's
tall brothers; to her father the chamberlain; and
to the lady his wife, Frank's mother-in-law, a tall and
majestic person of large proportions, such as became the
mother of such a company of grenadiers as her warlike sons
formed. The whole race were at free quarters in the
little castle nigh to Bruxelles which Frank had taken; rode
his horses; drank his wine; and lived easily at the poor
lad's charges. Mr. Esmond had always maintained a perfect
fluency in the French, which was his mother tongue; and
if this family (that spoke French with the twang which the
Flemings use) discovered any inaccuracy in Mr. Simon's
pronunciation, 'twas to be attributed to the latter's long
residence in England, where he had married and remained
ever since he was taken prisoner at Blenheim. His story
was perfectly pat; there were none there to doubt it save
honest Frank, and he was charmed with his kinsman's
scheme, when he became acquainted with it; and, in truth,
always admired Colonel Esmond with an affectionate
fidelity, and thought his cousin the wisest and best of all
cousins and men. Frank entered heart and soul into the
plan, and liked it the better as it was to take him to Paris,
out of reach of his brothers, his father, and his mother-in-law,
whose attentions rather fatigued him.




Castlewood, I have said, was born in the same year as
the Prince of Wales; had not a little of the prince's air,
height, and figure; and, especially since he had seen the
Chevalier de St. George on the occasion before named,
took no small pride in his resemblance to a person so
illustrious; which likeness he increased by all the means in
his power, wearing fair brown periwigs, such as the prince
wore, and ribbons, and so forth, of the chevalier's colour.
[pg 400]
This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on
which Mr. Esmond's scheme was founded; and, having
secured Frank's secrecy and enthusiasm, he left him to
continue his journey, and see the other personages on whom
its success depended. The place whither Mr. Simon next
travelled was Bar, in Lorraine, where that merchant arrived
with a consignment of broadcloths, valuable laces from
Malines, and letters for his correspondent there.




Would you know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes,
and descended from a line of kings, whose race seemed to
be doomed like the Atridae of old—would you know how
he was employed, when the envoy who came to him through
danger and difficulty beheld him for the first time? The
young king, in a flannel jacket, was at tennis with the
gentlemen of his suite, crying out after the balls, and swearing
like the meanest of his subjects. The next time Mr.
Esmond saw him, 'twas when Monsieur Simon took a packet
of laces to Miss Oglethorpe; the prince's antechamber in
those days, at which ignoble door men were forced to knock
for admission to his Majesty. The admission was given,
the envoy found the king and the mistress together; the
pair were at cards, and his Majesty was in liquor. He cared
more for three honours than three kingdoms; and a half-dozen
glasses of ratafia made him forget all his woes and
his losses, his father's crown, and his grandfather's head.




Mr. Esmond did not open himself to the prince then. His
Majesty was scarce in a condition to hear him; and he
doubted whether a king who drank so much could keep
a secret in his fuddled head; or whether a hand that shook
so, was strong enough to grasp at a crown. However at
last, and after taking counsel with the prince's advisers,
amongst whom were many gentlemen, honest and faithful,
Esmond's plan was laid before the king, and her actual
Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, in council. The prince liked
the scheme well enough; 'twas easy and daring, and
suited to his reckless gaiety and lively youthful spirit. In
the morning after he had slept his wine off, he was very
gay, lively, and agreeable. His manner had an extreme
charm of archness, and a kind simplicity; and, to do her
justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, resolute,
and of good counsel; she gave the prince much good advice
that he was too weak to follow, and loved him with a fidelity
which he returned with an ingratitude quite royal.


[pg 401]


Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should
it ever be fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts as to the
benefit which might accrue to the country by bringing
a tipsy young monarch back to it, Colonel Esmond had his
audience of leave and quiet. Monsieur Simon took his
departure. At any rate the youth at Bar was as good as the
older Pretender at Hanover; if the worst came to the worst,
the Englishman could be dealt with as easy as the German.
Monsieur Simon trotted on that long journey from Nancy
to Paris, and saw that famous town, stealthily and like
a spy, as in truth he was; and where, sure, more magnificence
and more misery is heaped together, more rags and
lace, more filth and gilding, than in any city in this world.
Here he was put in communication with the king's best
friend, his half-brother, the famous Duke of Berwick;
Esmond recognized him as the stranger who had visited
Castlewood now near twenty years ago. His grace opened
to him when he found that Mr. Esmond was one of Webb's
brave regiment, that had once been his grace's own. He
was the sword and buckler indeed of the Stuart cause: there
was no stain on his shield except the bar across it, which
Marlborough's sister left him. Had Berwick been his
father's heir, James the Third had assuredly sat on the
English throne. He could dare, endure, strike, speak, be
silent. The fire and genius, perhaps, he had not (that were
given to baser men), but except these he had some of the
best qualities of a leader. His grace knew Esmond's father
and history; and hinted at the latter in such a way as
made the colonel to think he was aware of the particulars
of that story. But Esmond did not choose to enter on it,
nor did the duke press him. Mr. Esmond said, “No doubt
he should come by his name if ever greater people came by
theirs.”




What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of
Berwick knew of his case was, that when the colonel went
to pay his duty at St. Germains, her Majesty once addressed
him by the title of Marquis. He took the queen the dutiful
remembrances of her goddaughter, and the lady whom, in
the days of her prosperity, her Majesty had befriended.
The queen remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had
heard of my Lord Castlewood's conversion, and was much
edified by that act of Heaven in his favour. She knew that
others of that family had been of the only true Church too:
[pg 402]
“Your father and your mother,
monsieur le marquis,” her
Majesty said (that was the only time she used the phrase).
Monsieur Simon bowed very low, and said he had found
other parents than his own who had taught him differently;
but these had only one king: on which her Majesty was
pleased to give him a medal blessed by the Pope, which
had been found very efficacious in cases similar to his own,
and to promise she would offer up prayers for his conversion
and that of the family: which no doubt this pious lady did,
though up to the present moment, and after twenty-seven
years, Colonel Esmond is bound to say that neither the
medal nor the prayers have had the slightest known effect
upon his religious convictions.




As for the splendour of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the
merchant, only beheld them as a humble and distant
spectator, seeing the old king but once, when he went to
feed his carps; and asking for no presentation at his
Majesty's Court.




By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to
Paris, where, as the London prints presently announced,
her ladyship was brought to bed of a son and heir. For
a long while afterwards she was in a delicate state of health,
and ordered by the physicians not to travel; otherwise
'twas well known that the Viscount Castlewood proposed
returning to England, and taking up his residence at his
own seat.




Whilst he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had
his picture done by the famous French painter Monsieur
Rigaud, a present for his mother in London; and this piece
Monsieur Simon took back with him when he returned to
that city, which he reached about May, in the year 1714,
very soon after which time my Lady Castlewood and her
daughter, and their kinsman, Colonel Esmond, who had
been at Castlewood all this time, likewise returned to
London; her ladyship occupying her house at Kensington,
Mr. Esmond returning to his lodgings at Knightsbridge,
nearer the town, and once more making his appearance at
all public places, his health greatly improved by his long
stay in the country.




The portrait of my lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was
hung up in the place of honour in her ladyship's drawing-room.
His lordship was represented in his scarlet uniform
of Captain of the Guard, with a light-brown periwig, a cuirass
[pg 403]
under his coat, a blue ribbon, and a fall of Bruxelles lace.
Many of her ladyship's friends admired the piece beyond
measure, and flocked to see it; Bishop Atterbury, Mr. Lesly,
good old Mr. Collier, and others amongst the clergy, were
delighted with the performance, and many among the first
quality examined and praised it; only I must own that
Dr. Tusher happening to come up to London, and seeing
the picture (it was ordinarily covered by a curtain, but on
this day Miss Beatrix happened to be looking at it when
the doctor arrived), the Vicar of Castlewood vowed he could
not see any resemblance in the piece to his old pupil, except
perhaps, a little about the chin and the periwig; but we all
of us convinced him, that he had not seen Frank for five
years or more; that he knew no more about the fine arts
than a ploughboy, and that he must be mistaken; and we
sent him home assured that the piece was an excellent likeness.
As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who honoured her
ladyship with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond
showed him the picture he burst out laughing, and asked
what devilry he was engaged on? Esmond owned simply
that the portrait was not that of Viscount Castlewood,
besought the secretary on his honour to keep the secret,
said that the ladies of the house were enthusiastic Jacobites,
as was well known; and confessed that the picture was
that of the Chevalier St. George.




The truth is, that Mr. Simon, waiting upon Lord Castlewood
one day at Monsieur Rigaud's, whilst his lordship was
sitting for his picture, affected to be much struck with
a piece representing the chevalier, whereof the head only
was finished, and purchased it of the painter for a hundred
crowns. It had been intended the artist said, for Miss
Oglethorpe, the prince's mistress, but that young lady
quitting Paris, had left the work on the artist's hands;
and taking this piece home, when my lord's portrait arrived,
Colonel Esmond, alias Monsieur Simon, had copied the
uniform and other accessories from my lord's picture to fill
up Rigaud's incomplete canvas: the colonel all his life
having been a practitioner of painting, and especially
followed it during his long residence in the cities of Flanders,
among the masterpieces of Vandyck and Rubens. My
grandson hath the piece, such as it is, in Virginia now.




At the commencement of the month of June, Miss Beatrix
Esmond, and my lady viscountess, her mother, arrived
[pg 404]
from Castlewood; the former to resume her service at
Court, which had been interrupted by the fatal catastrophe
of Duke Hamilton's death. She once more took her place,
then, in her Majesty's suite and at the maids' table, being
always a favourite with Mrs. Masham, the queen's chief
woman, partly perhaps on account of her bitterness against
the Duchess of Marlborough, whom Miss Beatrix loved no
better than her rival did. The gentlemen about the Court,
my Lord Bolingbroke amongst others, owned that the
young lady had come back handsomer than ever, and that
the serious and tragic air, which her face now involuntarily
wore, became her better than her former smiles and archness.




All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington
Square were changed; the old steward that had served the
family any time these five-and-twenty years, since the birth
of the children of the house, was dispatched into the kingdom
of Ireland to see my lord's estate there: the housekeeper,
who had been my lady's woman time out of mind,
and the attendant of the young children, was sent away
grumbling to Walcote, to see to the new painting and preparing
of that house, which my lady dowager intended to
occupy for the future, giving up Castlewood to her daughter-in-law,
that might be expected daily from France. Another
servant the viscountess had was dismissed too—with a
gratuity—on the pretext that her ladyship's train of
domestics must be diminished; so, finally, there was not
left in the household a single person who had belonged to it
during the time my young Lord Castlewood was yet at
home.




For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the
stroke he intended, 'twas necessary that the very smallest
number of persons should be put in possession of his secret.
It scarce was known, except to three or four out of his
family, and it was kept to a wonder.




On the 10th of June, 1714, there came by Mr. Prior's
messenger from Paris, a letter from my Lord Viscount
Castlewood to his mother, saying that he had been foolish
in regard of money matters, that he was ashamed to own
he had lost at play, and by other extravagances; and that
instead of having great entertainments as he had hoped
at Castlewood this year, he must live as quiet as he could,
and make every effort to be saving. So far every word of
poor Frank's letter was true, nor was there a doubt that
[pg 405]
he and his tall brothers-in-law had spent a great deal more
than they ought, and engaged the revenues of the Castlewood
property, which the fond mother had husbanded and
improved so carefully during the time of her guardianship.




His “Clotilda”, Castlewood went on to say, “was still
delicate, and the physicians thought her lying-in had best
take place at Paris. He should come without her ladyship,
and be at his mother's house about the 17th or 18th day of
June, proposing to take horse from Paris immediately, and
bringing but a single servant with him; and he requested
that the lawyers of Gray's Inn might be invited to meet
him with their account, and the land-steward come from
Castlewood with his, so that he might settle with them
speedily, raise a sum of money whereof he stood in need,
and be back to his viscountess by the time of her lying-in.”
Then his lordship gave some of the news of the town, sent
his remembrance to kinsfolk, and so the letter ended.
'Twas put in the common post, and no doubt the French
police and the English there had a copy of it, to which they
were exceeding welcome.




Two days after another letter was dispatched by the
public post of France, in the same open way, and this,
after giving news of the fashion at Court there, ended by
the following sentences, in which, but for those that had
the key, 'twould be difficult for any man to find any secret
lurked at all:—






(The king will take) medicine on Thursday. His Majesty is
better than he hath been of late, though incommoded by indigestion
from his too great appetite. Madame Maintenon continues well.
They have performed a play of Mons. Racine at St. Cyr. The
Duke of Shrewsbury and Mr. Prior, our envoy, and all the English
nobility here were present at it. (The Viscount Castlewood's passports)
were refused to him, 'twas said; his lordship being sued by
a goldsmith for Vaisselle plate, and a pearl necklace supplied to
Mademoiselle Meruel of the French Comedy. 'Tis a pity such
news should get abroad (and travel to England) about our young
nobility here. Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort
l'Evesque; they say she has ordered not only plate, but furniture,
and a chariot and horses (under that lord's name), of which extravagance
his unfortunate viscountess knows nothing.




(His majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next birthday.
The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great feast. Mr. Prior
is in a sad way about their refusing at home to send him his plate.
All here admired my lord viscount's portrait, and said it was a
masterpiece of Rigaud. Have you seen it? It is (at the Lady
[pg 406]
Castlewood's house in Kensington Square). I think no English
painter could produce such a piece.




Our poor friend the abbé hath been at the Bastille, but is now
transported to the Conciergerie (where his friends may visit him.
They are to ask for) a remission of his sentence soon. Let us hope
the poor rogue will have repented in prison.




(The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate made up,
and departs for England.




Is not this a dull letter? I have a cursed headache with drinking
with Mat and some more overnight, and tipsy or sober am




Thine ever ——.






All this letter, save some dozen of words which I have
put above between brackets, was mere idle talk, though
the substance of the letter was as important as any letter
well could be. It told those that had the key, that the
king will take the Viscount Castlewood's passports and travel
to England under that lord's name. His Majesty will be at
the Lady Castlewood's house in Kensington Square, where
his friends may visit him; they are to ask for the Lord Castlewood.
This note may have passed under Mr. Prior's eyes,
and those of our new allies the French, and taught them
nothing; though it explains sufficiently to persons in
London what the event was which was about to happen,
as 'twill show those who read my memoirs a hundred years
hence, what was that errand on which Colonel Esmond
of late had been busy. Silently and swiftly to do that
about which others were conspiring, and thousands of
Jacobites all over the country, clumsily caballing; alone to
effect that which the leaders here were only talking about;
to bring the Prince of Wales into the country openly in
the face of all, under Bolingbroke's very eyes, the walls
placarded with the proclamation signed with the secretary's
name, and offering five hundred pounds reward for his
apprehension: this was a stroke, the playing and winning
of which might well give any adventurous spirit pleasure:
the loss of the stake might involve a heavy penalty, but
all our family were eager to risk that for the glorious chance
of winning the game.




Nor should it be called a game, save perhaps with the
chief player, who was not more or less sceptical than most
public men with whom he had acquaintance in that age.
(Is there ever a public man in England that altogether
believes in his party? Is there one, however doubtful,
that will not fight for it?) Young Frank was ready to
[pg 407]
fight without much thinking, he was a Jacobite as his
father before him was; all the Esmonds were Royalists.
Give him but the word, he would cry, “God save King
James!” before the palace guard, or at the Maypole in
the Strand; and with respect to the women, as is usual
with them, 'twas not a question of party but of faith;
their belief was a passion; either Esmond's mistress or
her daughter would have died for it cheerfully. I have
laughed often, talking of King William's reign, and said
I thought Lady Castlewood was disappointed the king
did not persecute the family more; and those who know
the nature of women may fancy for themselves, what
needs not here be written down, the rapture with which
these neophytes received the mystery when made known
to them; the eagerness with which they looked forward to
its completion; the reverence which they paid the minister
who initiated them into that secret Truth, now known
only to a few, but presently to reign over the world. Sure
there is no bound to the trustingness of women. Look at
Arria worshipping the drunken clodpate of a husband who
beats her; look at Cornelia treasuring as a jewel in her
maternal heart the oaf her son; I have known a woman
preach Jesuit's bark, and afterwards Dr. Berkeley's tar-water,
as though to swallow them were a divine decree,
and to refuse them no better than blasphemy.




On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself
at the head of this little knot of fond conspirators. No
death or torture he knew would frighten them out of their
constancy. When he detailed his plan for bringing the
king back, his elder mistress thought that that restoration
was to be attributed under Heaven to the Castlewood
family and to its chief, and she worshipped and loved
Esmond, if that could be, more than ever she had done.
She doubted not for one moment of the success of his
scheme, to mistrust which would have seemed impious in
her eyes. And as for Beatrix, when she became acquainted
with the plan, and joined it, as she did with all her heart,
she gave Esmond one of her searching bright looks: “Ah,
Harry,” says she, “why were you not the head of our house?
You are the only one fit to raise it; why do you give
that silly boy the name and the honour? But 'tis so in
the world; those get the prize that don't deserve or care
for it. I wish I could give you your silly prize, cousin,
[pg 408]
but I can't; I have tried and I can't.” And she went away,
shaking her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to
Esmond, that her liking and respect for him was greatly
increased, since she knew what capability he had both to
act and bear; to do and to forgo.









 Chapter IX. The Original Of The Portrait Comes To England



'Twas announced in the family that my Lord Castlewood
would arrive, having a confidential French gentleman in
his suite, who acted as secretary to his lordship, and who
being a Papist, and a foreigner of a good family, though now
in rather a menial place, would have his meals served in
his chamber, and not with the domestics of the house.
The viscountess gave up her bedchamber contiguous to
her daughter's, and having a large convenient closet
attached to it, in which a bed was put up, ostensibly for
Monsieur Baptiste, the Frenchman; though, 'tis needless
to say, when the doors of the apartments were locked, and
the two guests retired within it, the young viscount became
the servant of the illustrious prince whom he entertained,
and gave up gladly the more convenient and airy chamber
and bed to his master. Madam Beatrix also retired to the
upper region, her chamber being converted into a sitting-room
for my lord. The better to carry the deceit, Beatrix
affected to grumble before the servants, and to be jealous that
she was turned out of her chamber to make way for my lord.




No small preparations were made, you may be sure, and
no slight tremor of expectation caused the hearts of the
gentle ladies of Castlewood to flutter, before the arrival
of the personages who were about to honour their house.
The chamber was ornamented with flowers; the bed
covered with the very finest of linen; the two ladies insisting
on making it themselves, and kneeling down at the
bedside and kissing the sheets out of respect for the web
that was to hold the sacred person of a king. The toilet
was of silver and crystal; there was a copy of Eikon
Basilike laid on the writing-table; a portrait of the
martyred king hung always over the mantel, having
[pg 409]
a sword of my poor Lord Castlewood underneath it, and
a little picture or emblem which the widow loved always
to have before her eyes on waking, and in which the hair
of her lord and her two children was worked together.
Her books of private devotions, as they were all of the
English Church, she carried away with her to the upper
apartment which she destined for herself. The ladies
showed Mr. Esmond, when they were completed, the fond
preparations they had made. 'Twas then Beatrix knelt
down and kissed the linen sheets. As for her mother, Lady
Castlewood made a curtsy at the door, as she would have
done to the altar on entering a church, and owned that she
considered the chamber in a manner sacred.




The company in the servants' hall never for a moment
supposed that these preparations were made for any other
person than the young viscount, the lord of the house,
whom his fond mother had been for so many years without
seeing. Both ladies were perfect housewives, having the
greatest skill in the making of confections, scented waters,
&c., and keeping a notable superintendence over the
kitchen. Calves enough were killed to feed an army of
prodigal sons, Esmond thought, and laughed when he came
to wait on the ladies, on the day when the guests were to
arrive, to find two pairs of the finest and roundest arms
to be seen in England (my Lady Castlewood was remarkable
for this beauty of her person), covered with flour up above
the elbows, and preparing paste, and turning rolling-pins
in the housekeeper's closet. The guest would not arrive
till supper-time, and my lord would prefer having that
meal in his own chamber. You may be sure the brightest
plate of the house was laid out there, and can understand
why it was that the ladies insisted that they alone would
wait upon the young chief of the family.




Taking horse, Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Rochester,
and there awaited the king in that very town where his
father had last set his foot on the English shore. A room
had been provided at an inn there for my Lord Castlewood
and his servant; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride so
well that he had scarce been half an hour in the place,
and was looking over the balcony into the yard of the
inn, when two travellers rode in at the inn-gate, and the
colonel running down, the next moment embraced his dear
young lord.


[pg 410]


My lord's companion, acting the part of a domestic,
dismounted, and was for holding the viscount's stirrup; but
Colonel Esmond, calling to his own man, who was in the
court, bade him take the horses and settle with the lad
who had ridden the post along with the two travellers,
crying out in a cavalier tone in the French language to
my lord's companion, and affecting to grumble that my
lord's fellow was a Frenchman, and did not know the
money or habits of the country:—“My man will see to
the horses, Baptiste,” says Colonel Esmond: “do you
understand English?” “Very leetle.” “So, follow my
lord and wait upon him at dinner in his own room.” The
landlord and his people came up presently bearing the
dishes; 'twas well they made a noise and stir in the gallery,
or they might have found Colonel Esmond on his knee
before Lord Castlewood's servant, welcoming his Majesty
to his kingdom, and kissing the hand of the king. We
told the landlord that the Frenchman would wait on his
master; and Esmond's man was ordered to keep sentry
in the gallery without the door. The prince dined with
a good appetite, laughing and talking very gaily, and
condescendingly bidding his two companions to sit with
him at table. He was in better spirits than poor Frank
Castlewood, who Esmond thought might be wobegone on
account of parting with his divine Clotilda; but the prince
wishing to take a short siesta after dinner, and retiring
to an inner chamber where there was a bed, the cause of
poor Frank's discomfiture came out; and bursting into
tears, with many expressions of fondness, friendship, and
humiliation, the faithful lad gave his kinsman to understand
that he now knew all the truth, and the sacrifices which
Colonel Esmond had made for him.




Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that
secret, Mr. Esmond had entreated his mistress also not to
reveal it to her son. The prince had told the poor lad all
as they were riding from Dover: “I had as lief he had shot
me, cousin,” Frank said: “I knew you were the best and
the bravest, and the kindest of all men” (so the enthusiastic
young fellow went on); “but I never thought I owed
you what I do, and can scarce bear the weight of the
obligation.”




“I stand in the place of your father,” says Mr. Esmond
kindly, “and sure a father may dispossess himself in
[pg 411]
favour of his son. I abdicate the twopenny crown, and
invest you with the kingdom of Brentford; don't be a fool
and cry; you make a much taller and handsomer viscount
than ever I could.” But the fond boy with oaths and
protestations, laughter and incoherent outbreaks of passionate
emotion, could not be got, for some little time, to
put up with Esmond's raillery; wanted to kneel down to
him, and kissed his hand; asked him and implored him
to order something, to bid Castlewood give his own life up
or take somebody else's; anything, so that he might show
his gratitude for the generosity Esmond showed him.




“The k——, he laughed,” Frank said, pointing to the
door where the sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone,
“I don't think he should have laughed as he told me the
story. As we rode along from Dover, talking in French,
he spoke about you, and your coming to him at Bar;
he called you ‘le grand sérieux’,
Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don't know what names; mimicking your manner”
(here Castlewood laughed himself)—“and he did it very well.
He seems to sneer at everything. He is not like a king:
somehow, Harry, I fancy you are like a king. He does
not seem to think what a stake we are all playing. He
would have stopped at Canterbury to run after a barmaid
there, had I not implored him to come on. He hath
a house at Chaillot where he used to go and bury himself
for weeks away from the queen, and with all sorts of bad
company,” says Frank, with a demure look; “you may
smile, but I am not the wild fellow I was; no, no, I have
been taught better,” says Castlewood devoutly, making
a sign on his breast.




“Thou art my dear brave boy,” says Colonel Esmond,
touched at the young fellow's simplicity, “and there will be a
noble gentleman at Castlewood so long as my Frank is there.”




The impetuous young lad was for going down on his
knees again, with another explosion of gratitude, but that
we heard the voice from the next chamber of the august
sleeper, just waking, calling out:—“Eh,
La-Fleur, un verre d'eau”; his Majesty came
out yawning:—“A pest,” says
he, “upon your English ale; 'tis so strong that,
ma foi, it
hath turned my head.”




The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses,
and we rode very quickly to London, reaching Kensington
at nightfall. Mr. Esmond's servant was left behind at
[pg 412]
Rochester, to take care of the tired horses, whilst we had
fresh beasts provided along the road. And galloping by
the prince's side the colonel explained to the Prince of
Wales what his movements had been; who the friends
were that knew of the expedition; whom, as Esmond
conceived, the prince should trust; entreating him, above
all, to maintain the very closest secrecy until the time
should come when his royal highness should appear. The
town swarmed with friends of the prince's cause; there
were scores of correspondents with St. Germains; Jacobites
known and secret; great in station and humble; about
the Court and the queen; in the Parliament, Church, and
among the merchants in the City. The prince had friends
numberless in the army, in the Privy Council, and the
officers of state. The great object, as it seemed, to the
small band of persons who had concerted that bold stroke,
who had brought the queen's brother into his native
country, was, that his visit should remain unknown till
the proper time came, when his presence should surprise
friends and enemies alike; and the latter should be found
so unprepared and disunited, that they should not find
time to attack him. We feared more from his friends than
from his enemies. The lies, and tittle-tattle sent over to
St. Germains by the Jacobite agents about London, had
done an incalculable mischief to his cause, and wofully
misguided him, and it was from these especially, that the
persons engaged in the present venture were anxious to
defend the chief actor in it.16




The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their
horses at the Posting-House over against Westminster, and
being ferried over the water where Lady Esmond's coach
was already in waiting. In another hour we were all
landed at Kensington, and the mistress of the house had
that satisfaction which her heart had yearned after for
many years, once more to embrace her son, who on his side,
with all his waywardness, ever retained a most tender
affection for his parent.


[pg 413]


She did not refrain from this expression of her feeling,
though the domestics were by, and my Lord Castlewood's
attendant stood in the hall. Esmond had to whisper to
him in French to take his hat off. Monsieur Baptiste was
constantly neglecting his part with an inconceivable levity:
more than once on the ride to London, little observations
of the stranger, light remarks, and words betokening the
greatest ignorance of the country the prince came to govern,
had hurt the susceptibility of the two gentlemen forming
his escort; nor could either help owning in his secret mind
that they would have had his behaviour otherwise, and
that the laughter and the lightness, not to say licence,
which characterized his talk, scarce befitted such a great
prince, and such a solemn occasion. Not but that he
could act at proper times with spirit and dignity. He had
behaved, as we all knew, in a very courageous manner on
the field. Esmond had seen a copy of the letter the prince
writ with his own hand when urged by his friends in
England to abjure his religion, and admired that manly
and magnanimous reply by which he refused to yield to
the temptation. Monsieur Baptiste took off his hat, blushing
at the hint Colonel Esmond ventured to give him,
and said:—“Tenez,
elle est jolie, la petite mère; Foi-de-Chevalier!
elle est charmante; mais l'autre, qui est cette
nymphe, cet astre qui brille, cette Diane qui descend sur
nous?” And he started back, and pushed forward, as
Beatrix was descending the stair. She was in colours for
the first time at her own house; she wore the diamonds
Esmond gave her; it had been agreed between them, that
she should wear these brilliants on the day when the king
should enter the house, and a queen she looked, radiant in
charms, and magnificent and imperial in beauty.




Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and
splendour; he stepped back and gazed at his sister as
though he had not been aware before (nor was he, very
likely) how perfectly lovely she was, and I thought blushed
as he embraced her. The prince could not keep his eyes
off her; he quite forgot his menial part, though he had
been schooled to it, and a little light portmanteau prepared
expressly that he should carry it. He pressed forward
before my lord viscount. 'Twas lucky the servants' eyes
were busy in other directions, or they must have seen that
this was no servant, or at least a very insolent and rude one.


[pg 414]


Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, “Baptiste”,
in a loud imperious voice, “have a care to the valise”;
at which hint the wilful young man ground his teeth
together with something very like a curse between them,
and then gave a brief look of anything but pleasure to his
Mentor. Being reminded, however, he shouldered the
little portmanteau, and carried it up the stair, Esmond
preceding him, and a servant with lighted tapers. He
flung down his burden sulkily in the bedchamber:—“A
prince that will wear a crown must wear a mask,” says
Mr. Esmond, in French.




“Ah, peste!
I see how it is,” says Monsieur Baptiste,
continuing the talk in French. “The Great Serious is
seriously”—“alarmed for Monsieur Baptiste,” broke in the
colonel. Esmond neither liked the tone with which the
prince spoke of the ladies, nor the eyes with which he regarded
them.




The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the
closet and the apartment which was to be called my lord's
parlour, were already lighted and awaiting their occupier;
and the collation laid for my lord's supper. Lord Castlewood
and his mother and sister came up the stair a minute
afterwards, and, so soon as the domestics had quitted the
apartment, Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the
two ladies went down on their knees before the prince,
who graciously gave a hand to each. He looked his part
of prince much more naturally than that of servant, which
he had just been trying, and raised them both with a great
deal of nobility, as well as kindness in his air. “Madam,”
says he, “my mother will thank your ladyship for your
hospitality to her son; for you, madam,” turning to Beatrix,
“I cannot bear to see so much beauty in such a posture.
You will betray Monsieur Baptiste if you kneel to him;
sure 'tis his place rather to kneel to you.”




A light shone out of her eyes; a gleam bright enough to
kindle passion in any breast. There were times when this
creature was so handsome, that she seemed, as it were,
like Venus revealing herself a goddess in a flash of brightness.
She appeared so now; radiant, and with eyes bright
with a wonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage and jealousy,
shot through Esmond's heart, as he caught the look she
gave the prince; and he clenched his hand involuntarily
and looked across to Castlewood, whose eyes answered his
[pg 415]
alarm-signal, and were also on the alert. The prince gave
his subjects an audience of a few minutes, and then the two
ladies and Colonel Esmond quitted the chamber. Lady
Castlewood pressed his hand as they descended the stair,
and the three went down to the lower rooms, where they
waited awhile till the travellers above should be refreshed
and ready for their meal.




Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on
her beautiful neck. “I have kept my word,” says he:
“And I mine,” says Beatrix, looking down on the diamonds.




“Were I the Mogul emperor,” says the colonel, “you
should have all that were dug out of Golconda.”




“These are a great deal too good for me,” says Beatrix,
dropping her head on her beautiful breast,—“so are you
all, all:” and when she looked up again, as she did in a
moment, and after a sigh, her eyes, as they gazed at her
cousin, wore that melancholy and inscrutable look which
'twas always impossible to sound.




When the time came for the supper, of which we were
advertised by a knocking overhead, Colonel Esmond and
the two ladies went to the upper apartment, where the prince
already was, and by his side the young viscount, of exactly
the same age, shape, and with features not dissimilar,
though Frank's were the handsomer of the two. The
prince sat down, and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen
remained standing; there was, indeed, but one more cover
laid at the table:—“Which of you will take it?” says he.




“The head of our house,” says Lady Castlewood, taking
her son's hand, and looking towards Colonel Esmond with
a bow and a great tremor of the voice; “the Marquis of
Esmond will have the honour of serving the king.”




“I shall have the honour of waiting on his royal highness,”
says Colonel Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion
of that day was, he presented it to the king on his knee.




“I drink to my hostess and her family,” says the prince,
with no very well-pleased air; but the cloud passed immediately
off his face, and he talked to the ladies in a lively,
rattling strain, quite undisturbed by poor Mr. Esmond's
yellow countenance, that I dare say looked very glum.




When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched
homewards to his lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the
road that night, walking to a cottage he had at Fulham,
the moon shining on his handsome serene face:—“What
[pg 416]
cheer, brother?” says Addison, laughing; “I thought it
was a footpad advancing in the dark, and behold 'tis an
old friend. We may shake hands, colonel, in the dark,
'tis better than fighting by daylight. Why should we
quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art a Tory? Turn
thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where there is
a nightingale still singing in the garden, and a cool bottle
in a cave I know of; you shall drink to the Pretender if
you like, and I will drink my liquor my own way: I have
had enough of good liquor?—no, never! There is no such
word as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt
not come? Come any day, come soon. You know I remember
Simois and the
Sigeia tellus, and the praelia mixta mero,
mixta mero,” he repeated, with ever so slight a touch of
merum in his voice, and walked back a little way on the
road with Esmond, bidding the other remember he was
always his friend, and indebted to him for his aid in the
Campaign poem. And very likely Mr. Under Secretary
would have stepped in and taken t'other bottle at the
colonel's lodgings, had the latter invited him, but Esmond's
mood was none of the gayest, and he bade his friend an
inhospitable good-night at the door.




“I have done the deed,” thought he, sleepless, and looking
out into the night; “he is here, and I have brought him;
he and Beatrix are sleeping under the same roof now.
Whom did I mean to serve in bringing him? Was it the
prince, was it Henry Esmond? Had I not best have
joined the manly creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the
old doctrine of right divine, that boldly declares that
Parliament and people consecrate the sovereign, not bishops,
nor genealogies, nor oils, nor coronations.” The eager gaze
of the young prince, watching every movement of Beatrix,
haunted Esmond and pursued him. The prince's figure
appeared before him in his feverish dreams many times
that night. He wished the deed undone, for which he had
laboured so. He was not the first that has regretted his
own act, or brought about his own undoing. Undoing?
Should he write that word in his late years? No, on his
knees before Heaven, rather be thankful for what then he
deemed his misfortune, and which hath caused the whole
subsequent happiness of his life.




Esmond's man, honest John Lockwood, had served his
master and the family all his life, and the colonel knew that
[pg 417]
he could answer for John's fidelity as for his own. John
returned with the horses from Rochester betimes the next
morning, and the colonel gave him to understand that on
going to Kensington, where he was free of the servants'
hall, and indeed courting Mrs. Beatrix's maid, he was to
ask no questions, and betray no surprise, but to vouch
stoutly that the young gentleman he should see in a red
coat there was my Lord Viscount Castlewood, and that his
attendant in grey was Monsieur Baptiste the Frenchman.
He was to tell his friends in the kitchen such stories as he
remembered of my lord viscount's youth at Castlewood;
what a wild boy he was; how he used to drill Jack and cane
him, before ever he was a soldier; everything, in fine, he knew
respecting my lord viscount's early days. Jack's ideas of
painting had not been much cultivated during his residence
in Flanders with his master; and, before my young lord's
return, he had been easily got to believe that the picture
brought over from Paris, and now hanging in Lady Castlewood's
drawing-room, was a perfect likeness of her son, the
young lord. And the domestics having all seen the picture
many times, and catching but a momentary imperfect
glimpse of the two strangers on the night of their arrival,
never had a reason to doubt the fidelity of the portrait;
and next day, when they saw the original of the piece
habited exactly as he was represented in the painting,
with the same periwig, ribbon, and uniform of the Guard,
quite naturally addressed the gentleman as my Lord Castlewood,
my lady viscountess's son.




The secretary of the night previous was now the viscount;
the viscount wore the secretary's grey frock; and John
Lockwood was instructed to hint to the world below stairs
that my lord being a Papist, and very devout in that religion,
his attendant might be no other than his chaplain from
Bruxelles; hence, if he took his meals in my lord's company
there was little reason for surprise. Frank was further
cautioned to speak English with a foreign accent, which
task he performed indifferently well, and this caution was
the more necessary because the prince himself scarce spoke
our language like a native of the island; and John Lockwood
laughed with the folks below stairs at the manner in which
my lord, after five years abroad, sometimes forgot his own
tongue and spoke it like a Frenchman. “I warrant,” says
he, “that with the English beef and beer, his lordship will
[pg 418]
soon get back the proper use of his mouth;” and, to do his
new lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very kindly.




The prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent
in his talk after his drink, that Esmond often trembled for
him. His meals were served as much as possible in his own
chamber, though frequently he made his appearance in
Lady Castlewood's parlour and drawing-room, calling
Beatrix “sister”, and her ladyship “mother”, or “madam”,
before the servants. And, choosing to act entirely up to
the part of brother and son, the prince sometimes saluted
Mrs. Beatrix and Lady Castlewood with a freedom which
his secretary did not like, and which, for his part, set
Colonel Esmond tearing with rage.




The guests had not been three days in the house when
poor Jack Lockwood came with a rueful countenance to
his master, and said: “My lord, that is—the gentleman,
has been tampering with Mrs. Lucy” (Jack's sweetheart),
“and given her guineas and a kiss.” I fear that Colonel
Esmond's mind was rather relieved than otherwise, when
he found that the ancillary beauty was the one whom the
prince had selected. His royal tastes were known to lie
that way, and continued so in after-life. The heir of one
of the greatest names, of the greatest kingdoms, and of
the greatest misfortunes in Europe, was often content to
lay the dignity of his birth and grief at the wooden shoes
of a French chambermaid, and to repent afterwards (for
he was very devout) in ashes taken from the dustpan. 'Tis
for mortals such as these that nations suffer, that parties
struggle, that warriors fight and bleed. A year afterwards
gallant heads were falling, and Nithsdale in escape, and
Derwentwater on the scaffold; whilst the heedless ingrate,
for whom they risked and lost all, was tippling with his
seraglio of mistresses in his
petite maison of Chaillot.




Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond
had to go to the prince and warn him that the girl whom
his highness was bribing, was John Lockwood's sweetheart,
an honest resolute man, who had served in six campaigns,
and feared nothing, and who knew that the person, calling
himself Lord Castlewood, was not his young master: and
the colonel besought the prince to consider what the effect
of a single man's jealousy might be, and to think of other
designs he had in hand, more important than the seduction
of a waiting-maid, and the humiliation of a brave man.
[pg 419]
Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr.
Esmond had to warn the royal young adventurer of some
imprudence or some freedom. He received these remonstrances
very testily, save perhaps in this affair of poor
Lockwood's, when he deigned to burst out a-laughing, and
said, “What! the soubrette
has peached to the amoureux,
and Crispin is angry, and Crispin has served, and Crispin
has been a corporal, has he? Tell him we will reward his
valour with a pair of colours, and recompense his fidelity.”




Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of
entreaty, but the prince, stamping imperiously, cried out,
“Assez, milord: je m'ennuye à la prêche;
I am not come to London to go to the sermon.” And he complained afterwards
to Castlewood, that “le petit jaune, le noir colonel,
le Marquis Misanthrope” (by which facetious names his royal
highness was pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), “fatigued
him with his grand airs and virtuous homilies.”




The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged
in the transaction which had brought the prince over,
waited upon his royal highness, constantly asking for my
Lord Castlewood on their arrival at Kensington, and being
openly conducted to his royal highness in that character,
who received them either in my lady's drawing-room below,
or above in his own apartment; and all implored him to
quit the house as little as possible, and to wait there till
the signal should be given for him to appear. The ladies
entertained him at cards, over which amusement he spent
many hours in each day and night. He passed many hours
more in drinking, during which time he would rattle and talk
very agreeably, and especially if the colonel was absent,
whose presence always seemed to frighten him; and the
poor “Colonel Noir” took that hint as a command accordingly,
and seldom intruded his black face upon the convivial
hours of this august young prisoner. Except for those
few persons of whom the porter had the list, Lord Castlewood
was denied to all friends of the house who waited
on his lordship. The wound he had received had broke
out again from his journey on horseback, so the world and
the domestics were informed. And Doctor A——,17 his
physician (I shall not mention his name, but he was physician
to the Queen, of the Scots nation, and a man remarkable
[pg 420]
for his benevolence as well as his wit), gave orders that he
should be kept perfectly quiet until the wound should heal.
With this gentleman, who was one of the most active and
influential of our party, and the others before spoken of,
the whole secret lay; and it was kept with so much faithfulness,
and the story we told so simple and natural, that
there was no likelihood of a discovery except from the
imprudence of the prince himself, and an adventurous levity
that we had the greatest difficulty to control. As for Lady
Castlewood, although she scarce spoke a word, 'twas easy
to gather from her demeanour, and one or two hints she
dropped, how deep her mortification was at finding the
hero whom she had chosen to worship all her life (and whose
restoration had formed almost the most sacred part of her
prayers), no more than a man, and not a good one. She
thought misfortune might have chastened him; but that
instructress had rather rendered him callous than humble.
His devotion, which was quite real, kept him from no sin
he had a mind to. His talk showed good-humour, gaiety,
even wit enough; but there was a levity in his acts and
words that he had brought from among those libertine
devotees with whom he had been bred, and that shocked
the simplicity and purity of the English lady, whose guest
he was. Esmond spoke his mind to Beatrix pretty freely
about the prince, getting her brother to put in a word of
warning. Beatrix was entirely of their opinion; she thought
he was very light, very light and reckless; she could not
even see the good looks Colonel Esmond had spoken of.
The prince had bad teeth, and a decided squint. How
could we say he did not squint? His eyes were fine, but
there was certainly a cast in them. She rallied him at
table with wonderful wit; she spoke of him invariably
as of a mere boy; she was more fond of Esmond than ever,
praised him to her brother, praised him to the prince, when
his royal highness was pleased to sneer at the colonel, and
warmly espoused his cause: “And if your Majesty does not
give him the Garter his father had, when the Marquis of
Esmond comes to your Majesty's Court, I will hang myself
in my own garters, or will cry my eyes out.” “Rather than
lose those,” says the prince, “he shall be made archbishop
and colonel of the Guard” (it was Frank Castlewood who
told me of this conversation over their supper).




“Yes,” cries she, with one of her laughs,—(I fancy I hear
[pg 421]
it now; thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful
music)—“yes, he shall be Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis
of Canterbury.”




“And what will your ladyship be?” says the prince;
“you have but to choose your place.”




“I,” says Beatrix, “will be mother of the maids to the
queen of his Majesty King James the
Third—Vive le Roy!”
and she made him a great curtsy, and drank a part of a glass
of wine in his honour.




“The prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last
drop of it,” Castlewood said, “and my mother, looking very
anxious, rose up and asked leave to retire. But that 'Trix
is my mother's daughter, Harry,” Frank continued, “I don't
know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I wish—I
wish this business were over. You are older than I am,
and wiser, and better, and I owe you everything, and would
die for you—before George I would; but I wish the end
of this were come.”




Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night; horrible
doubts and torments racked Esmond's soul; 'twas a scheme
of personal ambition, a daring stroke for a selfish end—he
knew it. What cared he, in his heart, who was king?
Were not his very sympathies and secret convictions on
the other side—on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom?
And here was he, engaged for a prince, that had scarce
heard the word “liberty”; that priests and women, tyrants
by nature both, made a tool of. The misanthrope was in
no better humour after hearing that story, and his grim
face more black and yellow than ever.









 Chapter X. We Entertain A Very Distinguished Guest At Kensington



Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the
latter end of Queen Anne's time, or any historian be inclined
to follow it, 'twill be discovered, I have little doubt,
that not one of the great personages about the queen had
a defined scheme of policy, independent of that private
and selfish interest which each was bent on pursuing;
St. John was for St. John, and Harley for Oxford, and
Marlborough for John Churchill, always; and according
[pg 422]
as they could get help from St. Germains or Hanover, they
sent over proffers of allegiance to the princes there, or
betrayed one to the other: one cause, or one sovereign,
was as good as another to them, so that they could hold
the best place under him; and like Lockit and Peachem,
the Newgate chiefs in the Rogues' Opera Mr. Gay wrote
afterwards, had each in his hand documents and proofs
of treason which would hang the other, only he did not
dare to use the weapon, for fear of that one which his
neighbour also carried in his pocket. Think of the great
Marlborough, the greatest subject in all the world, a conqueror
of princes, that had marched victorious over Germany,
Flanders, and France, that had given the law to sovereigns
abroad, and been worshipped as a divinity at home, forced
to sneak out of England—his credit, honours, places, all
taken from him; his friends in the army broke and ruined;
and flying before Harley, as abject and powerless as a poor
debtor before a bailiff with a writ. A paper, of which
Harley got possession, and showing beyond doubt that the
duke was engaged with the Stuart family, was the weapon
with which the treasurer drove Marlborough out of the
kingdom. He fled to Antwerp, and began intriguing instantly
on the other side, and came back to England, as
all know, a Whig and a Hanoverian.




Though the treasurer turned out of the army and office
every man, military or civil, known to be the duke's friend,
and gave the vacant posts among the Tory party; he,
too, was playing the double game between Hanover and
St. Germains, awaiting the expected catastrophe of the
queen's death to be master of the state, and offer it to either
family that should bribe him best, or that the nation should
declare for. Whichever the king was, Harley's object was
to reign over him; and to this end he supplanted the former
famous favourite, decried the actions of the war which had
made Marlborough's name illustrious, and disdained no
more than the great fallen competitor of his, the meanest
arts, flatteries, intimidations, that would secure his power.
If the greatest satirist the world ever hath seen had writ
against Harley, and not for him, what a history had he
left behind of the last years of Queen Anne's reign! But
Swift, that scorned all mankind, and himself not the least
of all, had this merit of a faithful partisan, that he loved
those chiefs who treated him well, and stuck by Harley
[pg 423]
bravely in his fall, as he gallantly had supported him in
his better fortune.




Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent,
accomplished, than his rival, the great St. John could be
as selfish as Oxford was, and could act the double part as
skilfully as ambidextrous Churchill. He whose talk was
always of liberty, no more shrunk from using persecution
and the pillory against his opponents, than if he had been
at Lisbon and Grand Inquisitor. This lofty patriot was
on his knees at Hanover and St. Germains too; notoriously
of no religion, he toasted Church and queen as boldly as
the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and laughed at; and
to serve his turn, and to overthrow his enemy, he could
intrigue, coax, bully, wheedle, fawn on the Court favourite,
and creep up the back-stair as silently as Oxford who
supplanted Marlborough, and whom he himself supplanted.
The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this very time
whereat my history is now arrived. He was come to the
very last days of his power, and the agent whom he employed
to overthrow the conqueror of Blenheim, was now
engaged to upset the conqueror's conqueror, and hand over
the staff of government to Bolingbroke, who had been
panting to hold it.




In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing,
the Irish regiments in the French service were all brought
round about Boulogne in Picardy, to pass over if need
were with the Duke of Berwick; the soldiers of France
no longer, but subjects of James the Third of England and
Ireland King. The fidelity of the great mass of the Scots
(though a most active, resolute, and gallant Whig party,
admirably and energetically ordered and disciplined, was
known to be in Scotland too) was notoriously unshaken
in their king. A very great body of Tory clergy, nobility,
and gentry, were public partisans of the exiled prince;
and the indifferents might be counted on to cry King
George or King James, according as either should prevail.
The queen, especially in her latter days, inclined towards
her own family. The prince was lying actually in London,
within a stone's-cast of his sister's palace; the first minister
toppling to his fall, and so tottering that the weakest push
of a woman's finger would send him down; and as for
Bolingbroke, his successor, we know on whose side his
power and his splendid eloquence would be on the day
[pg 424]
when the queen should appear openly before her council
and say:—“This, my lords, is my brother; here is my
father's heir, and mine after me.”




During the whole of the previous year the queen had
had many and repeated fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy,
and her death had been constantly looked for by all her
attendants. The Elector of Hanover had wished to send
his son, the Duke of Cambridge—to pay his court to his
cousin the queen, the Elector said;—in truth, to be on the
spot when death should close her career. Frightened perhaps
to have such a memento mori under her royal eyes,
her Majesty had angrily forbidden the young prince's
coming into England. Either she desired to keep the
chances for her brother open yet; or the people about
her did not wish to close with the Whig candidate till
they could make terms with him. The quarrels of her
ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks
of conscience very likely, the importunities of her ministers,
and constant turmoil and agitation round about her, had
weakened and irritated the princess extremely; her
strength was giving way under these continual trials of
her temper, and from day to day it was expected she must
come to a speedy end of them. Just before Viscount
Castlewood and his companion came from France, her
Majesty was taken ill. The St. Anthony's fire broke out
on the royal legs; there was no hurry for the presentation
of the young lord at Court, or that person who should
appear under his name; and my lord viscount's wound
breaking out opportunely, he was kept conveniently in his
chamber until such time as his physician should allow him
to bend his knee before the queen. At the commencement
of July, that influential lady, with whom it has been mentioned
that our party had relations, came frequently to
visit her young friend, the maid of honour, at Kensington,
and my lord viscount (the real or supposititious), who was
an invalid at Lady Castlewood's house.




On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held
the most intimate post about the queen, came in her chair
from the palace hard by, bringing to the little party in
Kensington Square, intelligence of the very highest importance.
The final blow had been struck, and my Lord
of Oxford and Mortimer was no longer treasurer. The staff
was as yet given to no successor, though my Lord Bolingbroke
[pg 425]
would undoubtedly be the man. And now the time
was come, the queen's Abigail said: and now my Lord
Castlewood ought to be presented to the sovereign.




After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and
described to his cousin, who passed such a miserable night
of mortification and jealousy as he thought over the transaction;
no doubt the three persons who were set by
nature as protectors over Beatrix came to the same conclusion,
that she must be removed from the presence of
a man whose desires towards her were expressed only too
clearly; and who was no more scrupulous in seeking to
gratify them than his father had been before him. I suppose
Esmond's mistress, her son, and the colonel himself,
had been all secretly debating this matter in their minds, for
when Frank broke out, in his blunt way, with:—“I think
Beatrix had best be anywhere but here,”—Lady Castlewood
said:—“I thank you, Frank, I have thought so too”; and
Mr. Esmond, though he only remarked that it was not for
him to speak, showed plainly, by the delight on his countenance,
how very agreeable that proposal was to him.




“One sees that you think with us, Henry,” says the
viscountess, with ever so little of sarcasm in her tone:
“Beatrix is best out of this house whilst we have our guest
in it, and as soon as this morning's business is done, she
ought to quit London.”




“What morning's business?” asked Colonel Esmond, not
knowing what had been arranged, though in fact the stroke
next in importance to that of bringing the prince, and of
having him acknowledged by the queen, was now being
performed at the very moment we three were conversing
together.




The Court-lady with whom our plan was concerted, and
who was a chief agent in it, the Court-physician, and the
Bishop of Rochester, who were the other two most active
participators in our plan, had held many councils in our
house at Kensington and elsewhere, as to the means best
to be adopted for presenting our young adventurer to his
sister the queen. The simple and easy plan proposed by
Colonel Esmond had been agreed to by all parties, which
was that on some rather private day, when there were not
many persons about the Court, the prince should appear
there as my Lord Castlewood, should be greeted by his
sister-in-waiting, and led by that other lady into the closet
[pg 426]
of the queen. And according to her Majesty's health or
humour, and the circumstances that might arise during
the interview; it was to be left to the discretion of those
present at it, and to the prince himself, whether he should
declare that it was the queen's own brother, or the brother
of Beatrix Esmond, who kissed her royal hand. And this
plan being determined on, we were all waiting in very much
anxiety for the day and signal of execution.




Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day
of July, the Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady
Castlewood and her family, and the meal scarce over,
Dr. A——'s coach drove up to our house at Kensington, and
the doctor appeared amongst the party there, enlivening
a rather gloomy company; for the mother and daughter
had had words in the morning in respect to the transactions
of that supper, and other adventures perhaps, and on the
day succeeding. Beatrix's haughty spirit brooked remonstrances
from no superior, much less from her mother, the
gentlest of creatures, whom the girl commanded rather
than obeyed. And feeling she was wrong, and that by
a thousand coquetries (which she could no more help
exercising on every man that came near her, than the
sun can help shining on great and small) she had provoked
the prince's dangerous admiration, and allured him to the
expression of it, she was only the more wilful and imperious
the more she felt her error.




To this party, the prince being served with chocolate
in his bedchamber, where he lay late sleeping away the
fumes of his wine, the doctor came, and by the urgent
and startling nature of his news, dissipated instantly that
private and minor unpleasantry under which the family
of Castlewood was labouring.




He asked for the guest; the guest was above in his
own apartment: he bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to his
master instantly, and requested that my Lord Viscount
Castlewood would straightway put his uniform on, and come
away in the doctor's coach now at the door.




He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the
comedy was to be:—“In half an hour,” says he, “her
Majesty and her favourite lady will take the air in the
cedar-walk behind the new banqueting-house. Her Majesty
will be drawn in a garden-chair, Madam Beatrix Esmond
and her brother, my Lord Viscount Castlewood, will be
[pg 427]
walking in the private garden (here is Lady Masham's
key), and will come unawares upon the royal party. The
man that draws the chair will retire, and leave the queen,
the favourite, and the maid of honour and her brother
together; Mrs. Beatrix will present her brother, and then!—and
then, my lord bishop will pray for the result of the
interview, and his Scots clerk will say Amen! Quick, put
on your hood, Madam Beatrix; why doth not his Majesty
come down? Such another chance may not present itself
for months again.”




The prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but
lost that chance through his indolence. The queen was
actually about to leave the garden just when the party
reached it; the doctor, the bishop, the maid of honour
and her brother went off together in the physician's coach,
and had been gone half an hour when Colonel Esmond
came to Kensington Square.




The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of
course for a moment put all thoughts of private jealousy
out of Colonel Esmond's head. In half an hour more the
coach returned; the bishop descended from it first, and
gave his arm to Beatrix, who now came out. His lordship
went back into the carriage again, and the maid of honour
entered the house alone. We were all gazing at her from
the upper window, trying to read from her countenance
the result of the interview from which she had just come.




She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and
very pale; she asked for a glass of water as her mother
went to meet her, and after drinking that and putting off
her hood, she began to speak:—“We may all hope for the
best,” says she; “it has cost the queen a fit. Her Majesty
was in her chair in the cedar-walk accompanied only by
Lady ——, when we entered by the private wicket from
the west side of the garden, and turned towards her, the
doctor following us. They waited in a side-walk hidden
by the shrubs, as we advanced towards the chair. My
heart throbbed so I scarce could speak; but my prince
whispered, ‘Courage, Beatrix’, and marched on with a
steady step. His face was a little flushed, but he was not
afraid of the danger. He who fought so bravely at Malplaquet
fears nothing.” Esmond and Castlewood looked at
each other at this compliment, neither liking the sound
of it.


[pg 428]


“The prince uncovered,” Beatrix continued, “and I saw
the queen turning round to Lady Masham, as if asking
who these two were. Her Majesty looked very pale and ill,
and then flushed up; the favourite made us a signal to
advance, and I went up, leading my prince by the hand,
quite close to the chair: ‘Your Majesty will give my
lord viscount your hand to kiss,’ says her lady, and the
queen put out her hand, which the prince kissed, kneeling
on his knee, he who should kneel to no mortal man or
woman.




“ ‘You have been long from England, my lord,’ says
the queen: ‘why were you not here to give a home to
your mother and sister?’




“ ‘I am come, madam, to stay now, if the queen desires
me,’ says the prince, with another low bow.




“ ‘You have taken a foreign wife, my lord, and a foreign
religion; was not that of England good enough for you?’




“ ‘In returning to my father's Church,’ says the prince,
‘I do not love my mother the less, nor am I the less
faithful servant of your Majesty.’




“Here,” says Beatrix, “the favourite gave me a little
signal with her hand to fall back, which I did, though
I died to hear what should pass; and whispered something
to the queen, which made her Majesty start and utter one
or two words in a hurried manner, looking towards the
prince, and catching hold with her hand of the arm of
her chair. He advanced still nearer towards it; he began
to speak very rapidly; I caught the words, ‘Father,
blessing, forgiveness,’—and then presently the prince fell
on his knees; took from his breast a paper he had there,
handed it to the queen, who, as soon as she saw it, flung
up both her arms with a scream, and took away that hand
nearest the prince, and which he endeavoured to kiss. He
went on speaking with great animation of gesture, now
clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening them
as though to say: ‘I am here, your brother, in your
power.’ Lady Masham ran round on the other side of
the chair, kneeling too, and speaking with great energy.
She clasped the queen's hand on her side, and picked up
the paper her Majesty had let fall. The prince rose and
made a further speech as though he would go; the favourite
on the other hand urging her mistress, and then, running
back to the prince, brought him back once more close to
[pg 429]
the chair. Again he knelt down and took the queen's
hand, which she did not withdraw, kissing it a hundred
times; my lady all the time, with sobs and supplications,
speaking over the chair. This while the queen sat with
a stupefied look, crumpling the paper with one hand, as
my prince embraced the other; then of a sudden she
uttered several piercing shrieks, and burst into a great fit
of hysteric tears and laughter. ‘Enough, enough, sir, for
this time,’ I heard Lady Masham say; and the chairman,
who had withdrawn round the banqueting-room, came back,
alarmed by the cries: ‘Quick,’ says Lady Masham, ‘get
some help,’ and I ran towards the doctor, who, with the
Bishop of Rochester, came up instantly. Lady Masham
whispered the prince he might hope for the very best;
and to be ready to-morrow; and he hath gone away to
the Bishop of Rochester's house, to meet several of his
friends there. And so the great stroke is struck,” says
Beatrix, going down on her knees, and clasping her hands,
“God save the King: God save the King!”




Beatrix's tale told, and the young lady herself calmed
somewhat of her agitation, we asked with regard to the
prince, who was absent with Bishop Atterbury, and were
informed that 'twas likely he might remain abroad the
whole day. Beatrix's three kinsfolk looked at one another
at this intelligence; 'twas clear the same thought was
passing through the minds of all.




But who should begin to break the news? Monsieur
Baptiste, that is Frank Castlewood, turned very red, and
looked towards Esmond; the colonel bit his lips, and fairly
beat a retreat into the window: it was Lady Castlewood
that opened upon Beatrix with the news which we knew
would do anything but please her.




“We are glad,” says she, taking her daughter's hand,
and speaking in a gentle voice, “that the guest is away.”




Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at
us three, and as if divining a danger. “Why glad?” says
she, her breast beginning to heave; “are you so soon tired
of him?”




“We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him,” cries
out Frank Castlewood.




“And which is it—you, my lord, or is it mamma, who
is jealous because he drinks my health? or is it the head
of the family” (here she turned with an imperious look
[pg 430]
towards Colonel Esmond), “who has taken of late to preach
the king sermons?”




“We do not say you are too free with his Majesty.”




“I thank you, madam,” says Beatrix, with a toss of the
head and a curtsy.




But her mother continued, with very great calmness and
dignity—“At least we have not said so, though we might,
were it possible for a mother to say such words to her own
daughter, your father's daughter.”




“Eh! mon père,”
breaks out Beatrix, “was no better
than other persons' fathers;” and again she looked towards
the colonel.




We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three
French words; her manner was exactly imitated from that
of our foreign guest.




“You had not learned to speak French a month ago,
Beatrix,” says her mother, sadly, “nor to speak ill of your
father.”




Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her
flurry, for she blushed crimson: “I have learnt to honour
the king,” says she, drawing up, “and 'twere as well that
others suspected neither his Majesty nor me.”




“If you respected your mother a little more,” Frank said,
“'Trix, you would do yourself no hurt.”




“I am no child,” says she, turning round on him; “we
have lived very well these five years without the benefit of
your advice or example, and I intend to take neither now.
Why does not the head of the house speak?” she went on;
“he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done
singing the psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon?
I am tired of the psalms.” The prince had used almost the
very same words, in regard to Colonel Esmond, that the
imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.




“You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,” says the
colonel; and, turning to his mistress, “Did your guest use
these words in your ladyship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix
in private that he was pleased to impart his opinion regarding
my tiresome sermon?”




“Have you seen him alone?” cries my lord, starting up
with an oath: “by God, have you seen him alone?”




“Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me; no,
you would not dare!” cries Frank's sister. “Keep your
oaths, my lord, for your wife; we are not used here to such
[pg 431]
language. 'Till you came, there used to be kindness between
me and mamma, and I cared for her when you never did,
when you were away for years with your horses, and your
mistress, and your Popish wife.”




“By ——,” says my lord, rapping out another oath,
“Clotilda is an angel; how dare you say a word against
Clotilda?”




Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how
easy Frank's attack was drawn off by that feint:—“I fancy
Clotilda is not the subject in hand,” says Mr. Esmond,
rather scornfully; “her ladyship is at Paris, a hundred
leagues off, preparing baby-linen. It is about my Lord
Castlewood's sister, and not his wife, the question is.”




“He is not my Lord Castlewood,” says Beatrix, “and he
knows he is not; he is Colonel Francis Esmond's son, and
no more, and he wears a false title; and he lives on another
man's land, and he knows it.” Here was another desperate
sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an alerte in
another quarter. “Again, I beg your pardon,” says Esmond.
“If there are no proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If
my father acknowledged no heir, yours was his lawful
successor, and my Lord Castlewood hath as good a right
to his rank and small estate as any man in England. But
that again is not the question, as you know very well:
let us bring our talk back to it, as you will have me meddle
in it. And I will give you frankly my opinion, that a house
where a prince lies all day, who respects no woman, is no
house for a young unmarried lady; that you were better
in the country than here; that he is here on a great end,
from which no folly should divert him; and that having
nobly done your part of this morning, Beatrix, you should
retire off the scene awhile, and leave it to the other actors
of the play.”




As the colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness,
such as 'tis to be hoped he hath always shown to
women,18
his mistress stood by him on one side of the table,
[pg 432]
and Frank Castlewood on the other, hemming in poor
Beatrix, that was behind it, and, as it were, surrounding
her with our approaches.




Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now,
as I expected, tried the ultima ratio of women, and had
recourse to tears. Her beautiful eyes filled with them;
I never could bear in her, nor in any woman, that expression
of pain:—“I am alone,” sobbed she; “you are three
against me—my brother, my mother, and you. What
have I done, that you should speak and look so unkindly
at me? Is it my fault that the prince should, as you say,
admire me? Did I bring him here? Did I do aught but
what you bade me, in making him welcome? Did you
not tell me that our duty was to die for him? Did you not
teach me, mother, night and morning, to pray for the king,
before even ourselves? What would you have of me,
cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy against me;
I know you are, sir, and that my mother and brother are
acting but as you bid them; whither would you have me go?”




“I would but remove from the prince,” says Esmond
gravely, “a dangerous temptation; Heaven forbid I should
say you would yield: I would only have him free of it.
Your honour needs no guardian, please God, but his imprudence
doth. He is so far removed from all women by
his rank, that his pursuit of them cannot but be unlawful.
We would remove the dearest and fairest of our family
from the chance of that insult, and that is why we would
have you go, dear Beatrix.”




“Harry speaks like a book,” says Frank, with one of his
oaths, “and, by ——, every word he saith is true. You
can't help being handsome, 'Trix; no more can the prince
help following you. My council is that you go out of
harm's way; for, by the Lord, were the prince to play
any tricks with you, king as he is, or is to be, Harry
Esmond and I would have justice of him.”


[pg 433]


“Are not two such champions enough to guard me?”
says Beatrix, something sorrowfully; “sure, with you two
watching, no evil could happen to me.”




“In faith, I think not, Beatrix,” says Colonel Esmond;
“nor if the prince knew us would he try.”




“But does he know you?” interposed Lady Esmond,
very quiet: “he comes of a country where the pursuit of
kings is thought no dishonour to a woman. Let us go,
dearest Beatrix. Shall we go to Walcote or to Castlewood?
We are best away from the city; and when the prince is
acknowledged, and our champions have restored him, and
he hath his own house at St. James's or Windsor, we can
come back to ours here. Do you not think so, Harry and
Frank?”




Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure.




“We will go, then,” says Beatrix, turning a little pale;
“Lady Masham is to give me warning to-night how her
Majesty is, and to-morrow——”




“I think we had best go to-day, my dear,” says my Lady
Castlewood; “we might have the coach and sleep at
Hounslow, and reach home to-morrow. 'Tis twelve
o'clock; bid the coach, cousin, be ready at one.”




“For shame!” burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears
and mortification. “You disgrace me by your cruel precautions;
my own mother is the first to suspect me, and
would take me away as my gaoler. I will not go with you,
mother; I will go as no one's prisoner. If I wanted to
deceive, do you think I could find no means of evading
you? My family suspects me. As those mistrust me that
ought to love me most, let me leave them; I will go, but
I will go alone: to Castlewood, be it. I have been unhappy
there and lonely enough; let me go back, but spare me at
least the humiliation of setting a watch over my misery,
which is a trial I can't bear. Let me go when you will,
but alone, or not at all. You three can stay and triumph
over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I have borne it
before. Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the coach that
is to take me away. I thank you, Henry Esmond, for
your share in the conspiracy. All my life long I'll thank
you, and remember you; and you, brother, and you,
mother, how shall I show my gratitude to you for your
careful defence of my honour?”




She swept out of the room with the air of an empress,
[pg 434]
flinging glances of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors
of the field, but scared, and almost ashamed of
our victory. It did indeed seem hard and cruel that we
three should have conspired the banishment and humiliation
of that fair creature. We looked at each other in silence;
'twas not the first stroke by many of our actions in that
unlucky time, which, being done, we wished undone. We
agreed it was best she should go alone, speaking stealthily
to one another, and under our breaths, like persons engaged
in an act they felt ashamed in doing.




In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back,
her countenance wearing the same defiant air which it had
borne when she left us. She held a shagreen-case in her
hand; Esmond knew it as containing his diamonds which
he had given to her for her marriage with Duke Hamilton,
and which she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious
night of the prince's arrival. “I have brought back,” says
she, “to the Marquis of Esmond the present he deigned to
make me in days when he trusted me better than now.
I will never accept a benefit or a kindness from Henry
Esmond more, and I give back these family diamonds,
which belonged to one king's mistress, to the gentleman
that suspected I would be another. Have you been upon
your message of coach-caller, my lord marquis; will you
send your valet to see that I do not run away?” We were
right, yet, by her manner, she had put us all in the wrong;
we were conquerors, yet the honours of the day seemed
to be with the poor oppressed girl.




That luckless box containing the stones had first been
ornamented with a baron's coronet, when Beatrix was
engaged to the young gentleman from whom she parted,
and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured on the
cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear.
Lady Castlewood opened the case mechanically and scarce
thinking what she did; and behold, besides the diamonds,
Esmond's present, there lay in the box the enamelled
miniature of the late duke, which Beatrix had laid aside
with her mourning when the king came into the house;
and which the poor heedless thing very likely had forgotten.




“Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?” says her mother,
taking the miniature out and with a cruelty she did not
very often show; but there are some moments when the
[pg 435]
tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs which
angels can't forgo.19




Having delivered this stab, Lady Esmond was frightened
at the effect of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix's heart;
she flushed up and passed a handkerchief across her eyes,
and kissed the miniature, and put it into her bosom:—“I
had forgot it,” says she; “my injury made me forget
my grief, my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell,
mother, I think I never can forgive you; something hath
broke between us that no tears nor years can repair.
I always said I was alone; you never loved me, never—and
were jealous of me from the time I sat on my father's
knee. Let me go away, the sooner the better; I can bear
to be with you no more.”




“Go, child,” says her mother, still very stern; “go and
bend your proud knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in
solitude for humility and repentance. 'Tis not your
reproaches that make me unhappy, 'tis your hard heart,
my poor Beatrix; may God soften it, and teach you one
day to feel for your mother!”




If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got
to own as much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped
Beatrix's; and, if the girl had a proud spirit, I very much
fear it came to her by inheritance.









 Chapter XI. Our Guest Quits Us As Not Being Hospitable Enough



Beatrix's departure took place within an hour, her maid
going with her in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the
coach-box to prevent any danger of the road. Esmond
and Frank thought of escorting the carriage, but she
indignantly refused their company, and another man was
sent to follow the coach, and not to leave it till it had
passed over Hounslow Heath on the next day. And these
two forming the whole of Lady Castle wood's male domestics,
[pg 436]
Mr. Esmond's faithful John Lockwood came to wait on
his mistress during their absence, though he would have
preferred to escort Mrs. Lucy, his sweetheart, on her
journey into the country.




We had a gloomy and silent meal; it seemed as if a
darkness was over the house, since the bright face of
Beatrix had been withdrawn from it. In the afternoon
came a message from the favourite to relieve us somewhat
from this despondency. “The queen hath been much
shaken,” the note said; “she is better now, and all things
will go well. Let my Lord Castlewood be ready against we
send for him.”




At night there came a second billet: “There hath been
a great battle in Council; lord treasurer hath broke his
staff, and hath fallen never to rise again; no successor is
appointed. Lord B—— receives a great Whig company
to-night at Golden Square. If he is trimming, others are
true; the queen hath no more fits, but is abed now, and
more quiet. Be ready against morning, when I still hope
all will be well.”




The prince came home shortly after the messenger who
bore this billet had left the house. His royal highness was
so much the better for the bishop's liquor, that to talk affairs
to him now was of little service. He was helped to the
royal bed; he called Castlewood familiarly by his own
name; he quite forgot the part upon the acting of which
his crown, his safety, depended. 'Twas lucky that my Lady
Castlewood's servants were out of the way, and only those
heard him who would not betray him. He inquired after
the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his voice;
he was easily got to bed, and in a minute or two plunged
in that deep slumber and forgetfulness with which Bacchus
rewards the votaries of that god. We wished Beatrix had
been there to see him in his cups. We regretted, perhaps,
that she was gone.




One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough
to ride to Hounslow that night, coram latronibus, and to
the inn which the family used ordinarily in their journeys
out of London. Esmond desired my landlord not to
acquaint Madam Beatrix with his coming, and had the
grim satisfaction of passing by the door of the chamber
where she lay with her maid, and of watching her chariot
set forth in the early morning. He saw her smile and slip
[pg 437]
money into the man's hand who was ordered to ride behind
the coach as far as Bagshot. The road being open, and
the other servant armed, it appeared she dispensed with
the escort of a second domestic; and this fellow, bidding
his young mistress adieu with many bows, went and took
a pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned in company with
his brother servant, John Coachman, and his horses, back
to London.




They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two
worthies stopped for more drink, and here they were
scared by seeing Colonel Esmond gallop by them. The
man said in reply to Colonel Esmond's stern question, that
his young mistress had sent her duty; only that, no other
message: she had had a very good night, and would
reach Castlewood by nightfall. The colonel had no time
for further colloquy, and galloped on swiftly to London,
having business of great importance there, as my reader
very well knoweth. The thought of Beatrix riding away
from the danger soothed his mind not a little. His horse
was at Kensington Square (honest Dapple knew the way
thither well enough) before the tipsy guest of last night
was awake and sober.




The account of the previous evening was known all over
the town early next day. A violent altercation had taken
place before the queen in the Council-chamber; and all the
coffee-houses had their version of the quarrel. The news
brought my lord bishop early to Kensington Square, where
he awaited the waking of his royal master above stairs,
and spoke confidently of having him proclaimed as Prince
of Wales and heir to the throne before that day was over.
The bishop had entertained on the previous afternoon
certain of the most influential gentlemen of the true British
party. His royal highness had charmed all, both Scots
and English, Papists and Churchmen: “Even Quakers,”
says he, “were at our meeting; and, if the stranger took
a little too much British punch and ale, he will soon grow
more accustomed to those liquors; and my Lord Castlewood,”
says the bishop, with a laugh, “must bear the cruel
charge of having been for once in his life a little tipsy. He
toasted your lovely sister a dozen times, at which we all
laughed,” says the bishop, “admiring so much fraternal
affection.—Where is that charming nymph, and why doth
she not adorn your ladyship's tea-table with her bright eyes?”
[pg 438]
Her ladyship said, drily, that Beatrix was not at home
that morning; my lord bishop was too busy with great
affairs to trouble himself much about the presence or
absence of any lady, however beautiful.




We were yet at table when Dr. A—— came from the
Palace with a look of great alarm; the shocks the queen
had had the day before had acted on her severely; he had
been sent for, and had ordered her to be blooded. The
surgeon of Long Acre had come to cup the queen, and her
Majesty was now more easy and breathed more freely.
What made us start at the name of Mr. Aymé? “Il faut
être aimable pour être aimé,” says the merry doctor; Esmond
pulled his sleeve, and bade him hush. It was to Aymé's
house, after his fatal duel, that my dear Lord Castlewood,
Frank's father, had been carried to die.




No second visit could be paid to the queen on that day
at any rate; and when our guest above gave his signal
that he was awake, the doctor, the bishop, and Colonel
Esmond waited upon the prince's levee, and brought him
their news, cheerful or dubious. The doctor had to go
away presently, but promised to keep the prince constantly
acquainted with what was taking place at the palace hard
by. His counsel was, and the bishop's, that as soon as
ever the queen's malady took a favourable turn, the prince
should be introduced to her bedside; the Council summoned;
the guard at Kensington and St. James's, of which two
regiments were to be entirely relied on, and one known not
to be hostile, would declare for the prince, as the queen
would before the lords of her Council, designating him as
the heir to her throne.




With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary,
the prince and his lordship of Rochester passed many
hours of this day composing Proclamations and Addresses
to the Country, to the Scots, to the Clergy, to the People
of London and England; announcing the arrival of the
exile descendant of three sovereigns, and his acknowledgement
by his sister as heir to the throne. Every safeguard
for their liberties the Church and People could ask was
promised to them. The bishop could answer for the
adhesion of very many prelates, who besought of their flocks
and brother ecclesiastics to recognize the sacred right of
the future sovereign, and to purge the country of the sin
of rebellion.


[pg 439]


During the composition of these papers, more messengers
than one came from the Palace regarding the state of the
august patient there lying. At midday she was somewhat
better; at evening the torpor again seized her, and she
wandered in her mind. At night Dr. A—— was with us
again, with a report rather more favourable: no instant
danger at any rate was apprehended. In the course of
the last two years her Majesty had had many attacks
similar, but more severe.




By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations
(the wording of them so as to offend no parties, and
not to give umbrage to Whigs or Dissenters, required very
great caution), and the young prince, who had indeed
shown, during a long day's labour, both alacrity at seizing
the information given him, and ingenuity and skill in turning
the phrases which were to go out signed by his name, here
exhibited a good humour and thoughtfulness that ought
to be set down to his credit.




“Were these papers to be mislaid,” says he, “or our
scheme to come to mishap, my Lord Esmond's writing
would bring him to a place where I heartily hope never
to see him; and so, by your leave, I will copy the papers
myself, though I am not very strong in spelling; and if
they are found they will implicate none but the person
they most concern;” and so, having carefully copied the
Proclamations out, the prince burned those in Colonel
Esmond's handwriting: “And now, and now, gentlemen,”
says he, “let us go to supper, and drink a glass with the
ladies. My Lord Esmond, you will sup with us to-night;
you have given us of late too little of your company.”




The prince's meals were commonly served in the chamber
which had been Beatrix's bedroom, adjoining that in which
he slept. And the dutiful practice of his entertainers was
to wait until their royal guest bade them take their places
at table before they sat down to partake of the meal. On
this night, as you may suppose, only Frank Castlewood
and his mother were in waiting when the supper was
announced to receive the prince; who had passed the
whole of the day in his own apartment, with the bishop
as his minister of state, and Colonel Esmond officiating as
secretary of his Council.




The prince's countenance wore an expression by no
means pleasant;
when looking towards the little company
[pg 440]
assembled, and waiting for him, he did not see Beatrix's bright
face there as usual to greet him. He asked Lady Esmond
for his fair introducer of yesterday: her ladyship only cast
her eyes down, and said quietly, Beatrix could not be of the
supper that night; nor did she show the least sign of
confusion, whereas Castlewood turned red, and Esmond
was no less embarrassed. I think women have an instinct
of dissimulation; they know by nature how to disguise
their emotions far better than the most consummate male
courtiers can do. Is not the better part of the life of many
of them spent in hiding their feelings, in cajoling their
tyrants, in masking over with fond smiles and artful gaiety
their doubt, or their grief, or their terror?




Our guest swallowed his supper very sulky; it was not
till the second bottle his highness began to rally. When
Lady Castlewood asked leave to depart, he sent a message
to Beatrix, hoping she would be present at the next day's
dinner, and applied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards,
for which there was subject in plenty.




The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington
that the queen was somewhat better, and had been up for
an hour, though she was not well enough yet to receive
any visitor.




At dinner a single cover was laid for his royal highness;
and the two gentlemen alone waited on him. We had
had a consultation in the morning with Lady Castlewood,
in which it had been determined that, should his highness
ask further questions about Beatrix, he should be answered
by the gentlemen of the house.




He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards
the door constantly, as if expecting some one. There came,
however, nobody, except honest John Lockwood, when he
knocked with a dish, which those within took from him;
so the meals were always arranged, and I believe the council
in the kitchen were of opinion that my young lord had
brought over a priest, who had converted us all into Papists,
and that Papists were like Jews, eating together, and not
choosing to take their meals in the sight of Christians.




The prince tried to cover his displeasure; he was but
a clumsy dissembler at that time, and when out of humour
could with difficulty keep a serene countenance; and having
made some foolish attempts at trivial talk, he came to his
point presently, and in as easy a manner as he could, saying
[pg 441]
to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his lordship's
mother and sister would be of the supper that night. As
the time hung heavy on him, and he must not go abroad,
would not Miss Beatrix hold him company at a game of
cards?




At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal
from him, Lord Castlewood informed his royal highness20
that his sister Beatrix was not at Kensington; and that
her family had thought it best she should quit the town.




“Not at Kensington!” says he; “is she ill? she was
well yesterday; wherefore should she quit the town?
Is it at your orders, my lord, or Colonel Esmond's, who
seems the master of this house?”




“Not of this, sir,” says Frank very nobly, “only of our house
in the country, which he hath given to us. This is my
mother's house, and Walcote is my father's, and the Marquis
of Esmond knows he hath but to give his word, and I return
his to him.”




“The Marquis of Esmond!—the Marquis of Esmond,”
says the prince, tossing off a glass, “meddles too much with
my affairs, and presumes on the service he hath done me.
If you want to carry your suit with Beatrix, my lord, by
blocking her up in gaol, let me tell you that is not the way
to win a woman.”




“I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to
Madam Beatrix to your royal highness.”




“Bah, bah, monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see
that. It makes itself seen at all moments. You are
jealous, my lord, and the maid of honour cannot look at
another face without yours beginning to scowl. That
which you do is unworthy, monsieur; is inhospitable—is,
is lâche, yes
lâche:” (he spoke rapidly in French, his
rage carrying him away with each phrase:) “I come to your
house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; I repose myself
on your fidelity; I have no company but your lordship's
sermons or the conversations of that adorable young lady,
and you take her from me; and you, you rest! Merci,
monsieur! I shall thank you when I have the means;
I shall know to recompense a devotion a little importunate,
my lord—a little importunate. For a month past your
airs of protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You
[pg 442]
deign to offer me the crown, and bid me take it on my
knees like King John—eh! I know my history, monsieur,
and mock myself of frowning barons. I admire your
mistress, and you send her to a Bastile of the Province;
I enter your house, and you mistrust me. I will leave it,
monsieur; from to-night I will leave it. I have other
friends whose loyalty will not be so ready to question mine.
If I have Garters to give away, 'tis to noblemen who are
not so ready to think evil. Bring me a coach and let me
quit this place, or let the fair Beatrix return to it. I will
not have your hospitality at the expense of the freedom
of that fair creature.”




This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulations such
as the French use, and in the language of that nation.
The prince striding up and down the room; his face flushed,
and his hands trembling with anger. He was very thin
and frail from repeated illness and a life of pleasure. Either
Castlewood or Esmond could have broke him across their
knee, and in half a minute's struggle put an end to him;
and here he was insulting us both, and scarce deigning to
hide from the two, whose honour it most concerned, the
passion he felt for the young lady of our family. My Lord
Castlewood replied to the prince's tirade very nobly and
simply.




“Sir,” says he, “your royal highness is pleased to forget
that others risk their lives, and for your cause. Very few
Englishmen, please God, would dare to lay hands on your
sacred person, though none would ever think of respecting
ours. Our family's lives are at your service, and everything
we have except our honour.”




“Honour! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your
honour?” says the prince, with a peevish air.




“We implore your royal highness never to think of hurting
it,” says Lord Castlewood, with a low bow. The night being
warm, the windows were open both towards the gardens
and the square. Colonel Esmond heard through the closed
door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, in the
square on the other side. He opened the door communicating
with the prince's room; Martin, the servant that had
rode with Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going out of the
chamber as Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was
gone, and the watchman again sang his cry of “Past ten
o'clock, and a starlight night,” Esmond spoke to the prince
[pg 443]
in a low voice, and said—“Your royal highness hears that
man?”




“Après, monsieur?” says the prince.




“I have but to beckon him from the window, and send
him fifty yards, and he returns with a guard of men, and
I deliver up to him the body of the person calling himself
James the Third, for whose capture Parliament hath offered
a reward of 5,000l., as your royal highness saw on our ride
from Rochester. I have but to say the word, and, by the
Heaven that made me, I would say it if I thought the prince,
for his honour's sake, would not desist from insulting ours.
But the first gentleman of England knows his duty too
well to forget himself with the humblest, or peril his crown
for a deed that were shameful if it were done.”




“Has your lordship anything to say,” says the prince,
turning to Frank Castlewood, and quite pale with anger;
“any threat or any insult, with which you would like to
end this agreeable night's entertainment?”




“I follow the head of our house,” says Castlewood, bowing
gravely. “At what time shall it please the prince that we
should wait upon him in the morning?”




“You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will
bid him bring his coach hither; and prepare an apartment
for me in his own house, or in a place of safety. The king
will reward you handsomely, never fear, for all you have
done in his behalf. I wish you a good night, and shall go
to bed, unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call
his colleague, the watchman, and that I should pass the
night with the Kensington guard. Fare you well, be sure
I will remember you. My Lord Castlewood, I can go to
bed to-night without need of a chamberlain.” And the
prince dismissed us with a grim bow, locking one door as
he spoke, that into the supping-room, and the other through
which we passed, after us. It led into the small chamber
which Frank Castlewood or Monsieur Baptiste occupied,
and by which Martin entered when Colonel Esmond but
now saw him in the chamber.




At an early hour next morning the bishop arrived, and
was closeted for some time with his master in his own
apartment, where the prince laid open to his counsellor
the wrongs which, according to his version, he had received
from the gentlemen of the Esmond family. The worthy
prelate came out from the conference with an air of great
[pg 444]
satisfaction; he was a man full of resources, and of a most
assured fidelity, and possessed of genius, and a hundred
good qualities; but captious and of a most jealous temper,
that could not help exulting at the downfall of any favourite;
and he was pleased in spite of himself to hear that the
Esmond ministry was at an end.




“I have soothed your guest,” says he, coming out to
the two gentlemen and the widow, who had been made
acquainted with somewhat of the dispute of the night
before. (By the version we gave her, the prince was only
made to exhibit anger because we doubted of his intentions
in respect to Beatrix; and to leave us, because we questioned
his honour.) “But I think, all things considered,
'tis as well he should leave this house; and then, my Lady
Castlewood,” says the bishop, “my pretty Beatrix may
come back to it.”




“She is quite as well at home at Castlewood,” Esmond's
mistress said, “till everything is over.”




“You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you,”
says the good bishop, assuming the airs of a prime minister.
“The prince hath expressed himself most nobly in regard
of the little difference of last night, and I promise you he
hath listened to my sermon, as well as to that of other folks,”
says the doctor archly; “he hath every great and generous
quality, with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs
to his family, and hath been known in scores of popular
sovereigns from King David downwards.”




“My lord, my lord,” breaks out Lady Esmond, “the levity
with which you speak of such conduct towards our sex
shocks me, and what you call weakness I call deplorable sin.”




“Sin it is, my dear creature,” says the bishop, with a shrug,
taking snuff; “but consider what a sinner King Solomon
was, and in spite of a thousand of wives too.”




“Enough of this, my lord,” says Lady Castlewood, with
a fine blush, and walked out of the room very stately.




The prince entered it presently with a smile on his face,
and if he felt any offence against us on the previous night,
at present exhibited none. He offered a hand to each
gentleman with great courtesy. “If all your bishops preach
so well as Dr. Atterbury,” says he, “I don't know, gentlemen,
what may happen to me. I spoke very hastily,
my lords, last night, and ask pardon of both of you. But
I must not stay any longer,” says he, “giving umbrage to
[pg 445]
good friends, or keeping pretty girls away from their homes.
My lord bishop hath found a safe place for me, hard by at
a curate's house, whom the bishop can trust, and whose
wife is so ugly as to be beyond all danger; we will decamp
into those new quarters, and I leave you, thanking you
for a hundred kindnesses here. Where is my hostess, that
I may bid her farewell? to welcome her in a house of my
own, soon I trust, where my friends shall have no cause to
quarrel with me.”




Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great
grace, and tears filling her eyes as the prince graciously
saluted her. She looked so charming and young, that the
doctor, in his bantering way, could not help speaking of
her beauty to the prince; whose compliment made her
blush, and look more charming still.









 Chapter XII. A Great Scheme, And Who Balked It



As characters written with a secret ink come out with the
application of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper
white, so soon as it is cool, a hundred names of men, high
in repute and favouring the prince's cause, that were writ
in our private lists, would have been visible enough on the
great roll of the conspiracy, had it ever been laid open under
the sun. What crowds would have pressed forward, and
subscribed their names and protested their loyalty, when
the danger was over! What a number of Whigs, now high
in place and creatures of the all-powerful minister, scorned
Mr. Walpole then! If ever a match was gained by the
manliness and decision of a few at a moment of danger; if
ever one was lost by the treachery and imbecility of those
that had the cards in their hands, and might have played
them, it was in that momentous game which was enacted
in the next three days, and of which the noblest crown in
the world was the stake.




From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who
were interested in the scheme we had in hand, saw pretty
well that he was not to be trusted. Should the prince
prevail, it was his lordship's gracious intention to declare
[pg 446]
for him: should the Hanoverian party bring in their
sovereign, who more ready to go on his knee, and cry “God
save King George”? And he betrayed the one prince and
the other; but exactly at the wrong time. When he
should have struck for King James, he faltered and coquetted
with the Whigs; and having committed himself by the
most monstrous professions of devotion, which the Elector
rightly scorned, he proved the justness of their contempt
for him by flying and taking renegado service with St. Germains,
just when he should have kept aloof: and that
Court despised him, as the manly and resolute men who
established the Elector in England had before done. He
signed his own name to every accusation of insincerity his
enemies made against him; and the king and the pretender
alike could show proofs of St. John's treachery under his
own hand and seal.




Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions,
as on those of the brave and hearty Whig party, that made
little concealment of theirs. They would have in the
Elector, and used every means in their power to effect their
end. My Lord Marlborough was now with them. His
expulsion from power by the Tories had thrown that great
captain at once on the Whig side. We heard he was coming
from Antwerp; and in fact, on the day of the queen's death,
he once more landed on English shore. A great part of the
army was always with their illustrious leader; even the
Tories in it were indignant at the injustice of the persecution
which the Whig officers were made to undergo. The chiefs
of these were in London, and at the head of them one of
the most intrepid men in the world, the Scots Duke of
Argyle, whose conduct, on the second day after that to
which I have now brought down my history, ended, as such
honesty and bravery deserved to end, by establishing the
present royal race on the English throne.




Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion
amongst the councillors surrounding the prince, as to the
plan his highness should pursue. His female minister at
Court, fancying she saw some amelioration in the queen,
was for waiting a few days, or hours it might be, until he
could be brought to her bedside, and acknowledged as her
heir. Mr. Esmond was for having him march thither,
escorted by a couple of troops of Horse Guards, and openly
presenting himself to the Council. During the whole of the
[pg 447]
night of the 29th-30th July, the colonel was engaged with
gentlemen of the military profession, whom 'tis needless
here to name; suffice it to say that several of them had
exceeding high rank in the army, and one of them in
especial was a general, who, when he heard the Duke of
Marlborough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch
over his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should
march out and engage him. Of the three secretaries of
state, we knew that one was devoted to us. The Governor
of the Tower was ours: the two companies on duty at
Kensington barrack were safe; and we had intelligence,
very speedy and accurate, of all that took place at the
Palace within.




At noon, on the 30th of July, a message came to the
prince's friends that the Committee of Council was sitting
at Kensington Palace, their graces of Ormonde and Shrewsbury,
the Archbishop of Canterbury and the three Secretaries
of State, being there assembled. In an hour afterwards,
hurried news was brought that the two great Whig
dukes, Argyle and Somerset, had broke into the Council-chamber
without a summons, and taken their seat at table.
After holding a debate there, the whole party proceeded to
the chamber of the queen, who was lying in great weakness,
but still sensible, and the lords recommended his grace of
Shrewsbury as the fittest person to take the vacant place
of lord treasurer; her Majesty gave him the staff, as all
know. “And now,” writ my messenger from Court, “now
or never is the time.”




Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the Whig
dukes, our side had still the majority in the Council, and
Esmond, to whom the message had been brought (the personage
at Court not being aware that the prince had quitted
his lodging in Kensington Square), and Esmond's gallant
young aide de camp, Frank Castlewood, putting on sword
and uniform, took a brief leave of their dear lady, who
embraced and blessed them both; and went to her chamber
to pray for the issue of the great event which was then
pending.




Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the
captain of the guard there; and then went to the “King's
Arms” tavern at Kensington, where our friends were assembled,
having come by parties of twos and threes, riding or
in coaches, and were got together in the upper chamber,
[pg 448]
fifty-three of them; their servants, who had been instructed
to bring arms likewise, being below in the garden of the
tavern, where they were served with drink. Out of this
garden is a little door that leads into the road of the Palace,
and through this it was arranged that masters and servants
were to march; when that signal was given, and that
Personage appeared, for whom all were waiting. There was
in our company the famous officer next in command to the
Captain-General of the Forces, his grace the Duke of
Ormonde, who was within at the Council. There were with
him two more lieutenant-generals, nine major-generals and
brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven peers of Parliament, and
twenty-one members of the House of Commons. The guard
was with us within and without the Palace: the queen was
with us; the Council (save the two Whig dukes, that must
have succumbed); the day was our own, and with a beating
heart Esmond walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington,
where he had parted with the prince on the night before.
For three nights the colonel had not been to bed: the last
had been passed summoning the prince's friends together,
of whom the great majority had no sort of inkling of the
transaction pending until they were told that he was actually
on the spot, and were summoned to strike the blow. The
night before and after the altercation with the prince, my
gentleman, having suspicions of his royal highness, and
fearing lest he should be minded to give us the slip, and fly
off after his fugitive beauty, had spent, if the truth must
be told, at the “Greyhound” tavern, over against my Lady
Esmond's house in Kensington Square, with an eye on the
door, lest the prince should escape from it. The night before
that he had passed in his boots at the “Crown” at Hounslow,
where he must watch forsooth all night, in order to get one
moment's glimpse of Beatrix in the morning. And fate had
decreed that he was to have a fourth night's ride and wakefulness
before his business was ended.




He ran to the curate's house in Kensington Mall, and
asked for Mr. Bates, the name the prince went by. The
curate's wife said Mr. Bates had gone abroad very early in
the morning in his boots, saying he was going to the Bishop
of Rochester's house at Chelsea. But the bishop had been
at Kensington himself two hours ago to seek for Mr. Bates,
and had returned in his coach to his own house, when he
heard that the gentleman was gone thither to seek him.


[pg 449]


This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's delay
might cost a kingdom; Esmond had nothing for it but to
hasten to the “King's Arms”, and tell the gentlemen there
assembled that Mr. George (as we called the prince there)
was not at home, but that Esmond would go fetch him;
and taking a general's coach that happened to be there,
Esmond drove across the country to Chelsea, to the bishop's
house there.




The porter said two gentlemen were with his lordship,
and Esmond ran past this sentry up to the locked door of
the bishop's study, at which he rattled, and was admitted
presently. Of the bishop's guests one was a brother prelate,
and the other the Abbé G——.




“Where is Mr. George?” says Mr. Esmond; “now is the
time.” The bishop looked scared; “I went to his lodging,”
he said, “and they told me he was come hither. I returned
as quick as coach would carry me; and he hath not been
here.”




The colonel burst out with an oath; that was all he could
say to their reverences; ran down the stairs again, and
bidding the coachman, an old friend and fellow-campaigner,
drive as if he was charging the French with his master at
Wynendael—they were back at Kensington in half an hour.




Again Esmond went to the curate's house. Mr. George
had not returned. The colonel had to go with this blank
errand to the gentlemen at the “King's Arms”, that were
grown very impatient by this time.




Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the
garden-wall, you can see the green before Kensington
Palace, the Palace gate (round which the ministers' coaches
were standing), and the barrack building. As we were
looking out from this window in gloomy discourse, we heard
presently trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the
window of the front room, looking into the High Street of
Kensington, and saw a regiment of horse coming.




“It's Ormonde's Guards,” says one.




“No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!” says my
general, clapping down his crutch.




It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from
Westminster, and that took the place of the regiment at
Kensington on which we could rely.




“Oh, Harry!” says one of the generals there present,
“you were born under an unlucky star; I begin to think
[pg 450]
that there's no Mr. George, nor Mr. Dragon either. 'Tis
not the peerage I care for, for our name is so ancient and
famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do
me no good; but 'tis the chance you promised me of
fighting Marlborough.”




As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with
a disturbed air.




“What news, Frank?” says the colonel, “is Mr. George
coming at last?”




“Damn him, look here!” says Castlewood, holding out
a paper. “I found it in the book—the what you call it,
Eikum Basilikum,—that villain Martin put it there—he
said his young mistress bade him. It was directed to me,
but it was meant for him I know, and I broke the seal
and read it.”




The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away
before Esmond's eyes as he read the paper; all that was
written on it was:—“Beatrix Esmond is sent away to
prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier days.”




“Can you guess where he is?” says Castlewood.




“Yes,” says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well, Frank
knew full well: our instinct told whither that traitor
had fled.




He had courage to turn to the company and say, “Gentlemen,
I fear very much that Mr. George will not be here
to-day; something hath happened—and—and—I very
much fear some accident may befall him, which must keep
him out of the way. Having had your noon's draught,
you had best pay the reckoning and go home; there can
be no game where there is no one to play it.”




Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others
called to pay their duty to her Majesty and ask for her
health. The little army disappeared into the darkness out
of which it had been called; there had been no writings,
no paper to implicate any man. Some few officers and
members of Parliament had been invited overnight to
breakfast at the “King's Arms”, at Kensington; and they
had called for their bill and gone home.




[pg 451]





 Chapter XIII. August 1st, 1714



“Does my mistress know of this?” Esmond asked of
Frank, as they walked along.




“My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet-table.
She had writ it ere she had left home,” Frank
said. “Mother met her on the stairs, with her hand upon
the door, trying to enter, and never left her after that till
she went away. He did not think of looking at it there,
nor had Martin the chance of telling him. I believe the
poor devil meant no harm, though I half killed him; he
thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother he was bringing the
letter.”




Frank never said a word of reproach to me, for having
brought the villain amongst us. As we knocked at the
door I said; “When will the horses be ready?” Frank
pointed with his cane, they were turning the street that
moment.




We went up and bade adieu to our mistress; she was
in a dreadful state of agitation by this time, and that
bishop was with her whose company she was so fond of.




“Did you tell him, my lord,” says Esmond, “that Beatrix
was at Castlewood?” The bishop blushed and stammered:




“Well,” says he, “I——”




“You served the villain right,” broke out Mr. Esmond,
“and he has lost a crown by what you told him.”




My mistress turned quite white. “Henry, Henry,” says
she, “do not kill him.”




“It may not be too late,” says Esmond; “he may not
have gone to Castlewood; pray God, it is not too late.”
The bishop was breaking out with some banales phrases
about loyalty and the sacredness of the sovereign's person;
but Esmond sternly bade him hold his tongue, burn all
papers, and take care of Lady Castlewood; and in five
minutes he and Frank were in the saddle, John Lockwood
behind them, riding towards Castlewood at a rapid pace.




We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us
but old Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John's
father, walking by the side of the Hexham flying-coach,
[pg 452]
who slept the night at Alton. Lockwood said his young
mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday night, and
this morning, Friday, had dispatched him with a packet
for my lady at Kensington, saying the letter was of great
importance.




We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared
with wonder, and cried out his “Lord bless me's”, and
“Who'd a thought it's”, at the sight of his young lord,
whom he had not seen these seven years.




The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance
at all. It was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make
light of her captivity. She asked whether she might have
leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk beyond the court
and the garden-wall. She gave news of the peacocks, and
a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her
certain gowns and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent her
duty to a certain person, if certain other persons permitted
her to take such a freedom; how that, as she was not
able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read
good books, such as Dr. Atterbury's sermons and Eikon
Basilike: she was going to read good books: she thought
her pretty mamma would like to know she was not crying
her eyes out.




“Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?” says the
colonel.




“There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid,
Madam Beatrix's maid, the man from London, and that
be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge away from the maids,”
says old Lockwood.




Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving
it to the old man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We
knew why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a sudden, and
why she spoke of Eikon Basilike. She writ this letter to
put the prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way.




“We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,” says
Esmond; “Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time yet.”
All the way along they made inquiries at the post-houses,
when a tall young gentleman in a grey suit, with a light-brown
periwig, just the colour of my lord's, had been seen
to pass. He had set off at six that morning, and we at
three in the afternoon. He rode almost as quickly as we
had done; he was seven hours ahead of us still when we
reached the last stage.


[pg 453]


We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of
dawn. We passed the very spot where the car was upset
fourteen years since; and Mohun lay. The village was
not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through it,
passing by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting,
and by the church, and over the bridge. We got off our
horses at the bridge and walked up to the gate.




“If she is safe,” says Frank, trembling, and his honest
eyes filling with tears, “a silver statue to Our Lady!”
He was going to rattle at the great iron knocker on the
oak gate; but Esmond stopped his kinsman's hand. He
had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and
griefs, too: but he spoke not a word of these to his companion,
or showed any signs of emotion.




He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's
lodge, gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the bars.




“Who's there?” says he, looking out; it was the servant
from Kensington.




“My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond,” we said,
from below. “Open the gate and let us in without any
noise.”




“My Lord Castlewood?” says the other; “my lord's
here, and in bed.”




“Open, d—n you,” says Castlewood, with a curse.




“I shall open to no one,” says the man, shutting the
glass window as Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired
at the porter, but Esmond again held his hand.




“There are more ways than one,” says he, “of entering
such a great house as this.” Frank grumbled that the west
gate was half a mile round. “But I know of a way that's
not a hundred yards off,” says Mr. Esmond; and leading
his kinsman close along the wall, and by the shrubs, which
had now grown thick on what had been an old moat about
the house, they came to the buttress, at the side of which
the little window was, which was Father Holt's private
door. Esmond climbed up to this easily, broke a pane
that had been mended, and touched the spring inside, and
the two gentlemen passed in that way, treading as lightly
as they could; and so going through the passage into the
court, over which the dawn was now reddening, and where
the fountain plashed in the silence.




They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the
fellow had not fastened his door that led into the court;
[pg 454]
and pistol in hand came upon the terrified wretch, and
bade him be silent. Then they asked him (Esmond's head
reeled, and he almost fell as he spoke) when Lord Castlewood
had arrived? He said on the previous evening,
about eight of the clock.—“And what then?”—His lordship
supped with his sister.—“Did the man wait?” Yes,
he and my lady's maid both waited: the other servants
made the supper; and there was no wine, and they could
give his lordship but milk, at which he grumbled; and—and
Madam Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always in the room
with her. And there being a bed across the court in the
chaplain's room, she had arranged my lord was to sleep
there. Madam Beatrix had come downstairs laughing with
the maids, and had locked herself in, and my lord had
stood for a while talking to her through the door, and
she laughing at him. And then he paced the court awhile,
and she came again to the upper window; and my lord
implored her to come down and walk in the room; but
she would not, and laughed at him again, and shut the
window; and so my lord uttering what seemed curses, but
in a foreign language, went to the chaplain's room to bed.




“Was this all?”—“All,” the man swore upon his honour;
“all as he hoped to be saved.—Stop, there was one thing
more. My lord, on arriving, and once or twice during
supper, did kiss his sister as was natural, and she kissed
him.” At this Esmond ground his teeth with rage, and
wellnigh throttled the amazed miscreant who was speaking,
whereas Castlewood, seizing hold of his cousin's hand, burst
into a great fit of laughter.




“If it amuses thee,” says Esmond in French, “that your
sister should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear
poor Beatrix will give thee plenty of sport.”—Esmond
darkly thought, how Hamilton, Ashburnham, had before
been masters of those roses that the young prince's lips
were now feeding on. He sickened at that notion. Her
cheek was desecrated, her beauty tarnished; shame and
honour stood between it and him. The love was dead
within him; had she a crown to bring him with her love,
he felt that both would degrade him.




But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry
feelings of the colonel against the man who had been the
occasion if not the cause of the evil. Frank sat down on
a stone bench in the courtyard, and fairly fell asleep, while
[pg 455]
Esmond paced up and down the court, debating what
should ensue. What mattered how much or how little had
passed between the prince and the poor faithless girl?
They were arrived in time perhaps to rescue her person,
but not her mind; had she not instigated the young prince
to come to her; suborned servants, dismissed others, so
that she might communicate with him? The treacherous
heart within her had surrendered, though the place was
safe; and it was to win this that he had given a life's
struggle and devotion; this, that she was ready to give
away for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the prince's
eye.




When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor
Frank from his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had
been dreaming of Clotilda. “You must back me,” says
Esmond, “in what I am going to do. I have been thinking
that yonder scoundrel may have been instructed to tell
that story, and that the whole of it may be a lie; if it
be, we shall find it out from the gentleman who is asleep
yonder. See if the door leading to my lady's rooms” (so
we called the rooms at the north-west angle of the house),
“see if the door is barred as he saith.” We tried; it was
indeed as the lackey had said, closed within.




“It may have been open and shut afterwards,” says poor
Esmond; “the foundress of our family let our ancestor
in that way.”




“What will you do, Harry, if—if what that fellow saith
should turn out untrue?” The young man looked scared
and frightened into his kinsman's face; I dare say it wore
no very pleasant expression.




“Let us first go see whether the two stories agree,” says
Esmond; and went in at the passage and opened the door
into what had been his own chamber now for wellnigh
five-and-twenty years. A candle was still burning, and the
prince asleep dressed on the bed—Esmond did not care
for making a noise. The prince started up in his bed,
seeing two men in his chamber:
“Qui est là?” says he,
and took a pistol from under his pillow.




“It is the Marquis of Esmond,” says the colonel, “come
to welcome his Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and
to report of what hath happened in London. Pursuant
to the king's orders, I passed the night before last, after
leaving his Majesty, in waiting upon the friends of the
[pg 456]
king. It is a pity that his Majesty's desire to see the
country and to visit our poor house should have caused
the king to quit London without notice yesterday, when
the opportunity happened which in all human probability
may not occur again; and had the king not chosen to
ride to Castlewood, the Prince of Wales might have slept
at St. James's.”




“'Sdeath! gentlemen,” says the prince, starting off his
bed, whereon he was lying in his clothes, “the doctor
was with me yesterday morning, and after watching by
my sister all night, told me I might not hope to see the
queen.”




“It would have been otherwise,” says Esmond, with another
bow; “as, by this time, the queen may be dead in spite
of the doctor. The Council was met, a new treasurer was
appointed, the troops were devoted to the king's cause;
and fifty loyal gentlemen of the greatest names of this
kingdom were assembled to accompany the Prince of Wales,
who might have been the acknowledged heir of the throne,
or the possessor of it by this time, had your Majesty not
chosen to take the air. We were ready; there was only
one person that failed us, your Majesty's gracious——”




“Morbleu! monsieur,
you give me too much Majesty,”
said the prince; who had now risen up and seemed to be
looking to one of us to help him to his coat. But neither
stirred.




“We shall take care,” says Esmond, “not much oftener
to offend in that particular.”




“What mean you, my lord?” says the prince, and
muttered something about a guet-à-pens,
which Esmond caught up.




“The snare, sir,” said he, “was not of our laying; it is
not we that invited you. We came to avenge, and not to
compass, the dishonour of our family.”




“Dishonour! Morbleu!
there has been no dishonour,”
says the prince, turning scarlet, “only a little harmless
playing.”




“That was meant to end seriously.”




“I swear,” the prince broke out impetuously, “upon the
honour of a gentleman, my lords——”




“That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done,
Frank,” says Colonel Esmond, turning round to young
Castlewood, who stood at the door as the talk was going
[pg 457]
on. “See! here is a paper whereon his Majesty hath
deigned to commence some verses in honour, or dishonour,
of Beatrix. Here is madame and
flamme,
cruelle and
rebelle, and
amour and
jour, in the royal writing and
spelling. Had the gracious lover been happy, he had not
passed his time in sighing.” In fact, and actually as he
was speaking, Esmond cast his eyes down towards the
table, and saw a paper on which my young prince had
been scrawling a madrigal, that was to finish his charmer
on the morrow.




“Sir,” says the prince, burning with rage (he had assumed
his royal coat unassisted by this time), “did I come here
to receive insults?”




“To confer them, may it please your Majesty,” says the
colonel, with a very low bow, “and the gentlemen of our
family are come to thank you.”




“Malédiction!”
says the young man, tears starting into
his eyes with helpless rage and mortification. “What will
you with me, gentlemen?”




“If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment,”
says Esmond, preserving his grave tone, “I have some
papers there which I would gladly submit to you, and by
your permission I will lead the way;” and, taking the
taper up, and backing before the prince with very great
ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little chaplain's
room, through which we had just entered into the house:—“Please
to set a chair for his Majesty, Frank,” says the
colonel to his companion, who wondered almost as much
at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as the other
actor in it. Then going to the crypt over the mantelpiece,
the colonel opened it, and drew thence the papers which so
long had lain there.




“Here, may it please your Majesty,” says he, “is the
patent of Marquis sent over by your royal father at St.
Germains to Viscount Castlewood, my father: here is the
witnessed certificate of my father's marriage to my mother,
and of my birth and christening; I was christened of that
religion of which your sainted sire gave all through life so
shining example. These are my titles, dear Frank, and this
what I do with them: here go baptism and marriage,
and here the marquisate and the august sign-manual, with
which your predecessor was pleased to honour our race.”
And as Esmond spoke he set the papers burning in the
[pg 458]
brasier. “You will please, sir, to remember,” he continued,
“that our family hath ruined itself by fidelity to yours:
that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave his blood
and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord's
grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and
title too) died for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman,
my father's second wife, after giving away her honour to
your wicked perjured race, sent all her wealth to the king;
and got in return that precious title that lies in ashes, and
this inestimable yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at your
feet and stamp upon it: I draw this sword, and break it
and deny you; and, had you completed the wrong you
designed us, by Heaven I would have driven it through
your heart, and no more pardoned you than your father
pardoned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won't you,
cousin?”




Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the
papers as they flamed in the old brasier, took out his sword
and broke it, holding his head down:—“I go with my
cousin,” says he, giving Esmond a grasp of the hand.
“Marquis or not, by ——, I stand by him any day. I beg
your Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is—that is—I'm
for the Elector of Hanover. It's all your Majesty's own
fault. The queen's dead most likely by this time. And
you might have been king if you hadn't come dangling
after 'Trix”.




“Thus to lose a crown,” says the young prince, starting
up, and speaking French in his eager way; “to lose the
loveliest woman in the world; to lose the loyalty of such
hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough of humiliation?—Marquis,
if I go on my knees will you pardon me?—No,
I can't do that, but I can offer you reparation, that
of honour, that of gentlemen. Favour me by crossing the
sword with mine: yours is broke—see, yonder in the
armoire are two;” and the prince took them out as eager
as a boy, and held them towards Esmond:—“Ah! you will?
Merci, monsieur, merci!”




Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension
and repentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed
down so low as almost to kiss the gracious young hand
that conferred on him such an honour, and took his guard
in silence. The swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood
knocked up Esmond's with the blade of his own,
[pg 459]
which he had broke off short at the shell; and the colonel
falling back a step dropped his point with another very
low bow, and declared himself perfectly satisfied.




“Eh bien, vicomte,”
says the young prince, who was a boy, and a French boy,
“il ne nous reste qu'une chose
à faire:” he placed his sword upon the table, and the fingers
of his two hands upon his breast:—“We have one more
thing to do,” says he; “you do not divine it?” He stretched
out his arms:—“Embrassons nous!”




The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the
room:—What came she to seek there? She started and
turned pale at the sight of her brother and kinsman, drawn
swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet smouldering
in the brasier.




“Charming Beatrix,” says the prince, with a blush which
became him very well, “these lords have come a-horseback
from London, where my sister lies in a despaired state, and
where her successor makes himself desired. Pardon me
for my escapade of last evening. I had been so long a
prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade on
horseback, and my horse naturally bore me towards you.
I found you a queen in your little court, where you deigned
to entertain me. Present my homages to your maids of
honour. I sighed as you slept, under the window of your
chamber, and then retired to seek rest in my own. It was
there that these gentlemen agreeably roused me. Yes,
milords, for that is a happy day that makes a prince
acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with such a noble
heart as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle,
may we take your coach to town? I saw it in the hangar,
and this poor marquis must be dropping with sleep.”




“Will it please the king to breakfast before he goes?”
was all Beatrix could say. The roses had shuddered out
of her cheeks; her eyes were glaring; she looked quite old.
She came up to Esmond and hissed out a word or two:—“If
I did not love you before, cousin,” says she, “think how
I love you now.” If words could stab, no doubt she would
have killed Esmond; she looked at him as if she could.




But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his
heart was too hard. As he looked at her, he wondered
that he could ever have loved her. His love of ten years
was over; it fell down dead on the spot, at the Kensington
tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of Eikon
[pg 460]
Basilike. The prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed
at him, and quitted the chamber. I have never seen her
from that day.




Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently.
My lord rode outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired
that he was no sooner in the carriage than he fell asleep,
and never woke till night, as the coach came into Alton.




As we drove to the “Bell Inn” comes a mitred coach with
our old friend Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady
Castlewood and the bishop were inside; she gave a little
scream when she saw us. The two coaches entered the inn
almost together; the landlord and people coming out with
lights to welcome the visitors.




We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw
the dear lady, and above all, the doctor in his cassock. What
was the news? Was there yet time? Was the queen alive?
These questions were put hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting
before his noble guests to bow them up the stair.




“Is she safe?” was what Lady Castlewood whispered in
a flutter to Esmond.




“All's well, thank God,” says he, as the fond lady took
his hand and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her
dear. She wasn't thinking of queens and crowns.




The bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was not
lost; the queen yet breathed or was alive when they left
London, six hours since. (“It was Lady Castlewood who
insisted on coming,” the doctor said;) Argyle had marched
up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more;
the Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them (I am not sure
but the bishop swore as he spoke), and so too were our people.
And all might be saved, if only the prince could be at
London in time. We called for horses, instantly to return
to London. We never went up poor crestfallen Boniface's
stairs, but into our coaches again. The prince and his
prime minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his
dear mistress as a companion.




Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the
prince's friends, and warn them of his coming. We travelled
through the night. Esmond discoursing to his mistress of
the events of the last twenty-four hours; of Castlewood's
ride and his; of the prince's generous behaviour and their
reconciliation. The night seemed short enough; and the
starlit hours passed away serenely in that fond company.


[pg 461]


So we came along the road; the bishop's coach heading
ours; and, with some delays in procuring horses, we got
to Hammersmith about four o'clock on Sunday morning,
the first of August, and half an hour after, it being then
bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's house, and so
down the street of Kensington.




Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street, and
many people moving to and fro. Round the gate leading
to the palace, where the guard is, there was especially
a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us stopped, and
the bishop's man got down to know what the concourse
meant?




There presently came from out of the gate: Horse Guards
with their trumpets, and a company of heralds with their
tabards. The trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came
forward and proclaimed George, by the grace of God, of
Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the
Faith. And the people shouted, “God save the King!”




Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I
caught sight of one sad face, which I had known all my life,
and seen under many disguises. It was no other than poor
Mr. Holt's, who had slipped over to England to witness
the triumph of the good cause; and now beheld its enemies
victorious, amidst the acclamations of the English people.
The poor fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off,
until his neighbours in the crowd remarked his want of
loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit in disguise, when he
ruefully uncovered and began to cheer. Sure he was the
most unlucky of men: he never played a game but he lost
it; or engaged in a conspiracy but 'twas certain to end in
defeat. I saw him in Flanders after this, whence he went
to Rome to the head quarters of his Order; and actually
reappeared among us in America, very old, and busy, and
hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet
and moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and warpaint,
skulk about a missionary amongst the Indians. He
lies buried in our neighbouring province of Maryland now,
with a cross over him, and a mound of earth above him;
under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at peace.






With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the vain
hopes of the weak and foolish young pretender were blown
away; and with that music, too, I may say, the drama
[pg 462]
of my own life was ended. That happiness, which hath
subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in words; 'tis
of its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of,
though the heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to
Heaven and the One Ear alone—to one fond being, the
truest and tenderest and purest wife ever man was blessed
with. As I think of the immense happiness which was in
store for me, and of the depth and intensity of that love
which, for so many years, hath blessed me, I own to a transport
of wonder and gratitude for such a boon—nay, am
thankful to have been endowed with a heart capable of
feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the
gift which God hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love vincit
omnia; is immeasurably above all ambition, more precious
than wealth, more noble than name. He knows not life
who knows not that: he hath not felt the highest faculty
of the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of my
wife I write the completion of hope, and the summit of
happiness. To have such a love is the one blessing, in comparison
of which all earthly joy is of no value; and to think
of her, is to praise God.




It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure
of our plot—our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the
way—that the great joy of my life was bestowed upon me,
and that my dear mistress became my wife. We had been
so accustomed to an extreme intimacy and confidence, and
had lived so long and tenderly together, that we might have
gone on to the end without thinking of a closer tie; but
circumstances brought about that event which so prodigiously
multiplied my happiness and hers (for which
I humbly thank Heaven), although a calamity befell us,
which, I blush to think, hath occurred more than once in
our house. I know not what infatuation of ambition urged
the beautiful and wayward woman, whose name hath
occupied so many of these pages, and who was served by me
with ten years of such a constant fidelity and passion; but
ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her, she
persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left
us, and escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell.
Nor was her son's house a home for my dear mistress; my
poor Frank was weak, as perhaps all our race hath been,
and led by women. Those around him were imperious, and
in a terror of his mother's influence over him, lest he should
[pg 463]
recant, and deny the creed which he had adopted by their
persuasion. The difference of their religion separated the
son and the mother: my dearest mistress felt that she
was severed from her children and alone in the world—alone
but for one constant servant on whose fidelity, praised
be Heaven, she could count. 'Twas after a scene of ignoble
quarrel on the part of Frank's wife and mother (for the
poor lad had been made to marry the whole of that German
family with whom he had connected himself), that I found
my mistress one day in tears, and then besought her to
confide herself to the care and devotion of one who, by
God's help, would never forsake her. And then the tender
matron, as beautiful in her autumn, and as pure as virgins
in their spring, with blushes of love and “eyes of meek
surrender”, yielded to my respectful importunity, and consented
to share my home. Let the last words I write thank
her, and bless her who hath blessed it.




By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution,
and every obstacle against our return to England, was
removed; and my son Frank's gallantry in Scotland made
his peace with the king's Government. But we two cared
no longer to live in England; and Frank formally and
joyfully yielded over to us the possession of that estate
which we now occupy, far away from Europe and its troubles,
on the beautiful banks of the Potomac, where we have built
a new Castlewood, and think with grateful hearts of our old
home. In our Transatlantic country we have a season, the
calmest and most delightful of the year, which we call the
Indian summer: I often say the autumn of our life resembles
that happy and serene weather, and am thankful for
its rest and its sweet sunshine. Heaven hath blessed us
with a child, which each parent loves for her resemblance
to the other. Our diamonds are turned into ploughs and
axes for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and
merriest, I think, in all this country: and the only jewel
by which my wife sets any store, and from which she hath
never parted, is that gold button she took from my arm
on the day when she visited me in prison, and which she
wore ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in
the world.






[pg 464]





 Appendix



Book I, chap, viii, p. 80, line 9: “mist” was wrongly altered in
revised edition to “midst”.




Book I, chap, xii, p. 130, line 2 from foot: “through” was wrongly
altered in revised edition to “to”.




Book II, chap, ii, p. 179, line 7 from foot: “guests,” though never
altered, should clearly be “hosts”.




Book II, chap, xv, p. 307, line 8: the following passage was
omitted in the edition of 1858:—






“I always thought that paper was Mr. Congreve's,” cries
Mr. St. John, showing that he knew more about the subject
than he pretended to Mr. Steele, and who was the original
Mr. Bickerstaffe drew.




“Tom Boxer said so in his Observator. But Tom's
oracle is often making blunders,” cries Steele.




“Mr. Boxer and my husband were friends once, and when
the captain was ill with the fever, no man could be kinder
than Mr. Boxer, who used to come to his bedside every
day, and actually brought Dr. Arbuthnot who cured him,”
whispered Mrs. Steele.




“Indeed, madam! How very interesting,” says Mr.
St. John.




“But when the captain's last comedy came out, Mr.
Boxer took no notice of it—you know he is Mr. Congreve's
man, and won't ever give a word to the other house—and
this made my husband angry.”




“Oh! Mr. Boxer is Mr. Congreve's man!” says Mr.
St. John.




“Mr. Congreve has wit enough of his own,” cries out
Mr. Steele. “No one ever heard me grudge him or any
other man his share.”






Book III, chap, i, p. 326, line 19: for “Frank”, Thackeray by
an interesting reminiscence of Pendennis wrote “Arthur”.






[pg 465]





 The English Humourists Of The Eighteenth Century



THE ENGLISH HUMOURISTS




OF THE




EIGHTEENTH CENTURY




A Series of Lectures




DELIVERED IN ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND THE UNITED STATES
OF AMERICA




[First edition, 1853; second edition, revised, 1853]


[pg 469]





 Lecture The First. Swift



In treating of the English humourists of the past age, it
is of the men and of their lives, rather than of their books,
that I ask permission to speak to you; and in doing so,
you are aware that I cannot hope to entertain you with
a merely humorous or facetious story. Harlequin without
his mask is known to present a very sober countenance,
and was himself, the story goes, the melancholy patient
whom the Doctor advised to go and see Harlequin21—a
man full of cares and perplexities like the rest of us,
whose Self must always be serious to him, under whatever
mask, or disguise, or uniform he presents it to the public.
And as all of you here must needs be grave when you
think of your own past and present, you will not look to
find, in the histories of those whose lives and feelings I am
going to try and describe to you, a story that is otherwise
than serious, and often very sad. If Humour only meant
laughter, you would scarcely feel more interest about
humorous writers than about the private life of poor
Harlequin just mentioned, who possesses in common with
these the power of making you laugh. But the men
regarding whose lives and stories your kind presence here
shows that you have curiosity and sympathy, appeal to
a great number of our other faculties, besides our mere
sense of ridicule. The humorous writer professes to
awaken and direct your love, your pity, your kindness—your
scorn for untruth, pretension, imposture—your
tenderness for the weak, the poor, the oppressed, the
[pg 470]
unhappy. To the best of his means and ability he comments
on all the ordinary actions and passions of life
almost. He takes upon himself to be the week-day
preacher, so to speak. Accordingly, as he finds, and
speaks, and feels the truth best, we regard him, esteem
him—sometimes love him. And, as his business is to
mark other people's lives and peculiarities, we moralize
upon his life when he is gone—and yesterday's preacher
becomes the text for to-day's sermon.




Of English parents, and of a good English family of
clergymen,22 Swift was born in Dublin in 1667, seven months
after the death of his father, who had come to practise
there as a lawyer. The boy went to school at Kilkenny,
and afterwards to Trinity College, Dublin, where he got
a degree with difficulty, and was wild, and witty, and poor.
In 1688, by the recommendation of his mother, Swift was
received into the family of Sir William Temple, who had
known Mrs. Swift in Ireland. He left his patron in 1693,
and the next year took orders in Dublin. But he threw
up the small Irish preferment which he got and returned
to Temple, in whose family he remained until Sir William's
death in 1699. His hopes of advancement in England
failing, Swift returned to Ireland, and took the living of
Laracor. Hither he invited Hester Johnson,23 Temple's
[pg 471]
natural daughter, with whom he had contracted a tender
friendship, while they were both dependants of Temple's.
And with an occasional visit to England, Swift now passed
nine years at home.




In 1709 he came to England, and, with a brief visit to
Ireland, during which he took possession of his deanery of
St. Patrick, he now passed five years in England, taking
the most distinguished part in the political transactions
which terminated with the death of Queen Anne. After
her death, his party disgraced, and his hopes of ambition
over, Swift returned to Dublin, where he remained twelve
years. In this time he wrote the famous Drapier's Letters
and Gulliver's Travels. He married Hester Johnson (Stella)
and buried Esther Vanhomrigh (Vanessa) who had followed
him to Ireland from London, where she had contracted
a violent passion for him. In 1726 and 1727 Swift was in
England, which he quitted for the last time on hearing of
his wife's illness. Stella died in January, 1728, and Swift
not until 1745, having passed the last five of the seventy-eight
years of his life with an impaired intellect and keepers
to watch him.24




You know, of course, that Swift has had many biographers;
his life has been told by the kindest and most
good-natured of men, Scott, who admires but can't bring
himself to love him; and by stout old Johnson,25 who,
[pg 472]
forced to admit him into the company of poets, receives
the famous Irishman, and takes off his hat to him with
a bow of surly recognition, scans him from head to foot,
and passes over to the other side of the street. Dr. Wilde,
of Dublin,26 who has written a most interesting volume on
the closing years of Swift's life, calls Johnson “the most
malignant of his biographers”: it is not easy for an
English critic to please Irishmen—perhaps to try and
please them. And yet Johnson truly admires Swift:
Johnson does not quarrel with Swift's change of politics,
or doubt his sincerity of religion: about the famous Stella
and Vanessa controversy the Doctor does not bear very
hardly on Swift. But he could not give the Dean that
honest hand of his; the stout old man puts it into his
breast, and moves off from him.27




Would we have liked to live with him? That is a question
[pg 473]
which, in dealing with these people's works, and
thinking of their lives and peculiarities, every reader of
biographies must put to himself. Would you have liked
to be a friend of the great Dean? I should like to have
been Shakespeare's shoeblack—just to have lived in his
house, just to have worshipped him—to have run on his
errands, and seen that sweet serene face. I should like,
as a young man, to have lived on Fielding's staircase in
the Temple, and after helping him up to bed perhaps, and
opening his door with his latchkey, to have shaken hands
with him in the morning, and heard him talk and crack
jokes over his breakfast and his mug of small beer. Who
would not give something to pass a night at the club with
Johnson, and Goldsmith, and James Boswell, Esq., of
Auchinleck? The charm of Addison's companionship and
conversation has passed to us by fond tradition—but
Swift? If you had been his inferior in parts (and that,
with a great respect for all persons present, I fear is only
very likely), his equal in mere social station, he would have
bullied, scorned, and insulted you; if, undeterred by his
great reputation, you had met him like a man, he would,
have quailed before you,28 and not had the pluck to reply,
[pg 474]
and gone home, and years after written a foul epigram
about you—watched for you in a sewer, and come out to
assail you with a coward's blow and a dirty bludgeon. If
you had been a lord with a blue ribbon, who flattered his
vanity, or could help his ambition, he would have been
the most delightful company in the world. He would
have been so manly, so sarcastic, so bright, odd, and
original, that you might think he had no object in view
but the indulgence of his humour, and that he was the most
reckless, simple creature in the world. How he would
have torn your enemies to pieces for you! and made fun
of the Opposition! His servility was so boisterous that it
looked like independence;29 he would have done your
errands, but with the air of patronizing you, and after
fighting your battles masked in the street or the press,
would have kept on his hat before your wife and daughters
in the drawing-room, content to take that sort of pay for
his tremendous services as a bravo.30


[pg 475]


He says as much himself in one of his letters to Bolingbroke:—“All
my endeavours to distinguish myself were
only for want of a great title and fortune, that I might be
used like a lord by those who have an opinion of my parts;
whether right or wrong is no great matter. And so the
reputation of wit and great learning does the office of
a blue ribbon or a coach-and-six.”31




Could there be a greater candour? It is an outlaw,
who says, “These are my brains; with these I'll win
titles and compete with fortune. These are my bullets;
these I'll turn into gold”; and he hears the sound of
coaches-and-six, takes the road like Macheath, and makes
society stand and deliver. They are all on their knees
before him. Down go my lord bishop's apron, and his
grace's blue ribbon, and my lady's brocade petticoat in
the mud. He eases the one of a living, the other of a
patent place, the third of a little snug post about the
Court, and gives them over to followers of his own. The
great prize has not come yet. The coach with the mitre
and crosier in it, which he intends to have for his share,
has been delayed on the way from St. James's; and he
waits and waits until nightfall, when his runners come and
tell him that the coach has taken a different road, and
escaped him. So he fires his pistols into the air with
a curse, and rides away into his own country.32


[pg 476]


Swift's seems to me to be as good a name to point a moral
or adorn a tale of ambition, as any hero's that ever lived
and failed. But we must remember that the morality
was lax—that other gentlemen besides himself took the
road in his day—that public society was in a strange
[pg 477]
disordered condition, and the State was ravaged by other
condottieri. The Boyne was being fought and won, and
lost—the bells rung in William's victory, in the very same
tone with which they would have pealed for James's.
Men were loose upon politics, and had to shift for themselves.
They, as well as old beliefs and institutions, had
lost their moorings and gone adrift in the storm. As in
the South Sea Bubble almost everybody gambled; as in
the Railway mania—not many centuries ago—almost every
one took his unlucky share; a man of that time, of the
vast talents and ambition of Swift, could scarce do otherwise
than grasp at his prize, and make his spring at his
opportunity. His bitterness, his scorn, his rage, his subsequent
misanthropy, are ascribed by some panegyrists to
a deliberate conviction of mankind's unworthiness, and
a desire to amend them by castigating. His youth was
bitter, as that of a great genius bound down by ignoble
ties, and powerless in a mean dependence; his age was
bitter,33 like that of a great genius that had fought the
battle and nearly won it, and lost it, and thought of it
afterwards writhing in a lonely exile. A man may attribute
to the gods, if he likes, what is caused by his own fury,
[pg 478]
or disappointment, or self-will. What public man—what
statesman projecting a coup—what king determined
on an invasion of his neighbour—what satirist meditating an
onslaught on society or an individual, can't give a pretext
for his move? There was a French general the other day
who proposed to march into this country and put it to
sack and pillage, in revenge for humanity outraged by our
conduct at Copenhagen—there is always some excuse for
men of the aggressive turn. They are of their nature warlike,
predatory, eager for fight, plunder, dominion.34




As fierce a beak and talon as ever struck—as strong
a wing as ever beat, belonged to Swift. I am glad, for
one, that fate wrested the prey out of his claws, and cut
his wings and chained him. One can gaze, and not without
awe and pity, at the lonely eagle chained behind the
bars.




That Swift was born at No. 7, Hoey's Court, Dublin, on
the 30th November, 1667, is a certain fact, of which nobody
will deny the sister island the honour and glory, but, it
seems to me, he was no more an Irishman than a man
born of English parents at Calcutta is a Hindoo.35 Goldsmith
[pg 479]
was an Irishman, and always an Irishman: Steele
was an Irishman, and always an Irishman: Swift's heart
was English and in England, his habits English, his logic
eminently English; his statement is elaborately simple;
he shuns tropes and metaphors, and uses his ideas and
words with a wise thrift and economy, as he used his
money; with which he could be generous and splendid
upon great occasions, but which he husbanded when there
was no need to spend it. He never indulges in needless
extravagance of rhetoric, lavish epithets, profuse imagery.
He lays his opinion before you with a grave simplicity
and a perfect neatness.36 Dreading ridicule too, as a man
of his humour—above all an Englishman of his humour—certainly
would, he is afraid to use the poetical power
which he really possessed; one often fancies in reading
him that he dares not be eloquent when he might; that
[pg 480]
he does not speak above his voice, as if were, and the
tone of society.




His initiation into politics, his knowledge of business,
his knowledge of polite life, his acquaintance with literature
even, which he could not have pursued very sedulously
during that reckless career at Dublin, Swift got under the
roof of Sir William Temple. He was fond of telling in
after-life what quantities of books he devoured there, and
how King William taught him to cut asparagus in the
Dutch fashion. It was at Shene and at Moor Park, with
a salary of twenty pounds and a dinner at the upper
servants' table, that this great and lonely Swift passed
a ten years' apprenticeship—wore a cassock that was only
not a livery—bent down a knee as proud as Lucifer's to
supplicate my lady's good graces, or run on his honour's
errands.37 It was here, as he was writing at Temple's table,
or following his patron's walk, that he saw and heard the
men who had governed the great world—measured himself
with them, looking up from his silent corner, gauged their
brains, weighed their wits, turned them, and tried them,
and marked them. Ah, what platitudes he must have
heard! what feeble jokes! what pompous commonplaces!
what small men they must have seemed under those enormous
periwigs, to the swarthy, uncouth, silent Irish secretary.
I wonder whether it ever struck Temple that that
Irishman was his master? I suppose that dismal conviction
did not present itself under the ambrosial wig, or
Temple could never have lived with Swift. Swift sickened,
rebelled, left the service—ate humble pie and came back
again; and so for ten years went on, gathering learning,
swallowing scorn, and submitting with a stealthy rage to
his fortune.




Temple's style is the perfection of practised and easy
good-breeding. If he does not penetrate very deeply into
a subject, he professes a very gentlemanly acquaintance
with it; if he makes rather a parade of Latin, it was the
custom of his day, as it was the custom for a gentleman
to envelop his head in a periwig and his hands in lace
[pg 481]
ruffles. If he wears buckles and square-toed shoes, he
steps in them with a consummate grace, and you never
hear their creak, or find them treading upon any lady's
train or any rival's heels in the Court crowd. When that
grows too hot or too agitated for him, he politely leaves
it. He retires to his retreat of Shene or Moor Park; and
lets the King's party, and the Prince of Orange's party
battle it out among themselves. He reveres the Sovereign
(and no man perhaps ever testified to his loyalty by so
elegant a bow); he admires the Prince of Orange; but
there is one person whose ease and comfort he loves more
than all the princes in Christendom, and that valuable
member of society is himself, Gulielmus Temple, Baronettus.
One sees him in his retreat; between his study-chair and
his tulip-beds,38 clipping his apricots and pruning his essays,—the
statesman, the ambassador no more; but the philosopher,
the Epicurean, the fine gentleman and courtier at
St. James's as at Shene; where, in place of kings and fair
[pg 482]
ladies, he pays his court to the Ciceronian majesty; or
walks a minuet with the Epic Muse; or dallies by the south
wall with the ruddy nymph of gardens.




Temple seems to have received and exacted a prodigious
deal of veneration from his household, and to have been
coaxed, and warmed, and cuddled by the people round
about him, as delicately as any of the plants which he
loved. When he fell ill in 1693, the household was aghast
at his indisposition; mild Dorothea, his wife, the best
companion of the best of men—







Mild Dorothea, peaceful, wise, and great,


Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate.







As for Dorinda, his sister,—







Those who would grief describe, might come and trace


Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's face.


To see her weep, joy every face forsook,


And grief flung sables on each menial look.


The humble tribe mourned for the quickening soul,


That furnished life and spirit through the whole.







Isn't that line in which grief is described as putting the
menials into a mourning livery, a fine image? One of the
menials wrote it, who did not like that Temple livery nor
those twenty-pound wages. Cannot one fancy the uncouth
young servitor, with downcast eyes, books and papers in
hand, following at his Honour's heels in the garden walk;
or taking his Honour's orders as he stands by the great
chair, where Sir William has the gout, and his feet all
blistered with moxa? When Sir William has the gout or
scolds it must be hard work at the second
table;39 the
[pg 483]
Irish secretary owned as much afterwards: and when he
came to dinner, how he must have lashed and growled
and torn the household with his gibes and scorn! What
would the steward say about the pride of them Irish
schollards—and this one had got no great credit even at
his Irish college, if the truth were known—and what a
contempt his Excellency's own gentleman must have had
for Parson Teague from Dublin. (The valets and chaplains
were always at war. It is hard to say which Swift
thought the more contemptible.) And what must have
been the sadness, the sadness and terror, of the housekeeper's
little daughter with the curling black ringlets and
the sweet smiling face, when the secretary who teaches her
to read and write, and whom she loves and reverences
[pg 484]
above all things—above mother, above mild Dorothea,
above that tremendous Sir William in his square-toes and
periwig,—when Mr. Swift comes down from his master with
rage in his heart, and has not a kind word even for little
Hester Johnson?




Perhaps, for the Irish secretary, his Excellency's condescension
was even more cruel than his frowns. Sir
William would perpetually quote Latin and the ancient
classics à propos of his gardens and his Dutch statues and
plates-bandes, and talk about Epicurus and Diogenes
Laertius, Julius Caesar, Semiramis, and the gardens of the
Hesperides, Maecenas, Strabo describing Jericho, and the
Assyrian kings. A propos of beans, he would mention
Pythagoras's precept to abstain from beans, and that this
precept probably meant that wise men should abstain from
public affairs. He is a placid Epicurean; he is a Pythagorean
philosopher; he is a wise man—that is the deduction.
Does not Swift think so? One can imagine the
downcast eyes lifted up for a moment, and the flash of
scorn which they emit. Swift's eyes were as azure as the
heavens; Pope says nobly (as everything Pope said and
thought of his friend was good and noble), “His eyes are
as azure as the heavens, and have a charming archness in
them.” And one person in that household, that pompous,
stately, kindly Moor Park, saw heaven nowhere else.




But the Temple amenities and solemnities did not agree
with Swift. He was half-killed with a surfeit of Shene
pippins; and in a garden-seat which he devised for himself
at Moor Park, and where he devoured greedily the stock
of books within his reach, he caught a vertigo and deafness
which punished and tormented him through life. He could
not bear the place or the servitude. Even in that poem
of courtly condolence, from which we have quoted a few
lines of mock melancholy, he breaks out of the funereal
procession with a mad shriek, as it were, and rushes away
crying his own grief, cursing his own fate, foreboding madness,
and forsaken by fortune, and even hope.




I don't know anything more melancholy than the letter
to Temple, in which, after having broke from his bondage,
the poor wretch crouches piteously towards his cage again,
and deprecates his master's anger. He asks for testimonials
for orders. “The particulars required of me are what relate
to morals and learning—and the reasons of quitting your
[pg 485]
Honour's family—that is, whether the last was occasioned
by any ill action. They are left entirely to your Honour's
mercy, though in the first I think I cannot reproach myself
for anything further than for infirmities. This is all I dare
at present beg from your Honour, under circumstances of
life not worth your regard: what is left me to wish (next
to the health and prosperity of your Honour and family)
is that Heaven would one day allow me the opportunity of
leaving my acknowledgements at your feet. I beg my
most humble duty and service be presented to my ladies,
your Honour's lady and sister.”—Can prostration fall
deeper? Could a slave bow lower?40




Twenty years afterwards, Bishop Kennet, describing the
same man, says, “Dr. Swift came into the coffee-house and
had a bow from everybody but me. When I came to the
antechamber [at Court] to wait before prayers, Dr. Swift
[pg 486]
was the principal man of talk and business. He was
soliciting the Earl of Arran to speak to his brother, the
Duke of Ormond, to get a place for a clergyman. He
was promising Mr. Thorold to undertake, with my Lord
Treasurer, that he should obtain a salary of 200l. per
annum as member of the English Church at Rotterdam.
He stopped F. Gwynne, Esq., going in to the Queen with
the red bag, and told him aloud, he had something to say
to him from my Lord Treasurer. He took out his gold
watch, and telling the time of day, complained that it was
very late. A gentleman said he was too fast. ‘How can
I help it,’ says the doctor, ‘if the courtiers give me a
watch that won't go right?’ Then he instructed a young
nobleman, that the best poet in England was Mr. Pope
(a Papist), who had begun a translation of Homer into
English, for which he would have them all subscribe;
‘For,’ says he, ‘he shall not begin to print till I have
a thousand guineas for him.’41 Lord Treasurer, after
leaving the Queen, came through the room, beckoning
Dr. Swift to follow him,—both went off just before prayers.”
There's a little malice in the Bishop's “just before prayers”.




This picture of the great Dean seems a true one, and is
harsh, though not altogether unpleasant. He was doing
good, and to deserving men too, in the midst of these
intrigues and triumphs. His journals and a thousand anecdotes
of him relate his kind acts and rough manners. His
hand was constantly stretched out to relieve an honest
man—he was cautious about his money, but ready.—If
you were in a strait would you like such a benefactor?
I think I would rather have had a potato and a friendly
word from Goldsmith than have been beholden to the
Dean for a guinea and a dinner.42 He insulted a man as
[pg 487]
he served him, made women cry, guests look foolish, bullied
unlucky friends, and flung his benefactions into poor men's
faces. No; the Dean was no Irishman—no Irishman ever
gave but with a kind word and a kind heart.




It is told, as if it were to Swift's credit, that the Dean of
St. Patrick's performed his family devotions every morning
regularly, but with such secrecy, that the guests in his
house were never in the least aware of the ceremony. There
was no need surely why a church dignitary should assemble
his family privily in a crypt, and as if he was afraid of
heathen persecution. But I think the world was right,
and the bishops who advised Queen Anne, when they counselled
her not to appoint the author of the Tale of a Tub
to a bishopric, gave perfectly good advice. The man who
wrote the arguments and illustrations in that wild book,
could not but be aware what must be the sequel of the
propositions which he laid down. The boon companion
of Pope and Bolingbroke, who chose these as the friends
of his life, and the recipients of his confidence and affection,
must have heard many an argument, and joined in many
a conversation over Pope's port, or St. John's burgundy,
which would not bear to be repeated at other men's boards.




I know of few things more conclusive as to the sincerity
of Swift's religion than his advice to poor John Gay to turn
clergyman, and look out for a seat on the Bench. Gay,
the author of the Beggar's Opera—Gay, the wildest of the
wits about town—it was this man that Jonathan Swift
advised to take orders—to invest in a cassock and bands—just
[pg 488]
as he advised him to husband his shillings and put his
thousand pounds out at interest.43 The Queen, and the
[pg 489]
bishops, and the world, were right in mistrusting the
religion of that man.




I am not here, of course, to speak of any man's religious
views, except in so far as they influence his literary character,
his life, his humour. The most notorious sinners of all
those fellow mortals whom it is our business to discuss—Harry
Fielding and Dick Steele, were especially loud, and
I believe really fervent, in their expressions of belief; they
belaboured freethinkers, and stoned imaginary atheists on
all sorts of occasions, going out of their way to bawl their
own creed, and persecute their neighbour's, and if they
sinned and stumbled, as they constantly did with debt,
with drink, with all sorts of bad behaviour, they got up on
their knees, and cried “Peccavi” with a most sonorous
orthodoxy. Yes; poor Harry Fielding and poor Dick
Steele were trusty and undoubting Church of England men;
they abhorred Popery, atheism, and wooden shoes, and
idolatries in general; and hiccupped “Church and State”
with fervour.




But Swift? His mind had had a different schooling,
and possessed a very different logical power. He was not
bred up in a tipsy guard-room, and did not learn to reason
in a Covent Garden tavern. He could conduct an argument
from beginning to end. He could see forward with a fatal
clearness. In his old age, looking at the Tale of a Tub,
when he said, “Good God, what a genius I had when
I wrote that book!” I think he was admiring not the
genius, but the consequences to which the genius had brought
him—a vast genius, a magnificent genius, a genius wonderfully
bright, and dazzling, and strong,—to seize, to know,
to see, to flash upon falsehood and scorch it into perdition,
to penetrate into the hidden motives, and expose the black
thoughts of men,—an awful, an evil spirit.




Ah, man! you, educated in Epicurean Temple's library,
you whose friends were Pope and St. John—what made
you to swear to fatal vows, and bind yourself to a lifelong
[pg 490]
hypocrisy before the Heaven which you adored with such
real wonder, humility, and reverence? For Swift was
a reverent, was a pious spirit—for Swift could love and
could pray. Through the storms and tempests of his
furious mind, the stars of religion and love break out in
the blue, shining serenely, though hidden by the driving
clouds and the maddened hurricane of his life.




It is my belief that he suffered frightfully from the
consciousness of his own scepticism, and that he had bent
his pride so far down as to put his apostasy out to hire.44
The paper left behind him, called Thoughts on Religion,
is merely a set of excuses for not professing disbelief. He
says of his sermons that he preached pamphlets: they
have scarce a Christian characteristic; they might be
preached from the steps of a synagogue, or the floor of
a mosque, or the box of a coffee-house almost. There is
little or no cant—he is too great and too proud for that;
and, in so far as the badness of his sermons goes, he is
honest. But having put that cassock on, it poisoned him:
he was strangled in his bands. He goes through life,
tearing, like a man possessed with a devil. Like Abudah
in the Arabian story, he is always looking out for the Fury,
and knows that the night will come and the inevitable hag
with it. What a night, my God, it was! what a lonely
rage and long agony—what a vulture that tore the heart
of that giant!45
It is awful to think of the great sufferings
of this great man. Through life he always seems alone,
somehow. Goethe was so. I can't fancy Shakespeare otherwise.
The giants must live apart. The kings can have
no company. But this man suffered so; and deserved so
to suffer. One hardly reads anywhere of such a pain.




The “saeva indignatio” of which he spoke as lacerating
his heart, and which he dares to inscribe on his tombstone—as
if the wretch who lay under that stone waiting God's
[pg 491]
judgement had a right to be angry—breaks out from him
in a thousand pages of his writing, and tears and rends
him. Against men in office, he having been overthrown;
against men in England, he having lost his chance of preferment
there, the furious exile never fails to rage and curse.
Is it fair to call the famous Drapier's Letters patriotism?
They are masterpieces of dreadful humour and invective:
they are reasoned logically enough too, but the proposition
is as monstrous and fabulous as the Lilliputian island. It
is not that the grievance is so great, but there is his enemy—the
assault is wonderful for its activity and terrible rage.
It is Samson, with a bone in his hand, rushing on his enemies
and felling them: one admires not the cause so much as
the strength, the anger, the fury of the champion. As is
the case with madmen, certain subjects provoke him, and
awaken his fits of wrath. Marriage is one of these; in
a hundred passages in his writings he rages against it;
rages against children; an object of constant satire, even
more contemptible in his eyes than a lord's chaplain, is
a poor curate with a large family. The idea of this luckless
paternity never fails to bring down from him gibes and
foul language. Could Dick Steele, or Goldsmith, or Fielding,
in his most reckless moment of satire, have written anything
like the Dean's famous “modest proposal” for eating
children? Not one of these but melts at the thoughts of
childhood, fondles and caresses it. Mr. Dean has no such
softness, and enters the nursery with the tread and gaiety
of an ogre.46
“I have been assured,” says he in the Modest
Proposal, “by a very knowing American of my acquaintance
in London, that a young healthy child, well nursed, is, at
a year old, a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome
food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and
I make no doubt it will equally serve in a
ragoût.” And
taking up this pretty joke, as his way is, he argues it with
perfect gravity and logic. He turns and twists this subject
in a score of different ways: he hashes it; and he serves
[pg 492]
it up cold; and he garnishes it; and relishes it always.
He describes the little animal as “dropped from its dam'”
advising that the mother should let it suck plentifully in
the last month, so as to render it plump and fat for a good
table! “A child,” says his reverence, “will make two dishes
at an entertainment for friends; and when the family dines
alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish,”
and so on; and, the subject being so delightful that he
can't leave it—he proceeds to recommend, in place of venison
for squires' tables, “the bodies of young lads and maidens
not exceeding fourteen or under twelve.” Amiable humourist!
laughing castigator of morals! There was a process
well known and practised in the Dean's gay days: when
a lout entered the coffee-house, the wags proceeded to what
they called “roasting” him. This is roasting a subject
with a vengeance. The Dean had a native genius for it.
As the Almanach des Gourmands says,
On nait rôtisseur.




And it was not merely by the sarcastic method that Swift
exposed the unreasonableness of loving and having children.
In Gulliver, the folly of love and marriage is urged by graver
arguments and advice. In the famous Lilliputian kingdom,
Swift speaks with approval of the practice of instantly
removing children from their parents and educating them
by the State; and amongst his favourite horses, a pair
of foals are stated to be the very utmost a well-regulated
equine couple would permit themselves. In fact, our great
satirist was of opinion that conjugal love was unadvisable,
and illustrated the theory by his own practice and example—God
help him—which made him about the most wretched
being in God's world.47




The grave and logical conduct of an absurd proposition,
as exemplified in the cannibal proposal just mentioned,
is our author's constant method through all his works of
humour. Given a country of people six inches or sixty
feet high, and by the mere process of the logic, a thousand
wonderful absurdities are evolved, at so many stages of
the calculation. Turning to the first minister who waited
behind him with a white staff near as tall as the mainmast
of the Royal Sovereign, the King of Brobdingnag observes
how contemptible a thing human grandeur is, as represented
by such a contemptible little creature as Gulliver. “The
[pg 493]
Emperor of Lilliput's features are strong and masculine”
(what a surprising humour there is in this description!)—“the
Emperor's features,” Gulliver says, “are strong and masculine,
with an Austrian lip, an arched nose, his complexion
olive, his countenance erect, his body and limbs well-proportioned,
and his deportment majestic. He is taller by
the breadth of my nail than any of his court, which alone is
enough to strike an awe into beholders.”




What a surprising humour there is in these descriptions!
How noble the satire is here! how just and honest! How
perfect the image! Mr. Macaulay has quoted the charming
lines of the poet, where the king of the pygmies is measured
by the same standard. We have all read in Milton of the
spear that was like “the mast of some tall admiral”, but
these images are surely likely to come to the comic poet
originally. The subject is before him. He is turning it
in a thousand ways. He is full of it. The figure suggests
itself naturally to him, and comes out of his subject, as in
that wonderful passage, when Gulliver's box having been
dropped by the eagle into the sea, and Gulliver having been
received into the ship's cabin, he calls upon the crew to
bring the box into the cabin, and put it on the table, the
cabin being only a quarter the size of the box. It is the
veracity of the blunder which is so admirable. Had a man
come from such a country as Brobdingnag he would have
blundered so.




But the best stroke of humour, if there be a best in that
abounding book, is that where Gulliver, in the unpronounceable
country, describes his parting from his master the
horse.48 “I took,” he says, “a second leave of my master,
[pg 494]
but as I was going to prostrate myself to kiss his hoof, he
did me the honour to raise it gently to my mouth. I am
[pg 495]
not ignorant how much I have been censured for mentioning
this last particular. Detractors are pleased to think it
improbable that so illustrious a person should descend to
give so great a mark of distinction to a creature so inferior
as I. Neither am I ignorant how apt some travellers are
to boast of extraordinary favours they have received. But
if these censurers were better acquainted with the noble
and courteous disposition of the Houyhnhnms they would
soon change their opinion.”




The surprise here, the audacity of circumstantial evidence,
the astounding gravity of the speaker, who is not ignorant
how much he has been censured, the nature of the favour
conferred, and the respectful exultation at the receipt of it,
are surely complete; it is truth topsy-turvy, entirely logical
and absurd.




As for the humour and conduct of this famous fable,
I suppose there is no person who reads but must admire;
[pg 496]
as for the moral, I think it horrible, shameful, unmanly,
blasphemous; and giant and great as this Dean is, I say
we should hoot him. Some of this audience mayn't have
read the last part of Gulliver, and to such I would recall
the advice of the venerable Mr. Punch to persons about
to marry, and say “Don't”. When Gulliver first lands
among the Yahoos, the naked howling wretches clamber
up trees and assault him, and he describes himself as “almost
stifled with the filth which fell about him”. The reader
of the fourth part of Gulliver's Travels is like the hero
himself in this instance. It is Yahoo language; a monster
gibbering shrieks, and gnashing imprecations against mankind—tearing
down all shreds of modesty, past all sense
of manliness and shame; filthy in word, filthy in thought,
furious, raging, obscene.




And dreadful it is to think that Swift knew the tendency
of his creed—the fatal rocks towards which his logic
desperately drifted. That last part of Gulliver is only a consequence
of what has gone before; and the worthlessness
of all mankind, the pettiness, cruelty, pride, imbecility, the
general vanity, the foolish pretension, the mock greatness,
the pompous dullness, the mean aims, the base successes—all
these were present to him; it was with the din of these
curses of the world, blasphemies against Heaven, shrieking
in his ears, that he began to write his dreadful allegory—of
which the meaning is that man is utterly wicked, desperate,
and imbecile, and his passions are so monstrous, and his
boasted powers so mean, that he is and deserves to be the
slave of brutes, and ignorance is better than his vaunted
reason. What had this man done? what secret remorse
was rankling at his heart? what fever was boiling in him,
that he should see all the world bloodshot? We view the
world with our own eyes, each of us; and we make from
within us the world we see. A weary heart gets no gladness
out of sunshine; a selfish man is sceptical about friendship,
as a man with no ear doesn't care for music. A frightful
self-consciousness it must have been, which looked on mankind
so darkly through those keen eyes of Swift.




A remarkable story is told by Scott, of Delany, who
interrupted Archbishop King and Swift in a conversation
which left the prelate in tears, and from which Swift rushed
away with marks of strong terror and agitation in his
countenance, upon which the archbishop said to Delany,
[pg 497]
“You have just met the most unhappy man on earth;
but on the subject of his wretchedness you must never
ask a question.”




The most unhappy man on earth;—Miserrimus—what
a character of him! And at this time all the great wits of
England had been at his feet. All Ireland had shouted after
him, and worshipped as a liberator, a saviour, the greatest
Irish patriot and citizen. Dean Drapier Bickerstaff Gulliver—the
most famous statesmen, and the greatest poets of his
day, had applauded him, and done him homage; and at
this time writing over to Bolingbroke, from Ireland, he
says, “It is time for me to have done with the world, and
so I would if I could get into a better before I was called
into the best, and not to die here in a rage, like a poisoned
rat in a hole.”




We have spoken about the men, and Swift's behaviour
to them; and now it behoves us not to forget that there are
certain other persons in the creation who had rather intimate
relations with the great Dean.49 Two women whom he loved
and injured are known by every reader of books so familiarly
that if we had seen them, or if they had been relatives of
our own, we scarcely could have known them better. Who
hasn't in his mind an image of Stella? Who does not love
her? Fair and tender creature: pure and affectionate
heart! Boots it to you, now that you have been at rest
[pg 498]
for a hundred and twenty years, not divided in death from
the cold heart which caused yours, whilst it beat, such
faithful pangs of love and grief—boots it to you now, that
the whole world loves and deplores you? Scarce any man,
I believe, ever thought of that grave, that did not cast
a flower of pity on it, and write over it a sweet epitaph.
Gentle lady, so lovely, so loving, so unhappy! you have
had countless champions; millions of manly hearts mourning
for you. From generation to generation we take up the
fond tradition of your beauty; we watch and follow your
tragedy, your bright morning love and purity, your constancy,
your grief, your sweet martyrdom. We know your
legend by heart. You are one of the saints of English story.




And if Stella's love and innocence are charming to contemplate,
I will say that in spite of ill-usage, in spite of
drawbacks, in spite of mysterious separation and union, of
hope delayed and sickened heart—in the teeth of Vanessa,
and that little episodical aberration which plunged Swift
into such woful pitfalls and quagmires of amorous perplexity—in
spite of the verdicts of most women, I believe,
who, as far as my experience and conversation go, generally
take Vanessa's part in the controversy—in spite of the tears
which Swift caused Stella to shed, and the rocks and barriers
which fate and temper interposed, and which prevented the
pure course of that true love from running smoothly—the
brightest part of Swift's story, the pure star in that dark
and tempestuous life of Swift's, is his love for Hester
Johnson. It has been my business, professionally of course,
to go through a deal of sentimental reading in my time, and
to acquaint myself with love-making, as it has been described
in various languages, and at various ages of the world; and
I know of nothing more manly, more tender, more exquisitely
touching, than some of these brief notes, written
in what Swift calls “his little language” in his journal to
Stella.50 He writes to her night and morning often. He
[pg 499]
never sends away a letter to her but he begins a new one
on the same day. He can't bear to let go her kind little
hand, as it were. He knows that she is thinking of him,
and longing for him far away in Dublin yonder. He
takes her letters from under his pillow and talks to them,
familiarly, paternally, with fond epithets and pretty
caresses—as he would to the sweet and artless creature
who loved him. “Stay,” he writes one morning—it is the
14th of December, 1710—“stay, I will answer some of your
letter this morning in bed—let me see. Come and appear,
little letter! Here I am, says he, and what say you to Stella
this morning fresh and fasting? And can Stella read this
writing without hurting her dear eyes?” he goes on, after
more kind prattle and fond whispering. The dear eyes shine
clearly upon him then—the good angel of his life is with
him and blessing him. Ah, it was a hard fate that wrung
from them so many tears, and stabbed pitilessly that pure
and tender bosom. A hard fate: but would she have
changed it? I have heard a woman say that she
would have taken Swift's cruelty to have had his tenderness.
He had a sort of worship for her whilst he wounded her.
He speaks of her after she is gone; of her wit, of her kindness,
of her grace, of her beauty, with a simple love and
reverence that are indescribably touching; in contemplation
of her goodness his hard heart melts into pathos; his
cold rhyme kindles and glows into poetry, and he falls down
on his knees, so to speak, before the angel, whose life he had
embittered, confesses his own wretchedness and unworthiness,
and adores her with cries of remorse and love:—







When on my sickly couch I lay,


Impatient both of night and day,


And groaning in unmanly strains,


Called every power to ease my pains,


Then Stella ran to my relief,


With cheerful face and inward grief,


And though by Heaven's severe decree


She suffers hourly more than me,


No cruel master could require


From slaves employed for daily hire,

[pg 500]

What Stella, by her friendship warmed,


With vigour and delight performed.


Now, with a soft and silent tread,


Unheard she moves about my bed:


My sinking spirits now supplies


With cordials in her hands and eyes.


Best patron of true friends! beware;


You pay too dearly for your care


If, while your tenderness secures


My life, it must endanger yours:


For such a fool was never found


Who pulled a palace to the ground,


Only to have the ruins made


Materials for a house decayed.







One little triumph Stella had in her life—one dear little
piece of injustice was performed in her favour, for which
I confess, for my part, I can't help thanking fate and the
Dean. That other person was sacrificed to her—that—that
young woman, who lived five doors from Dr. Swift's lodgings
in Bury Street, and who flattered him, and made love to
him in such an outrageous manner—Vanessa was thrown
over.




Swift did not keep Stella's letters to him in reply to those
he wrote to her.51 He kept Bolingbroke's, and Pope's, and
[pg 501]
Harley's, and Peterborough's: but Stella, “very carefully,”
the Lives say, kept Swift's. Of course: that is the way of
the world: and so we cannot tell what her style was, or of
what sort were the little letters which the doctor placed
there at night, and bade to appear from under his pillow
of a morning. But in Letter IV of that famous collection
he describes his lodging in Bury Street, where he has the
first floor, a dining-room and bedchamber, at eight shillings
a week; and in Letter VI he says “he has visited a lady just
come to town”, whose name somehow is not mentioned;
and in Letter VIII he enters a query of Stella's—“What do
you mean ‘that boards near me, that I dine with now and
then?’ What the deuce! You know whom I have dined
with every day since I left you, better than I do.” Of course
she does. Of course Swift has not the slightest idea of what
she means. But in a few letters more it turns out that the
doctor has been to dine “gravely” with a Mrs. Vanhomrigh:
then that he has been to “his neighbour”: then that he
has been unwell, and means to dine for the whole week
with his neighbour! Stella was quite right in her previsions.
She saw from the very first hint what was going
to happen; and scented Vanessa in the air.52 The rival is
[pg 502]
at the Dean's feet. The pupil and teacher are reading
together, and drinking tea together, and going to prayers
together, and learning Latin together, and conjugating
amo,
amas,
amavi together.
The “little language” is over for poor
Stella. By the rule of grammar and the course of conjugation,
doesn't amavi come after
amo and
amas?




The loves of Cadenus and Vanessa53 you may peruse in
Cadenus's own poem on the subject, and in poor Vanessa's
vehement expostulatory verses and letters to him; she
adores him, implores him, admires him, thinks him something
godlike, and only prays to be admitted to lie at
his feet.54 As they are bringing him home from church,
those divine feet of Dr. Swift's are found pretty often in
[pg 503]
Vannessa's parlour. He likes to be admired and adored. He
finds Miss Vanhomrigh to be a woman of great taste and
spirit, and beauty and wit, and a fortune too. He sees her
every day; he does not tell Stella about the business:
until the impetuous Vanessa becomes too fond of him, until
the doctor is quite frightened by the young woman's ardour,
and confounded by her warmth. He wanted to marry
neither of them—that I believe was the truth; but if he
had not married Stella, Vanessa would have had him in
spite of himself. When he went back to Ireland, his
Ariadne, not content to remain in her isle, pursued the
fugitive Dean. In vain he protested, he vowed, he soothed,
and bullied; the news of the Dean's marriage with Stella
at last came to her, and it killed her—she died of that
passion.55


[pg 504]


And when she died, and Stella heard that Swift had
written beautifully regarding her, “That doesn't surprise
me,” said Mrs. Stella, “for we all know the Dean could write
beautifully about a broomstick.” A woman—a true woman!
Would you have had one of them forgive the other?




In a note in his biography, Scott says that his friend
Dr. Tuke, of Dublin, has a lock of Stella's hair, enclosed in
a paper by Swift, on which are written in the Dean's hand,
the words: “Only a woman's hair.” An instance, says Scott,
of the Dean's desire to veil his feelings under the mask of
cynical indifference.


[pg 505]


See the various notions of critics! Do those words
indicate indifference or an attempt to hide feeling? Did
you ever hear or read four words more pathetic? Only
a woman's hair; only love, only fidelity, only purity,
innocence, beauty; only the tenderest heart in the world
stricken and wounded, and passed away now out of reach
of pangs of hope deferred, love insulted, and pitiless desertion:—only
that lock of hair left; and memory and remorse,
for the guilty, lonely wretch, shuddering over the
grave of his victim.




And yet to have had so much love, he must have given
some. Treasures of wit and wisdom, and tenderness, too,
must that man have had locked up in the caverns of his
gloomy heart, and shown fitfully to one or two whom he took
in there. But it was not good to visit that place. People
did not remain there long, and suffered for having been
there.56
He shrank away from all affections sooner or later.
Stella and Vanessa both died near him, and away from
him. He had not heart enough to see them die. He broke
from his fastest friend, Sheridan; he slunk away from his
fondest admirer, Pope. His laugh jars on one's ear after
sevenscore years. He was always alone—alone and gnashing
in the darkness, except when Stella's sweet smile came
and shone upon him. When that went, silence and utter
night closed over him. An immense genius: an awful downfall
and ruin. So great a man he seems to me, that thinking
of him is like thinking of an empire falling. We have other
great names to mention—none, I think, however, so great
or so gloomy.




[pg 506]





 Lecture The Second. Congreve And Addison



A great number of years ago, before the passing of the
Reform Bill, there existed at Cambridge a certain debating
club, called the “Union”; and I remember that there was
a tradition amongst the undergraduates who frequented
that renowned school of oratory, that the great leaders of
the Opposition and Government had their eyes upon the
University Debating Club, and that if a man distinguished
himself there he ran some chance of being returned to
Parliament as a great nobleman's nominee. So Jones of
John's, or Thomson of Trinity, would rise in their might,
and draping themselves in their gowns, rally round the
monarchy, or hurl defiance at priests and kings, with the
majesty of Pitt or the fire of Mirabeau, fancying all the
while that the great nobleman's emissary was listening to the
debate from the back benches, where he was sitting with
the family seat in his pocket. Indeed, the legend said that
one or two young Cambridge men, orators of the Union,
were actually caught up thence, and carried down to
Cornwall or old Sarum, and so into Parliament. And many
a young fellow deserted the jogtrot University curriculum,
to hang on in the dust behind the fervid wheels of the
Parliamentary chariot.




Where, I have often wondered, were the sons of peers
and Members of Parliament in Anne's and George's time?
Were they all in the army, or hunting in the country, or
boxing the watch? How was it that the young gentlemen
from the University got such a prodigious number of places?
A lad composed a neat copy of verses at Christchurch or
Trinity, in which the death of a great personage was bemoaned,
the French king assailed, the Dutch or Prince
Eugene complimented, or the reverse; and the party in
power was presently to provide for the young poet; and
a commissionership, or a post in the Stamps, or the secretaryship
[pg 507]
of an embassy, or a clerkship in the Treasury, came
into the bard's possession. A wonderful fruit-bearing rod
was that of Busby's. What have men of letters got in our
time? Think, not only of Swift, a king fit to rule in any
time or empire—but Addison, Steele, Prior, Tickell, Congreve,
John Gay, John Dennis, and many others, who got
public employment, and pretty little pickings out of the
public purse.57 The wits of whose names we shall treat in
this lecture and two following, all (save one) touched the
king's coin, and had, at some period of their lives, a happy
quarter-day coming round for them.




They all began at school or college in the regular way,
producing panegyrics upon public characters, what were
called odes upon public events, battles, sieges, court
marriages and deaths, in which the gods of Olympus and
the tragic muse were fatigued with invocations, according
to the fashion of the time in France and in England. “Aid
us Mars, Bacchus, Apollo,” cried Addison, or Congreve,
singing of William or Marlborough. “Accourez, chastes
nymphes de Parnasse,” says Boileau, celebrating the Grand
Monarch. “Des sons que ma lyre enfante, marquez-en bien
la cadence, et vous, vents, faites silence! je vais parler de
[pg 508]
Louis!” Schoolboys' themes and foundation exercises are
the only relics left now of this scholastic fashion. The
Olympians are left quite undisturbed in their mountain.
What man of note, what contributor to the poetry of
a country newspaper, would now think of writing a congratulatory
ode on the birth of the heir to a dukedom, or
the marriage of a nobleman? In the past century the young
gentlemen of the Universities all exercised themselves at
these queer compositions; and some got fame, and some
gained patrons and places for life, and many more took
nothing by these efforts of what they were pleased to call
their muses.




William Congreve's58 Pindaric Odes are still to be found
in Johnson's Poets, that now unfrequented poets' corner,
in which so many forgotten bigwigs have a niche—but
though he was also voted to be one of the greatest tragic
poets of any day, it was Congreve's wit and humour which
first recommended him to courtly fortune. And it is
recorded, that his first play, the Old Bachelor, brought our
author to the notice of that great patron of English muses,
Charles Montague Lord Halifax, who being desirous to
place so eminent a wit in a state of ease and tranquillity,
instantly made him one of the Commissioners for licensing
hackney-coaches, bestowed on him soon after a place in the
Pipe-office, and likewise a post in the Custom-house of the
value of 600l.




A commissionership of hackney-coaches—a post in the
Custom-house—a place in the Pipe-office, and all for writing
a comedy! Doesn't it sound like a fable, that place in the
Pipe-office?59
Ah, l'heureux temps que celui de ces fables!
[pg 509]
Men of letters there still be: but I doubt whether any Pipe-offices
are left. The public has smoked them long ago.




Words, like men, pass current for a while with the
public, and being known everywhere abroad, at length
take their places in society; so even the most secluded
and refined ladies here present will have heard the phrase
from their sons or brothers at school, and will permit me
to call William Congreve, Esquire, the most eminent
literary “swell” of his age. In my copy of Johnson's
Lives Congreve's wig is the tallest, and put on with the
jauntiest air of all the laurelled worthies. “I am the great
Mr. Congreve,” he seems to say, looking out from his
voluminous curls. People called him the great Mr. Congreve.60
From the beginning of his career until the end
everybody admired him. Having got his education in
Ireland, at the same school and college with Swift, he
came to live in the Middle Temple, London, where he
luckily bestowed no attention to the law; but splendidly
frequented the coffee-houses and theatres, and appeared
in the side-box, the tavern, the Piazza, and the Mall,
brilliant, beautiful, and victorious from the first. Everybody
acknowledged the young chieftain. The great Mr.
Dryden61 declared that he was equal to Shakespeare, and
[pg 510]
bequeathed to him his own undisputed poetical crown,
and writes of him, “Mr. Congreve has done me the favour
to review the Aeneis, and compare my version with the
original. I shall never be ashamed to own that this
excellent young man has showed me many faults which
I have endeavoured to correct.”




The “excellent young man” was but three- or four-and-twenty
when the great Dryden thus spoke of him: the
greatest literary chief in England, the veteran field-marshal
of letters, himself the marked man of all Europe, and the
centre of a school of wits, who daily gathered round his chair
and tobacco-pipe at Will's. Pope dedicated his Iliad to
him;62 Swift, Addison, Steele, all acknowledge Congreve's
rank, and lavish compliments upon him. Voltaire went to
wait upon him as on one of the Representatives of Literature—and
[pg 511]
the man who scarce praises any other living person,
who flung abuse at Pope, and Swift, and Steele, and Addison—the
Grub Street Timon, old John Dennis,63 was hat
in hand to Mr. Congreve; and said, that when he retired
from the stage, Comedy went with him.




Nor was he less victorious elsewhere. He was admired
in the drawing-rooms as well as the coffee-houses; as much
beloved in the side-box as on the stage. He loved, and
conquered, and jilted the beautiful Bracegirdle,64 the
heroine of all his plays, the favourite of all the town of
her day—and the Duchess of Marlborough, Marlborough's
daughter, had such an admiration of him, that when he
died she had an ivory figure made to imitate him,65 and
a large wax doll with gouty feet to be dressed just as the
great Congreve's gouty feet were dressed in his great lifetime.
He saved some money by his Pipe-office, and his
Custom-house office, and his Hackney-coach office, and
nobly left it, not to Bracegirdle, who wanted it,66 but to the
Duchess of Marlborough, who didn't.67


[pg 512]


How can I introduce to you that merry and shameless
Comic Muse who won him such a reputation? Nell
Gwynn's servant fought the other footman for having
called his mistress a bad name; and in like manner, and
with pretty like epithets, Jeremy Collier attacked that
godless, reckless Jezebel, the English comedy of his time,
and called her what Nell Gwynn's man's fellow-servants
called Nell Gwynn's man's mistress. The servants of the
theatre, Dryden, Congreve,68 and others, defended themselves
with the same success, and for the same cause which
set Nell's lackey fighting. She was a disreputable, daring,
[pg 513]
laughing, painted French baggage, that Comic Muse. She
came over from the Continent with Charles (who chose
many more of his female friends there) at the Restoration—a
wild, dishevelled Laïs, with eyes bright with wit and
wine—a saucy court-favourite that sat at the king's
knees, and laughed in his face, and when she showed her
bold cheeks at her chariot-window, had some of the noblest
and most famous people of the land bowing round her
wheel. She was kind and popular enough, that daring
Comedy, that audacious poor Nell—she was gay and
generous, kind, frank, as such people can afford to be:
and the men who lived with her and laughed with her,
took her pay and drank her wine, turned out when the
Puritans hooted her, to fight and defend her. But the
jade was indefensible, and it is pretty certain her servants
knew it.




There is life and death going on in everything: truth
and lies always at battle. Pleasure is always warring
against self-restraint. Doubt is always crying Psha, and
sneering. A man in life, a humourist in writing about
life, sways over to one principle or the other, and laughs
with the reverence for right and the love of truth in his
heart, or laughs at these from the other side. Didn't
I tell you that dancing was a serious business to Harlequin?
I have read two or three of Congreve's plays over before
speaking of him; and my feelings were rather like those,
which I daresay most of us here have had, at Pompeii,
looking at Sallust's house and the relics of an orgy, a dried
wine-jar or two, a charred supper-table, the breast of a
dancing girl pressed against the ashes, the laughing skull
of a jester, a perfect stillness round about, as the cicerone
twangs his moral, and the blue sky shines calmly over the
ruin. The Congreve muse is dead, and her song choked
in Time's ashes. We gaze at the skeleton, and wonder
at the life which once revelled in its mad veins. We take
the skull up, and muse over the frolic and daring, the wit,
scorn, passion, hope, desire, with which that empty bowl
once fermented. We think of the glances that allured, the
tears that melted, of the bright eyes that shone in those
vacant sockets; and of lips whispering love, and cheeks
dimpling with smiles, that once covered yon ghastly yellow
framework. They used to call those teeth pearls once.
See! there's the cup she drank from, the gold chain she
[pg 514]
wore on her neck, the vase which held the rouge for her
cheeks, her looking-glass, and the harp she used to dance
to. Instead of a feast we find a gravestone, and in place of
a mistress, a few bones!




Reading in these plays now, is like shutting your ears
and looking at people dancing. What does it mean? the
measures, the grimaces, the bowing, shuffling and retreating,
the cavalier seul advancing upon those ladies—those
ladies and men twirling round at the end in a mad galop,
after which everybody bows and the quaint rite is celebrated.
Without the music we can't understand that
comic dance of the last century—its strange gravity and
gaiety, its decorum or its indecorum. It has a jargon of
its own quite unlike life; a sort of moral of its own quite
unlike life too. I'm afraid it's a heathen mystery, symbolizing
a Pagan doctrine; protesting, as the Pompeians
very likely were, assembled at their theatre and laughing
at their games—as Sallust and his friends, and their
mistresses protested—crowned with flowers, with cups in
their hands, against the new, hard, ascetic, pleasure-hating
doctrine, whose gaunt disciples, lately passed over from
the Asian shores of the Mediterranean, were for breaking
the fair images of Venus, and flinging the altars of Bacchus
down.




I fancy poor Congreve's theatre is a temple of Pagan
delights, and mysteries not permitted except among
heathens. I fear the theatre carries down that ancient
tradition and worship, as masons have carried their secret
signs and rites from temple to temple. When the libertine
hero carries off the beauty in the play, and the dotard is
laughed to scorn for having the young wife: in the ballad,
when the poet bid his mistress to gather roses while she
may, and warns her that old Time is still a-flying: in the
ballet, when honest Corydon courts Phillis under the
treillage of the pasteboard cottage, and leers at her over
the head of grandpapa in red stockings, who is opportunely
asleep; and when seduced by the invitations of the rosy
youth she comes forward to the footlights, and they perform
on each other's tiptoes that pas which you all know,
and which is only interrupted by old grandpapa awaking
from his doze at the pasteboard chalet (whither he returns
to take another nap in case the young people get an encore):
when Harlequin, splendid in youth, strength, and agility,
[pg 515]
arrayed in gold and a thousand colours, springs over the
heads of countless perils, leaps down the throat of bewildered
giants, and, dauntless and splendid, dances danger down:
when Mr. Punch, that godless old rebel, breaks every law
and laughs at it with odious triumph, outwits his lawyer,
bullies the beadle, knocks his wife about the head, and
hangs the hangman—don't you see in the comedy, in the
song, in the dance, in the ragged little Punch's puppet-show—the
Pagan protest? Doesn't it seem as if Life puts
in its plea and sings its comment? Look how the lovers
walk and hold each other's hands and whisper! Sings the
chorus—“There is nothing like love, there is nothing like
youth, there is nothing like beauty of your spring-time.
Look! how old age tries to meddle with merry sport!
Beat him with his own crutch, the wrinkled old dotard!
There is nothing like youth, there is nothing like beauty,
there is nothing like strength. Strength and valour win
beauty and youth. Be brave and conquer. Be young
and happy. Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy! Would you know the
segreto per esser felice? Here it is, in a smiling
mistress and a cup of Falernian.” As the boy tosses the cup and
sings his song—hark! what is that chaunt coming nearer
and nearer? What is that dirge which will disturb us?
The lights of the festival burn dim—the cheeks turn pale—the
voice quavers—and the cup drops on the floor. Who's
there? Death and Fate are at the gate, and they will
come in.




Congreve's comic feast flares with lights, and round the
table, emptying their flaming bowls of drink, and exchanging
the wildest jests and ribaldry, sit men and women,
waited on by rascally valets and attendants as dissolute
as their mistresses—perhaps the very worst company in
the world. There doesn't seem to be a pretence of morals.
At the head of the table sits Mirabel or Belmour (dressed
in the French fashion and waited on by English imitators
of Scapin and Frontin). Their calling is to be irresistible,
and to conquer everywhere. Like the heroes of the chivalry
story, whose long-winded loves and combats they were
sending out of fashion, they are always splendid and
triumphant—overcome all dangers, vanquish all enemies,
and win the beauty at the end. Fathers, husbands,
usurers are the foes these champions contend with. They
are merciless in old age, invariably, and an old man plays
[pg 516]
the part in the dramas, which the wicked enchanter or the
great blundering giant performs in the chivalry tales, who
threatens and grumbles and resists—a huge stupid obstacle
always overcome by the knight. It is an old man with
a money-box: Sir Belmour his son or nephew spends his
money and laughs at him. It is an old man with a young
wife whom he locks up: Sir Mirabel robs him of his wife,
trips up his gouty old heels and leaves the old hunx—the
old fool, what business has he to hoard his money, or to
lock up blushing eighteen? Money is for youth, love is
for youth; away with the old people. When Millamant is
sixty, having of course divorced the first Lady Millamant,
and married his friend Doricourt's granddaughter out of
the nursery—it will be his turn; and young Belmour will
make a fool of him. All this pretty morality you have in
the comedies of William Congreve, Esq. They are full of
wit. Such manners as he observes, he observes with great
humour; but ah! it's a weary feast that banquet of wit
where no love is. It palls very soon; sad indigestions
follow it and lonely blank headaches in the morning.




I can't pretend to quote scenes from the splendid Congreve's
plays69—which are undeniably bright, witty, and
[pg 517]
daring—any more than I could ask you to hear the dialogue
of a witty bargeman and a brilliant fishwoman exchanging
[pg 518]
compliments at Billingsgate; but some of his verses—they
were amongst the most famous lyrics of the time, and
[pg 519]
pronounced equal to Horace by his contemporaries—may
give an idea of his power, of his grace, of his daring manner,
his magnificence in compliment, and his polished sarcasm.
He writes as if he was so accustomed to conquer, that he
has a poor opinion of his victims. Nothing's new except
[pg 520]
their faces, says he: “every woman is the same.” He says
this in his first comedy, which he wrote languidly70 in
illness, when he was an “excellent young man”. Richelieu
at eighty could have hardly said a more excellent thing.




When he advances to make one of his conquests it is
with a splendid gallantry, in full uniform and with the
fiddles playing, like Grammont's French dandies attacking
the breach of Lerida.




“Cease, cease to ask her name,” he writes of a young lady
at the Wells at Tunbridge, whom he salutes with a magnificent
compliment—







Cease, cease to ask her name,


The crowned Muse's noblest theme,


Whose glory by immortal fame


Shall only sounded be.


But if you long to know,


Then look round yonder dazzling row,


Who most does like an angel show


You may be sure 'tis she.







Here are lines about another beauty, who perhaps was
not so well pleased at the poet's manner of celebrating
her—







When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair,


With eyes so bright and with that awful air,


I thought my heart would durst so high aspire


As bold as his who snatched celestial fire.


But soon as e'er the beauteous idiot spoke,


Forth from her coral lips such folly broke;


Like balm the trickling nonsense heal'd my wound,


And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound.







Amoret is a cleverer woman than the lovely Lesbia, but
the poet does not seem to respect one much more than
the other; and describes both with exquisite satirical
humour—







Fair Amoret is gone astray,


Pursue and seek her every lover;


I'll tell the signs by which you may


The wandering shepherdess discover.



[pg 521]



Coquet and coy at once her air,


Both studied, though both seem neglected;


Careless she is with artful care,


Affecting to be unaffected.






With skill her eyes dart every glance,


Yet change so soon you'd ne'er suspect them;


For she'd persuade they wound by chance,


Though certain aim and art direct them.






She likes herself, yet others hates


For that which in herself she prizes;


And, while she laughs at them, forgets


She is the thing which she despises.







What could Amoret have done to bring down such
shafts of ridicule upon her? Could she have resisted the
irresistible Mr. Congreve? Could anybody? Could
Sabina, when she woke and heard such a bard singing
under her window. See, he writes—







See! see, she wakes—Sabina wakes!


And now the sun begins to rise:


Less glorious is the morn, that breaks


From his bright beams, than her fair eyes.


With light united day they give;


But different fates ere night fulfil:


How many by his warmth will live!


How many will her coldness kill!







Are you melted? Don't you think him a divine man?
If not touched by the brilliant Sabina, hear the devout
Selinda:—







Pious Selinda goes to prayers,


If I but ask her favour;


And yet the silly fool's in tears,


If she believes I'll leave her:


Would I were free from this restraint,


Or else had hopes to win her:


Would she could make of me a saint,


Or I of her a sinner!







What a conquering air there is about these! What an
irresistible Mr. Congreve it is! Sinner! of course he will
be a sinner, the delightful rascal! Win her; of course
he will win her, the victorious rogue! He knows he will:
he must—with such a grace, with such a fashion, with such
a splendid embroidered suit—you see him with red-heeled
shoes deliciously turned out, passing a fair jewelled hand
[pg 522]
through his dishevelled periwig, and delivering a killing
ogle along with his scented billet. And Sabina? What
a comparison that is between the nymph and the sun!
The sun gives Sabina the pas, and does not venture to
rise before her ladyship: the morn's bright beams are less
glorious than her fair eyes: but before night everybody
will be frozen by her glances: everybody but one lucky
rogue who shall be nameless: Louis Quatorze in all his
glory is hardly more splendid than our Phoebus Apollo of
the Mall and Spring Garden.71




When Voltaire came to visit the great Congreve, the
latter rather affected to despise his literary reputation, and
in this perhaps the great Congreve was not far wrong.72
A touch of Steele's tenderness is worth all his finery—a
flash of Swift's lightning—a beam of Addison's pure
sunshine, and his tawdry play-house taper is invisible.
But the ladies loved him, and he was undoubtedly a pretty
fellow.73


[pg 523]


We have seen in Swift a humorous philosopher, whose
truth frightens one, and whose laughter makes one melancholy.
[pg 524]
We have had in Congreve a humorous observer
of another school, to whom the world seems to have no
moral at all, and whose ghastly doctrine seems to be that
we should eat, drink, and be merry when we can, and go
to the deuce (if there be a deuce) when the time comes.
We come now to a humour that flows from quite a different
heart and spirit—a wit that makes us laugh and leaves us
good and happy; to one of the kindest benefactors that
society has ever had, and I believe you have divined already
that I am about to mention Addison's honoured name.




From reading over his writings, and the biographies
which we have of him, amongst which the famous article
in the Edinburgh Review74 may be cited as a magnificent
[pg 525]
statue of the great writer and moralist of the last age,
raised by the love and the marvellous skill and genius of
one of the most illustrious artists of our own; looking at
that calm, fair face, and clear countenance—those chiselled
features pure and cold, I can't but fancy that this great
man, in this respect, like him of whom we spoke in the
last lecture, was also one of the lonely ones of the world.
Such men have very few equals, and they don't herd with
those. It is in the nature of such lords of intellect to be
solitary—they are in the world but not of it; and our
minor struggles, brawls, successes, pass under them.




Kind, just, serene, impartial, his fortitude not tried
beyond easy endurance, his affections not much used, for
his books were his family, and his society was in public;
admirably wiser, wittier, calmer, and more instructed than
almost every man with whom he met, how could Addison
suffer, desire, admire, feel much? I may expect a child
to admire me for being taller or writing more cleverly than
she; but how can I ask my superior to say that I am
a wonder when he knows better than I? In Addison's
days you could scarcely show him a literary performance,
a sermon, or a poem, or a piece of literary criticism, but
he felt he could do better. His justice must have made
him indifferent. He didn't praise, because he measured
his compeers by a higher standard than common people
have.75
How was he who was so tall to look up to any
but the loftiest genius? He must have stooped to put
himself on a level with most men. By that profusion of
graciousness and smiles, with which Goethe or Scott, for
instance, greeted almost every literary beginner, every
small literary adventurer who came to his court and went
away charmed from the great king's audience, and cuddling
[pg 526]
to his heart the compliment which his literary majesty had
paid him—each of the two good-natured potentates of
letters brought their star and ribbon into discredit. Everybody
had his majesty's orders. Everybody had his
Majesty's cheap portrait, on a box surrounded with diamonds
worth twopence a-piece. A very great and just
and wise man ought not to praise indiscriminately, but
give his idea of the truth. Addison praises the ingenious
Mr. Pinkethman: Addison praises the ingenious Mr.
Doggett the actor, whose benefit is coming off that night:
Addison praises Don Saltero: Addison praises Milton with
all his heart, bends his knee and frankly pays homage to
that imperial genius.76 But between those degrees of his
men his praise is very scanty. I don't think the great
Mr. Addison liked young Mr. Pope, the Papist, much;
I don't think he abused him. But when Mr. Addison's
men abused Mr. Pope, I don't think Addison took his pipe
out of his mouth to contradict them.77




Addison's father was a clergyman of good repute in
Wiltshire, and rose in the Church.78 His famous son never
lost his clerical training and scholastic gravity, and was
called “a parson in a tye-wig”79 in London afterwards at
[pg 527]
a time when tye-wigs were only worn by the laity, and the
fathers of theology did not think it decent to appear except
in a full bottom. Having been at school at Salisbury, and
the Charterhouse, in 1687, when he was fifteen years old
he went to Queen's College, Oxford, where he speedily
began to distinguish himself by the making of Latin verses.
The beautiful and fanciful poem of The Pigmies and the
Cranes is still read by lovers of that sort of exercise; and
verses are extant in honour of King William, by which it
appears that it was the loyal youth's custom to toast that
sovereign in bumpers of purple Lyaeus; and many more
works are in the collection, including one on the Peace of
Ryswick, in 1697, which was so good that Montague got
him a pension of 300l. a year, on which Addison set out
on his travels.




During his ten years at Oxford, Addison had deeply
imbued himself with the Latin poetical literature, and had
these poets at his fingers' ends when he travelled in Italy.80
His patron went out of office, and his pension was unpaid:
and hearing that this great scholar, now eminent and
known to the literati of Europe
(the great Boileau,81 upon
[pg 528]
perusal of Mr. Addison's elegant hexameters, was first
made aware that England was not altogether a barbarous
nation)—hearing that the celebrated Mr. Addison, of
Oxford, proposed to travel as governor to a young gentleman
on the grand tour, the great Duke of Somerset proposed
to Mr. Addison to accompany his son, Lord Hartford.




Mr. Addison was delighted to be of use to his grace and
his lordship, his grace's son, and expressed himself ready
to set forth.




His grace the Duke of Somerset now announced to one
of the most famous scholars of Oxford and Europe that
it was his gracious intention to allow my Lord Hartford's
tutor one hundred guineas per annum. Mr. Addison wrote
back that his services were his grace's, but he by no
means found his account in the recompense for them. The
negotiation was broken off. They parted with a profusion
of congees on one side and the other.




Addison remained abroad for some time, living in the
best society of Europe. How could he do otherwise? He
must have been one of the finest gentlemen the world ever
saw: at all moments of life serene and courteous, cheerful
and calm.82
He could scarcely ever have had a degrading
thought. He might have omitted a virtue or two, or many,
but could not have had many faults committed for which
he need blush or turn pale. When warmed into confidence,
his conversation appears to have been so delightful that
the greatest wits sat wrapt and charmed to listen to him.
No man bore poverty and narrow fortune with a more
lofty cheerfulness. His letters to his friends at this period
of his life, when he had lost his Government pension and
given up his college chances, are full of courage and a gay
confidence and philosophy: and they are none the worse in
my eyes, and I hope not in those of his last and greatest
biographer (though Mr. Macaulay is bound to own and
lament a certain weakness for wine, which the great and
good Joseph Addison notoriously possessed, in common
with countless gentlemen of his time), because some of the
[pg 529]
letters are written when his honest hand was shaking a
little in the morning after libations to purple Lyaeus overnight.
He was fond of drinking the healths of his friends:
he writes to Wyche,83 of Hamburgh, gratefully remembering
Wyche's “hoc”. “I have been drinking your health to-day
with Sir Richard Shirley,” he writes to Bathurst. “I have
lately had the honour to meet my Lord Effingham at
Amsterdam, where we have drunk Mr. Wood's health a
hundred times in excellent champagne,” he writes again.
Swift84 describes him over his cups, when Joseph yielded
[pg 530]
to a temptation which Jonathan resisted. Joseph was of
a cold nature, and needed perhaps the fire of wine to warm
his blood. If he was a parson, he wore a tye-wig, recollect.
A better and more Christian man scarcely ever breathed
than Joseph Addison. If he had not that little weakness
for wine—why, we could scarcely have found a fault with
him, and could not have liked him as we do.85




At thirty-three years of age, this most distinguished wit,
scholar, and gentleman was without a profession and an
income. His book of Travels had
failed: his Dialogues on
Medals had had no particular success: his Latin verses,
even though reported the best since Virgil, or Statius at
any rate, had not brought him a Government place, and
Addison was living up two shabby pair of stairs in the
Haymarket (in a poverty over which old Samuel Johnson
rather chuckles), when in these shabby rooms an emissary
from Government and Fortune came and found him.86


[pg 531]


A poem was wanted about the Duke of Marlborough's
victory of Blenheim. Would Mr. Addison write one?
Mr. Boyle, afterwards Lord Carleton, took back the reply
to the Lord Treasurer Godolphin, that Mr. Addison would.
When the poem had reached a certain stage, it was carried
to Godolphin; and the last lines which he read were these:







But O my muse! what numbers wilt thou find


To sing the furious troops in battle join'd?


Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,


The victors' shouts and dying groans confound;


The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,


And all the thunders of the battle rise.


'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved,


That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,


Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,


Examined all the dreadful scenes of war:


In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,


To fainting squadrons lent the timely aid,


Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,


And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.


So when an angel by divine command,


With rising tempests shakes a guilty land


(Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed),


Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;


And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform,


Rides on the whirlwind and directs the storm.







Addison left off at a good moment. That simile was
pronounced to be of the greatest ever produced in poetry.
That angel, that good angel, flew off with Mr. Addison,
and landed him in the place of Commissioner of Appeals—vice
Mr. Locke providentially promoted. In the following
year, Mr. Addison went to Hanover with Lord Halifax,
and the year after was made Under-Secretary of State.
O angel visits! you come “few and far between” to literary
gentlemen's lodgings! Your wings seldom quiver at second-floor
windows now!




You laugh? You think it is in the power of few writers
nowadays to call up such an angel? Well, perhaps not;
but permit us to comfort ourselves by pointing out that
there are in the poem of the Campaign some as bad lines
[pg 532]
as heart can desire: and to hint that Mr. Addison did
very wisely in not going further with my Lord Godolphin
than that angelical simile. Do allow me, just for a little
harmless mischief, to read you some of the lines which
follow. Here is the interview between the Duke and the
King of the Romans after the battle:—







Austria's young monarch, whose imperial sway


Sceptres and thrones are destined to obey,


Whose boasted ancestry so high extends


That in the pagan gods his lineage ends,


Comes from afar, in gratitude to own


The great supporter of his father's throne.


What tides of glory to his bosom ran


Clasped in th' embraces of the godlike man!


How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixt,


To see such fire with so much sweetness mixt!


Such easy greatness, such a graceful port,


So learned and finished for the camp or court!







How many fourth-form boys at Mr. Addison's school of
Charterhouse could write as well as that now? The
Campaign has blunders, triumphant as it was; and
weak points like all campaigns.87




In the year 1718 Cato came out. Swift has left a
description of the first night of the performance. All the
laurels of Europe were scarcely sufficient for the author of
this prodigious poem.88 Laudations of Whig and Tory
[pg 533]
chiefs, popular ovations, complimentary garlands from
literary men, translations in all languages, delight and
homage from all—save from John Dennis in a minority
of one—Mr. Addison was called the “great Mr. Addison”
after this. The Coffee-house Senate saluted him Divus:
it was heresy to question that decree.




Meanwhile he was writing political papers and advancing
in the political profession. He went Secretary to Ireland.
He was appointed Secretary of State in 1717. And letters
of his are extant, bearing date some year or two before,
and written to young Lord Warwick, in which he addresses
him as “my dearest lord”, and asks affectionately about
his studies, and writes very prettily about nightingales,
and birds'-nests, which he has found at Fulham for his
lordship. Those nightingales were intended to warble in
the ear of Lord Warwick's mamma. Addison married her
ladyship in 1716; and died at Holland House three years
after that splendid but dismal union.89


[pg 534]


But it is not for his reputation as the great author of
Cato and the Campaign, or for his merits
as Secretary of State, or for his rank and high distinction as my Lady
Warwick's husband, or for his eminence as an Examiner
of political questions on the Whig side, or a Guardian of
British liberties, that we admire Joseph Addison. It is as
a Tatler of small talk and a Spectator of mankind, that
we cherish and love him, and owe as much pleasure to
him as to any human being that ever wrote. He came
in that artificial age, and began to speak with his noble,
natural voice. He came, the gentle satirist, who hit no
[pg 535]
unfair blow; the kind judge who castigated only in smiling.
While Swift went about, hanging and ruthless—a literary
Jeffries—in Addison's kind court only minor cases were
tried: only peccadilloes and small sins against society:
only a dangerous libertinism in tuckers and hoops;90 or
[pg 536]
a nuisance in the abuse of beaux' canes and snuff-boxes.
It may be a lady is tried for breaking the peace of our
sovereign lady Queen Anne, and ogling too dangerously
from the side-box: or a Templar for beating the watch,
or breaking Priscian's head: or a citizen's wife for caring
too much for the puppet-show, and too little for her husband
and children: every one of the little sinners brought before
him is amusing, and he dismisses each with the pleasantest
penalties and the most charming words of admonition.




Addison wrote his papers as gaily as if he was going
out for a holiday. When Steele's Tatler first began his
prattle, Addison, then in Ireland, caught at his friend's
notion, poured in paper after paper, and contributed the
stores of his mind, the sweet fruits of his reading, the
delightful gleanings of his daily observation, with a wonderful
profusion, and as it seemed an almost endless fecundity.
He was six-and-thirty years old: full and ripe. He had
not worked crop after crop from his brain, manuring
hastily, subsoiling indifferently, cutting and sowing and
cutting again, like other luckless cultivators of letters. He
had not done much as yet; a few Latin poems—graceful
prolusions; a polite book of travels; a dissertation on
medals, not very deep; four acts of a tragedy, a great
classical exercise; and the Campaign, a large prize poem
that won an enormous prize. But with his friend's discovery
of the Tatler, Addison's calling was found, and the
most delightful talker in the world began to speak. He
does not go very deep: let gentlemen of a profound genius,
critics accustomed to the plunge of the bathos, console
themselves by thinking that he couldn't go very deep.
There are no traces of suffering in his writing. He was so
good, so honest, so healthy, so cheerfully selfish, if I must
use the word. There is no deep sentiment. I doubt, until
after his marriage, perhaps, whether he ever lost his night's
rest or his day's tranquillity about any woman in his life:91
whereas poor Dick Steele had capacity enough to melt, and
to languish, and to sigh, and to cry his honest old eyes
out, for a dozen. His writings do not show insight into
or reverence for the love of women, which I take to be,
one the consequence of the other. He walks about the
[pg 537]
world watching their pretty humours, fashions, follies,
flirtations, rivalries; and noting them with the most charming
archness. He sees them in public, in the theatre, or
the assembly, or the puppet-show; or at the toy-shop
higgling for gloves and lace; or at the auction, battling
together over a blue porcelain dragon, or a darling monster
in japan; or at church, eyeing the width of their rivals'
hoops, or the breadth of their laces, as they sweep down
the aisles. Or he looks out of his window at the “Garter”
in St. James's Street, at Ardelia's coach, as she blazes to
the Drawing-room with her coronet and six footmen; and
remembering that her father was a Turkey merchant in
the City, calculates how many sponges went to purchase
her ear-ring, and how many drums of figs to build her
coach-box; or he demurely watches behind a tree in Spring
Garden as Saccharissa (whom he knows under her mask)
trips out of her chair to the alley where Sir Fopling is
waiting. He sees only the public life of women. Addison
was one of the most resolute club-men of his day. He
passed many hours daily in those haunts. Besides drinking,
which, alas! is past praying for; you must know it, he
owned, too, ladies that he indulged in that odious practice
of smoking. Poor fellow! He was a man's man, remember.
The only woman he did know, he didn't write about. I take
it there would not have been much humour in that story.




He likes to go and sit in the smoking-room at the Grecian,
or the Devil; to pace “Change and the Mall”92—to mingle
[pg 538]
in that great club of the world—sitting alone in it somehow:
having goodwill and kindness for every single man
and woman in it—having need of some habit and custom
binding him to some few; never doing any man a wrong
(unless it be a wrong to hint a little doubt about a man's
[pg 539]
parts, and to damn him with faint praise); and so he
looks on the world and plays with the ceaseless humours
of all of us—laughs the kindest laugh—points our neighbour's
foible or eccentricity out to us with the most good-natured,
smiling confidence; and then, turning over his
shoulder, whispers our foibles to our neighbour. What
would Sir Roger de Coverley be without his follies and his
charming little brain-cracks?93 If the good
knight did not call out to the people sleeping in church, and say “Amen”
with such a delightful pomposity: if he did not make
a speech in the assize-court à propos de bottes, and
merely to show his dignity to Mr. Spectator:94 if he did not
mistake Madam Doll Tearsheet for a lady of quality in
Temple Garden: if he were wiser than he is: if he had
not his humour to salt his life, and were but a mere English
gentleman and game-preserver—of what worth were he to
us? We love him for his vanities as much as his virtues.
What is ridiculous is delightful in him: we are so fond
of him because we laugh at him so. And out of that
laughter, and out of that sweet weakness, and out of those
harmless eccentricities and follies, and out of that touched
[pg 540]
brain, and out of that honest manhood and simplicity—we
get a result of happiness, goodness, tenderness, pity,
piety; such as, if my audience will think their reading
and hearing over, doctors and divines but seldom have
the fortune to inspire. And why not? Is the glory of
Heaven to be sung only by gentlemen in black coats?
Must the truth be only expounded in gown and surplice,
and out of those two vestments can nobody preach it?
Commend me to this dear preacher without orders—this
parson in the tye-wig. When this man looks from the
world, whose weaknesses he describes so benevolently, up
to the Heaven which shines over us all, I can hardly fancy
a human face lighted up with a more serene rapture:
a human intellect thrilling with a purer love and adoration
than Joseph Addison's. Listen to him: from your childhood
you have known the verses: but who can hear their
sacred music without love and awe?







Soon as the evening shades prevail,


The moon takes up the wondrous tale,


And nightly to the listening earth,


Repeats the story of her birth;


And all the stars that round her burn,


And all the planets in their turn,


Confirm the tidings as they roll,


And spread the truth from pole to pole.


What though, in solemn silence, all


Move round this dark terrestrial ball;


What though no real voice nor sound,


Among their radiant orbs be found;


In reason's ear they all rejoice,


And utter forth a glorious voice,


For ever singing as they shine,


The hand that made us is divine.







It seems to me those verses shine like the stars. They
shine out of a great deep calm. When he turns to Heaven,
a Sabbath comes over that man's mind: and his face
lights up from it with a glory of thanks and prayer. His
sense of religion stirs through his whole being. In the
fields, in the town: looking at the birds in the trees: at
the children in the streets: in the morning or in the moonlight:
over his books in his own room: in a happy party
at a country merry-making or a town assembly, goodwill
and peace to God's creatures, and love and awe of Him
who made them, fill his pure heart and shine from his
[pg 541]
kind face. If Swift's life was the most wretched, I think
Addison's was one of the most enviable. A life prosperous
and beautiful—a calm death—an immense fame and affection
afterwards for his happy and spotless name.95




[pg 542]





 Lecture The Third. Steele



What do we look for in studying the history of a past age?
Is it to learn the political transactions and characters of
the leading public men? Is it to make ourselves acquainted
with the life and being of the time? If we set out with
the former grave purpose, where is the truth, and who
believes that he has it entire? What character of what
great man is known to you? You can but make guesses
as to character more or less happy. In common life don't
you often judge and misjudge a man's whole conduct,
setting out from a wrong impression? The tone of a voice,
a word said in joke, or a trifle in behaviour—the cut of his
hair or the tie of his neckcloth may disfigure him in your eyes,
or poison your good opinion; or at the end of years of
intimacy it may be your closest friend says something,
reveals something which had previously been a secret,
which alters all your views about him, and shows that he
has been acting on quite a different motive to that which
you fancied you knew. And if it is so with those you know,
how much more with those you don't know? Say, for
example, that I want to understand the character of the
Duke of Marlborough. I read Swift's history of the times
in which he took a part; the shrewdest of observers and
initiated, one would think, into the politics of the age—he
hints to me that Marlborough was a coward, and even
of doubtful military capacity: he speaks of Walpole as
a contemptible boor, and scarcely mentions, except to flout
it, the great intrigue of the Queen's latter days, which was
to have ended in bringing back the Pretender. Again,
I read Marlborough's life by a copious archdeacon, who
has the command of immense papers, of sonorous language,
of what is called the best information; and I get little or
no insight into this secret motive which, I believe, influenced
the whole of Marlborough's career, which caused his turnings
[pg 543]
and windings, his opportune fidelity and treason, stopped
his army almost at Paris gate, and landed him finally on
the Hanoverian side—the winning side; I get, I say, no
truth, or only a portion of it, in the narrative of either
writer, and believe that Coxe's portrait or Swift's portrait
is quite unlike the real Churchill. I take this as a single
instance, prepared to be as sceptical about any other, and
say to the Muse of History, “O venerable daughter of
Mnemosyne, I doubt every single statement you ever made
since your ladyship was a Muse! For all your grave airs
and high pretensions, you are not a whit more trustworthy
than some of your lighter sisters on whom your partisans
look down. You bid me listen to a general's oration to
his soldiers: Nonsense! He no more made it than Turpin
made his dying speech at Newgate. You pronounce a
panegyric of a hero: I doubt it, and say you flatter outrageously.
You utter the condemnation of a loose character:
I doubt it, and think you are prejudiced and take
the side of the Dons. You offer me an autobiography:
I doubt all autobiographies I ever read except those, perhaps,
of Mr. Robinson Crusoe, Mariner, and writers of his class.
These have no object in setting themselves right with the
public or their own consciences; these have no motive for
concealment or half-truths; these call for no more confidence
than I can cheerfully give, and do not force me to
tax my credulity or to fortify it by evidence. I take up
a volume of Dr. Smollett, or a volume of the Spectator, and
say the fiction carries a greater amount of truth in solution
than the volume which purports to be all true. Out of
the fictitious book I get the expression of the life of the
time; of the manners, of the movement, the dress, the
pleasures, the laughter, the ridicules of society—the old
times live again, and I travel in the old country of England.
Can the heaviest historian do more for me?”




As we read in these delightful volumes of the Tatler and
Spectator, the past age returns, the England of our ancestors
is revivified. The Maypole rises in the Strand again in
London; the churches are thronged with daily worshippers;
the beaux are gathering in the coffee-houses; the gentry
are going to the Drawing-room; the ladies are thronging
to the toy-shops; the chairmen are jostling in the streets;
the footmen are running with links before the chariots,
or fighting round the theatre doors. In the country I see
[pg 544]
the young Squire riding to Eton with his servants behind
him, and Will Wimble, the friend of the family, to see him
safe. To make that journey from the Squire's and back,
Will is a week on horseback. The coach takes five days
between London and Bath. The judges and the bar ride
the circuit. If my lady comes to town in her post-chariot,
her people carry pistols to fire a salute on Captain Macheath
if he should appear, and her couriers ride ahead to prepare
apartments for her at the great caravanserais on the road;
Boniface receives her under the creaking sign of the “Bell”
or the “Ram”, and he and his chamberlains bow her up the
great stair to the state-apartments, whilst her carriage
rumbles into the courtyard, where the Exeter “Fly” is housed
that performs the journey in eight days, God willing, having
achieved its daily flight of twenty miles, and landed its
passengers for supper and sleep. The curate is taking his
pipe in the kitchen, where the Captain's man—having hung
up his master's half-pike—is at his bacon and eggs, bragging
of Ramillies and Malplaquet to the townsfolk, who have
their club in the chimney-corner. The Captain is ogling
the chambermaid in the wooden gallery, or bribing her to
know who is the pretty young mistress that has come in
the coach? The pack-horses are in the great stable, and
the drivers and ostlers carousing in the tap. And in Mrs.
Landlady's bar, over a glass of strong waters, sits a gentleman
of military appearance, who travels with pistols, as
all the rest of the world does, and has a rattling grey mare
in the stables which will be saddled and away with its owner
half an hour before the “Fly” sets out on its last day's
flight. And some five miles on the road, as the Exeter “Fly”
comes jingling and creaking onwards, it will suddenly be
brought to a halt by a gentleman on a grey mare, with
a black vizard on his face, who thrusts a long pistol into
the coach window, and bids the company to hand out their
purses.... It must have been no small pleasure even
to sit in the great kitchen in those days, and see the tide
of humankind pass by. We arrive at places now, but we
travel no more. Addison talks jocularly of a difference of
manner and costume being quite perceivable at Staines,
where there passed a young fellow “with a very tolerable
periwig”, though, to be sure, his hat was out of fashion, and
had a Ramillies cock. I would have liked to travel in those
days (being of that class of travellers who are proverbially
[pg 545]
pretty easy coram latronibus) and have seen my friend
with the grey mare and the black vizard. Alas! there always
came a day in the life of that warrior when it was the
fashion to accompany him as he passed—without his black
mask, and with a nosegay in his hand, accompanied by
halberdiers and attended by the sheriff,—in a carriage without
springs, and a clergyman jolting beside him to a spot
close by Cumberland Gate and the Marble Arch, where
a stone still records that here Tyburn turnpike stood.
What a change in a century; in a few years! Within
a few yards of that gate the fields began: the fields of his
exploits, behind the hedges of which he lurked and robbed.
A great and wealthy city has grown over those meadows.
Were a man brought to die there now, the windows would
be closed and the inhabitants keep their houses in sickening
horror. A hundred years back, people crowded to see that
last act of a highwayman's life, and make jokes on it.
Swift laughed at him, grimly advising him to provide a
Holland shirt and white cap crowned with a crimson or
black ribbon for his exit, to mount the cart cheerfully—shake
hands with the hangman, and so—farewell. Gay
wrote the most delightful ballads, and made merry over
the same hero. Contrast these with the writings of our
present humourists! Compare those morals and ours—those
manners and ours!




We can't tell—you would not bear to be told the whole
truth regarding those men and manners. You could no
more suffer in a British drawing-room, under the reign of
Queen Victoria, a fine gentleman or fine lady of Queen
Anne's time, or hear what they heard and said, than you
would receive an ancient Briton. It is as one reads about
savages, that one contemplates the wild ways, the barbarous
feasts, the terrific pastimes, of the men of pleasure of that
age. We have our fine gentlemen, and our “fast men”;
permit me to give you an idea of one particularly fast
nobleman of Queen Anne's days, whose biography has been
preserved to us by the law reporters.




In 1691, when Steele was a boy at school, my Lord
Mohun was tried by his peers for the murder of William
Mountford, comedian. In Howell's State Trials, the reader
will find not only an edifying account of this exceedingly
fast nobleman, but of the times and manners of those
days. My lord's friend, a Captain Hill, smitten with the
[pg 546]
charms of the beautiful Mrs. Bracegirdle, and anxious
to marry her at all hazards, determined to carry her off,
and for this purpose hired a hackney-coach with six
horses, and a half-dozen of soldiers, to aid him in the
storm. The coach with a pair of horses (the four leaders
being in waiting elsewhere) took its station opposite my
Lord Craven's house in Drury Lane, by which door Mrs.
Bracegirdle was to pass on her way from the theatre. As
she passed in company of her mamma and a friend, Mr.
Page, the Captain seized her by the hand, the soldiers
hustled Mr. Page and attacked him sword in hand, and
Captain Hill and his noble friend endeavoured to force
Madam Bracegirdle into the coach. Mr. Page called for
help: the population of Drury Lane rose: it was impossible
to effect the capture; and bidding the soldiers go about
their business, and the coach to drive off, Hill let go of his
prey sulkily, and he waited for other opportunities of revenge.
The man of whom he was most jealous was Will Mountford,
the comedian; Will removed, he thought Mrs. Bracegirdle
might be his: and accordingly the Captain and his lordship
lay that night in wait for Will, and as he was coming out
of a house in Norfolk Street, while Mohun engaged him in
talk, Hill, in the words of the Attorney-General, made a
pass and run him clean through the body.




Sixty-one of my lord's peers finding him not guilty of
murder, while but fourteen found him guilty, this very
fast nobleman was discharged: and made his appearance
seven years after in another trial for murder—when he,
my Lord Warwick, and three gentlemen of the military
profession were concerned in the fight which ended in the
death of Captain Coote.




This jolly company were drinking together at Lockit's
in Charing Cross, when angry words arose between Captain
Coote and Captain French; whom my Lord Mohun and
my lord the Earl of Warwick96 and Holland endeavoured
[pg 547]
to pacify. My Lord Warwick was a dear friend of Captain
Coote, lent him a hundred pounds to buy his commission
in the Guards; once when the captain was arrested for 13l.
by his tailor, my lord lent him five guineas, often paid his
reckoning for him, and showed him other offices of friendship.
On this evening the disputants, French and Coote,
being separated whilst they were upstairs, unluckily stopped
to drink ale again at the bar of Lockit's. The row began
afresh—Coote lunged at French over the bar, and at last
all six called for chairs, and went to Leicester Fields, where
they fell to. Their lordships engaged on the side of Captain
Coote. My Lord of Warwick was severely wounded in the
hand, Mr. French also was stabbed, but honest Captain
Coote got a couple of wounds—one especially, “a wound in
the left side just under the short ribs, and piercing through
the diaphragma,” which did for Captain Coote. Hence the
trials of my Lords Warwick and Mohun: hence the assemblage
of peers, the report of the transaction, in which these
defunct fast men still live for the observation of the curious.
My Lord of Warwick is brought to the bar by the Deputy
Governor of the Tower of London, having the axe carried
before him by the gentleman gaoler, who stood with it at
the bar at the right hand of the prisoner, turning the edge
from him; the prisoner, at his approach, making three
bows, one to his grace the Lord High Steward, the other to
the peers on each hand; and his grace and the peers return
the salute. And besides these great personages, august
in periwigs, and nodding to the right and left, a host of the
small come up out of the past and pass before us—the jolly
captains brawling in the tavern, and laughing and cursing
over their cups—the drawer that serves, the bar-girl that
waits, the bailiff on the prowl, the chairmen trudging
through the black lampless streets, and smoking their pipes
by the railings, whilst swords are clashing in the garden
[pg 548]
within. “Help there! a gentleman is hurt”: the chairmen
put up their pipes, and help the gentleman over the railings,
and carry him, ghastly and bleeding, to the bagnio in Long
Acre, where they knock up the surgeon—a pretty tall gentleman—but
that wound under the short ribs has done for
him. Surgeon, lords, captains, bailiffs, chairmen, and
gentleman gaoler with your axe, where be you now? The
gentleman axeman's head is off his own shoulders; the
lords and judges can wag theirs no longer; the bailiff's
writs have ceased to run; the honest chairmen's pipes are
put out, and with their brawny calves they have walked
away into Hades—all as irrecoverably done for as Will
Mountford or Captain Coote. The subject of our night's
lecture saw all these people—rode in Captain Coote's company
of the Guards very probably—wrote and sighed for
Bracegirdle, went home tipsy in many a chair, after many
a bottle, in many a tavern—fled from many a bailiff.




In 1709, when the publication of the Tatler began, our
great-great-grandfathers must have seized upon that new
and delightful paper with much such eagerness as lovers
of light literature in a later day exhibited when the Waverley
novels appeared, upon which the public rushed, forsaking
that feeble entertainment of which the Miss Porters, the
Anne of Swanseas, and worthy Mrs. Radcliffe herself, with
her dreary castles and exploded old ghosts, had had pretty
much the monopoly. I have looked over many of the comic
books with which our ancestors amused themselves, from
the novels of Swift's coadjutrix, Mrs. Manley, the delectable
author of the New Atlantis, to the facetious productions
of Tom Durfey, and Tom Brown, and Ned Ward, writer of
the London Spy and several other volumes of ribaldry.
The slang of the taverns and ordinaries, the wit of the
bagnios, form the strongest part of the farrago of which
these libels are composed. In the excellent newspaper
collection at the British Museum, you may see, besides the
Craftsman and Post Boy, specimens, and
queer specimens they are, of the higher literature of Queen Anne's time. Here is
an abstract from a notable journal bearing date, Wednesday,
October 13th, 1708, and entitled The British Apollo;
or, Curious Amusements for the Ingenious, by a Society of
Gentlemen. The British Apollo invited and professed to
answer questions upon all subjects of wit, morality, science,
and even religion; and two out of its four pages are filled
[pg 549]
with queries and replies much like some of the oracular
penny prints of the present time.




One of the first querists, referring to the passage that
a bishop should be the husband of one wife, argues that
polygamy is justifiable in the laity. The society of gentlemen
conducting the British Apollo are posed by this
casuist, and promise to give him an answer. Celinda then
wishes to know from “the gentlemen”, concerning the souls
of the dead, whether they shall have the satisfaction to
know those whom they most valued in this transitory life.
The gentlemen of the Apollo give but cold comfort to poor
Celinda. They are inclined to think not: for, say they,
since every inhabitant of those regions will be infinitely
dearer than here are our nearest relatives—what have we
to do with a partial friendship in that happy place? Poor
Celinda! it may have been a child or a lover whom she
had lost, and was pining after, when the oracle of British
Apollo gave her this dismal answer. She has solved the
question for herself by this time, and knows quite as well
as the society of gentlemen.




From theology we come to physics, and Q. asks, “Why
does hot water freeze sooner than cold?” Apollo replies,
“Hot water cannot be said to freeze sooner than cold, but
water once heated and cold, may be subject to freeze by
the evaporation of the spirituous parts of the water, which
renders it less able to withstand the power of frosty weather.”




The next query is rather a delicate one. “You, Mr. Apollo,
who are said to be the God of Wisdom, pray give us the
reason why kissing is so much in fashion: what benefit
one receives by it, and who was the inventor, and you will
oblige Corinna.” To this queer demand the lips of Phoebus,
smiling, answer: “Pretty, innocent Corinna! Apollo owns
that he was a little surprised by your kissing question,
particularly at that part of it where you desire to know
the benefit you receive by it. Ah! madam, had you a
lover, you would not come to Apollo for a solution; since
there is no dispute but the kisses of mutual lovers give
infinite satisfaction. As to its invention, 'tis certain nature
was its author, and it began with the first courtship.”




After a column more of questions, follow nearly two
pages of poems, signed by Philander, Armenia, and the
like, and chiefly on the tender passion; and the paper
wound up with a letter from Leghorn, an account of the
[pg 550]
Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene before Lille, and
proposals for publishing two sheets on the present state
of Aethiopia, by Mr. Hill; all of which is printed for the
authors by J. Mayo, at the Printing Press against Water
Lane in Fleet Street. What a change it must have been—how
Apollo's oracles must have been struck dumb, when
the Tatler appeared, and scholars, gentlemen, men of the
world, men of genius, began to speak!




Shortly before the Boyne was fought, and young Swift
had begun to make acquaintance with English Court
manners and English servitude, in Sir William Temple's
family, another Irish youth was brought to learn his
humanities at the old school of Charterhouse, near Smithfield;
to which foundation he had been appointed by
James Duke of Ormond, a governor of the House, and
a patron of the lad's family. The boy was an orphan,
and described, twenty years after, with a sweet pathos
and simplicity, some of the earliest recollections of a life
which was destined to be chequered by a strange variety
of good and evil fortune.




I am afraid no good report could be given by his masters
and ushers of that thick-set, square-faced, black-eyed, soft-hearted
little Irish boy. He was very idle. He was
whipped deservedly a great number of times. Though he
had very good parts of his own, he got other boys to do
his lessons for him, and only took just as much trouble
as should enable him to scuffle through his exercises, and
by good fortune escape the flogging block. One hundred
and fifty years after, I have myself inspected, but only
as an amateur, that instrument of righteous torture still
existing, and in occasional use, in a secluded private apartment
of the old Charterhouse School; and have no doubt
it is the very counterpart, if not the ancient and interesting
machine itself, at which poor Dick Steele submitted himself
to the tormentors.




Besides being very kind, lazy, and good-natured, this
boy went invariably into debt with the tart-woman; ran
out of bounds, and entered into pecuniary, or rather promissory,
engagements with the neighbouring lollipop-vendors
and piemen—exhibited an early fondness and
capacity for drinking mum and sack, and borrowed from
all his comrades who had money to lend. I have no sort
of authority for the statements here made of Steele's early
[pg 551]
life; but if the child is father of the man, the father of
young Steele of Merton, who left Oxford without taking
a degree, and entered the Life Guards—the father of
Captain Steele of Lucas's Fusiliers, who got his company
through the patronage of my Lord Cutts—the father of
Mr. Steele the Commissioner of Stamps, the editor of the
Gazette, the Tatler,
and Spectator, the expelled Member of
Parliament, and the author of the Tender Husband and
the Conscious Lovers; if man and boy resembled each
other, Dick Steele the schoolboy must have been one of
the most generous, good-for-nothing, amiable little creatures
that ever conjugated the verb tupto,
I beat, tuptomai, I am
whipped, in any school in Great Britain.




Almost every gentleman who does me the honour to
hear me will remember that the very greatest character
which he has seen in the course of his life, and the person
to whom he has looked up with the greatest wonder and
reverence, was the head boy at his school. The schoolmaster
himself hardly inspires such an awe. The head boy
construes as well as the schoolmaster himself. When he
begins to speak the hall is hushed, and every little boy
listens. He writes off copies of Latin verses as melodiously
as Virgil. He is good-natured, and, his own masterpieces
achieved, pours out other copies of verses for other boys
with an astonishing ease and fluency; the idle ones only
trembling lest they should be discovered on giving in their
exercises, and whipped because their poems were too good.
I have seen great men in my time, but never such a great
one as that head boy of my childhood: we all thought he
must be Prime Minister, and I was disappointed on meeting
him in after-life to find he was no more than six feet high.




Dick Steele, the Charterhouse gownboy, contracted such
an admiration in the years of his childhood, and retained
it faithfully through his life. Through the school and
through the world, whithersoever his strange fortune led
this erring, wayward, affectionate creature, Joseph Addison
was always his head boy. Addison wrote his exercises.
Addison did his best themes. He ran on Addison's messages:
fagged for him and blacked his shoes: to be in
Joe's company was Dick's greatest pleasure; and he took
a sermon or a caning from his monitor with the most
boundless reverence, acquiescence, and affection.97


[pg 552]


Steele found Addison a stately college Don at Oxford,
and himself did not make much figure at this place. He
wrote a comedy, which, by the advice of a friend, the
humble fellow burned there; and some verses, which I dare
say are as sublime as other gentlemen's composition at
that age; but being smitten with a sudden love for military
glory, he threw up the cap and gown for the saddle and
bridle, and rode privately in the Horse Guards, in the
Duke of Ormond's troop—the second—and, probably, with
the rest of the gentlemen of his troop, “all mounted on
black horses with white feathers in their hats, and scarlet
coats richly laced,” marched by King William, in Hyde
Park, in November, 1699, and a great show of the nobility,
besides twenty thousand people, and above a thousand
coaches. “The Guards had just got their new clothes,”
the London Post said: “they are extraordinary grand, and
thought to be the finest body of horse in the world.” But
Steele could hardly have seen any actual service. He who
wrote about himself, his mother, his wife, his loves, his
debts, his friends, and the wine he drank, would have told
us of his battles if he had seen any. His old patron,
Ormond, probably got him his cornetcy in the Guards,
from which he was promoted to be a captain in Lucas's
Fusiliers, getting his company through the patronage of
Lord Cutts, whose secretary he was, and to whom he
dedicated his work called the Christian Hero. As for Dick,
whilst writing this ardent devotional work, he was deep
in debt, in drink, and in all the follies of the town; it
is related that all the officers of Lucas's, and the gentlemen
of the Guards, laughed at Dick.98 And in truth a theologian
in liquor is not a respectable object, and a hermit,
though he may be out at elbows, must not be in debt to
the tailor. Steele says of himself that he was always
[pg 553]
sinning and repenting. He beat his breast and cried most
piteously when he did repent: but as soon as crying had
[pg 554]
made him thirsty, he fell to sinning again. In that charming
paper in the Tatler, in which he records his father's death,
his mother's griefs, his own most solemn and tender emotions,
he says he is interrupted by the arrival of a hamper
of wine, “the same as is to be sold at Garraway's, next
week,” upon the receipt of which he sends for three friends,
and they fall to instantly, “drinking two bottles apiece,
with great benefit to themselves, and not separating till
two o'clock in the morning.”




His life was so. Jack the drawer was always interrupting
it, bringing him a bottle from the “Rose”, or inviting him
over to a bout there with Sir Plume and Mr. Diver; and
Dick wiped his eyes, which were whimpering over his
papers, took down his laced hat, put on his sword and
wig, kissed his wife and children, told them a lie about
pressing business, and went off to the “Rose” to the jolly
fellows.




While Mr. Addison was abroad, and after he came home
in rather a dismal way to wait upon Providence in his
shabby lodging in the Haymarket, young Captain Steele
was cutting a much smarter figure than that of his classical
friend of Charterhouse Cloister and Maudlin Walk. Could
not some painter give an interview between the gallant
captain of Lucas's, with his hat cocked, and his lace, and
his face too, a trifle tarnished with drink, and that poet,
that philosopher, pale, proud, and poor, his friend and
monitor of schooldays, of all days? How Dick must
[pg 555]
have bragged about his chances and his hopes, and the
fine company he kept, and the charms of the reigning
toasts and popular actresses, and the number of bottles
that he and my lord and some other pretty fellows had
cracked overnight at the “Devil”, or the “Garter”! Cannot
one fancy Joseph Addison's calm smile and cold grey
eyes following Dick for an instant, as he struts down the
Mall, to dine with the Guard at St. James's, before he
turns, with his sober pace and threadbare suit, to walk
back to his lodgings up the two pair of stairs? Steele's
name was down for promotion, Dick always said himself,
in the glorious, pious, and immortal William's last table-book.
Jonathan Swift's name had been written there by
the same hand too.




Our worthy friend, the author of the Christian Hero,
continued to make no small figure about town by the use
of his wits.99 He was appointed Gazetteer: he wrote, in
1703, The Tender Husband, his second play, in which there
is some delightful farcical writing, and of which he fondly
owned in after-life, and when Addison was no more, that
there were “many applauded strokes” from Addison's
beloved hand.100 Is it not a pleasant partnership to remember?
Can't one fancy Steele full of spirits and youth,
leaving his gay company to go to Addison's lodging, where
[pg 556]
his friend sits in the shabby sitting-room, quite serene,
and cheerful, and poor? In 1704, Steele came on the town
with another comedy, and behold it was so moral and
religious, as poor Dick insisted, so dull the town thought,
that the Lying Lover was damned.




Addison's hour of success now came, and he was able
to help our friend, the Christian Hero, in such a way, that,
if there had been any chance of keeping that poor tipsy
champion upon his legs, his fortune was safe, and his
competence assured. Steele procured the place of Commissioner
of Stamps: he wrote so richly, so gracefully
often, so kindly always, with such a pleasant wit and easy
frankness, with such a gush of good spirits and good
humour, that his early papers may be compared to Addison's
own, and are to be read, by a male reader at least,
with quite an equal pleasure.101


[pg 557]


After the Tatler, in 1711, the famous
Spectator made its
appearance, and this was followed, at various intervals, by
[pg 558]
many periodicals under the same editor—the Guardian—the
Englishman—the Lover,
whose love was rather insipid—the
[pg 559]
Reader, of whom the public saw no more after his
second appearance—the Theatre, under the pseudonym of
Sir John Edgar, which Steele wrote, while Governor of the
Royal Company of Comedians, to which post, and to that
of Surveyor of the Royal Stables at Hampton Court, and
to the Commission of the Peace for Middlesex, and to the
honour of knighthood, Steele had been preferred soon after
the accession of George I, whose cause honest Dick had
nobly fought, through disgrace and danger, against the
most formidable enemies, against traitors and bullies,
against Bolingbroke and Swift in the last reign. With
the arrival of the King, that splendid conspiracy broke up;
[pg 560]
and a golden opportunity came to Dick Steele, whose hand,
alas, was too careless to grip it.




Steele married twice; and outlived his places, his schemes,
his wife, his income, his health, and almost everything but
his kind heart. That ceased to trouble him in 1729, when
he died, worn out and almost forgotten by his contemporaries,
in Wales, where he had the remnant of a property.




Posterity has been kinder to this amiable creature; all
women especially are bound to be grateful to Steele, as
he was the first of our writers who really seemed to admire
and respect them. Congreve the Great, who alludes to
the low estimation in which women were held in Elizabeth's
time, as a reason why the women of Shakespeare make so
small a figure in the poet's dialogues, though he can himself
pay splendid compliments to women, yet looks on
them as mere instruments of gallantry, and destined, like
the most consummate fortifications, to fall, after a certain
time, before the arts and bravery of the besieger, man.
There is a letter of Swift's, entitled “Advice to a very
Young Married Lady”, which shows the Dean's opinion of
the female society of his day, and that if he despised man
he utterly scorned women too. No lady of our time could
be treated by any man, were he ever so much a wit or
Dean, in such a tone of insolent patronage and vulgar
protection. In this performance, Swift hardly takes pains
to hide his opinion that a woman is a fool: tells her to
read books, as if reading was a novel accomplishment;
and informs her that “not one gentleman's daughter in
a thousand has been brought to read or understand her
own natural tongue”. Addison laughs at women equally;
but, with the gentleness and politeness of his nature, smiles
at them and watches them, as if they were harmless, halfwitted,
amusing, pretty creatures, only made to be men's
playthings. It was Steele who first began to pay a manly
homage to their goodness and understanding, as well as
to their tenderness and beauty.102 In his comedies, the
[pg 561]
heroes do not rant and rave about the divine beauties of
Gloriana or Statira, as the characters were made to do in
the chivalry romances and the high-flown dramas just going
out of vogue, but Steele admires women's virtue, acknowledges
their sense, and adores their purity and beauty, with
an ardour and strength which should win the goodwill of
all women to their hearty and respectful champion. It is
this ardour, this respect, this manliness, which makes his
comedies so pleasant and their heroes such fine gentlemen.
He paid the finest compliment to a woman that perhaps
ever was offered. Of one woman, whom Congreve had
also admired and celebrated, Steele says, that “to have
loved her was a liberal education”. “How often,” he says,
dedicating a volume to his wife, “how often has your
tenderness removed pain from my sick head, how often
anguish from my afflicted heart! If there are such beings
as guardian angels, they are thus employed. I cannot
believe one of them to be more good in inclination, or more
charming in form than my wife.” His breast seems to
warm and his eyes to kindle when he meets with a good
and beautiful woman, and it is with his heart as well as
with his hat that he salutes her. About children, and all
that relates to home, he is not less tender, and more than
once speaks in apology of what he calls his softness. He
would have been nothing without that delightful weakness.
It is that which gives his works their worth and his style
its charm. It, like his life, is full of faults and careless
blunders; and redeemed, like that, by his sweet and compassionate
nature.




We possess of poor Steele's wild and chequered life some
of the most curious memoranda that ever were left of
a man's biography.103 Most men's letters, from Cicero down
[pg 562]
to Walpole, or down to the great men of our own time,
if you will, are doctored compositions, and written with
[pg 563]
an eye suspicious towards posterity. That dedication of
Steele's to his wife is an artificial performance, possibly;
[pg 564]
at least, it is written with that degree of artifice which an
orator uses in arranging a statement for the House, or
a poet employs in preparing a sentiment in verse or for
[pg 565]
the stage. But there are some 400 letters of Dick Steele'e
to his wife, which that thrifty woman preserved accurately,
and which could have been written but for her and her
alone. They contain details of the business, pleasures,
quarrels, reconciliations of the pair; they have all the
genuineness of conversation; they are as artless as a child's
prattle, and as confidential as a curtain-lecture. Some are
written from the printing-office, where he is waiting for
the proofsheets of his Gazette,
or his Tatler; some are
written from the tavern, whence he promises to come to
his wife “within a pint of wine”, and where he has given
a rendezvous to a friend, or a money-lender: some are
composed in a high state of vinous excitement, when his
head is flustered with burgundy, and his heart abounds
with amorous warmth for his darling Prue: some are under
the influence of the dismal headache and repentance next
morning: some, alas, are from the lock-up house, where
the lawyers have impounded him, and where he is waiting
for bail. You trace many years of the poor fellow's career
in these letters. In September, 1707, from which day she
began to save the letters, he married the beautiful Mistress
Scurlock. You have his passionate protestations to the
lady; his respectful proposals to her mamma; his private
prayer to Heaven when the union so ardently desired was
completed; his fond professions of contrition and promises
of amendment, when, immediately after his marriage, there
began to be just cause for the one and need for the
other.




Captain Steele took a house for his lady upon their
marriage, “the third door from Germain Street, left hand
of Berry Street,” and the next year he presented his wife
with a country house at Hampton. It appears she had
a chariot and pair, and sometimes four horses: he himself
enjoyed a little horse for his own riding. He paid, or
promised to pay, his barber fifty pounds a year, and always
went abroad in a laced coat and a large black-buckled
periwig, that must have cost somebody fifty guineas. He
was rather a well-to-do gentleman, Captain Steele, with
the proceeds of his estates in Barbadoes (left to him by
his first wife), his income as a writer of the Gazette, and
his office of gentleman waiter to his Royal Highness Prince
George. His second wife brought him a fortune too. But
it is melancholy to relate, that with these houses and
[pg 566]
chariots and horses and income, the Captain was constantly
in want of money, for which his beloved bride was asking
as constantly. In the course of a few pages we begin to
find the shoemaker calling for money, and some directions
from the Captain, who has not thirty pounds to spare.
He sends his wife, “the beautifullest object in the world,”
as he calls her, and evidently in reply to applications of
her own, which have gone the way of all waste paper, and
lighted Dick's pipes, which were smoked a hundred and
forty years ago—he sends his wife now a guinea, then
a half-guinea, then a couple of guineas, then half a pound
of tea; and again no money and no tea at all, but a promise
that his darling Prue shall have some in a day or two:
or a request, perhaps, that she will send over his night-gown
and shaving-plate to the temporary lodging where
the nomadic captain is lying, hidden from the bailiffs. Oh
that a Christian hero and late captain in Lucas's should
be afraid of a dirty sheriff's officer! That the pink and
pride of chivalry should turn pale before a writ! It stands
to record in poor Dick's own handwriting; the queer
collection is preserved at the British Museum to this present
day; that the rent of the nuptial house in Jermyn Street,
sacred to unutterable tenderness and Prue, and three doors
from Bury Street, was not paid until after the landlord
had put in an execution on Captain Steele's furniture.
Addison sold the house and furniture at Hampton, and,
after deducting the sum in which his incorrigible friend was
indebted to him, handed over the residue of the proceeds
of the sale to poor Dick, who wasn't in the least angry at
Addison's summary proceeding, and I dare say was very
glad of any sale or execution, the result of which was to
give him a little ready money. Having a small house in
Jermyn Street for which he couldn't pay, and a country
house at Hampton on which he had borrowed money,
nothing must content Captain Dick but the taking, in 1712,
a much finer, larger, and grander house, in Bloomsbury
Square; where his unhappy landlord got no better satisfaction
than his friend in St. James's, and where it is
recorded that Dick, giving a grand entertainment, had
a half-dozen queer-looking fellows in livery to wait upon
his noble guests, and confessed that his servants were
bailiffs to a man. “I fared like a distressed prince,” the
kindly prodigal writes, generously complimenting Addison
[pg 567]
for his assistance in the Tatler,—“I
fared like a distressed
prince, who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid. I was
undone by my auxiliary; when I had once called him in,
I could not subsist without dependence on him.” Poor,
needy Prince of Bloomsbury! think of him in his palace,
with his allies from Chancery Lane ominously guarding
him.




All sorts of stories are told indicative of his recklessness
and his good humour. One narrated by Dr. Hoadly is
exceedingly characteristic; it shows the life of the time:
and our poor friend very weak, but very kind both in and
out of his cups.




“My father” (says Dr. John Hoadly, the bishop's son)—“when
Bishop of Bangor, was, by invitation, present at
one of the Whig meetings, held at the ‘Trumpet’, in Shire
Lane, when Sir Richard, in his zeal, rather exposed himself,
having the double duty of the day upon him, as well
to celebrate the immortal memory of King William, it being
the 4th of November, as to drink his friend Addison up
to conversation pitch, whose phlegmatic constitution was
hardly warmed for society by that time. Steele was not
fit for it. Two remarkable circumstances happened. John
Sly, the hatter of facetious memory, was in the house;
and John, pretty mellow, took it into his head to come
into the company on his knees, with a tankard of ale in
his hand to drink off to the immortal memory, and to return
in the same manner. Steele, sitting next my father,
whispered him—‘Do laugh. It is humanity to laugh.’ Sir
Richard, in the evening, being too much in the same condition,
was put into a chair, and sent home. Nothing
would serve him but being carried to the Bishop of Bangor's,
late as it was. However, the chairmen carried him home,
and got him upstairs, when his great complaisance would
wait on them downstairs, which he did, and then was got
quietly to bed.”104




There is another amusing story which, I believe, that
renowned collector, Mr. Joseph Miller, or his successors,
have incorporated into their work. Sir Richard Steele, at
a time when he was much occupied with theatrical affairs,
built himself a pretty private theatre, and, before it was
[pg 568]
opened to his friends and guests, was anxious to try whether
the hall was well adapted for hearing. Accordingly he
placed himself in the most remote part of the gallery, and
begged the carpenter who had built the house to speak up
from the stage. The man at first said that he was unaccustomed
to public speaking, and did not know what to say
to his honour; but the good-natured knight called out to
him to say whatever was uppermost; and, after a moment,
the carpenter began, in a voice perfectly audible: “Sir
Richard Steele!” he said, “for three months past me and
my men has been a-working in this theatre, and we've never
seen the colour of your honour's money: we will be very
much obliged if you'll pay it directly, for until you do we
won't drive in another nail.” Sir Richard said that his
friend's elocution was perfect, but that he didn't like his
subject much.




The great charm of Steele's writing is its naturalness.
He wrote so quickly and carelessly, that he was forced to
make the reader his confidant, and had not the time to
deceive him. He had a small share of book-learning, but
a vast acquaintance with the world. He had known men
and taverns. He had lived with gownsmen, with troopers,
with gentleman ushers of the Court, with men and women
of fashion; with authors and wits, with the inmates of the
spunging-houses, and with the frequenters of all the clubs
and coffee-houses in the town. He was liked in all company
because he liked it; and you like to see his enjoyment as
you like to see the glee of a box full of children at the
pantomime. He was not of those lonely ones of the earth
whose greatness obliged them to be solitary; on the contrary,
he admired, I think, more than any man who ever
wrote; and full of hearty applause and sympathy, wins
upon you by calling you to share his delight and good
humour. His laugh rings through the whole house. He
must have been invaluable at a tragedy, and have cried
as much as the most tender young lady in the boxes. He
has a relish for beauty and goodness wherever he meets it.
He admired Shakespeare affectionately, and more than any
man of his time; and, according to his generous expansive
nature, called upon all his company to like what he liked
himself. He did not damn with faint praise: he was in
the world and of it; and his enjoyment of life presents
the strangest contrast to Swift's savage indignation and
[pg 569]
Addison's lonely serenity.105 Permit me to read to you a passage
from each writer, curiously indicative of his peculiar
[pg 570]
humour: the subject is the same, and the mood the very
gravest. We have said that upon all the actions of man,
the most trifling and the most solemn, the humourist takes
upon himself to comment. All readers of our old masters
know the terrible lines of Swift, in which he hints at his
philosophy and describes the end of mankind:—106







Amazed, confused, its fate unknown,


The world stood trembling at Jove's throne;


While each pale sinner hung his head,


Jove, nodding, shook the heavens and said:


'Offending race of human kind,


By nature, reason, learning, blind;


You who through frailty stepped aside,


And you who never err'd through pride;


You who in different sects were shamm'd,


And come to see each other damn'd


(So some folk told you, but they knew


No more of Jove's designs than you).


The world's mad business now is o'er,


And I resent your freaks no more;


I to such blockheads set my wit,


I damn such fools—go, go, you're bit!'







Addison, speaking on the very same theme, but with
how different a voice, says, in his famous paper on Westminster
Abbey (Spectator, No. 26):—“For my own part,
though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be
melancholy, and can therefore take a view of nature in her
deep and solemn scenes with the same pleasure as in her
most gay and delightful ones. When I look upon the tombs
of the great, every emotion of envy dies within me; when
I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire
goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents on a tombstone,
my heart melts with compassion; when I see the
tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of
grieving for those we must quickly follow.” (I have owned
[pg 571]
that I do not think Addison's heart melted very much, or
that he indulged very inordinately in the “vanity of grieving”.)
“When,” he goes on, “when I see kings lying by
those who deposed them: when I consider rival wits
placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world
with their contests and disputes,—I reflect with sorrow and
astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and
debates of mankind. And, when I read the several dates
on the tombs of some that died yesterday and some 600 years
ago, I consider that Great Day when we shall all of us be
contemporaries, and make our appearance together.”




Our third humourist comes to speak upon the same
subject. You will have observed in the previous extracts
the characteristic humour of each writer—the subject and
the contrast—the fact of Death, and the play of individual
thought, by which each comments on it, and now hear the
third writer—death, sorrow, and the grave, being for the
moment also his theme. “The first sense of sorrow I ever
knew,” Steele says in the Tatler, “was upon the death of my
father, at which time I was not quite five years of age: but
was rather amazed at what all the house meant, than
possessed of a real understanding why nobody would play
with us. I remember I went into the room where his body
lay, and my mother sat weeping alone by it. I had my
battledore in my hand, and fell a-beating the coffin, and
calling papa; for, I know not how, I had some idea that
he was locked up there. My mother caught me in her arms,
and, transported beyond all patience of the silent grief she
was before in, she almost smothered me in her embraces,
and told me in a flood of tears, ‘Papa could not hear me,
and would play with me no more: for they were going to
put him under ground, whence he would never come to us
again.’ She was a very beautiful woman, of a noble spirit,
and there was a dignity in her grief amidst all the wildness
of her transport, which methought struck me with an instinct
of sorrow that, before I was sensible what it was to grieve,
seized my very soul, and has made pity the weakness of
my heart ever since.”




Can there be three more characteristic moods of minds
and men? “Fools, do you know anything of this mystery?”
says Swift, stamping on a grave and carrying his scorn for
mankind actually beyond it. “Miserable, purblind wretches,
how dare you to pretend to comprehend the Inscrutable,
[pg 572]
and how can your dim eyes pierce the unfathomable depths
of yonder boundless heaven?” Addison, in a much kinder
language and gentler voice, utters much the same sentiment:
and speaks of the rivalry of wits, and the contests of holy
men, with the same sceptic placidity. “Look what a little
vain dust we are;” he says, smiling over the tombstones,
and catching, as is his wont, quite a divine effulgence as
he looks heavenward, he speaks in words of inspiration
almost, of “the Great Day, when we shall all of us be contemporaries,
and make our appearance together”.




The third, whose theme is Death, too, and who will speak
his word of moral as Heaven teaches him, leads you up to
his father's coffin, and shows you his beautiful mother
weeping, and himself an unconscious little boy wondering
at her side. His own natural tears flow as he takes your
hand and confidingly asks your sympathy. “See how good
and innocent and beautiful women are,” he says, “how
tender little children! Let us love these and one another,
brother—God knows we have need of love and pardon.”
So it is each man looks with his own eyes, speaks with his
own voice, and prays his own prayer.




When Steele asks your sympathy for the actors in that
charming scene of Love and Grief and Death, who can
refuse it? One yields to it as to the frank advance of
a child, or to the appeal of a woman. A man is seldom
more manly than when he is what you call unmanned—the
source of his emotion is championship, pity, and courage;
the instinctive desire to cherish those who are innocent and
unhappy, and defend those who are tender and weak. If
Steele is not our friend he is nothing. He is by no means
the most brilliant of wits nor the deepest of thinkers: but
he is our friend: we love him, as children love their love
with an A, because he is amiable. Who likes a man best
because he is the cleverest or the wisest of mankind; or
a woman because she is the most virtuous, or talks French;
or plays the piano better than the rest of her sex? I own
to liking Dick Steele the man, and Dick Steele the author,
much better than much better men and much better authors.




The misfortune regarding Steele is, that most part of the
company here present must take his amiability upon hearsay,
and certainly can't make his intimate acquaintance.
Not that Steele was worse than his time; on the contrary,
a far better, truer, and higher-hearted man than most who
[pg 573]
lived in it. But things were done in that society, and names
were named, which would make you shudder now. What
would be the sensation of a polite youth of the present day,
if at a ball he saw the young object of his affections taking
a box out of her pocket and a pinch of snuff: or if at dinner,
by the charmer's side, she deliberately put her knife into
her mouth? If she cut her mother's throat with it, mamma
would scarcely be more shocked. I allude to these peculiarities
of bygone times as an excuse for my favourite, Steele,
who was not worse, and often much more delicate than his
neighbours.




There exists a curious document descriptive of the manners
of the last age, which describes most minutely the amusements
and occupations of persons of fashion in London at
the time of which we are speaking; the time of Swift, and
Addison, and Steele.




When Lord Sparkish, Tom Neverout, and Colonel Alwit,
the immortal personages of Swift's polite conversation,
came to breakfast with my Lady Smart, at eleven o'clock
in the morning, my Lord Smart was absent at the Levée.
His lordship was at home to dinner at three o'clock to
receive his guests; and we may sit down to this meal, like
the Barmecide's, and see the fops of the last century before
us. Seven of them sat down at dinner, and were joined by
a country baronet, who told them they kept Court hours.
These persons of fashion began their dinner with a sirloin
of beef, fish, a shoulder of veal, and a tongue. My Lady
Smart carved the sirloin, my Lady Answerwell helped the
fish, and the gallant colonel cut the shoulder of veal. All
made a considerable inroad on the sirloin and the shoulder
of veal with the exception of Sir John, who had no appetite,
having already partaken of a beefsteak and two mugs of ale,
besides a tankard of March beer as soon as he got out of
bed. They drank claret, which the master of the house
said should always be drunk after fish; and my Lord Smart
particularly recommended some excellent cider to my Lord
Sparkish, which occasioned some brilliant remarks from
that nobleman. When the host called for wine, he nodded
to one or other of his guests, and said, “Tom Neverout, my
service to you.”




After the first course came almond pudding, fritters,
which the colonel took with his hands out of the dish, in
order to help the brilliant Miss Notable; chickens, black
[pg 574]
puddings, and soup; and Lady Smart, the elegant mistress
of the mansion, finding a skewer in a dish, placed it in her
plate with directions that it should be carried down to the
cook and dressed for the cook's own dinner. Wine and
small beer were drunk during this second course; and when
the colonel called for beer, he called the butler, Friend, and
asked whether the beer was good. Various jocular remarks
passed from the gentlefolks to the servants; at breakfast
several persons had a word and a joke for Mrs. Betty, my
lady's maid, who warmed the cream and had charge of the
canister (the tea cost thirty shillings a pound in those days).
When my Lady Sparkish sent her footman out to my Lady
Match to come at six o'clock and play at quadrille, her
ladyship warned the man to follow his nose, and if he fell
by the way not to stay to get up again. And when the
gentlemen asked the hall-porter if his lady was at home,
that functionary replied, with manly waggishness, “She was
at home just now, but she's not gone out yet.”




After the puddings, sweet and black, the fritters and
soup, came the third course, of which the chief dish was
a hot venison pasty, which was put before Lord Smart, and
carved by that nobleman. Besides the pasty, there was
a hare, a rabbit, some pigeons, partridges, a goose, and
a ham. Beer and wine were freely imbibed during this
course, the gentlemen always pledging somebody with every
glass which they drank; and by this time the conversation
between Tom Neverout and Miss Notable had grown so
brisk and lively, that the Derbyshire baronet began to think
the young gentlewoman was Tom's sweetheart; on which
Miss remarked, that she loved Tom “like pie”. After the
goose, some of the gentlemen took a dram of brandy, “which
was very good for the wholesomes,” Sir John said; and
now having had a tolerably substantial dinner, honest Lord
Smart bade the butler bring up the great tankard full of
October to Sir John. The great tankard was passed from
hand to hand and mouth to mouth, but when pressed by
the noble host upon the gallant Tom Neverout, he said,
“No faith, my lord, I like your wine, and won't put a churl
upon a gentleman. Your honour's claret is good enough
for me.” And so, the dinner over, the host said, “Hang
saving, bring us up a ha'porth of cheese.”




The cloth was now taken away, and a bottle of burgundy
was set down, of which the ladies were invited to partake
[pg 575]
before they went to their tea. When they withdrew, the
gentlemen promised to join them in an hour; fresh bottles
were brought, the “dead men”, meaning the empty bottles,
removed; and “D'you hear, John? bring clean glasses”,
my Lord Smart said. On which the gallant Colonel Alwit
said, “I'll keep my glass; for wine is the best liquor to
wash glasses in.”




After an hour the gentlemen joined the ladies, and then
they all sat and played quadrille until three o'clock in the
morning, when the chairs and the flambeaux came, and
this noble company went to bed.




Such were manners six or seven score years ago. I draw
no inference from this queer picture—let all moralists here
present deduce their own. Fancy the moral condition of
that society in which a lady of fashion joked with a footman,
and carved a great shoulder of veal, and provided besides
a sirloin, a goose, hare, rabbit, chickens, partridges, black-puddings,
and a ham for a dinner for eight Christians. What—what
could have been the condition of that polite world
in which people openly ate goose after almond pudding,
and took their soup in the middle of dinner? Fancy a
colonel in the Guards putting his hand into a dish of beignets
d'abricot, and helping his neighbour, a young lady du
monde! Fancy a noble lord calling out to the servants,
before the ladies at his table, “Hang expense, bring us
a ha'porth of cheese!” Such were the ladies of St.
James's—such were the frequenters of White's Chocolate-house,
when Swift used to visit it, and Steele described it
as the centre of pleasure, gallantry, and entertainment,
a hundred and forty years ago!




Dennis, who ran amuck at the literary society of his day,
falls foul of poor Steele, and thus depicts him,—“Sir John
Edgar, of the county of —— in Ireland, is of a middle
stature, broad shoulders, thick legs, a shape like the picture
of somebody over a farmer's chimney—a short chin, a short
nose, a short forehead, a broad, flat face, and a dusky
countenance. Yet with such a face and such a shape, he
discovered at sixty that he took himself for a beauty, and
appeared to be more mortified at being told that he was
ugly, than he was by any reflection made upon his honour
or understanding.




“He is a gentleman born, witness himself, of very honourable
family; certainly of a very ancient one, for his ancestors
[pg 576]
flourished in Tipperary long before the English ever set foot
in Ireland. He has testimony of this more authentic than
the Heralds' Office, or any human testimony. For God has
marked him more abundantly than he did Cain, and
stamped his native country on his face, his understanding,
his writings, his actions, his passions, and, above all, his
vanity. The Hibernian brogue is still upon all these, though long
habit and length of days have worn it off his tongue.”107




Although this portrait is the work of a man who was
neither the friend of Steele nor of any other man alive, yet
[pg 577]
there is a dreadful resemblance to the original in the savage
and exaggerated traits of the caricature, and everybody
who knows him must recognize Dick Steele. Dick set about
almost all the undertakings of his life with inadequate
means, and, as he took and furnished a house with the most
generous intentions towards his friends, the most tender
gallantry towards his wife, and with this only drawback,
that he had not wherewithal to pay the rent when quarter-day
came,—so, in his life he proposed to himself the most
magnificent schemes of virtue, forbearance, public and
private good, and the advancement of his own and the
national religion; but when he had to pay for these articles—so
difficult to purchase and so costly to maintain—poor
Dick's money was not forthcoming: and when Virtue
called with her little bill, Dick made a shuffling excuse that
he could not see her that morning, having a headache from
being tipsy overnight; or when stern Duty rapped at the
door with his account, Dick was absent and not ready to
pay. He was shirking at the tavern; or had some particular
business (of somebody's else) at the ordinary; or he was
in hiding, or worse than in hiding, in the lock-up house.
What a situation for a man!—for a philanthropist—for
a lover of right and truth—for a magnificent designer
and schemer! Not to dare to look in the face the
Religion which he adored and which he had offended;
to have to shirk down back lanes and alleys, so as to
avoid the friend whom he loved and who had trusted
him—to have the house which he had intended for his wife,
whom he loved passionately, and for her ladyship's company
which he wished to entertain splendidly, in the possession
of a bailiff's man, with a crowd of little creditors,—grocers,
butchers, and small-coal men, lingering round the door with
their bills and jeering at him. Alas! for poor Dick Steele!
For nobody else, of course. There is no man or woman in
our time who makes fine projects and gives them up from
idleness or want of means. When Duty calls upon us, we no
doubt are always at home and ready to pay that grim tax-gatherer.
When we are stricken with remorse and promise
reform, we keep our promise, and are never angry, or idle,
or extravagant any more. There are no chambers in our
hearts, destined for family friends and affections, and now
occupied by some Sin's emissary and bailiff in possession.
There are no little sins, shabby peccadilloes, importunate
[pg 578]
remembrances, or disappointed holders of our promises to
reform, hovering at our steps, or knocking at our door! Of
course not. We are living in the nineteenth century, and
poor Dick Steele stumbled and got up again, and got into
jail and out again, and sinned and repented; and loved
and suffered; and lived and died scores of years ago. Peace
be with him! Let us think gently of one who was so gentle:
let us speak kindly of one whose own breast exuberated
with human kindness.




[pg 579]





 Lecture The Fourth. Prior, Gay, And Pope



Matthew Prior was one of those famous and lucky wits
of the auspicious reign of Queen Anne, whose name it
behoves us not to pass over. Mat was a world-philosopher
of no small genius, good nature, and acumen.108 He loved,
[pg 580]
he drank, he sang. He describes himself, in one of his
lyrics, “in a little Dutch chaise on a Saturday night; on
his left hand his Horace, and a friend on his right,” going
out of town from the Hague to pass that evening and the
ensuing Sunday, boozing at a Spielhaus with his companions,
perhaps bobbing for perch in a Dutch canal, and
noting down, in a strain and with a grace not unworthy of his
Epicurean master, the charms of his idleness, his retreat,
and his Batavian Chloe. A vintner's son in Whitehall, and
a distinguished pupil of Busby of the Rod, Prior attracted
some notice by writing verses at St. John's College, Cambridge,
and, coming up to town, aided Montague109 in an
attack on the noble old English lion John Dryden, in
ridicule of whose work, The Hind and the Panther, he brought
out that remarkable and famous burlesque, The Town and
Country Mouse. Aren't you all acquainted with it? Have
you not all got it by heart? What! have you never heard
of it? See what fame is made of! The wonderful part
of the satire was, that, as a natural consequence of The
Town and Country Mouse, Matthew Prior was made Secretary
of Embassy at the Hague! I believe it is dancing,
rather than singing, which distinguishes the young English
diplomatists of the present day; and have seen them in
various parts perform that part of their duty very finely.
In Prior's time it appears a different accomplishment led
to preferment. Could you write a copy of Alcaics? that
was the question. Could you turn out a neat epigram or
two? Could you compose The Town and Country Mouse?
It is manifest that, by the possession of this faculty, the
most difficult treaties, the laws of foreign nations, and the
interests of our own, are easily understood. Prior rose in
the diplomatic service, and said good things that proved
his sense and his spirit. When the apartments at Versailles
were shown to him, with the victories of Louis XIV painted
on the walls, and Prior was asked whether the palace of
the King of England had any such decorations, “The monuments
[pg 581]
of my master's actions,” Mat said, of William, whom
he cordially revered, “are to be seen everywhere except in
his own house.” Bravo, Mat! Prior rose to be full ambassador
at Paris,110 where he somehow was cheated out of his
ambassadorial plate; and in a heroic poem, addressed by
him to her late lamented Majesty Queen Anne, Mat makes
some magnificent allusions to these dishes and spoons, of
which Fate had deprived him. All that he wants, he says,
is her Majesty's picture; without that he can't be happy.







Thee, gracious Anne, thee present I adore:


Thee, Queen of Peace, if Time and Fate have power


Higher to raise the glories of thy reign,


In words sublimer and a nobler strain.


May future bards the mighty theme rehearse.


Here, Stator Jove, and Phoebus, king of verse,


The votive tablet I suspend.







With that word the poem stops abruptly. The votive
tablet is suspended for ever like Mahomet's coffin. News
came that the queen was dead. Stator Jove, and Phoebus,
king of verse, were left there, hovering to this day, over
the votive tablet. The picture was never got any more
than the spoons and dishes—the inspiration ceased—the
verses were not wanted—the ambassador wasn't wanted.
Poor Mat was recalled from his embassy, suffered disgrace
along with his patrons, lived under a sort of cloud ever
after, and disappeared in Essex. When deprived of all
his pensions and emoluments, the hearty and generous
Oxford pensioned him. They played for gallant stakes—the
bold men of those days—and lived and gave splendidly.




Johnson quotes from Spence a legend, that Prior, after
spending an evening with Harley, St. John, Pope, and Swift,
[pg 582]
would go off and smoke a pipe with a couple of friends of
his, a soldier and his wife, in Long Acre. Those who have
not read his late excellency's poems should be warned that
they smack not a little of the conversation of his Long
Acre friends. Johnson speaks slightingly of his lyrics;
but with due deference to the great Samuel, Prior's seem
to me amongst the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly
humorous of English lyrical poems.111 Horace is always
in his mind, and his song, and his philosophy, his good
sense, his happy easy turns and melody, his loves, and his
Epicureanism, bear a great resemblance to that most delightful
and accomplished master. In reading his works, one
is struck with their modern air, as well as by their happy
similarity to the songs of the charming owner of the Sabine
farm. In his verses addressed to Halifax, he says, writing
of that endless theme to poets, the vanity of human wishes—







So when in fevered dreams we sink,


And, waking, taste what we desire,


The real draught but feeds the fire,


The dream is better than the drink.



[pg 583]



Our hopes like towering falcons aim


At objects in an airy height:


To stand aloof and view the flight,


Is all the pleasure of the game.







Would not you fancy that a poet of our own days was
singing? and, in the verses of Chloe weeping and reproaching
him for his inconstancy, where he says—







The God of us verse-men, you know, child, the Sun,


How after his journey, he sets up his rest.


If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,


At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.






So, when I am wearied with wandering all day,


To thee, my delight, in the evening I come:


No matter what beauties I saw in my way;


They were but my visits, but thou art my home!






Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,


And let us like Horace and Lydia agree;


For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,


As he was a poet sublimer than me.







If Prior read Horace, did not Thomas Moore study Prior?
Love and pleasure find singers in all days. Roses are always
blowing and fading—to-day as in that pretty time when
Prior sang of them, and of Chloe lamenting their decay—







She sighed, she smiled, and to the flowers


Pointing, the lovely moralist said;


See, friend, in some few leisure hours,


See yonder what a change is made!






Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,


And that of Beauty are but one:


At morn both flourisht, bright and gay,


Both fade at evening, pale and gone.






At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,


The amorous youth around her bowed,


At night her fatal knell was rung;


I saw, and kissed her in her shroud.






Such as she is who died to-day,


Such I, alas, may be to-morrow:


Go, Damon, bid the Muse display


The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.







Damon's knell was rung in 1721. May his turf lie lightly
on him! Deus sit propitius huic
potatori, as Walter de
[pg 584]
Mapes sang.112 Perhaps Samuel Johnson, who spoke slightingly
of Prior's verses, enjoyed them more than he was
[pg 585]
willing to own. The old moralist had studied them as well
as Mr. Thomas Moore, and defended them, and showed
[pg 586]
that he remembered them very well too on an occasion
when their morality was called in question by that noted
puritan, James Boswell, Esq., of Auchinleck.113




In the great society of the wits, John Gay deserved to
be a favourite, and to have a good place.114 In his set all
were fond of him. His success offended nobody. He
missed a fortune once or twice. He was talked of for Court
favour, and hoped to win it; but the Court favour jilted
him. Craggs gave him some South-Sea Stock; and at one
[pg 587]
time Gay had very nearly made his fortune. But Fortune
shook her swift wings and jilted him too: and so his friends,
instead of being angry with him, and jealous of him, were
kind and fond of honest Gay. In the portraits of the
literary worthies of the early part of the last century,
Gay's face is the pleasantest perhaps of all. It appears
adorned with neither periwig nor nightcap (the full dress
and negligée
of learning, without which the painters of those
days scarcely ever portrayed wits), and he laughs at you
over his shoulder with an honest boyish glee—an artless
sweet humour. He was so kind, so gentle, so jocular, so
delightfully brisk at times, so dismally woebegone at others,
such a natural good creature that the Giants loved him.
The great Swift was gentle and sportive with him,115 as the
enormous Brobdingnag maids of honour were with little
Gulliver. He could frisk and fondle round Pope,116 and
sport, and bark, and caper without offending the most thin-skinned
of poets and men; and when he was jilted in
that little Court affair of which we have spoken, his warm-hearted
patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry117 (the
[pg 588]
“Kitty, beautiful and young”, of Prior) pleaded his cause
with indignation, and quitted the Court in a huff, carrying
[pg 589]
off with them into their retirement their kind gentle protégé.
With these kind lordly folks, a real Duke and Duchess, as
delightful as those who harboured Don Quixote, and loved
that dear old Sancho, Gay lived, and was lapped in cotton,
and had his plate of chicken, and his saucer of cream, and
frisked, and barked, and wheezed, and grew fat, and so
ended.118 He became very melancholy and lazy, sadly
plethoric, and only occasionally diverting in his latter days.
But everybody loved him, and the remembrance of his
pretty little tricks; and the raging old Dean of St. Patrick's,
chafing in his banishment, was afraid to open the letter
which Pope wrote him, announcing the sad news of the
death of Gay.119

[pg 590]


Swift's letters to him are beautiful; and having no purpose
but kindness in writing to him, no party aim to advocate,
or slight or anger to wreak, every word the Dean says
to his favourite is natural, trustworthy, and kindly. His
admiration for Gay's parts and honesty, and his laughter
at his weaknesses, were alike just and genuine. He paints
his character in wonderful pleasant traits of jocular satire.
“I writ lately to Mr. Pope,” Swift says, writing to Gay;
“I wish you had a little villakin in his neighbourhood; but
you are yet too volatile, and any lady with a coach and
six horses would carry you to Japan.” “If your ramble,”
says Swift, in another letter, “was on horseback, I am glad
of it, on account of your health; but I know your arts of
patching up a journey between stage-coaches and friends”
coaches—for you are as arrant a Cockney as any hosier in
Cheapside. I have often had it in my head to put it into
yours, that you ought to have some great work in scheme,
which may take up seven years to finish, besides two or
three under-ones that may add another thousand pounds
to your stock, and then I shall be in less pain about you.
I know you can find dinners, but you love twelvepenny
coaches too well, without considering that the interest of
a whole thousand pounds brings you but half a crown a
day:' and then Swift goes off from Gay to pay some grand
compliments to her Grace the Duchess of Queensberry, in
whose sunshine Mr. Gay was basking, and in whose radiance
the Dean would have liked to warm himself too.




But we have Gay here before us, in these letters—lazy,
kindly, uncommonly idle; rather slovenly, I'm afraid; for
ever eating and saying good things; a little, round, French
abbé of a man, sleek, soft-handed, and soft-hearted.




Our object in these lectures is rather to describe the
men than their works; or to deal with the latter only in
as far as they seem to illustrate the character of their
[pg 591]
writers. Mr. Gay's Fables, which were written to benefit
that amiable prince, the Duke of Cumberland, the warrior
of Dettingen and Culloden, I have not, I own, been able to
peruse since a period of very early youth; and it must be
confessed that they did not effect much benefit upon the
illustrious young prince, whose manners they were intended
to mollify, and whose natural ferocity our gentle-hearted
Satirist perhaps proposed to restrain. But the six pastorals
called the Shepherd's Week, and the burlesque poem of
Trivia any man fond of lazy literature will find delightful,
at the present day, and must read from beginning to end
with pleasure. They are to poetry what charming little
Dresden china figures are to sculpture: graceful, minikin,
fantastic; with a certain beauty always accompanying
them. The pretty little personages of the pastoral, with
gold clocks to their stockings, and fresh satin ribbons to
their crooks and waistcoats and bodices, dance their loves
to a minuet-tune played on a bird-organ, approach the
charmer, or rush from the false one daintily on their red-heeled
tiptoes, and die of despair or rapture, with the most
pathetic little grins and ogles; or repose, simpering at
each other, under an arbour of pea-green crockery; or
piping to pretty flocks that have just been washed with the
best Naples in a stream of Bergamot. Gay's gay plan
seems to me far pleasanter than that of Philips—his rival
and Pope's—a serious and dreary idyllic Cockney; not
that Gay's “Bumkinets and Hobnelias” are a whit more
natural than the would-be serious characters of the other
posture-master; but the quality of this true humourist
was to laugh and make laugh, though always with a secret
kindness and tenderness, to perform the drollest little
antics and capers, but always with a certain grace, and
to sweet music—as you may have seen a Savoyard boy
abroad, with a hurdy-gurdy and a monkey, turning over
head and heels, or clattering and piroueting in a pair of
wooden shoes, yet always with a look of love and appeal
in his bright eyes, and a smile that asks and wins affection
and protection. Happy they who have that sweet gift of
nature! It was this which made the great folks and Court
ladies free and friendly with John Gay—which made Pope
and Arbuthnot love him—which melted the savage heart
of Swift when he thought of him—and drove away, for
a moment or two, the dark frenzies which obscured the
[pg 592]
lonely tyrant's brain, as he heard Gay's voice with its
simple melody and artless ringing laughter.




What used to be said about Rubini, qu'il avait des
larmes dans la voix, may be said of Gay,120 and of one other
humourist of whom we shall have to speak. In almost
every ballad of his, however slight,121
in the Beggar's
[pg 593]
Opera122
and in its wearisome continuation (where the
verses are to the full as pretty as in the first piece, however),
there is a peculiar, hinted, pathetic sweetness and
melody. It charms and melts you. It's indefinable, but
it exists; and is the property of John Gay's and Oliver
Goldsmith's best verse, as fragrance is of a violet, or
freshness of a rose.




Let me read a piece from one of his letters, which is so
famous that most people here are no doubt familiar with it,
but so delightful that it is always pleasant to hear:—




“I have just passed part of this summer at an old romantic
seat of my Lord Harcourt's, which he lent me. It overlooks a
common hayfield, where, under the shade of a haycock, sat two
lovers—as constant as ever were found in romance—beneath a
spreading bush. The name of the one (let it sound as it will) was
[pg 594]
John Hewet; of the other Sarah Drew. John was a well-set man,
about five-and-twenty; Sarah, a brave woman of eighteen. John
had for several months borne the labour of the day in the same
field with Sarah; when she milked, it was his morning and evening
charge to bring the cows to her pails. Their love was the talk,
but not the scandal, of the whole neighbourhood, for all they aimed
at was the blameless possession of each other in marriage. It was
but this very morning that he had obtained her parents' consent,
and it was but till the next week that they were to wait to be
happy. Perhaps this very day, in the intervals of their work, they
were talking of their wedding clothes; and John was now matching
several kinds of poppies and field-flowers, to make her a present
of knots for the day. While they were thus employed (it was
on the last of July), a terrible storm of thunder and lightning
arose, that drove the labourers to what shelter the trees or hedges
afforded. Sarah, frightened and out of breath, sunk on a hay-cock;
and John (who never separated from her) sat by her side,
having raked two or three heaps together, to secure her. Immediately,
there was heard so loud a crash, as if heaven had burst
asunder. The labourers, all solicitous for each other's safety, called
to one another: those that were nearest our lovers, hearing no
answer, stepped to the place where they lay: they first saw a little
smoke, and after, this faithful pair—John, with one arm about his
Sarah's neck, and the other held over her face, as if to screen her
from the lightning. They were struck dead, and already grown
stiff and cold in this tender posture. There was no mark or discolouring
on their bodies—only that Sarah's eyebrow was a little
singed, and a small spot between her breasts. They were buried
the next day in one grave!”




And the proof that this description is delightful and
beautiful is, that the great Mr. Pope admired it so much
that he thought proper to steal it and to send it off to
a certain lady and wit, with whom he pretended to be in
love in those days—my Lord Duke of Kingston's daughter,
and married to Mr. Wortley Montagu, then his Majesty's
Ambassador at Constantinople.




We are now come to the greatest name on our list—the
highest among the poets, the highest among the English
wits and humourists with whom we have to rank him.
If the author of the Dunciad be not a humourist, if the
poet of the Rape of the Lock be not a wit, who deserves
to be called so? Besides that brilliant genius and immense
fame, for both of which we should respect him, men of
letters should admire him as being the greatest literary
artist that England has seen. He polished, he refined, he
thought; he took thoughts from other works to adorn and
[pg 595]
complete his own; borrowing an idea or a cadence from
another poet as he would a figure or a simile from a flower,
river, stream, or any object which struck him in his
walk, or contemplation of Nature. He began to imitate
at an early age;123 and taught himself to write by copying
printed books. Then he passed into the hands of the
priests, and from his first clerical master, who came to
him when he was eight years old, he went to a school at
Twyford, and another school at Hyde Park, at which
places he unlearned all that he had got from his first instructor.
At twelve years old, he went with his father
into Windsor Forest, and there learned for a few months
under a fourth priest. “And this was all the teaching
I ever had,” he said, “and God knows it extended a very
little way.”




When he had done with his priests he took to reading
by himself, for which he had a very great eagerness and
enthusiasm, especially for poetry. He learned versification
[pg 596]
from Dryden, he said. In his youthful poem of Alcander,
he imitated every poet, Cowley, Milton, Spenser, Statius,
Homer, Virgil. In a few years he had dipped into a great
number of the English, French, Italian, Latin, and Greek
poets. “This I did,” he says, “without any design, except
to amuse myself; and got the languages by hunting after
the stories in the several poets I read, rather than read
the books to get the languages. I followed everywhere
as my fancy led me, and was like a boy gathering flowers
in the fields and woods, just as they fell in his way. These
five or six years I looked upon as the happiest in my life.”
Is not here a beautiful holiday picture? The forest and
the fairy story-book—the boy spelling Ariosto or Virgil
under the trees, battling with the Cid for the love of
Chimène, or dreaming of Armida's garden—peace and
sunshine round about—the kindest love and tenderness
waiting for him at his quiet home yonder—and Genius
throbbing in his young heart, and whispering to him, “You
shall be great; you shall be famous; you, too, shall love
and sing; you will sing her so nobly that some kind heart
shall forget you are weak and ill-formed. Every poet had
a love. Fate must give one to you too,”—and day by day
he walks the forest, very likely looking out for that charmer.
“They were the happiest days of his life,” he says, when he
was only dreaming of his fame: when he had gained that
mistress she was no consoler.




That charmer made her appearance, it would seem,
about the year 1705, when Pope was seventeen. Letters
of his are extant, addressed to a certain Lady M——,
whom the youth courted, and to whom he expressed his
ardour in language, to say no worse of it, that is entirely
pert, odious, and affected. He imitated love compositions
as he had been imitating love poems just before—it was
a sham mistress he courted, and a sham passion, expressed
as became it. These unlucky letters found their way into
print years afterwards, and were sold to the congenial Mr.
Curll. If any of my hearers, as I hope they may, should
take a fancy to look at Pope's correspondence, let them
pass over that first part of it; over, perhaps, almost all
Pope's letters to women; in which there is a tone of not
pleasant gallantry, and, amidst a profusion of compliments
and politenesses, a something which makes one distrust the
little pert, prurient bard. There is very little indeed to
[pg 597]
say about his loves, and that little not edifying. He wrote
flames and raptures and elaborate verse and prose for
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu; but that passion probably
came to a climax in an impertinence and was extinguished
by a box on the ear, or some such rebuff, and he began on
a sudden to hate her with a fervour much more genuine
than that of his love had been. It was a feeble, puny
grimace of love, and paltering with passion. After Mr.
Pope had sent off one of his fine compositions to Lady
Mary, he made a second draft from the rough copy, and
favoured some other friend with it. He was so charmed
with the letter of Gay's, that I have just quoted, that he
had copied that and amended it, and sent it to Lady Mary
as his own. A gentleman who writes letters
à deux fins, and
after having poured out his heart to the beloved, serves
up the same dish rechauffé to a friend, is not very much in
earnest about his loves, however much he may be in his
piques and vanities when his impertinence gets its due.




But, save that unlucky part of the Pope Correspondence,
I do not know, in the range of our literature, volumes more
delightful.124 You live in them in the finest company in
[pg 598]
the world. A little stately, perhaps; a little apprêté
and conscious that they are speaking to whole generations who
[pg 599]
are listening; but in the tone of their voices—pitched,
as no doubt they are, beyond the mere conversation key—in
[pg 600]
the expression of their thoughts, their various views and
natures, there is something generous, and cheering, and
[pg 601]
ennobling. You are in the society of men who have filled
the greatest parts in the world's story—you are with
[pg 602]
St. John the statesman; Peterborough the conqueror; Swift,
the greatest wit of all times; Gay, the kindliest laugher—it
is a privilege to sit in that company. Delightful and
[pg 603]
generous banquet! with a little faith and a little fancy
any one of us here may enjoy it, and conjure up those great
figures out of the past, and listen to their wit and wisdom.
Mind that there is always a certain cachet about great
men—they may be as mean on many points as you or I,
but they carry their great air—they speak of common life
more largely and generously than common men do—they
regard the world with a manlier countenance, and see its
real features more fairly than the timid shufflers who only
dare to look up at life through blinkers, or to have an
opinion when there is a crowd to back it. He who reads
these noble records of a past age, salutes and reverences
the great spirits who adorn it. You may go home now and
talk with St. John; you may take a volume from your
library and listen to Swift and Pope.




Might I give counsel to any young hearer, I would say
to him, Try to frequent the company of your betters. In
books and life that is the most wholesome society; learn
to admire rightly; the great pleasure of life is that. Note
what the great men admired; they admired great things:
narrow spirits admire basely, and worship meanly. I know
nothing in any story more gallant and cheering, than the
love and friendship which this company of famous men
bore towards one another. There never has been a society
of men more friendly, as there never was one more illustrious.
Who dares quarrel with Mr. Pope, great and famous himself,
for liking the society of men great and famous? and for
liking them for the qualities which made them so? A mere
pretty fellow from White's could not have written the
Patriot King, and would very likely have despised little
Mr. Pope, the decrepit Papist, whom the great St. John
held to be one of the best and greatest of men: a mere
nobleman of the Court could no more have won Barcelona,
than he could have written Peterborough's letters to Pope,125
[pg 604]
which are as witty as Congreve: a mere Irish Dean could
not have written Gulliver; and all these men loved Pope,
and Pope loved all these men. To name his friends is to
name the best men of his time. Addison had a senate;
Pope reverenced his equals. He spoke of Swift with respect
and admiration always. His admiration for Bolingbroke
was so great, that when some one said of his friend, “There
is something in that great man which looks as if he was
placed here by mistake,” “Yes,” Pope answered, “and when
the comet appeared to us a month or two ago, I had sometimes
an imagination that it might possibly be come to
carry him home, as a coach comes to one's door for visitors.”
So these great spirits spoke of one another. Show me six
of the dullest middle-aged gentlemen that ever dawdled
round a club-table, so faithful and so friendly.




We have said before that the chief wits of this time,
with the exception of Congreve, were what we should now
call men's men. They spent many hours of the four-and-twenty,
a fourth part of each day nearly, in clubs and
coffee-houses, where they dined, drank, and smoked. Wit
and news went by word of mouth; a journal of 1710
[pg 605]
contained the very smallest portion of one or the other.
The chiefs spoke, the faithful habitués
sat round; strangers
came to wonder and listen. Old Dryden had his head quarters
at Will's, in Russell Street, at the corner of Bow Street,
at which place Pope saw him when he was twelve years
old. The company used to assemble on the first floor—what
was called the dining-room floor in those days—and
sat at various tables smoking their pipes. It is recorded
that the beaux of the day thought it a great honour to be
allowed to take a pinch out of Dryden's snuff-box. When
Addison began to reign, he with a certain crafty propriety—a
policy let us call it—which belonged to his nature, set
up his court, and appointed the officers of his royal house.
His palace was Button's, opposite Will's.126 A quiet opposition,
a silent assertion of empire, distinguished this great
man. Addison's ministers were Budgell, Tickell, Philips,
Carey; his master of the horse, honest Dick Steele, who
was what Duroc was to Napoleon, or Hardy to Nelson;
the man who performed his master's bidding, and would
have cheerfully died in his quarrel. Addison lived with
these people for seven or eight hours every day. The male
society passed over their punch-bowls and tobacco-pipes
about as much time as ladies of that age spent over Spadille
and Manille.




For a brief space, upon coming up to town, Pope formed
part of King Joseph's court, and was his rather too eager
and obsequious humble servant.127 Dick Steele, the editor
[pg 606]
of the Tatler, Mr. Addison's man, and his own man too—a
person of no little figure in the world of letters, patronized
the young poet, and set him a task or two. Young Mr.
Pope did the tasks very quickly and smartly (he had been
at the feet quite as a boy of Wycherley's decrepit reputation,
and propped up for a year that doting old wit): he was
[pg 607]
anxious to be well with the men of letters, to get a footing
and a recognition. He thought it an honour to be admitted
into their company; to have the confidence of Mr. Addison's
friend, Captain Steele. His eminent parts obtained for
him the honour of heralding Addison's triumph of Cato
with his admirable prologue, and heading the victorious
procession as it were. Not content with this act of homage
and admiration, he wanted to distinguish himself by assaulting
Addison's enemies, and attacked John Dennis with
a prose lampoon, which highly offended his lofty patron.
Mr. Steele was instructed to write to Mr. Dennis and inform
him that Mr. Pope's pamphlet against him was written
quite without Mr. Addison's approval.128 Indeed, The
Narrative of Dr. Robert Norris on the Phrenzy of J. D.
is a vulgar and mean satire, and such a blow as the magnificent
Addison could never desire to see any partisan of his
strike in any literary quarrel. Pope was closely allied with
Swift when he wrote this pamphlet. It is so dirty that it
has been printed in Swift's works, too. It bears the foul
marks of the master hand. Swift admired and enjoyed
with all his heart the prodigious genius of the young Papist
lad out of Windsor Forest, who had never seen a university
in his life, and came and conquered the Dons and the
doctors with his wit. He applauded, and loved him, too,
and protected him, and taught him mischief. I wish
Addison could have loved him better. The best satire
that ever has been penned would never have been written
then; and one of the best characters the world ever knew
would have been without a flaw. But he who had so few equals
could not bear one, and Pope was more than that.
When Pope, trying for himself, and soaring on his immortal
young wings, found that his, too, was a genius, which no
opinion of that age could follow, he rose and left Addison's
[pg 608]
company, settling on his own eminence, and singing his
own song.




It was not possible that Pope should remain a retainer of
Mr. Addison; nor likely that after escaping from his
vassalage and assuming an independent crown, the sovereign
whose allegiance he quitted should view him amicably.129
They did not do wrong to mislike each other. They but
followed the impulse of nature, and the consequence of
position. When Bernadotte became heir to a throne, the
Prince Royal of Sweden was naturally Napoleon's enemy.
“There are many passions and tempers of mankind,” says
Mr. Addison in the Spectator, speaking a couple of years
before their little differences between him and Mr. Pope
took place, “which naturally dispose us to depress and vilify
the merit of one rising in the esteem of mankind. All those
who made their entrance into the world with the same
advantages, and were once looked on as his equals, are apt
to think the fame of his merits a reflection on their own
deserts. Those who were once his equals envy and defame
him, because they now see him the superior; and those
who were once his superiors, because they look upon him
as their equal.” Did Mr. Addison, justly perhaps thinking
that, as young Mr. Pope had not had the benefit of a university
education, he couldn't know Greek, therefore he couldn't
translate Homer, encourage his young friend Mr. Tickell,
of Queen's, to translate that poet, and aid him with his
own known scholarship and skill?130
It was natural that
Mr. Addison should doubt of the learning of an amateur
Grecian, should have a high opinion of Mr. Tickell, of Queen's,
[pg 609]
and should help that ingenious young man. It was natural,
on the other hand, that Mr. Pope and Mr. Pope's friends
should believe that this counter-translation, suddenly
advertised and so long written, though Tickell's college
friends had never heard of it—though, when Pope first
wrote to Addison regarding his scheme, Mr. Addison knew
nothing of the similar project of Tickell, of Queen's—it
was natural that Mr. Pope and his friends, having interests,
passions, and prejudices of their own, should believe that
Tickell's translation was but an act of opposition against
Pope, and that they should call Mr. Tickell's emulation
Mr. Addison's envy—if envy it were.







And were there one whose fires


True genius kindles and fair fame inspires,


Blest with each talent and each art to please,


And born to write, converse, and live with ease;


Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,


Bear like the Turk no brother near the throne;


View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes,


And hate, for arts that caused himself to rise;


Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,


And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;


Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,


Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;


Alike reserved to blame as to commend,


A timorous foe and a suspicious friend;


Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged,


And so obliging that he ne'er obliged;


Like Cato give his little senate laws,


And sit attentive to his own applause;


While wits and templars every sentence raise,


And wonder with a foolish face of praise;


Who but must laugh if such a man there be,


Who would not weep if Atticus were he?







“I sent the verses to Mr. Addison,” said Pope, “and
he used me very civilly ever after.” No wonder he did.
It was shame very likely more than fear that silenced him.
Johnson recounts an interview between Pope and Addison
after their quarrel, in which Pope was angry, and Addison
tried to be contemptuous and calm. Such a weapon as
Pope's must have pierced any scorn. It flashes for ever,
and quivers in Addison's memory. His great figure looks
out on us from the past—stainless but for that—pale, calm,
and beautiful; it bleeds from that black wound. He
should be drawn, like St. Sebastian, with that arrow in
[pg 610]
his side. As he sent to Gay and asked his pardon, as he
bade his stepson come and see his death, be sure he had
forgiven Pope, when he made ready to show how a Christian
could die.




Pope then formed part of the Addisonian court for
a short time, and describes himself in his letters as sitting
with that coterie until two o'clock in the morning over
punch and burgundy amidst the fumes of tobacco. To
use an expression of the present day, the “pace” of those
viveurs of the former age was awful. Peterborough lived
into the very jaws of death; Godolphin laboured all day
and gambled at night; Bolingbroke,131 writing to Swift,
from Dawley, in his retirement, dating his letter at six
o'clock in the morning, and rising, as he says, refreshed,
serene, and calm, calls to mind the time of his London life;
when about that hour he used to be going to bed, surfeited
with pleasure, and jaded with business; his head often
full of schemes, and his heart as often full of anxiety.
It was too hard, too coarse a life for the sensitive, sickly
Pope. He was the only wit of the day, a friend writes
to me, who wasn't fat.132 Swift was fat; Addison was
fat; Steele was fat; Gay and Thomson were preposterously
fat—all that fuddling and punch-drinking, that
club and coffee-house boozing, shortened the lives and
enlarged the waistcoats of the men of that age. Pope
[pg 611]
withdrew in a great measure from this boisterous London
company, and being put into an independence by the gallant
exertions of Swift133 and his private friends, and by the
enthusiastic national admiration which justly rewarded his
great achievement of the Iliad, purchased that famous villa
of Twickenham which his song and life celebrated; duteously
bringing his old parents to live and die there, entertaining
his friends there, and making occasional visits to
London in his little chariot, in which Atterbury compared
him to “Homer in a nutshell”.




“Mr. Dryden was not a genteel man,” Pope quaintly said
to Spence, speaking of the manner and habits of the famous
old patriarch of Will's. With regard to Pope's own manners,
we have the best contemporary authority that they
were singularly refined and polished. With his extraordinary
sensibility, with his known tastes, with his delicate
frame, with his power and dread of ridicule, Pope could have
been no other than what we call a highly-bred person.
His closest friends, with the exception of Swift, were
among the delights and ornaments of the polished society
of their age. Garth,134 the accomplished and benevolent,
whom Steele has described so charmingly, of whom Codrington
said that his character was “all beauty”, and whom
Pope himself called the best of Christians without knowing
it; Arbuthnot,135 one of the wisest, wittiest, most accomplished,
[pg 612]
gentlest of mankind; Bolingbroke, the Alcibiades
of his age; the generous Oxford; the magnificent, the
[pg 613]
witty, the famous, and chivalrous Peterborough: these
were the fast and faithful friends of Pope, the most brilliant
company of friends, let us repeat, that the world has ever
seen. The favourite recreation of his leisure hours was the
society of painters, whose art he practised. In his correspondence
are letters between him and Jervas, whose pupil
he loved to be—Richardson, a celebrated artist of his time,
and who painted for him a portrait of his old mother, and
for whose picture he asked and thanked Richardson in one
of the most delightful letters that ever was penned,136—and
[pg 614]
the wonderful Kneller, who bragged more, spelt worse, and
painted better than any artist of his day.137




It is affecting to note, through Pope's correspondence,
the marked way in which his friends, the greatest, the most
famous, and wittiest men of the time—generals and statesmen,
philosophers and divines—all have a kind word, and
a kind thought for the good simple old mother, whom Pope
tended so affectionately. Those men would have scarcely
valued her, but that they knew how much he loved her,
and that they pleased him by thinking of her. If his
early letters to women are affected and insincere, whenever
he speaks about this one, it is with a childish tenderness
and an almost sacred simplicity. In 1713, when young
Mr. Pope had, by a series of the most astonishing victories
and dazzling achievements, seized the crown of poetry; and
the town was in an uproar of admiration, or hostility, for
the young chief; when Pope was issuing his famous decrees
for the translation of the Iliad; when Dennis and the
lower critics were hooting and assailing him; when Addison
and the gentlemen of his court were sneering with sickening
hearts at the prodigious triumphs of the young conqueror;
when Pope, in a fever of victory, and genius, and hope,
and anger, was struggling through the crowd of shouting
friends and furious detractors to his temple of Fame, his
old mother writes from the country, “My deare,” says she,
“my deare, there's Mr. Blount, of Mapel Durom, dead the
same day that Mr. Inglefield died. Your sister is well;
but your brother is sick. My service to Mrs. Blount, and
all that ask of me. I hope to hear from you, and that
you are well, which is my daily prayer; and this with my
blessing.” The triumph marches by, and the car of the
young conqueror, the hero of a hundred brilliant victories—the
[pg 615]
fond mother sits in the quiet cottage at home, and
says, “I send you my daily prayers, and I bless you, my
deare”.




In our estimate of Pope's character, let us always take
into account that constant tenderness and fidelity of
affection which pervaded and sanctified his life, and never
forget that maternal benediction.138 It accompanied him
always: his life seems purified by those artless and heartfelt
prayers. And he seems to have received and deserved
the fond attachment of the other members of his family.
It is not a little touching to read in Spence of the enthusiastic
admiration with which his half-sister regarded him,
and the simple anecdote by which she illustrates her love.
“I think no man was ever so little fond of money.” Mrs.
Rackett says about her brother, “I think my brother when
he was young read more books than any man in the world”;
and she falls to telling stories of his schooldays, and the
manner in which his master at Twyford ill-used him.
“I don't think my brother knew what fear was,” she continues;
and the accounts of Pope's friends bear out this
character for courage. When he had exasperated the
dunces, and threats of violence and personal assault were
brought to him, the dauntless little champion never for
one instant allowed fear to disturb him, or condescended
to take any guard in his daily walks, except occasionally
his faithful dog to bear him company. “I had rather die
at once,” said the gallant little cripple, “than live in fear
of those rascals.”




As for his death, it was what the noble Arbuthnot asked
and enjoyed for himself—a euthanasia—a beautiful end.
A perfect benevolence, affection, serenity, hallowed the
departure of that high soul. Even in the very hallucinations
of his brain, and weaknesses of his delirium, there
was something almost sacred. Spence describes him in his
last days, looking up, and with a rapt gaze as if something
had suddenly passed before him. He said to me, “What's
[pg 616]
that?” pointing into the air with a very steady regard,
and then looked down and said, with a smile of the greatest
softness, “'twas a vision!” He laughed scarcely ever, but
his companions describe his countenance as often illuminated
by a peculiar sweet smile.




“When,” said Spence,139 the kind anecdotist whom Johnson
despised, “when I was telling Lord Bolingbroke that Mr.
Pope, on every catching and recovery of his mind, was
always saying something kindly of his present or absent
friends; and that this was so surprising, as it seemed to
me as if humanity had outlasted understanding, Lord
Bolingbroke said, ‘It has so,’ and then added, ‘I never
in my life knew a man who had so tender a heart for his
particular friends, or a more general friendship for mankind.
I have known him these thirty years, and value myself
more for that man's love than——’ Here,” Spence says,
“St. John sunk his head, and lost his voice in tears.” The
sob which finishes the epitaph is finer than words. It is
the cloak thrown over the father's face in the famous Greek
picture which hides the grief and heightens it.




In Johnson's Life of Pope, you will find described with
rather a malicious minuteness some of the personal habits
and infirmities of the great little Pope. His body was
crooked, he was so short that it was necessary to raise his
chair in order to place him on a level with other people at
table.140 He was sewed up in a buckram suit every morning
and required a nurse like a child. His contemporaries
[pg 617]
reviled these misfortunes with a strange acrimony, and
made his poor deformed person the butt for many a bolt
of heavy wit. The facetious Mr. Dennis, in speaking of
him, says, “If you take the first letter of Mr. Alexander
Pope's Christian name, and the first and last letters of his
surname, you have A. P. E.” Pope catalogues, at the end
of the Dunciad, with a rueful precision, other pretty names,
besides Ape, which Dennis called him. That great critic
pronounced Mr. Pope was a little ass, a fool, a coward,
a Papist, and therefore a hater of Scripture, and so forth.
It must be remembered that the pillory was a flourishing
and popular institution in those days. Authors stood in it
in the body sometimes: and dragged their enemies thither
morally, hooted them with foul abuse, and assailed them
with garbage of the gutter. Poor Pope's figure was an
easy one for those clumsy caricaturists to draw. Any
stupid hand could draw a hunchback, and write Pope
underneath. They did. A libel was published against
Pope, with such a frontispiece. This kind of rude jesting
was an evidence not only of an ill nature, but a dull one.
When a child makes a pun, or a lout breaks out into a
laugh, it is some very obvious combination of words, or
discrepancy of objects, which provokes the infantine satirist,
or tickles the boorish wag; and many of Pope's revilers
laughed, not so much because they were wicked, as because
they knew no better.




Without the utmost sensibility, Pope could not have been
the poet he was; and through his life, however much he
protested that he disregarded their abuse, the coarse ridicule
of his opponents stung and tore him. One of Cibber's
pamphlets coming into Pope's hands, whilst Richardson
the painter was with him, Pope turned round and said,
“These things are my diversions;” and Richardson, sitting
by whilst Pope perused the libel, said he saw his features
“writhing with anguish”. How little human nature changes!
Can't one see that little figure? Can't one fancy one is
reading Horace? Can't one fancy one is speaking of
to-day?




The tastes and sensibilities of Pope, which led him to
cultivate the society of persons of fine manners, or wit, or
taste, or beauty, caused him to shrink equally from that
shabby and boisterous crew which formed the rank and
file of literature in his time: and he was as unjust to these
[pg 618]
men as they to him. The delicate little creature sickened
at habits and company which were quite tolerable to
robuster men: and in the famous feud between Pope and
the Dunces, and without attributing any peculiar wrong
to either, one can quite understand how the two parties
should so hate each other. As I fancy, it was a sort of
necessity that when Pope's triumph passed, Mr. Addison
and his men should look rather contemptuously down on
it from their balcony; so it was natural for Dennis and
Tibbald, and Welsted, and Cibber, and the worn and hungry
pressmen in the crowd below, to howl at him and assail
him. And Pope was more savage to Grub Street than
Grub Street was to Pope. The thong with which he lashed
them was dreadful; he fired upon that howling crew such
shafts of flame and poison, he slew and wounded so fiercely,
that in reading the Dunciad and the prose lampoons of
Pope, one feels disposed to side against the ruthless little
tyrant, at least to pity those wretched folks upon whom
he was so unmerciful. It was Pope, and Swift to aid him,
who established among us the Grub Street tradition. He
revels in base descriptions of poor men's want; he gloats
over poor Dennis's garret, and flannel nightcap, and red
stockings; he gives instructions how to find Curll's authors,
the historian at the tallow-chandler's under the blind arch
in Petty France, the two translators in bed together, the
poet in the cock-loft in Budge Row, whose landlady keeps
the ladder. It was Pope, I fear, who contributed, more
than any man who ever lived, to depreciate the literary
calling. It was not an unprosperous one before that time,
as we have seen; at least there were great prizes in the
profession which had made Addison a minister, and Prior
an ambassador, and Steele a commissioner, and Swift all
but a bishop. The profession of letters was ruined by that
libel of the Dunciad. If authors were wretched and poor
before, if some of them lived in haylofts, of which their
landladies kept the ladders, at least nobody came to disturb
them in their straw; if three of them had but one coat
between them, the two remained invisible in the garret,
the third, at any rate, appeared decently at the coffee-house,
and paid his twopence like a gentleman. It was
Pope that dragged into light all this poverty and meanness,
and held up those wretched shifts and rags to public
ridicule. It was Pope that has made generations of the
[pg 619]
reading world (delighted with the mischief, as who would
not be that reads it?) believe that author and wretch,
author and rags, author and dirt, author and drink, gin,
cowheel, tripe, poverty, duns, bailiffs, squalling children
and clamorous landladies, were always associated together.
The condition of authorship began to fall from the days
of the Dunciad: and I believe in my heart that much of
that obloquy which has since pursued our calling was
occasioned by Pope's libels and wicked wit. Everybody
read those. Everybody was familiarized with the idea of
the poor devil, the author. The manner is so captivating
that young authors practise it, and begin their career with
satire. It is so easy to write, and so pleasant to read!
to fire a shot that makes a giant wince, perhaps; and
fancy one's self his conqueror. It is easy to shoot—but
not as Pope did—the shafts of his satire rise sublimely:
no poet's verse ever mounted higher than that wonderful
flight with which the Dunciad concludes141:—







She comes, she comes! the sable throne behold!


Of Night primaeval and of Chaos old;


Before her, Fancy's gilded clouds decay,


And all its varying rainbows die away;


Wit shoots in vain its momentary fires,


The meteor drops, and in a flash expires.


As, one by one, at dread Medea's strain


The sick'ning stars fade off the ethereal plain;


As Argus' eyes, by Hermes' wand oppress'd,


Closed one by one to everlasting rest;—


Thus, at her fell approach and secret might,


Art after Art goes out, and all is night.


See skulking Faith to her old cavern fled,


Mountains of casuistry heaped o'er her head;


Philosophy, that leaned on Heaven before,


Shrinks to her second cause and is no more.


Religion, blushing, veils her sacred fires,


And, unawares, Morality expires.


Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine,


Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine.


Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos, is restored,


Light dies before thy uncreating word;


Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall,


And universal darkness buries all.142





[pg 620]


In these astonishing lines Pope reaches, I think, to the
very greatest height which his sublime art has attained,
and shows himself the equal of all poets of all times. It
is the brightest ardour, the loftiest assertion of truth, the
most generous wisdom, illustrated by the noblest poetic
figure, and spoken in words the aptest, grandest, and most
harmonious. It is heroic courage speaking: a splendid
declaration of righteous wrath and war. It is the gage
flung down, and the silver trumpet ringing defiance to
falsehood and tyranny, deceit, dullness, superstition. It is
Truth, the champion, shining and intrepid, and fronting
the great world-tyrant with armies of slaves at his back.
It is a wonderful and victorious single combat, in that
great battle, which has always been waging since society
began.




In speaking of a work of consummate art one does not
try to show what it actually is, for that were vain; but
what it is like, and what are the sensations produced in
the mind of him who views it. And in considering Pope's
admirable career, I am forced into similitudes drawn from
other courage and greatness, and into comparing him with
those who achieved triumphs in actual war. I think of
the works of young Pope as I do of the actions of young
Bonaparte or young Nelson. In their common life you
will find frailties and meannesses, as great as the vices
and follies of the meanest men. But in the presence of
the great occasion, the great soul flashes out, and conquers
transcendent. In thinking of the splendour of Pope's young
victories, of his merit, unequalled as his renown, I hail and
salute the achieving genius, and do homage to the pen of
a hero.




[pg 621]





 Lecture The Fifth. Hogarth, Smollett, And Fielding



I suppose as long as novels last and authors aim at
interesting their public, there must always be in the story
a virtuous and gallant hero, a wicked monster his opposite,
and a pretty girl who finds a champion; bravery and
virtue conquer beauty: and vice, after seeming to triumph
through a certain number of pages, is sure to be discomfited
in the last volume, when justice overtakes him and honest
folks come by their own. There never was perhaps a
greatly popular story but this simple plot was carried
through it: mere satiric wit is addressed to a class of
readers and thinkers quite different to those simple souls
who laugh and weep over the novel. I fancy very few
ladies indeed, for instance, could be brought to like Gulliver
heartily, and (putting the coarseness and difference of
manners out of the question) to relish the wonderful satire
of Jonathan Wild. In that strange apologue, the author
takes for a hero the greatest rascal, coward, traitor, tyrant,
hypocrite, that his wit and experience, both large in this
matter, could enable him to devise or depict; he accompanies
this villain through all the actions of his life, with
a grinning deference and a wonderful mock respect: and
doesn't leave him, till he is dangling at the gallows, when
the satirist makes him a low bow and wishes the scoundrel
good day.




It was not by satire of this sort, or by scorn and contempt,
that Hogarth achieved his vast popularity and
acquired his reputation.143
His art is quite simple,144 he speaks
[pg 622]
popular parables to interest simple hearts and to inspire
them with pleasure or pity or warning and terror. Not
[pg 623]
one of his tales but is as easy as Goody Two Shoes; it
is the moral of Tommy was a naughty boy and the master
flogged him, and Jacky was a good boy and had plum
cake, which pervades the whole works of the homely and
famous English moralist. And if the moral is written in
rather too large letters after the fable, we must remember
how simple the scholars and schoolmaster both were, and
like neither the less because they are so artless and honest.
“It was a maxim of Dr. Harrison's,” Fielding says in
Amelia, speaking of the benevolent divine and philosopher
who represents the good principle in that novel—“that no
man can descend below himself, in doing any act which may
contribute to protect an innocent person, or to bring a rogue
to the gallows.” The moralists of that age had no compunction
you see; they had not begun to be sceptical about
the theory of punishment, and thought that the hanging
of a thief was a spectacle for edification. Masters sent
their apprentices, fathers took their children, to see Jack
Sheppard or Jonathan Wild hanged, and it was as undoubting
subscribers to this moral law, that Fielding wrote
and Hogarth painted. Except in one instance, where in
the mad-house scene in the Rake's Progress, the girl whom
he has ruined is represented as still tending and weeping
over him in his insanity, a glimpse of pity for his rogues
never seems to enter honest Hogarth's mind. There's not
the slightest doubt in the breast of the jolly Draco.




The famous set of pictures called “Marriage à la Mode”,
and which are exhibited at Marlborough House [1853], in
London, contains the most important and highly wrought of
the Hogarth comedies. The care and method with which the
moral grounds of these pictures are laid is as remarkable
as the wit and skill of the observing and dexterous artist.
He has to describe the negotiations for a marriage pending
between the daughter of a rich citizen Alderman and young
Lord Viscount Squanderfield, the dissipated son of a gouty
old earl. Pride and pomposity appear in every accessory
[pg 624]
surrounding the earl. He sits in gold lace and velvet—as
how should such an earl wear anything but velvet and
gold lace? His coronet is everywhere: on his footstool
on which reposes one gouty toe turned out; on the sconces
and looking-glasses; on the dogs; on his lordship's very
crutches; on his great chair of state and the great baldaquin
behind him; under which he sits pointing majestically to
his pedigree, which shows that his race is sprung from the
loins of William the Conqueror, and confronting the old
alderman from the City, who has mounted his sword for
the occasion, and wears his alderman's chain, and has
brought a bag full of money, mortgage-deeds, and thousand-pound
notes, for the arrangement of the transaction pending
between them. Whilst the steward (a Methodist, therefore
a hypocrite and cheat, for Hogarth scorned a Papist and a
Dissenter) is negotiating between the old couple, their
children sit together, united but apart. My lord is admiring
his countenance in the glass, while his bride is twiddling
her marriage ring on her pocket-handkerchief; and listening
with rueful countenance to Counsellor Silvertongue, who
has been drawing the settlements. The girl is pretty, but
the painter, with a curious watchfulness, has taken care
to give her a likeness to her father, as in the young viscount's
face you see a resemblance to the earl, his noble sire. The
sense of the coronet pervades the picture, as it is supposed
to do the mind of its wearer. The pictures round the room
are sly hints indicating the situation of the parties about
to marry. A martyr is led to the fire; Andromeda is
offered to sacrifice; Judith is going to slay Holofernes.
There is the ancestor of the house (in the picture it is the
earl himself as a young man), with a comet over his head,
indicating that the career of the family is to be brilliant
and brief. In the second picture, the old lord must be dead,
for madam has now the countess's coronet over her bed and
toilet-glass, and sits listening to that dangerous Counsellor
Silvertongue, whose portrait now actually hangs up in her
room, whilst the counsellor takes his ease on the sofa by
her side, evidently the familiar of the house, and the confidant
of the mistress. My lord takes his pleasure elsewhere
than at home, whither he returns jaded and tipsy from the
“Rose”, to find his wife yawning in her drawing-room, her
whist-party over, and the daylight streaming in; or he
amuses himself with the very worst company abroad,
[pg 625]
whilst his wife sits at home listening to foreign singers,
or wastes her money at auctions, or, worse still, seeks amusement
at masquerades. The dismal end is known. My
lord draws upon the counsellor, who kills him, and is
apprehended whilst endeavouring to escape. My lady goes
back perforce to the alderman in the City, and faints upon
reading Counsellor Silvertongue's dying speech at Tyburn,
where the counsellor has been executed for sending his
lordship out of the world. Moral:—Don't listen to evil
silver-tongued counsellors: don't marry a man for his
rank, or a woman for her money: don't frequent foolish
auctions and masquerade balls unknown to your husband:
don't have wicked companions abroad and neglect your
wife, otherwise you will be run through the body, and ruin
will ensue, and disgrace, and Tyburn. The people are all
naughty, and Bogey carries them all off.




In the Rake's Progress, a loose life is ended by a similar
sad catastrophe. It is the spendthrift coming into possession
of the wealth of the paternal miser; the prodigal surrounded
by flatterers, and wasting his substance on the very worst
company; the bailiffs, the gambling-house, and Bedlam
for an end. In the famous story of Industry and Idleness,
the moral is pointed in a manner similarly clear. Fair-haired
Frank Goodchild smiles at his work, whilst naughty
Tom Idle snores over his loom. Frank reads the edifying
ballads of Whittington and the London 'Prentice, whilst that
reprobate Tom Idle prefers Moll Flanders, and drinks
hugely of beer. Frank goes to church of a Sunday, and
warbles hymns from the gallery; while Tom lies on a tombstone
outside playing at halfpenny-under-the-hat, with
street blackguards, and is deservedly caned by the beadle;
Frank is made overseer of the business, whilst Tom is sent
to sea. Frank is taken into partnership and marries his
master's daughter, sends out broken victuals to the poor,
and listens in his nightcap and gown with the lovely Mrs.
Goodchild by his side, to the nuptial music of the City
bands and the marrow-bones and cleavers; whilst idle
Tom, returned from sea, shudders in a garret lest the
officers are coming to take him for picking pockets. The
Worshipful Francis Goodchild, Esq., becomes Sheriff of
London, and partakes of the most splendid dinners which
money can purchase or alderman devour; whilst poor
Tom is taken up in a night-cellar, with that one-eyed and
[pg 626]
disreputable accomplice who first taught him to play chuck-farthing
on a Sunday. What happens next? Tom is
brought up before the justice of his country, in the person
of Mr. Alderman Goodchild, who weeps as he recognizes
his old brother 'prentice, as Tom's one-eyed friend peaches
on him, and the clerk makes out the poor rogue's ticket
for Newgate. Then the end comes. Tom goes to Tyburn
in a cart with a coffin in it; whilst the Right Honourable
Francis Goodchild, Lord Mayor of London, proceeds to his
Mansion House, in his gilt coach with four footmen and
a sword-bearer, whilst the Companies of London march in
the august procession, whilst the trainbands of the City
fire their pieces and get drunk in his honour; and O
crowning delight and glory of all, whilst his Majesty the
King looks out from his royal balcony, with his ribbon on
his breast, and his Queen and his star by his side, at the
corner house of St. Paul's Churchyard, where the toy-shop
is now.




How the times have changed! The new Post Office now
not disadvantageously occupies that spot where the scaffolding
is in the picture, where the tipsy trainband-man is
lurching against the post, with his wig over one eye, and
the 'prentice-boy is trying to kiss the pretty girl in the
gallery. Passed away 'prentice-boy and pretty girl! Passed
away tipsy trainband-man with wig and bandolier! On
the spot where Tom Idle (for whom I have an unaffected
pity) made his exit from this wicked world, and where you
see the hangman smoking his pipe as he reclines on the
gibbet and views the hills of Harrow or Hampstead beyond—a
splendid marble arch, a vast and modern city—clean,
airy, painted drab, populous with nursery-maids and
children, the abodes of wealth and comfort—the elegant,
the prosperous, the polite Tyburnia rises, the most respectable
district in the habitable globe!




In that last plate of the London Apprentices, in which
the apotheosis of the Right Honourable Francis Goodchild
is drawn, a ragged fellow is represented in the corner of
the simple kindly piece, offering for sale a broadside, purporting
to contain an account of the appearance of the
ghost of Tom Idle, executed at Tyburn. Could Tom's
ghost have made its appearance in 1847, and not in 1747,
what changes would have been remarked by that astonished
escaped criminal! Over that road which the hangman used
[pg 627]
to travel constantly, and the Oxford stage twice a week,
go ten thousand carriages every day: over yonder road,
by which Dick Turpin fled to Windsor, and Squire Western
journeyed into town, when he came to take up his quarters
at the Hercules Pillars on the outskirts of London, what
a rush of civilization and order flows now! What armies
of gentlemen with umbrellas march to banks, and chambers,
and counting-houses! What regiments of nursery-maids
and pretty infantry; what peaceful processions of policemen,
[pg 628]
what light broughams and what gay carriages, what
swarms of busy apprentices and artificers, riding on omnibus-roofs,
pass daily and hourly! Tom Idle's times are quite
changed: many of the institutions gone into disuse which
were admired in his day. There's more pity and kindness
and a better chance for poor Tom's successors now than
at that simpler period when Fielding hanged him and
Hogarth drew him.


[pg 629]


To the student of history, these admirable works must
be invaluable, as they give us the most complete and truthful
picture of the manners, and even the thoughts, of the
past century. We look, and see pass before us the England
of a hundred years ago—the peer in his drawing-room, the
lady of fashion in her apartment, foreign singers surrounding
her, and the chamber filled with gewgaws in the mode
of that day; the church, with its quaint florid architecture
and singing congregation; the parson with his great wig,
and the beadle with his cane: all these are represented
before us, and we are sure of the truth of the portrait.
We see how the Lord Mayor dines in state; how the prodigal
drinks and sports at the bagnio; how the poor girl beats
hemp in Bridewell; how the thief divides his booty and
[pg 630]
drinks his punch at the night-cellar, and how he finishes
his career at the gibbet. We may depend upon the
perfect accuracy of these strange and varied portraits of
the bygone generation: we see one of Walpole's Members
of Parliament chaired after his election, and the lieges
celebrating the event, and drinking confusion to the Pretender:
we see the grenadiers and trainbands of the City
marching out to meet the enemy; and have before us,
with sword and firelock, and white Hanoverian horse embroidered
on the cap, the very figures of the men who ran
away with Johnny Cope, and who conquered at Culloden.




Posterity has not quite confirmed honest Hogarth's
opinion about his talents for the sublime. Although Swift
could not see the difference between tweedle-dee and
tweedle-dum, posterity has not shared the Dean's contempt
for Handel; the world has discovered a difference between
[pg 631]
tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum, and given a hearty applause
and admiration to Hogarth, too, but not exactly as a painter
of scriptural subjects, or as a rival of Correggio. It does not
take away from one's liking for the man, or from the moral
of his story, or the humour of it—from one's admiration
for the prodigious merit of his performances, to remember
that he persisted to the last in believing that the world
was in a conspiracy against him with respect to his talents
as an historical painter, and that a set of miscreants, as he
called them, were employed to run his genius down. They
say it was Liston's firm belief, that he was a great and
neglected tragic actor; they say that every one of us
believes in his heart, or would like to have others believe,
that he is something which he is not. One of the most
notorious of the “miscreants”, Hogarth says, was Wilkes,
[pg 632]
who assailed him in the North Briton; the other was
Churchill, who put the North Briton attack into heroic verse,
and published his Epistle to Hogarth. Hogarth replied by
that caricature of Wilkes, in which the patriot still figures
before us, with his Satanic grin and squint, and by a caricature
of Churchill, in which he is represented as a bear with
a staff, on which, “Lie the first”, “Lie the second”, “Lie the
tenth”, are engraved in unmistakable letters. There is very
little mistake about honest Hogarth's satire: if he has to
paint a man with his throat cut, he draws him with his head
almost off; and he tried to do the same for his enemies in
this little controversy. “Having an old plate by me,” says
he, “with some parts ready, such as the background, and
a dog, I began to consider how I could turn so much work
laid aside to some account, and so patched up a print of
Master Churchill, in the character of a bear; the pleasure
[pg 633]
and pecuniary advantage which I derived from these two
engravings, together with occasionally riding on horseback,
restored me to as much health as I can expect at my time
of life.”




And so he concludes his queer little book of Anecdotes:
“I have gone through the circumstances of a life which till
lately passed pretty much to my own satisfaction, and I hope
[pg 634]
in no respect injurious to any other man. This I may safely
assert, that I have done my best to make those about me
tolerably happy, and my greatest enemy cannot say I ever
did an intentional injury. What may follow, God knows.”




A queer account still exists of a holiday jaunt taken by
Hogarth and four friends of his, who set out, like the redoubted
Mr. Pickwick and his companions, but just a
hundred years before those heroes; and made an excursion
to Gravesend, Rochester, Sheerness; and adjacent places.145
[pg 635]
One of the gentlemen noted down the proceedings of the
journey, for which Hogarth and a brother artist made
drawings. The book is chiefly curious at this moment from
showing the citizen life of those days, and the rough, jolly
style of merriment, not of the five companions merely,
but of thousands of jolly fellows of their time. Hogarth
and his friends, quitting the “Bedford Arms”, Covent Garden,
with a song, took water to Billingsgate, exchanging compliments
with the bargemen as they went down the river.
At Billingsgate, Hogarth made a “caracatura” of a facetious
porter, called the Duke of Puddledock, who agreeably entertained
the party with the humours of the place. Hence
they took a Gravesend boat for themselves; had straw to
lie upon, and a tilt over their heads, they say, and went
down the river at night, sleeping and singing jolly choruses.




They arrived at Gravesend at six, when they washed
their faces and hands, and had their wigs powdered. Then
they sallied forth for Rochester on foot, and drank by the
way three pots of ale. At one o'clock they went to dinner
with excellent port, and a quantity more beer, and afterwards
Hogarth and Scott played at hopscotch in the town
hall. It would appear that they slept most of them in one
room, and the chronicler of the party describes them all as
waking at seven o'clock, and telling each other their dreams.
You have rough sketches by Hogarth of the incidents of
this holiday excursion. The sturdy little painter is seen
sprawling over a plank to a boat at Gravesend; the whole
company are represented in one design, in a fisherman's
room, where they had all passed the night. One gentleman
in a nightcap is shaving himself; another is being shaved
by the fisherman; a third, with a handkerchief over his
[pg 636]
bald pate, is taking his breakfast; and Hogarth is sketching
the whole scene.




They describe at night how they returned to their
quarters, drank to their friends, as usual, emptied several
cans of good flip, all singing merrily.




It is a jolly party of tradesmen engaged at high-jinks.
These were the manners and pleasures of Hogarth, of his
time very likely, of men not very refined, but honest and
merry. It is a brave London citizen, with John Bull
habits, prejudices, and pleasures.146




Of Smollett's associates and manner of life the author
of the admirable Humphry Clinker has given us an interesting
account, in that most amusing of novels.147


[pg 637]


I have no doubt that the above picture is as faithful a one
as any from the pencil of his kindred humourist, Hogarth.


[pg 638]


We have before us, and painted by his own hand, Tobias
Smollett, the manly, kindly, honest, and irascible; worn
[pg 639]
and battered, but still brave and full of heart, after a long
struggle against a hard fortune. His brain had been busied
[pg 640]
with a hundred different schemes; he had been reviewer
and historian, critic, medical writer, poet, pamphleteer.
He had fought endless literary battles; and braved and
wielded for years the cudgels of controversy. It was a hard
and savage fight in those days, and a niggard pay. He was
oppressed by illness, age, narrow fortune; but his spirit
[pg 641]
was still resolute, and his courage steady; the battle over,
he could do justice to the enemy with whom he had been
so fiercely engaged, and give a not unfriendly grasp to the
hand that had mauled him. He is like one of those Scotch
cadets, of whom history gives us so many examples, and
whom, with a national fidelity, the great Scotch novelist
has painted so charmingly. Of gentle birth148 and narrow
[pg 642]
means, going out from his northern home to win his fortune
in the world, and to fight his way, armed with courage,
hunger, and keen wits. His crest is a shattered oak-tree,
with green leaves yet springing from it. On his ancient
coat-of-arms there is a lion and a horn; this shield of his
was battered and dinted in a hundred fights and brawls,149
[pg 643]
through which the stout Scotchman bore it courageously.
You see somehow that he is a gentleman, through all his
battling and struggling, his poverty, his hard-fought successes,
and his defeats. His novels are recollections of his
own adventures; his characters drawn, as I should think,
from personages with whom he became acquainted in his
own career of life. Strange companions he must have had;
queer acquaintances he made in the Glasgow College—in
the country apothecary's shop; in the gun-room of the
man-of-war where he served as surgeon, and in the hard
life on shore, where the sturdy adventurer struggled for
fortune. He did not invent much, as I fancy, but had the
keenest perceptive faculty, and described what he saw with
wonderful relish and delightful broad humour. I think
Uncle Bowling, in Roderick Random, is as good a character
as Squire Western himself; and Mr. Morgan, the Welsh
apothecary, is as pleasant as Dr. Caius. What man who
has made his inestimable acquaintance—what novel-reader
who loves Don Quixote and Major Dalgetty—will refuse his
most cordial acknowledgements to the admirable Lieutenant
Lismahago? The novel of Humphry Clinker is, I do think,
the most laughable story that has ever been written since
the goodly art of novel-writing began. Winifred Jenkins
and Tabitha Bramble must keep Englishmen on the grin
for ages yet to come; and in their letters and the story of
their loves there is a perpetual fount of sparkling laughter,
as inexhaustible as Bladud's well.






Fielding, too, has described, though with a greater hand,
the characters and scenes which he knew and saw. He had
more than ordinary opportunities for becoming acquainted
with life. His family and education, first—his fortunes and
misfortunes afterwards, brought him into the society of
every rank and condition of man. He is himself the hero
of his books: he is wild Tom Jones, he is wild Captain
Booth, less wild, I am glad to think, than his predecessor,
at least heartily conscious of demerit, and anxious to
amend.




When Fielding first came upon the town in 1727, the
[pg 644]
recollection of the great wits was still fresh in the coffee-houses
and assemblies, and the judges there declared that
young Harry Fielding had more spirits and wit than Congreve
or any of his brilliant successors. His figure was
tall and stalwart; his face handsome, manly, and noble-looking;
to the very last days of his life he retained a
grandeur of air, and, although worn down by disease, his
aspect and presence imposed respect upon the people round
about him.




A dispute took place between Mr. Fielding and the
captain150 of the ship in which he was making his last
voyage, and Fielding relates how the man finally went
down on his knees and begged his passenger's pardon. He
was living up to the last days of his life, and his spirit
never gave in. His vital power must have been immensely
strong. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu151
prettily characterizes
[pg 645]
Fielding and this capacity for happiness which he
possessed, in a little notice of his death, when she compares
him to Steele, who was as improvident and as happy
as he was, and says that both should have gone on living
for ever. One can fancy the eagerness and gusto with
which a man of Fielding's frame, with his vast health and
robust appetite, his ardent spirits, his joyful humour, and
his keen and hearty relish for life, must have seized and
drunk that cup of pleasure which the town offered to him.
Can any of my hearers remember the youthful feats of
a college breakfast—the meats devoured and the cups
quaffed in that Homeric feast? I can call to mind some
of the heroes of those youthful banquets, and fancy young
Fielding from Leyden rushing upon the feast, with his
great laugh and immense healthy young appetite, eager
and vigorous to enjoy. The young man's wit and manners
made him friends everywhere: he lived with the grand
Man's society of those days; he was courted by peers and
men of wealth and fashion. As he had a paternal allowance
from his father, General Fielding, which, to use Henry's
own phrase, any man might pay who would; as he liked
good wine, good clothes, and good company, which are all
expensive articles to purchase, Harry Fielding began to
run into debt, and borrow money in that easy manner in
which Captain Booth borrows money in the novel: was
in nowise particular in accepting a few pieces from the
purses of his rich friends, and bore down upon more than
one of them, as Walpole tells us only too truly, for a dinner
or a guinea. To supply himself with the latter, he began
to write theatrical pieces, having already, no doubt, a considerable
acquaintance amongst the Oldfields and Bracegirdles
behind the scenes. He laughed at these pieces and
scorned them. When the audience upon one occasion began
to hiss a scene which he was too lazy to correct, and
regarding which, when Garrick remonstrated with him, he
said that the public was too stupid to find out the badness
of his work;—when the audience began to hiss, Fielding
said, with characteristic coolness—“They have found it
out, have they?” He did not prepare his novels in this
[pg 646]
way, and with a very different care and interest laid the
foundations and built up the edifices of his future fame.




Time and shower have very little damaged those. The
fashion and ornaments are, perhaps, of the architecture of
that age; but the buildings remain strong and lofty, and
of admirable proportions—masterpieces of genius and monuments
of workmanlike skill.




I cannot offer or hope to make a hero of Harry Fielding.
Why hide his faults? Why conceal his weaknesses in
a cloud of periphrases? Why not show him, like him as
he is, not robed in a marble toga, and draped and polished
in a heroic attitude, but with inked ruffles, and claret
stains on his tarnished laced coat, and on his manly face
the marks of good fellowship, of illness, of kindness, of
care, and wine. Stained as you see him, and worn by
care and dissipation, that man retains some of the most
precious and splendid human qualities and endowments.
He has an admirable natural love of truth, the keenest
instinctive antipathy to hypocrisy, the happiest satirical
gift of laughing it to scorn. His wit is wonderfully wise
and detective; it flashes upon a rogue and lightens up
a rascal like a policeman's lantern. He is one of the
manliest and kindliest of human beings: in the midst of
all his imperfections, he respects female innocence and
infantine tenderness, as you would suppose such a great-hearted,
courageous soul would respect and care for them.
He could not be so brave, generous, truth-telling as he is,
were he not infinitely merciful, pitiful, and tender. He
will give any man his purse—he can't help kindness and
profusion. He may have low tastes, but not a mean mind;
he admires with all his heart good and virtuous men, stoops
to no flattery, bears no rancour, disdains all disloyal arts,
does his public duty uprightly, is fondly loved by his
family, and dies at his work.152




If that theory be—and I have no doubt it is—the right
[pg 647]
and safe one, that human nature is always pleased with
the spectacle of innocence rescued by fidelity, purity, and
courage; I suppose that of the heroes of Fielding's three
novels, we should like honest Joseph Andrews the best,
and Captain Booth the second, and Tom Jones the third.153




Joseph Andrews, though he wears Lady Booby's cast-off
livery, is, I think, to the full as polite as Tom Jones in
his fustian suit, or Captain Booth in regimentals. He has,
like those heroes, large calves, broad shoulders, a high
courage, and a handsome face. The accounts of Joseph's
bravery and good qualities; his voice, too musical to
halloo to the dogs; his bravery in riding races for the
gentlemen of the county, and his constancy in refusing
bribes and temptation, have something affecting in their
naiveté and freshness, and prepossess one in favour of
that handsome young hero. The rustic bloom of Fanny, and
the delightful simplicity of Parson Adams are described
with a friendliness which wins the reader of their story;
we part with them with more regret than from Booth and
Jones.




Fielding, no doubt, began to write this novel in ridicule
of Pamela, for which work one can understand the hearty
contempt and antipathy which such an athletic and boisterous
genius as Fielding's must have entertained. He
couldn't do otherwise than laugh at the puny Cockney
bookseller, pouring out endless volumes of sentimental
twaddle, and hold him up to scorn as a moll-coddle and
a milksop. His genius had been nursed on sack-posset,
and not on dishes of tea. His muse had sung the loudest
in tavern choruses, had seen the daylight streaming in
over thousands of emptied bowls, and reeled home to
chambers on the shoulders of the watchman. Richardson's
goddess was attended by old maids and dowagers, and fed
on muffins and bohea. “Milksop!” roars Harry Fielding,
clattering at the timid shop-shutters. “Wretch! Monster!
Mohock!” shrieks the sentimental author of
Pamela;154 and
[pg 648]
all the ladies of his court cackle out an affrighted chorus.
Fielding proposes to write a book in ridicule of the author,
whom he disliked and utterly scorned and laughed at; but
he is himself of so generous, jovial, and kindly a turn that
he begins to like the characters which he invents, can't
help making them manly and pleasant as well as ridiculous,
and before he has done with them all loves them heartily
every one.




Richardson's sickening antipathy for Harry Fielding is
quite as natural as the other's laughter and contempt at
the sentimentalist. I have not learned that these likings
and dislikings have ceased in the present day: and every
author must lay his account not only to misrepresentation
but to honest enmity among critics, and to being hated
and abused for good as well as for bad reasons. Richardson
disliked Fielding's works quite honestly: Walpole quite
honestly spoke of them as vulgar and stupid. Their
squeamish stomachs sickened at the rough fare and the
rough guests assembled at Fielding's jolly revel. Indeed
the cloth might have been cleaner: and the dinner and
the company were scarce such as suited a dandy. The
kind and wise old Johnson would not sit down with him.155
But a greater scholar than Johnson could afford to admire
that astonishing genius of Harry Fielding: and we all
know the lofty panegyric which Gibbon wrote of him, and
which remains a towering monument to the great novelist's
memory. “Our immortal Fielding,” Gibbon writes, “was
of the younger branch of the Earls of Denbigh, who drew
their origin from the Counts of Hapsburgh. The successors
of Charles V may disdain their brethren of England: but
the romance of Tom Jones, that exquisite picture of human
manners, will outlive the palace of the Escurial and the
Imperial Eagle of Austria.”




There can be no gainsaying the sentence of this great
[pg 649]
judge. To have your name mentioned by Gibbon, is like
having it written on the dome of St. Peter's. Pilgrims
from all the world admire and behold it.




As a picture of manners, the novel of Tom Jones is indeed
exquisite: as a work of construction quite a wonder: the
by-play of wisdom; the power of observation; the multiplied
felicitous turns and thoughts; the varied character
of the great Comic Epic keep the reader in a perpetual
admiration and curiosity.156
But against Mr. Thomas Jones
himself we have a right to put in a protest, and quarrel
with the esteem the author evidently has for that character.
Charles Lamb says finely of Jones, that a single hearty
laugh from him “clears the air”—but then it is in a certain
state of the atmosphere. It might clear the air when such
personages as Blifil or Lady Bellaston poison it. But I fear
very much that (except until the very last scene of the
story), when Mr. Jones enters Sophia's drawing-room, the
pure air there is rather tainted with the young gentleman's
tobacco-pipe and punch. I can't say that I think Mr. Jones
a virtuous character; I can't say but that I think Fielding's
evident liking and admiration for Mr. Jones, shows that
the great humourist's moral sense was blunted by his life,
and that here in Art and Ethics, there is a great error.
If it is right to have a hero whom we may admire, let us
at least take care that he is admirable: if, as is the plan
of some authors (a plan decidedly against their interests,
be it said), it is propounded that there exists in life no
[pg 650]
such being, and therefore that in novels, the picture of life,
there should appear no such character; then Mr. Thomas
Jones becomes an admissible person, and we examine his
defects and good qualities, as we do those of Parson
Thwackum, or Miss Seagrim. But a hero with a flawed
reputation; a hero spunging for a guinea; a hero who
can't pay his landlady, and is obliged to let his honour
out to hire, is absurd, and his claim to heroic rank untenable.
I protest against Mr. Thomas Jones holding such
rank at all. I protest even against his being considered
a more than ordinary young fellow, ruddy-cheeked, broad-shouldered,
and fond of wine and pleasure. He would not
rob a church, but that is all; and a pretty long argument
may be debated, as to which of these old types, the spendthrift,
the hypocrite, Jones and Blifil, Charles and Joseph
Surface,—is the worst member of society and the most
deserving of censure. The prodigal Captain Booth is a
better man than his predecessor Mr. Jones, in so far as
he thinks much more humbly of himself than Jones did:
goes down on his knees, and owns his weaknesses, and
cries out, “Not for my sake, but for the sake of my pure
and sweet and beautiful wife Amelia, I pray you, O critical
reader, to forgive me.” That stern moralist regards him
from the bench (the judge's practice out of court is not
here the question), and says, “Captain Booth, it is perfectly
true that your life has been disreputable, and that on many
occasions you have shown yourself to be no better than
a scamp—you have been tippling at the tavern, when the
kindest and sweetest lady in the world has cooked your
little supper of boiled mutton and awaited you all the
night; you have spoilt the little dish of boiled mutton
thereby, and caused pangs and pains to Amelia's tender
heart.157 You have got into debt without the means of
[pg 651]
paying it. You have gambled the money with which you
ought to have paid your rent. You have spent in drink
or in worse amusements the sums which your poor wife
has raised upon her little home treasures, her own ornaments,
and the toys of her children. But, you rascal!
you own humbly that you are no better than you should be;
you never for one moment pretend that you are anything
but a miserable weak-minded rogue. You do in your heart
adore that angelic woman, your wife, and for her sake,
sirrah, you shall have your discharge. Lucky for you and
for others like you, that in spite of your failings and imperfections,
pure hearts pity and love you. For your wife's
sake you are permitted to go hence without a remand;
and I beg you, by the way, to carry to that angelical lady
the expression of the cordial respect and admiration of this
court.” Amelia pleads for her husband Will Booth: Amelia
pleads for her reckless kindly old father, Harry Fielding.
To have invented that character, is not only a triumph of
art but it is a good action. They say it was in his own
home that Fielding knew her and loved her: and from
his own wife that he drew the most charming character
in English fiction—Fiction! why fiction? why not history?
I know Amelia just as well as Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.
I believe in Colonel Bath almost as much as in Colonel
Gardiner or the Duke of Cumberland. I admire the author
[pg 652]
of Amelia, and thank the kind master who introduced me
to that sweet and delightful companion and friend. Amelia
perhaps is not a better story than Tom Jones, but it has
the better ethics; the prodigal repents at least, before
forgiveness,—whereas that odious broad-backed Mr. Jones
carries off his beauty with scarce an interval of remorse
for his manifold errors and shortcomings; and is not half
punished enough before the great prize of fortune and love
falls to his share. I am angry with Jones. Too much of
the plum-cake and rewards of life fall to that boisterous,
swaggering young scapegrace. Sophia actually surrenders
without a proper sense of decorum; the fond, foolish,
palpitating little creature,—“Indeed, Mr. Jones,” she says,—“it
rests with you to appoint the day.” I suppose Sophia
is drawn from life as well as Amelia; and many a young
fellow, no better than Mr. Thomas Jones, has carried by
a coup de main the heart of many a kind girl who was
a great deal too good for him.




What a wonderful art! What an admirable gift of
nature, was it by which the author of these tales was
endowed, and which enabled him to fix our interest, to
waken our sympathy, to seize upon our credulity, so that
we believe in his people—speculate gravely upon their
faults or their excellences, prefer this one or that, deplore
Jones's fondness for drink and play, Booth's fondness for
play and drink, and the unfortunate position of the wives
of both gentlemen—love and admire those ladies with all
our hearts, and talk about them as faithfully as if we had
breakfasted with them this morning in their actual drawing-rooms,
or should meet them this afternoon in the Park!
What a genius! what a vigour! what a bright-eyed
intelligence and observation! what a wholesome hatred
for meanness and knavery! what a vast sympathy! what
a cheerfulness! what a manly relish of life! what a
love of human kind! what a poet is here!—watching,
meditating, brooding, creating! What multitudes of truths
has that man left behind him! What generations he has
taught to laugh wisely and fairly! What scholars he has
formed and accustomed to the exercise of thoughtful
humour and the manly play of wit! What a courage he
had!158 What a dauntless and constant cheerfulness of
[pg 653]
intellect, that burned bright and steady through all the
storms of his life, and never deserted its last wreck! It
is wonderful to think of the pains and misery which the
man suffered; the pressure of want, illness, remorse which
he endured; and that the writer was neither malignant
nor melancholy, his view of truth never warped, and his
generous human kindness never surrendered.159


[pg 654]


In the quarrel mentioned before, which happened on
Fielding's last voyage to Lisbon, and when the stout
captain of the ship fell down on his knees and asked the sick
man's pardon—“I did not suffer,” Fielding says, in his
hearty, manly way, his eyes lighting up as it were with
their old fire—“I did not suffer a brave man and an old
man to remain a moment in that posture, but immediately
forgave him.” Indeed, I think, with his noble spirit and
unconquerable generosity, Fielding reminds one of those
brave men of whom one reads in stories of English shipwrecks
and disasters—of the officer on the African shore,
[pg 655]
when disease has destroyed the crew, and he himself is
seized by fever, who throws the lead with a death-stricken
hand, takes the soundings, carries the ship out of the river
or off the dangerous coast, and dies in the manly endeavour—of
the wounded captain, when the vessel founders, who
never loses his heart, who eyes the danger steadily, and
has a cheery word for all, until the inevitable fate overwhelms
him, and the gallant ship goes down. Such
a brave and gentle heart, such an intrepid and courageous
spirit, I love to recognize in the manly, the English Harry
Fielding.




[pg 656]





 Lecture The Sixth. Sterne And Goldsmith



Roger Sterne, Sterne's father, was the second son of
a numerous race, descendants of Richard Sterne, Archbishop
of York, in the reign of James II; and children of
Simon Sterne and Mary Jaques, his wife, heiress of Elvington,
near York.160
Roger was a lieutenant in Handyside's
regiment, and engaged in Flanders in Queen Anne's wars.
He married the daughter of a noted sutler—“N.B., he
was in debt to him,” his son writes, pursuing the paternal
biography—and marched through the world with this
companion following the regiment and bringing many
children to poor Roger Sterne. The captain was an
irascible but kind and simple little man, Sterne says, and
informs us that his sire was run through the body at
Gibraltar, by a brother officer, in a duel, which arose out of
a dispute about a goose. Roger never entirely recovered
from the effects of this rencontre, but died presently
at Jamaica, whither he had followed the drum.




Laurence, his second child, was born at Clonmel, in
Ireland, in 1713, and travelled for the first ten years of his
life, on his father's march, from barrack to transport, from
Ireland to England.161




One relative of his mother's took her and her family
under shelter for ten months at Mullingar: another
collateral descendant of the Archbishop's housed them for
a year at his castle near Carrickfergus. Larry Sterne was
put to school at Halifax in England, finally was adopted
by his kinsman of Elvington, and parted company with
[pg 657]
his father, the Captain, who marched on his path of life
till he met the fatal goose, which closed his career. The
most picturesque and delightful parts of Laurence Sterne's
writings, we owe to his recollections of the military life.
Trim's montero cap, and Le Fevre's sword, and dear Uncle
Toby's roquelaure, are doubtless reminiscences of the boy,
who had lived with the followers of William and Marlborough,
and had beat time with his little feet to the fifes
of Ramillies in Dublin barrack-yard, or played with the
torn flags and halberds of Malplaquet on the parade-ground
at Clonmel.




Laurence remained at Halifax school till he was eighteen
years old. His wit and cleverness appear to have acquired
the respect of his master here: for when the usher whipped
Laurence for writing his name on the newly whitewashed
schoolroom ceiling, the pedagogue in chief rebuked the
under-strapper, and said that the name should never be
effaced, for Sterne was a boy of genius, and would come
to preferment.




His cousin, the Squire of Elvington, sent Sterne to
Jesus College, Cambridge, where he remained five years,
and taking orders, got, through his uncle's interest, the
living of Sutton and the prebendary of York. Through
his wife's connexions, he got the living of Stillington. He
married her in 1741; having ardently courted the young
lady for some years previously. It was not until the
young lady fancied herself dying, that she made Sterne
acquainted with the extent of her liking for him. One
evening when he was sitting with her, with an almost
broken heart to see her so ill (the Rev. Mr. Sterne's heart
was a good deal broken in the course of his life), she said—“My
dear Laurey, I never can be yours, for I verily believe
I have not long to live, but I have left you every shilling
of my fortune,” a generosity which overpowered Sterne:
she recovered: and so they were married, and grew heartily
tired of each other before many years were over. “Nescio
quid est materia cum me,” Sterne writes to one of his
friends (in dog-Latin, and very sad dog-Latin too), “sed
sum fatigatus et aegrotus de mea uxore plus quam unquam,”
which means, I am sorry to say, “I don't know what is
the matter with me: but I am more tired and sick of my
wife than ever.”162


[pg 658]


This to be sure was five-and-twenty years after Laurey
had been overcome by her generosity and she by Laurey's
love. Then he wrote to her of the delights of marriage,
saying—“We will be as merry and as innocent as our first
parents in Paradise, before the arch-fiend entered that
indescribable scene. The kindest affections will have room
to expand in our retirement—let the human tempest and
hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is beyond the
horizon of peace. My L. has seen a polyanthus blow in
December?—Some friendly wall has sheltered it from the
biting wind—no planetary influence shall reach us, but
that which presides and cherishes the sweetest flowers.
The gloomy family of care and distrust shall be banished
from our dwelling, guarded by thy kind and tutelar deity—we
will sing our choral songs of gratitude and rejoice to the
end of our pilgrimage. Adieu, my L. Return to one who
languishes for thy society!—As I take up my pen, my poor
pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and tears are trickling
down on my paper as I trace the word L.”




And it is about this woman, with whom he finds no
fault, but that she bores him, that our philanthropist
writes, “Sum fatigatus et aegrotus”—Sum
mortaliter in amore with somebody else! That fine flower of love, that
polyanthus over which Sterne snivelled so many tears,
could not last for a quarter of a century!




Or rather it could not be expected that a gentleman with
such a fountain at command, should keep it to arroser one
homely old lady, when a score of younger and prettier
people might be refreshed from the same gushing source.163

[pg 659]


It was in December, 1767, that the Rev. Laurence Sterne,
the famous Shandean, the charming Yorick, the delight
of the fashionable world, the delicious divine, for whose
sermons the whole polite world was
subscribing,164 the
[pg 660]
occupier of Rabelais's easy chair, only fresh stuffed and
more elegant than when in possession of the cynical old
curate of Meudon165—the more than rival of the Dean of
[pg 661]
St. Patrick's, wrote the above-quoted respectable letter to
his friend in London: and it was in April of the same year,
that he was pouring out his fond heart to Mrs. Elizabeth
Draper, wife of “Daniel Draper, Esq., Counsellor of Bombay,
and, in 1775, chief of the factory of Surat—a gentleman
very much respected in that quarter of the globe”.




“I got thy letter last night, Eliza,” Sterne writes, “on
my return from Lord Bathurst's, where I dined” (the
letter has this merit in it that it contains a pleasant reminiscence
of better men than Sterne, and introduces us to
a portrait of a kind old gentleman)—“I got thy letter last
night, Eliza, on my return from Lord Bathurst's; and
where I was heard—as I talked of thee an hour without
intermission—with so much pleasure and attention, that
the good old lord toasted your health three different times;
and now he is in his 85th year, says he hopes to live long
enough to be introduced as a friend to my fair Indian
disciple, and to see her eclipse all other Nabobesses as
much in wealth, as she does already in exterior, and what
is far better” (for Sterne is nothing without his morality)—“and
what is far better, in interior merit. This nobleman is
an old friend of mine. You know he was always the
protector of men of wit and genius, and has had those of
the last century, Addison, Steele, Pope, Swift, Prior, &c.,
always at his table. The manner in which his notice began
of me was as singular as it was polite. He came up to
me one day as I was at the Princess of Wales's court, and
said, ‘I want to know you, Mr. Sterne, but it is fit you
also should know who it is that wishes this pleasure. You
have heard of an old Lord Bathurst, of whom your Popes
and Swifts have sung and spoken so much? I have lived
my life with geniuses of that cast; but have survived
them; and, despairing ever to find their equals, it is some
[pg 662]
years since I have shut up my books and closed my accounts;
but you have kindled a desire in me of opening them once
more before I die: which I now do: so go home and dine
with me.’ This nobleman, I say, is a prodigy, for he has
all the wit and promptness of a man of thirty; a disposition
to be pleased, and a power to please others, beyond whatever
I knew: added to which a man of learning, courtesy,
and feeling.”




“He heard me talk of thee, Eliza, with uncommon satisfaction—for
there was only a third person, and of sensibility,
with us: and a most sentimental afternoon till nine
o'clock have we passed!166 But thou, Eliza! wert the star
that conducted and enlivened the discourse! And when
I talked not of thee, still didst thou fill my mind, and
warm every thought I uttered, for I am not ashamed to
acknowledge I greatly miss thee. Best of all good girls!—the
sufferings I have sustained all night in consequence of
thine, Eliza, are beyond the power of words.... And
so thou hast fixed thy Bramin's portrait over thy writing
desk, and will consult it in all doubts and difficulties?—Grateful
and good girl! Yorick smiles contentedly over
all thou dost: his picture does not do justice to his own
complacency. I am glad your shipmates are friendly
beings” (Eliza was at Deal, going back to the Counsellor at
Bombay, and indeed it was high time she should be off).
“You could least dispense with what is contrary to your
own nature, which is soft and gentle, Eliza; it would
civilize savages—though pity were it thou shouldst be
[pg 663]
tainted with the office. Write to me, my child, thy
delicious letters. Let them speak the easy carelessness of
a heart that opens itself anyhow, every how. Such, Eliza,
I write to thee!” (The artless rogue, of course he did!)
“And so I should ever love thee, most artlessly, most
affectionately, if Providence permitted thy residence in
the same section of the globe: for I am all that honour and
affection can make me ‘Thy Bramin’.”




The Bramin continues addressing Mrs. Draper until the
departure of the Earl of Chatham, Indiaman, from Deal,
on the 2nd of April, 1767. He is amiably anxious about
the fresh paint for Eliza's cabin; he is uncommonly solicitous
about her companions on board: “I fear the best of
your shipmates are only genteel by comparison with the
contrasted crew with which thou beholdest them. So was—you
know who—from the same fallacy which was put
upon your judgement when—but I will not mortify you!”




“You know who” was, of course, Daniel Draper, Esq.,
of Bombay—a gentleman very much respected in that
quarter of the globe, and about whose probable health our
worthy Bramin writes with delightful candour.




“I honour you, Eliza, for keeping secret some things
which, if explained, had been a panegyric on yourself.
There is a dignity in venerable affliction which will not
allow it to appeal to the world for pity or redress. Well
have you supported that character, my amiable, my philosophic
friend! And indeed, I begin to think you have as
many virtues as my Uncle Toby's widow. Talking of
widows—pray, Eliza, if ever you are such, do not think of
giving yourself to some wealthy Nabob, because I design
to marry you myself. My wife cannot live long, and I
know not the woman I should like so well for her substitute
as yourself. 'Tis true I am ninety-five in constitution, and
you but twenty-five; but what I want in youth, I will
make up in wit and good humour. Not Swift so loved
his Stella, Scarron his Maintenon, or Waller his Saccharissa.
Tell me, in answer to this, that you approve and honour
the proposal.”




Approve and honour the proposal! The coward was
writing gay letters to his friends this while, with sneering
allusions to this poor foolish Bramine. Her ship was not
out of the Downs, and the charming Sterne was at the
“Mount” Coffee-house, with a sheet of gilt-edged paper before
[pg 664]
him, offering that precious treasure his heart to Lady P——,
asking whether it gave her pleasure to see him unhappy?
whether it added to her triumph that her eyes and lips
had turned a man into a fool?—quoting the Lord's Prayer,
with a horrible baseness of blasphemy, as a proof that he
had desired not to be led into temptation, and swearing
himself the most tender and sincere fool in the world. It
was from his home at Coxwould that he wrote the Latin
letter, which, I suppose, he was ashamed to put into English.
I find in my copy of the Letters, that there is a note of
I can't call it admiration, at Letter 112, which seems to
announce that there was a No. 3 to whom the wretched
worn-out old scamp was paying his addresses;167 and the
year after, having come back to his lodgings in Bond Street,
with his Sentimental Journey to launch upon the town,
eager as ever for praise and pleasure; as vain, as wicked,
as witty, as false as he had ever been, death at length
seized the feeble wretch, and, on the 18th of March, 1768,
that “bale of cadaverous goods”, as he calls his body, was
consigned to Pluto.168 In his last letter there is one sign
[pg 665]
of grace—the real affection with which he entreats a friend
to be a guardian to his daughter Lydia.169 All his letters
to her are artless, kind, affectionate, and not sentimental;
as a hundred pages in his writings are beautiful, and full,
not of surprising humour merely, but of genuine love and
kindness. A perilous trade, indeed, is that of a man who
has to bring his tears and laughter, his recollections, his
personal griefs and joys, his private thoughts and feelings
to market, to write them on paper, and sell them for money.
Does he exaggerate his grief, so as to get his reader's pity
for a false sensibility? feign indignation, so as to establish
a character for virtue? elaborate repartees, so that he may
pass for a wit? steal from other authors, and put down
the theft to the credit side of his own reputation for ingenuity
and learning? feign originality? affect benevolence or
misanthropy? appeal to the gallery gods with claptraps
and vulgar baits to catch applause?




How much of the paint and emphasis is necessary for
the fair business of the stage, and how much of the rant
and rouge is put on for the vanity of the actor? His audience
trusts him: can he trust himself? How much was deliberate
calculation and imposture—how much was false
[pg 666]
sensibility—and how much true feeling? Where did the
lie begin, and did he know where? and where did the
truth end in the art and scheme of this man of genius, this
actor, this quack? Some time since, I was in the company
of a French actor, who began after dinner, and at his own
request, to sing French songs of the sort called
des chansons
grivoises, and which he performed admirably, and to the
dissatisfaction of most persons present. Having finished
these, he commenced a sentimental ballad—it was so
charmingly sung that it touched all persons present, and
especially the singer himself, whose voice trembled, whose
eyes filled with emotion, and who was snivelling and weeping
quite genuine tears by the time his own ditty was over.
I suppose Sterne had this artistical sensibility; he used to
blubber perpetually in his study, and finding his tears
infectious, and that they brought him a great popularity,
he exercised the lucrative gift of weeping; he utilized it,
and cried on every occasion. I own that I don't value or
respect much the cheap dribble of those fountains. He
fatigues me with his perpetual disquiet and his uneasy
appeals to my risible or sentimental faculties. He is always
looking in my face, watching his effect, uncertain whether
I think him an impostor or not; posture-making, coaxing,
and imploring me. “See what sensibility I have—own
now that I'm very clever—do cry now, you can't resist this.”
The humour of Swift and Rabelais, whom he pretended to
succeed, poured from them as naturally as song does from
a bird; they lose no manly dignity with it, but laugh
their hearty great laugh out of their broad chests as nature
bade them. But this man—who can make you laugh, who
can make you cry, too—never lets his reader alone, or will
permit his audience repose: when you are quiet, he fancies
he must rouse you, and turns over head and heels, or sidles
up and whispers a nasty story. The man is a great jester,
not a great humourist. He goes to work systematically
and of cold blood; paints his face, puts on his ruff and
motley clothes, and lays down his carpet and tumbles on it.




For instance, take the Sentimental Journey, and see in
the writer the deliberate propensity to make points and
seek applause. He gets to Dessein's Hotel, he wants a
carriage to travel to Paris, he goes to the inn-yard, and
begins what the actors call “business” at once. There is
that little carriage the désobligeant.
“Four months had
[pg 667]
elapsed since it had finished its career of Europe in the
corner of Monsieur Dessein's courtyard, and having sallied
out thence but a vamped-up business at first, though it
had been twice taken to pieces on Mount Sennis, it had
not profited much by its adventures, but by none so little
as the standing so many months unpitied in the corner of
Monsieur Dessein's coachyard. Much, indeed, was not to
be said for it—but something might—and when a few
words will rescue misery out of her distress, I hate the
man who can be a churl of them.”




Le tour est fait!
Paillasse has tumbled! Paillasse has jumped over the
désobligeant, cleared it, hood and all, and
bows to the noble company. Does anybody believe that
this is a real Sentiment? that this luxury of generosity,
this gallant rescue of Misery—out of an old cab, is genuine
feeling? It is as genuine as the virtuous oratory of Joseph
Surface when he begins, “The man who,” &c. &c., and
wishes to pass off for a saint with his credulous, good-humoured
dupes.




Our friend purchases the carriage—after turning that
notorious old monk to good account, and effecting (like
a soft and good-natured Paillasse as he was, and very free
with his money when he had it), an exchange of snuff-boxes
with the old Franciscan, jogs out of Calais; sets down in
immense figures on the credit side of his account the sous
he gives away to the Montreuil beggars; and, at Nampont,
gets out of the chaise and whimpers over that famous dead
donkey, for which any sentimentalist may cry who will.
It is agreeably and skilfully done—that dead jackass; like
M. de Soubise's cook, on the campaign, Sterne dresses it,
and serves it up quite tender and with a very piquante
sauce. But tears, and fine feelings, and a white pocket-handkerchief,
and a funeral sermon, and horses and feathers,
and a procession of mutes, and a hearse with a dead donkey
inside! Psha! Mountebank! I'll not give thee one penny
more for that trick, donkey and all!




This donkey had appeared once before with signal effect.
In 1765, three years before the publication of the Sentimental
Journey, the seventh and eighth volumes of Tristram Shandy
were given to the world, and the famous Lyons donkey
makes his entry in those volumes (pp. 315, 316):—




“'Twas by a poor ass, with a couple of large panniers
at his back, who had just turned in to collect eleemosynary
[pg 668]
turnip-tops and cabbage-leaves, and stood dubious, with
his two forefeet at the inside of the threshold, and with his
two hinder feet towards the street, as not knowing very well
whether he was to go in or no.




“Now 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I cannot
bear to strike; there is a patient endurance of suffering
wrote so unaffectedly in his looks and carriage which pleads
so mightily for him, that it always disarms me, and to that
degree that I do not like to speak unkindly to him: on the
contrary, meet him where I will, whether in town or country,
in cart or under panniers, whether in liberty or bondage,
I have ever something civil to say to him on my part; and,
as one word begets another (if he has as little to do as I),
I generally fall into conversation with him; and surely
never is my imagination so busy as in framing responses
from the etchings of his countenance; and where those
carry me not deep enough, in flying from my own heart
into his, and seeing what is natural for an ass to think—as
well as a man, upon the occasion. In truth, it is the
only creature of all the classes of beings below me with
whom I can do this.... With an ass I can commune for
ever.




“ ‘Come, Honesty,’ said I, seeing it was impracticable
to pass betwixt him and the gate, ‘art thou for coming
in or going out?’




“The ass twisted his head round to look up the street.




“ ‘Well!’ replied I, ‘we'll wait a minute for thy driver.’




“He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wistfully
the opposite way.




“ ‘I understand thee perfectly,’ answered I: ‘if thou
takest a wrong step in this affair, he will cudgel thee to
death. Well! a minute is but a minute; and if it saves
a fellow creature a drubbing, it shall not be set down as
ill spent.’




“He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse
went on, and, in the little peevish contentions between
hunger and unsavouriness, had dropped it out of his mouth
half a dozen times, and had picked it up again. ‘God
help thee, Jack!’ said I, ‘thou hast a bitter breakfast
on't—and many a bitter day's labour, and many a bitter
blow, I fear, for its wages! 'Tis all, all bitterness to thee—whatever
life is to others! And now thy mouth, if one
knew the truth of it, is as bitter. I dare say, as soot’ (for
[pg 669]
he had cast aside the stem), ‘and thou hast not a friend
perhaps in all this world that will give thee a macaroon.’
In saying this, I pulled out a paper of 'em, which I had just
bought, and gave him one;—and, at this moment that I am
telling it, my heart smites me that there was more of
pleasantry in the conceit of seeing how an ass would eat a
macaroon than of benevolence in giving him one, which
presided in the act.




“When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I pressed him
to come in. The poor beast was heavy loaded—his legs
seemed to tremble under him—he hung rather backward,
and, as I pulled at his halter, it broke in my hand. He
looked up pensive in my face: ‘Don't thrash me with it:
but if you will you may.’ ‘If I do,’ said I, ‘I'll be
d——.’ ”




A critic who refuses to see in this charming description
wit, humour, pathos, a kind nature speaking, and a real
sentiment, must be hard indeed to move and to please.
A page or two farther we come to a description not less
beautiful—a landscape and figures, deliciously painted by
one who had the keenest enjoyment and the most tremulous
sensibility:—




“'Twas in the road between Nismes and Lunel, where
is the best Muscatto wine in all France: the sun was set,
they had done their work; the nymphs had tied up their
hair afresh, and the swains were preparing for a carousal.
My mule made a dead point. ‘'Tis the pipe and tambourine,’
said I—‘I never will argue a point with one of
your family as long as I live;’ so leaping off his back, and
kicking off one boot into this ditch and t'other into that,
‘I'll take a dance,’ said I, ‘so stay you here.’




“A sunburnt daughter of labour rose up from the group
to meet me as I advanced towards them; her hair, which
was of a dark chestnut approaching to a black, was tied
up in a knot, all but a single tress.




“ ‘We want a cavalier,’ said she, holding out both her
hands, as if to offer them. ‘And a cavalier you shall
have,’ said I, taking hold of both of them. ‘We could
not have done without you,’ said she, letting go one hand,
with self-taught politeness, and leading me up with the
other.




“A lame youth, whom Apollo had recompensed with
a pipe, and to which he had added a tambourine of his
[pg 670]
own accord, ran sweetly over the prelude, as he sat upon
the bank. ‘Tie me up this tress instantly,’ said Nannette,
putting a piece of string into my hand. It taught me to
forget I was a stranger. The whole knot fell down—we
had been seven years acquainted. The youth struck the
note upon the tambourine, his pipe followed, and off we
bounded.




“The sister of the youth—who had stolen her voice from
Heaven—sang alternately with her brother. 'Twas a
Gascoigne roundelay. ‘Viva la
joia, fidon la tristessa!’—the
nymphs joined in unison, and their swains an octave
below them.




“Viva la joia
was in Nannette's lips, viva la joia in her
eyes. A transient spark of amity shot across the space
betwixt us. She looked amiable. Why could I not live
and end my days thus? ‘Just Disposer of our joys and
sorrows!’ cried I, ‘why could not a man sit down in the
lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say his prayers,
and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid?’ Capriciously
did she bend her head on one side, and dance up insidious.
‘Then 'tis time to dance off,’ quoth I.”




And with this pretty dance and chorus, the volume
artfully concludes. Even here one can't give the whole
description. There is not a page in Sterne's writing but
has something that were better away, a latent corruption—a
hint, as of an impure presence.170


[pg 671]


Some of that dreary double entendre may be attributed
to freer times and manners than ours, but not all. The
foul Satyr's eyes leer out of the leaves constantly: the last
words the famous author wrote were bad and wicked—the
last lines the poor stricken wretch penned were for pity
and pardon. I think of these past writers and of one who
lives amongst us now, and am grateful for the innocent
laughter and the sweet and unsullied page which the author
of David Copperfield gives to my children.









Jeté sur cette boule,


Laid, chétif et souffrant;


Étouffé dans la foule,


Faute d'être assez grand;






Une plainte touchante


De ma bouche sortit;


Le bon Dieu me dit: Chante,


Chante, pauvre petit!






Chanter, ou je m'abuse,


Est ma tâche ici-bas.


Tous ceux qu'ainsi j'amuse,


Ne m'aimeront-ils pas?







In those charming lines of Béranger, one may fancy
described the career, the sufferings, the genius, the gentle
nature of Goldsmith, and the esteem in which we hold him.
Who, of the millions whom he has amused, doesn't love him?
To be the most beloved of English writers, what a title that
is for a man!171 A wild youth, wayward, but full of tenderness
[pg 672]
and affection, quits the country village where his
boyhood has been passed in happy musing, in idle shelter,
in fond longing to see the great world out of doors, and
achieve name and fortune—and after years of dire struggle,
and neglect and poverty, his heart turning back as fondly
to his native place, as it had longed eagerly for change when
sheltered there, he writes a book and a poem, full of the
recollections and feelings of home—he paints the friends
and scenes of his youth, and peoples Auburn and Wakefield
with remembrances of Lissoy. Wander he must, but he
carries away a home-relic with him, and dies with it on his
breast. His nature is truant; in repose it longs for change:
as on the journey it looks back for friends and quiet. He
passes to-day in building an air-castle for to-morrow, or in
writing yesterday's elegy; and he would fly away this hour,
but that a cage and necessity keep him. What is the charm
of his verse, of his style, and humour? His sweet regrets,
his delicate compassion, his soft smile, his tremulous
sympathy, the weakness which he owns? Your love for
him is half pity. You come hot and tired from the day's
battle, and this sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could
harm the kind vagrant harper? Whom did he ever hurt?
He carries no weapon—save the harp on which he plays to
you; and with which he delights great and humble, young
and old, the captains in the tents, or the soldiers round the
fire, or the women and children in the villages, at whose
porches he stops and sings his simple songs of love and
beauty. With that sweet story of the Vicar of
Wakefield,172
[pg 673]
he has found entry into every castle and every hamlet in
Europe. Not one of us, however busy or hard, but once or
[pg 674]
twice in our lives has passed an evening with him, and
undergone the charm of his delightful music.




Goldsmith's father was no doubt the good Doctor Primrose,
whom we all of us know.173 Swift was yet alive, when
the little Oliver was born at Pallas, or Pallasmore, in the
county of Longford, in Ireland. In 1730, two years after
the child's birth, Charles Goldsmith removed his family to
Lissoy, in the county Westmeath, that sweet “Auburn”
which every person who hears me has seen in fancy. Here
[pg 675]
the kind parson174 brought up his eight children; and
loving all the world, as his son says, fancied all the world
loved him. He had a crowd of poor dependants besides
those hungry children. He kept an open table; round
which sat flatterers and poor friends, who laughed at the
honest rector's many jokes, and ate the produce of his
seventy acres of farm. Those who have seen an Irish house
in the present day can fancy that one of Lissoy. The old
beggar still has his allotted corner by the kitchen turf;
the maimed old soldier still gets his potatoes and buttermilk;
the poor cottier still asks his honour's charity, and
prays God bless his Reverence for the sixpence; the ragged
pensioner still takes his place by right and sufferance.
There's still a crowd in the kitchen, and a crowd round the
parlour-table, profusion, confusion, kindness, poverty. If
an Irishman comes to London to make his fortune, he has
a half-dozen of Irish dependants who take a percentage of
his earnings. The good Charles Goldsmith175 left but little
[pg 676]
provision for his hungry race when death summoned him;
and one of his daughters being engaged to a squire of rather
superior dignity, Charles Goldsmith impoverished the rest
of his family to provide the girl with a dowry.




The small-pox, which scourged all Europe at that time,
and ravaged the roses off the cheeks of half the world, fell
foul of poor little Oliver's face, when the child was eight
years old, and left him scarred and disfigured for his life.
An old woman in his father's village taught him his letters,
and pronounced him a dunce: Paddy Byrne, the hedge-schoolmaster,
took him in hand; and from Paddy Byrne,
he was transmitted to a clergyman at Elphin. When a child
was sent to school in those days, the classic phrase was that
he was placed under Mr. So-and-so's ferule. Poor little
ancestors! It is hard to think how ruthlessly you were
birched; and how much of needless whipping and tears
our small forefathers had to undergo! A relative—kind
Uncle Contarine, took the main charge of little Noll; who
went through his school-days righteously doing as little
work as he could: robbing orchards, playing at ball, and
making his pocket-money fly about whenever fortune sent
it to him. Everybody knows the story of that famous
“Mistake of a Night”, when the young schoolboy, provided
with a guinea and a nag, rode up to the “best house” in
Ardagh, called for the landlord's company over a bottle of
wine at supper, and for a hot cake for breakfast in the
morning; and found, when he asked for the bill, that the
best house was Squire Featherstone's, and not the inn for
which he mistook it. Who does not know every story about
Goldsmith? That is a delightful and fantastic picture of
the child dancing and capering about in the kitchen at
home, when the old fiddler gibed at him for his ugliness—and
called him Aesop, and little Noll made his repartee of
“Heralds proclaim aloud this saying—See Aesop dancing
[pg 677]
and his monkey playing”. One can fancy a queer pitiful look
of humour and appeal upon that little scarred face—the
funny little dancing figure, the funny little brogue. In his
life, and his writings, which are the honest expression of it,
he is constantly bewailing that homely face and person;
anon, he surveys them in the glass ruefully; and presently
assumes the most comical dignity. He likes to deck out his
little person in splendour and fine colours. He presented
himself to be examined for ordination in a pair of scarlet
breeches, and said honestly that he did not like to go into
the Church, because he was fond of coloured clothes. When
he tried to practise as a doctor, he got by hook or by crook
a black velvet suit, and looked as big and grand as he could,
and kept his hat over a patch on the old coat: in better
days he bloomed out in plum-colour, in blue silk, and in
new velvet. For some of those splendours the heirs and
assignees of Mr. Filby, the tailor, have never been paid to
this day; perhaps the kind tailor and his creditor have met
and settled the little account in Hades.176




They showed until lately a window at Trinity College,
Dublin, on which the name of O. Goldsmith was engraved
with a diamond. Whose diamond was it? Not the young
sizar's, who made but a poor figure in that place of learning.
He was idle, penniless, and fond of pleasure:177 he learned
his way early to the pawnbroker's shop. He wrote ballads,
they say, for the street-singers, who paid him a crown for
a poem: and his pleasure was to steal out at night and
hear his verses sung. He was chastised by his tutor for
giving a dance in his rooms, and took the box on the ear
so much to heart, that he packed up his all, pawned his
books and little property, and disappeared from college and
family. He said he intended to go to America, but when
his money was spent, the young prodigal came home ruefully,
and the good folks there killed their calf—it was but
a lean one—and welcomed him back.


[pg 678]


After college, he hung about his mother's house, and
lived for some years the life of a buckeen—passed a month
with this relation and that, a year with one patron, a great
deal of time at the public-house.178 Tired of this life, it was
resolved that he should go to London, and study at the
Temple; but he got no farther on the road to London and
the woolsack than Dublin, where he gambled away the
fifty pounds given to him for his outfit, and whence he
returned to the indefatigable forgiveness of home. Then
he determined to be a doctor, and Uncle Contarine helped
him to a couple of years at Edinburgh. Then from Edinburgh
he felt that he ought to hear the famous professors
of Leyden and Paris, and wrote most amusing pompous
letters to his uncle about the great Farheim, Du Petit, and
Duhamel du Monceau, whose lectures he proposed to follow.
If Uncle Contarine believed those letters—if Oliver's mother
believed that story which the youth related of his going to
Cork, with the purpose of embarking for America, of his
having paid his passage-money, and having sent his kit on
board; of the anonymous captain sailing away with Oliver's
valuable luggage in a nameless ship, never to return; if
Uncle Contarine and the mother at Ballymahon believed
his stories, they must have been a very simple pair; as it
was a very simple rogue indeed who cheated them. When
the lad, after failing in his clerical examination, after failing
in his plan for studying the law, took leave of these projects
and of his parents, and set out for Edinburgh, he saw
mother, and uncle, and lazy Ballymahon, and green native
turf, and sparkling river for the last time. He was never
to look on old Ireland more, and only in fancy revisit her.







But me not destined such delights to share,


My prime of life in wandering spent and care,


Impelled, with step unceasing, to pursue


Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view;



[pg 679]



That like the circle bounding earth and skies


Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies:


My fortune leads to traverse realms unknown,


And find no spot of all the world my own.







I spoke in a former lecture of that high courage which
enabled Fielding, in spite of disease, remorse, and poverty,
always to retain a cheerful spirit and to keep his manly
benevolence and love of truth intact, as if these treasures
had been confided to him for the public benefit, and he was
accountable to posterity for their honourable employ; and
a constancy equally happy and admirable I think was
shown by Goldsmith, whose sweet and friendly nature
bloomed kindly always in the midst of a life's storm, and
rain, and bitter weather.179 The poor fellow was
never so friendless but he could befriend some one; never so pinched
and wretched but he could give of his crust, and speak his
word of compassion. If he had but his flute left, he could
give that, and make the children happy in the dreary
London court. He could give the coals in that queer coal-scuttle
we read of to his poor neighbour: he could give
away his blankets in college to the poor widow, and warm
himself as he best might in the feathers: he could pawn
his coat to save his landlord from gaol: when he was
a school-usher, he spent his earnings in treats for the boys,
and the good-natured schoolmaster's wife said justly that
she ought to keep Mr. Goldsmith's money as well as the
young gentlemen's. When he met his pupils in later life,
nothing would satisfy the Doctor but he must treat them
still. “Have you seen the print of me after Sir Joshua
Reynolds?” he asked of one of his old pupils. “Not seen
it? not bought it? Sure, Jack, if your picture had been
published, I'd not have been without it half an hour.” His
purse and his heart were everybody's, and his friends' as
much as his own. When he was at the height of his reputation,
and the Earl of Northumberland, going as Lord
[pg 680]
Lieutenant to Ireland, asked if he could be of any service
to Dr. Goldsmith, Goldsmith recommended his brother, and
not himself, to the great man. “My patrons,” he gallantly
said, “are the booksellers, and I want no
others.”180 Hard
patrons they were, and hard work he did; but he did not
complain much: if in his early writings some bitter words
escaped him, some allusions to neglect and poverty, he
withdrew these expressions when his works were republished,
and better days seemed to open for him; and he did
not care to complain that printer or publisher had overlooked
his merit, or left him poor. The Court face was
turned from honest Oliver, the Court patronized Beattie;
the fashion did not shine on him—fashion adored
Sterne.181


[pg 681]


Fashion pronounced Kelly to be the great writer of comedy
of his day. A little—not ill humour, but plaintiveness—a
little betrayal of wounded pride which he showed render
him not the less amiable. The author of the Vicar of Wakefield
had a right to protest when Newbery kept back the
MS. for two years; had a right to be a little peevish with
Sterne; a little angry when Colman's actors declined their
parts in his delightful comedy, when the manager refused
to have a scene painted for it, and pronounced its damnation
before hearing. He had not the great public with him;
but he had the noble Johnson, and the admirable Reynolds,
and the great Gibbon, and the great Burke, and the great
Fox—friends and admirers illustrious indeed, as famous as
those who, fifty years before, sat round Pope's table.




Nobody knows, and I dare say Goldsmith's buoyant
temper kept no account of all the pains which he endured
during the early period of his literary career. Should any
man of letters in our day have to bear up against such,
Heaven grant he may come out of the period of misfortune
with such a pure kind heart as that which Goldsmith
obstinately bore in his breast. The insults to which he had
to submit are shocking to read of—slander, contumely,
vulgar satire, brutal malignity perverting his commonest
motives and actions: he had his share of these, and one's
anger is roused at reading of them, as it is at seeing a woman
insulted or a child assaulted, at the notion that a creature
so very gentle and weak, and full of love, should have had
to suffer so. And he had worse than insult to undergo—to
own to fault, and deprecate the anger of ruffians. There
is a letter of his extant to one Griffiths, a bookseller, in
which poor Goldsmith is forced to confess that certain
books sent by Griffiths are in the hands of a friend from
whom Goldsmith had been forced to borrow money. “He
was wild, sir,” Johnson said, speaking of Goldsmith to
[pg 682]
Boswell, with his great, wise benevolence and noble mercifulness
of heart, “Dr. Goldsmith was wild, sir; but he is
so no more.” Ah! if we pity the good and weak man who
suffers undeservedly, let us deal very gently with him from
whom misery extorts not only tears, but shame; let us
think humbly and charitably of the human nature that
suffers so sadly and falls so low. Whose turn may it be tomorrow?
What weak heart, confident before trial, may
not succumb under temptation invincible? Cover the good
man who has been vanquished—cover his face and pass on.




For the last half-dozen years of his life, Goldsmith was
far removed from the pressure of any ignoble necessity:
and in the receipt, indeed, of a pretty large income from the
booksellers, his patrons. Had he lived but a few years
more, his public fame would have been as great as his
private reputation, and he might have enjoyed alive a part
of that esteem which his country has ever since paid to
the vivid and versatile genius who has touched on almost
every subject of literature, and touched nothing that he
did not adorn. Except in rare instances, a man is known
in our profession, and esteemed as a skilful workman,
years before the lucky hit which trebles his usual gains,
and stamps him a popular author. In the strength of his
age, and the dawn of his reputation, having for backers
and friends the most illustrious literary men of his time,182
fame and prosperity might have been in store for Goldsmith,
had fate so willed it; and, at forty-six, had not
sudden disease carried him off. I say prosperity rather
than competence, for it is probable that no sum could
have put order into his affairs or sufficed for his irreclaimable
habits of dissipation. It must be remembered that
he owed 2,000l. when he died. “Was ever poet,” Johnson
[pg 683]
asked, “so trusted before?” As has been the case with
many another good fellow of his nation, his life was tracked
and his substance wasted by crowds of hungry beggars, and
lazy dependants. If they came at a lucky time (and be
sure they knew his affairs better than he did himself, and
watched his pay-day), he gave them of his money: if they
begged on empty-purse days he gave them his promissory
bills: or he treated them to a tavern where he had credit;
or he obliged them with an order upon honest Mr. Filby
for coats, for which he paid as long as he could earn, and
until the shears of Filby were to cut for him no more.
Staggering under a load of debt and labour, tracked by
bailiffs and reproachful creditors, running from a hundred
poor dependants, whose appealing looks were perhaps the
hardest of all pains for him to bear, devising fevered plans
for the morrow, new histories, new comedies, all sorts of
new literary schemes, flying from all these into seclusion,
and out of seclusion into pleasure—at last, at five-and-forty,
death seized him and closed his career.183
I have
been many a time in the chambers in the Temple which
were his, and passed up the staircase, which Johnson, and
Burke, and Reynolds trod to see their friend, their poet,
their kind Goldsmith—the stair on which the poor women
sat weeping bitterly when they heard that the greatest and
most generous of all men was dead within the black oak
door.184 Ah, it was a different lot from that for which the
[pg 684]
poor fellow sighed, when he wrote with heart yearning for
home those most charming of all fond verses, in which he
fancies he revisits Auburn—







Here as I take my solitary rounds,


Amidst thy tangled walks and ruined grounds,


And, many a year elapsed, return to view


Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,


Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,


Swells at my heart, and turns the past to pain.






In all my wanderings round this world of care


In all my griefs—and God has given my share,


I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,


Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;


To husband out life's taper at the close,


And keep the flame from wasting by repose;


I still had hopes—for pride attends us still—


Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,


Around my fire an evening group to draw,


And tell of all I felt and all I saw;


And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue.


Pants to the place from whence at first she flew—


I still had hopes—my long vexations past,


Here to return, and die at home at last.






O blest retirement, friend to life's decline!


Retreats from care that never must be mine—


How blest is he who crowns in shades like these,


A youth of labour with an age of ease;


Who quits a world where strong temptations try,


And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!


For him no wretches born to work and weep


Explore the mine or tempt the dangerous deep;


No surly porter stands in guilty state


To spurn imploring famine from his gate:


But on he moves to meet his latter end,


Angels around befriending virtue's friend;


Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,


Whilst resignation gently slopes the way;


And all his prospects brightening at the last,


His heaven commences ere the world be past.







In these verses, I need not say with what melody, with
[pg 685]
what touching truth, with what exquisite beauty of comparison—as
indeed in hundreds more pages of the writings
of this honest soul—the whole character of the man is
told—his humble confession of faults and weakness; his
pleasant little vanity, and desire that his village should
admire him; his simple scheme of good in which everybody
was to be happy—no beggar was to be refused his
dinner—nobody in fact was to work much, and he to be
the harmless chief of the Utopia, and the monarch of the
Irish Yvetôt. He would have told again, and without
fear of their failing, those famous jokes185 which had hung
[pg 686]
fire in London; he would have talked of his great friends
of the Club—of my Lord Clare and my Lord Bishop, my
Lord Nugent—sure he knew them intimately, and was
hand and glove with some of the best men in town—and
he would have spoken of Johnson and of Burke, from
Cork, and of Sir Joshua who had painted him—and he
would have told wonderful sly stories of Ranelagh and the
Pantheon, and the masquerades at Madame Cornelys';
and he would have toasted, with a sigh, the Jessamy
Bride—the lovely Mary Horneck.




The figure of that charming young lady forms one of
the prettiest recollections of Goldsmith's life. She and her
beautiful sister, who married Bunbury, the graceful and
humorous amateur artist of those days, when Gilray had
but just begun to try his powers, were among the kindest
and dearest of Goldsmith's many friends, cheered and
pitied him, travelled abroad with him; made him welcome
at their home, and gave him many a pleasant holiday. He
bought his finest clothes to figure at their country house at
Barton—he wrote them droll verses. They loved him,
laughed at him, played him tricks and made him happy.
He asked for a loan from Garrick, and Garrick kindly
supplied him, to enable him to go to Barton—but there
were to be no more holidays, and only one brief struggle
more for poor Goldsmith—a lock of his hair was taken
from the coffin and given to the Jessamy Bride. She lived
quite into our time. Hazlitt saw her an old lady, but
[pg 687]
beautiful still, in Northcote's painting-room, who told the
eager critic how proud she always was that Goldsmith had
admired her. The younger Colman has left a touching
reminiscence of him (vol. i. 63, 64).




“I was only five years old,” he says, “when Goldsmith
took me on his knee one evening whilst he was drinking
coffee with my father, and began to play with me, which
amiable act I returned, with the ingratitude of a peevish
brat, by giving him a very smart slap on the face: it
must have been a tingler, for it left the marks of my spiteful
paw on his cheek. This infantile outrage was followed by
summary justice, and I was locked up by my indignant
father in an adjoining room to undergo solitary imprisonment
in the dark. Here I began to howl and scream most
abominably, which was no bad step towards my liberation,
since those who were not inclined to pity me might be likely
to set me free for the purpose of abating a nuisance.




“At length a generous friend appeared to extricate me
from jeopardy, and that generous friend was no other
than the man I had so wantonly molested by assault and
battery—it was the tender-hearted Doctor himself, with
a lighted candle in his hand, and a smile upon his countenance,
which was still partially red from the effects of my
petulance. I sulked and sobbed as he fondled and soothed,
till I began to brighten. Goldsmith seized the propitious
moment of returning good humour, when he put down the
candle and began to conjure. He placed three hats, which
happened to be in the room, and a shilling under each.
The shillings he told me were England, France, and Spain.
‘Hey presto cockalorum!’ cried the Doctor, and lo, on
uncovering the shillings, which had been dispersed each
beneath a separate hat, they were all found congregated
under one. I was no politician at five years old, and
therefore might not have wondered at the sudden revolution
which brought England, France, and Spain all under
one crown; but, as also I was no conjurer, it amazed me
beyond measure.... From that time, whenever the
Doctor came to visit my father, ‘I plucked his gown to
share the good man's smile’; a game at romps constantly
ensued, and we were always cordial friends and merry
playfellows. Our unequal companionship varied somewhat
as to sports as I grew older; but it did not last long:
my senior playmate died in his forty-fifth year, when I had
[pg 688]
attained my eleventh.... In all the numerous accounts
of his virtues and foibles, his genius and absurdities, his
knowledge of nature and ignorance of the world, his ‘compassion
for another's woe’ was always predominant; and
my trivial story of his humouring a froward child weighs
but as a feather in the recorded scale of his benevolence.”




Think of him reckless, thriftless, vain if you like—but
merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity. He passes
out of our life, and goes to render his account beyond it.
Think of the poor pensioners weeping at his grave; think
of the noble spirits that admired and deplored him; think
of the righteous pen that wrote his epitaph—and of the
wonderful and unanimous response of affection with which
the world has paid back the love he gave it. His humour
delighting us still: his song fresh and beautiful as when
first he charmed with it: his words in all our mouths:
his very weaknesses beloved and familiar—his benevolent
spirit seems still to smile upon us: to do gentle kindnesses:
to succour with sweet charity: to soothe, caress,
and forgive: to plead with the fortunate for the unhappy
and the poor.




His name is the last in the list of those men of humour
who have formed the themes of the discourses which you
have heard so kindly.






Long before I had ever hoped for such an audience, or
dreamed of the possibility of the good fortune which has
brought me so many friends, I was at issue with some of
my literary brethren upon a point—which they held from
tradition I think rather than experience—that our profession
was neglected in this country; and that men of
letters were ill-received and held in slight esteem. It
would hardly be grateful of me now to alter my old opinion
that we do meet with goodwill and kindness, with generous
helping hands in the time of our necessity, with cordial
and friendly recognition. What claim had any one of these
of whom I have been speaking, but genius? What return
of gratitude, fame, affection, did it not bring to all?




What punishment befell those who were unfortunate
among them, but that which follows reckless habits and
careless lives? For these faults a wit must suffer like the
dullest prodigal that ever ran in debt. He must pay the
tailor if he wears the coat; his children must go in rags
[pg 689]
if he spends his money at the tavern; he can't come to
London and be made Lord Chancellor if he stops on the
road and gambles away his last shilling at Dublin. And
he must pay the social penalty of these follies too, and
expect that the world will shun the man of bad habits,
that women will avoid the man of loose life, that prudent
folks will close their doors as a precaution, and before
a demand should be made on their pockets by the needy
prodigal. With what difficulty had any one of these men
to contend, save that eternal and mechanical one of want
of means and lack of capital, and of which thousands of
young lawyers, young doctors, young soldiers and sailors,
of inventors, manufacturers, shopkeepers, have to complain?
Hearts as brave and resolute as ever beat in the breast of
any wit or poet, sicken and break daily in the vain endeavour
and unavailing struggle against life's difficulty. Don't we
see daily ruined inventors, grey-haired midshipmen, balked
heroes, blighted curates, barristers pining a hungry life out
in chambers, the attorneys never mounting to their garrets,
whilst scores of them are rapping at the door of the successful
quack below? If these suffer, who is the author, that
he should be exempt? Let us bear our ills with the same
constancy with which others endure them, accept our manly
part in life, hold our own, and ask no more. I can conceive
of no kings or laws causing or curing Goldsmith's
improvidence, or Fielding's fatal love of pleasure, or Dick
Steele's mania for running races with the constable. You
never can outrun that sure-footed officer—not by any swiftness
or by dodges devised by any genius, however great;
and he carries off the Tatler to the spunging-house, or taps
the Citizen of the World on the shoulder as he would any
other mortal.




Does society look down on a man because he is an
author? I suppose if people want a buffoon they tolerate
him only in so far as he is amusing; it can hardly be
expected that they should respect him as an equal. Is
there to be a guard of honour provided for the author of
the last new novel or poem? how long is he to reign, and
keep other potentates out of possession? He retires,
grumbles, and prints a lamentation that literature is despised.
If Captain A. is left out of Lady B.'s parties he
does not state that the army is despised: if Lord C. no
longer asks Counsellor D. to dinner, Counsellor D. does not
[pg 690]
announce that the Bar is insulted. He is not fair to society
if he enters it with this suspicion hankering about him;
if he is doubtful about his reception, how hold up his head
honestly, and look frankly in the face that world about
which he is full of suspicion? Is he place-hunting, and
thinking in his mind that he ought to be made an Ambassador,
like Prior, or a Secretary of State, like Addison?
his pretence of equality falls to the ground at once: he
is scheming for a patron, not shaking the hand of a friend,
when he meets the world. Treat such a man as he deserves;
laugh at his buffoonery, and give him a dinner and a bon
jour; laugh at his self-sufficiency and absurd assumptions
of superiority, and his equally ludicrous airs of martyrdom:
laugh at his flattery and his scheming, and buy it, if it's
worth the having. Let the wag have his dinner and the
hireling his pay, if you want him, and make a profound
bow to the grand homme incompris, and the
boisterous martyr, and show him the door. The great world, the
great aggregate experience, has its good sense, as it has
its good humour. It detects a pretender, as it trusts
a loyal heart. It is kind in the main: how should it
be otherwise than kind, when it is so wise and clear-headed?
To any literary man who says, “It despises my profession,”
I say, with all my might—no, no, no. It may pass over
your individual case—how many a brave fellow has failed
in the race, and perished unknown in the struggle!—but
it treats you as you merit in the main. If you serve it,
it is not unthankful; if you please it, it is pleased; if you
cringe to it, it detects you, and scorns you if you are mean;
it returns your cheerfulness with its good humour; it deals
not ungenerously with your weaknesses; it recognizes most
kindly your merits; it gives you a fair place and fair play.
To any one of those men of whom we have spoken was it
in the main ungrateful? A king might refuse Goldsmith
a pension, as a publisher might keep his masterpiece and
the delight of all the world in his desk for two years; but
it was mistake, and not ill will. Noble and illustrious
names of Swift, and Pope, and Addison! dear and honoured
memories of Goldsmith and Fielding! kind friends, teachers,
benefactors! who shall say that our country, which continues
to bring you such an unceasing tribute of applause,
admiration, love, sympathy, does not do honour to the
literary calling in the honour which it bestows upon you!






[pg 693]





 The Georges






 The Poems



[Punch, October 11, 1845]




As the statues of these beloved Monarchs are to be put up in the
Parliament palace—we have been favoured by a young lady (connected
with the Court) with copies of the inscriptions which are
to be engraven under the images of those Stars of Brunswick.






GEORGE I—STAR OF BRUNSWICK





He preferred Hanover to England,


He preferred two hideous Mistresses


To a beautiful and innocent Wife.


He hated Arts and despised Literature;


But He liked train-oil in his salads,


And gave an enlightened patronage to bad oysters.


And he had Walpole as a Minister:


Consistent in his Preference for every kind of Corruption.





GEORGE II





In most things I did as my father had done,


I was false to my wife and I hated my son:






My spending was small and my avarice much,


My kingdom was English, my heart was High Dutch:






At Dettingen fight I was known not to blench


I butchered the Scotch, and I bearded the French:






I neither had morals, nor manners, nor wit;


I wasn't much missed when I died in a fit.






Here set up my statue, and make it complete—With


Pitt on his knees at my dirty old feet.





GEORGE III





Give me a royal niche—it is my due,


The virtuousest king the realm e'er knew.






I, through a decent reputable life,


Was constant to plain food and a plain wife.



[pg 694]



Ireland I risked, and lost America;


But dined on legs of mutton every day.






My brain, perhaps, might be a feeble part;


But yet I think I had an English heart.






When all the kings were prostrate, I alone


Stood face to face against Napoleon;






Nor ever could the ruthless Frenchman forge


A fetter for Old England and Old George:






I let loose flaming Nelson on his fleets;


I met his troops with Wellesley's bayonets.






Triumphant waved my flag on land and sea:


Where was the king in Europe like to me?






Monarchs exiled found shelter on my shores;


My bounty rescued kings and emperors.






But what boots victory by land or sea?


What boots that kings found refuge at my knee?






I was a conqueror, but yet not proud;


And careless, even though Napoleon bow'd.






The rescued kings came kiss my garments' hem:


The rescued kings I never heeded them.






My guns roar'd triumph, but I never heard:


All England thrilled with joy, I never stirred.






What care had I of pomp, or fame, or power,—


A crazy old blind man in Windsor Tower?





GEORGIUS ULTIMUS





He left an example for age and for youth


To avoid.


He never acted well by Man or Woman,


And was as false to his Mistress as to his Wife.


He deserted his Friends and his Principles.


He was so ignorant that he could scarcely Spell;


But he had some Skill in Cutting out Coats,


And an undeniable Taste for Cookery.


He built the Palaces of Brighton and of Buckingham,


And for these Qualities and Proofs of Genius,


An admiring Aristocracy


Christened him the “First Gentleman in Europe”.


Friends, respect the King whose Statue is here,


And the generous Aristocracy who admired him.







[pg 695]





 Sketches Of Manners, Morals, Court And Town Life



[Cornhill Magazine, 1860; first edition in book form, 1861]


[pg 699]





 George The First



A very few years since, I
knew familiarly a lady, who
had been asked in marriage
by Horace Walpole, who
had been patted on the
head by George I. This
lady had knocked at
Johnson's door; had been
intimate with Fox, the
beautiful Georgina of
Devonshire, and that brilliant
Whig society of the
reign of George III; had
known the Duchess of
Queensberry, the patroness
of Gay and Prior, the
admired young beauty of
the Court of Queen Anne.
I often thought as I took
my kind old friend's hand,
how with it I held on to
the old society of wits and
men of the world. I could
travel back for sevenscore
years of time—have glimpses of Brummell, Selwyn, Chesterfield
and the men of pleasure; of Walpole and Conway;
of Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith; of North, Chatham,
Newcastle; of the fair maids of honour of George II's
Court; of the German retainers of George I's; where
Addison was secretary of state; where Dick Steele held
a place; whither the great Marlborough came with his
fiery spouse; when Pope, and Swift, and Bolingbroke yet
lived and wrote. Of a society so vast, busy, brilliant, it is
impossible in four brief chapters to give a complete notion;
[pg 700]
but we may peep here and there into that bygone world
of the Georges, see what they and their Courts were like;
glance at the people round about them; look at past
manners, fashions, pleasures, and contrast them with our
own. I have to say thus much by way of preface, because
the subject of these lectures has been misunderstood, and
I have been taken to task for not having given grave
historical treatises, which it never was my intention to
attempt. Not about battles, about politics, about statesmen
and measures of state, did I ever think to lecture you:
but to sketch the manners and life of the old world; to
amuse for a few hours with talk about the old society;
and, with the result of many a day's and night's pleasant
reading, to try and wile away a few winter evenings for
my hearers.






Among the German princes who sat under Luther at
Wittenberg, was Duke Ernest of Celle, whose younger son,
William of Lüneburg, was the progenitor of the illustrious
Hanoverian house at present reigning in Great Britain.
Duke William held his Court at Celle, a little town of ten
thousand people that lies on the railway line between
Hamburg and Hanover, in the midst of great plains of
sand, upon the river Aller. When Duke William had it,
it was a very humble wood-built place, with a great brick
church, which he sedulously frequented, and in which he
and others of his house lie buried. He was a very religious
lord, and called William the Pious by his small circle of
subjects, over whom he ruled till fate deprived him both
of sight and reason. Sometimes, in his latter days, the
good duke had glimpses of mental light, when he would
bid his musicians play the psalm-tunes which he loved.
One thinks of a descendant of his, two hundred years
afterwards, blind, old, and lost of wits, singing Handel in
Windsor Tower.




William the Pious had fifteen children, eight daughters
and seven sons, who, as the property left among them was
small, drew lots to determine which one of them should
marry, and continue the stout race of the Guelphs. The
lot fell on Duke George, the sixth brother. The others
remained single, or contracted left-handed marriages after
the princely fashion of those days. It is a queer picture—that
of the old prince dying in his little wood-built capital,
[pg 701]
and his seven sons tossing up which should inherit and
transmit the crown of Brentford. Duke George, the lucky
prizeman, made the tour of Europe, during which he
visited the Court of Queen Elizabeth; and in the year
1617, came back and settled at Zell, with a wife out of
Darmstadt. His remaining brothers all kept their house
at Zell, for economy's sake. And presently, in due course,
they all died—all the honest dukes; Ernest, and Christian,
and Augustus, and Magnus, and George, and John—and
they are buried in the brick church of Brentford yonder,
by the sandy banks of the Aller.




Dr. Vehse gives a pleasant glimpse of the way of life
of our dukes in Zell. “When the trumpeter on the tower
has blown,” Duke Christian orders—viz. at nine o'clock in
the morning, and four in the evening, every one must be
present at meals, and those who are not must go without.
None of the servants, unless it be a knave who has been
ordered to ride out, shall eat or drink in the kitchen or
cellar; or, without special leave, fodder his horses at the
prince's cost. When the meal is served in the Court-room,
a page shall go round and bid every one be quiet and
orderly, forbidding all cursing, swearing, and rudeness;
all throwing about of bread, bones, or roast, or pocketing
of the same. Every morning, at seven, the squires shall
have their morning soup, along with which, and dinner,
they shall be served with their under-drink—every morning,
except Friday morning, when there was sermon, and no
drink. Every evening they shall have their beer, and at
night their sleep-drink. The butler is especially warned
not to allow noble or simple to go into the cellar: wine
shall only be served at the prince's or councillor's table;
and every Monday, the honest old Duke Christian ordains
the accounts shall be ready, and the expenses in the
kitchen, the wine and beer cellar, the bakehouse and stable,
made out.




Duke George, the marrying duke, did not stop at home
to partake of the beer and wine, and the sermons. He
went about fighting wherever there was profit to be had.
He served as general in the army of the circle of Lower
Saxony, the Protestant army; then he went over to the
emperor, and fought in his armies in Germany and Italy;
and when Gustavus Adolphus appeared in Germany,
George took service as a Swedish general, and seized the
[pg 702]
Abbey of Hildesheim, as his share of the plunder. Here,
in the year 1641, Duke George died, leaving four sons
behind him, from the youngest of whom descend our
royal Georges.




Under these children of Duke George, the old God-fearing,
simple ways of Zell appear to have gone out of
mode. The second brother was constantly visiting Venice,
and leading a jolly, wicked life there. It was the most
jovial of all places at the end of the seventeenth century;
and military men, after a campaign, rushed thither, as the
warriors of the Allies rushed to Paris in 1814, to gamble,
and rejoice, and partake of all sorts of godless delights.
This prince, then, loving Venice and its pleasures, brought
Italian singers and dancers back with him to quiet old
Zell; and, worse still, demeaned himself by marrying
a French lady of birth quite inferior to his own—Eleanor
d'Olbreuse, from whom our queen is descended. Eleanor
had a pretty daughter, who inherited a great fortune, which
inflamed her cousin, George Louis of Hanover, with a desire
to marry her; and so, with her beauty and her riches, she
came to a sad end.




It is too long to tell how the four sons of Duke George
divided his territories amongst them, and how, finally,
they came into possession of the son of the youngest of
the four. In this generation the Protestant faith was very
nearly extinguished in the family: and then where should
we in England have gone for a king? The third brother
also took delight in Italy, where the priests converted him
and his Protestant chaplain too. Mass was said in Hanover
once more; and Italian soprani piped their Latin rhymes
in place of the hymns which William the Pious and Dr.
Luther sang. Louis XIV gave this and other converts
a splendid pension. Crowds of Frenchmen and brilliant
French fashions came into his Court. It is incalculable
how much that royal bigwig cost Germany. Every prince
imitated the French king, and had his Versailles, his
Wilhelmshöhe or Ludwigslust; his court and its splendours;
his gardens laid out with statues; his fountains,
and waterworks, and Tritons; his actors, and dancers,
and singers, and fiddlers; his harem, with its inhabitants;
his diamonds and duchies for these latter; his enormous
festivities, his gaming-tables, tournaments, masquerades,
and banquets lasting a week long, for which the people
[pg 703]
paid with their money, when the poor wretches had it;
with their bodies and very blood when they had none;
being sold in thousands by their lords and masters, who
gaily dealt in soldiers, staked a regiment upon the red at
the gambling-table; swapped a battalion against a dancing-girl's
diamond necklace; and, as it were, pocketed their
people.




As one views Europe, through contemporary books of
travel in the early part of the last century, the landscape
is awful—wretched wastes, beggarly and plundered; half-burned
cottages and trembling peasants gathering piteous
harvests; gangs of such tramping along with bayonets
behind them, and corporals with canes and cats-of-nine-tails
to flog them to barracks. By these passes my lord's
gilt carriage floundering through the ruts, as he swears
at the postilions, and toils on to the Residenz. Hard by,
but away from the noise and brawling of the citizens and
buyers, is Wilhelmslust or Ludwigsruhe, or Monbijou, or
Versailles—it scarcely matters which—near to the city,
shut out by woods from the beggared country, the enormous,
hideous, gilded, monstrous marble palace, where the
prince is, and the Court, and the trim gardens, and huge
fountains, and the forest where the ragged peasants are
beating the game in (it is death to them to touch a feather);
and the jolly hunt sweeps by with its uniform of crimson
and gold; and the prince gallops ahead puffing his royal
horn; and his lords and mistresses ride after him; and
the stag is pulled down; and the grand huntsman gives
the knife in the midst of a chorus of bugles; and 'tis time
the Court go home to dinner; and our noble traveller, it
may be the Baron of Pöllnitz, or the Count de Königsmarck,
or the excellent Chevalier de Seingalt, sees the
procession gleaming through the trim avenues of the wood,
and hastens to the inn, and sends his noble name to the
marshal of the Court. Then our nobleman arrays himself
in green and gold, or pink and silver, in the richest Paris
mode, and is introduced by the chamberlain, and makes
his bow to the jolly prince, and the gracious princess; and
is presented to the chief lords and ladies, and then comes
supper and a bank at faro, where he loses or wins a thousand
pieces by daylight. If it is a German Court, you may
add not a little drunkenness to this picture of high life;
but German, or French, or Spanish, if you can see out of
[pg 704]
your palace-windows beyond the trim-cut forest vistas,
misery is lying outside; hunger is stalking about the bare
villages, listlessly following precarious husbandry; ploughing
stony fields with starved cattle; or fearfully taking in
scanty harvests. Augustus is fat and jolly on his throne;
he can knock down an ox, and eat one almost; his mistress
Aurora von Königsmarck is the loveliest, the wittiest
creature; his diamonds are the biggest and most brilliant
in the world, and his feasts as splendid as those of Versailles.
As for Louis the Great, he is more than mortal. Lift up
your glances respectfully, and mark him eyeing Madame
de Fontanges or Madame de Montespan from under his
sublime periwig, as he passes through the great gallery
where Villars and Vendôme, and Berwick, and Bossuet,
and Massillon are waiting. Can Court be more splendid;
nobles and knights more gallant and superb; ladies more
lovely? A grander monarch, or a more miserable starved
wretch than the peasant his subject, you cannot look on.
Let us bear both these types in mind, if we wish to estimate
the old society properly. Remember the glory and the
chivalry? Yes! Remember the grace and beauty, the
splendour and lofty politeness; the gallant courtesy of
Fontenoy, where the French line bids the gentlemen of
the English guard to fire first; the noble constancy of the
old king and Villars his general, who fits out the last army
with the last crown-piece from the treasury, and goes to
meet the enemy and die or conquer for France at Denain.
But round all that royal splendour lies a nation enslaved
and ruined: there are people robbed of their rights—communities
laid waste—faith, justice, commerce trampled
upon, and wellnigh destroyed—nay, in the very centre of
royalty itself, what horrible stains and meanness, crime and
shame! It is but to a silly harlot that some of the noblest
gentlemen, and some of the proudest women in the world,
are bowing down; it is the price of a miserable province
that the king ties in diamonds round his mistress's white
neck. In the first half of the last century, I say, this is
going on all Europe over. Saxony is a waste as well as
Picardy or Artois; and Versailles is only larger and not
worse than Herrenhausen.





Illustration
Two Portraits



It was the first Elector of Hanover who made the
fortunate match which bestowed the race of Hanoverian
Sovereigns upon us Britons. Nine years after Charles
[pg 705]
Stuart lost his head, his niece Sophia, one of many children
of another luckless dethroned sovereign, the Elector
Palatine, married Ernest Augustus of Brunswick, and
brought the reversion to the crown of the three kingdoms
in her scanty trousseau. One of the handsomest, the most
cheerful, sensible, shrewd, accomplished of women was
Sophia,186
daughter of poor Frederick, the winter king of
Bohemia. The other daughters of lovely, unhappy Elizabeth
Stuart went off into the Catholic Church; this one,
luckily for her family, remained, I cannot say faithful to
the Reformed Religion, but at least she adopted no other.
An agent of the French king's, Gourville, a convert himself,
strove to bring her and her husband to a sense of the
truth; and tells us that he one day asked madame the
Duchess of Hanover, of what religion her daughter was,
then a pretty girl of thirteen years old. The duchess
replied that the princess was of no religion as yet. They
[pg 706]
were waiting to know of what religion her husband would
be, Protestant or Catholic, before instructing her! And
the Duke of Hanover having heard all Gourville's proposal,
said that a change would be advantageous to his house,
but that he himself was too old to change.




This shrewd woman had such keen eyes that she knew
how to shut them upon occasion, and was blind to many
faults which it appeared that her husband the Bishop of
Osnaburg and Duke of Hanover committed. He loved to
take his pleasure like other sovereigns—was a merry
prince, fond of dinner and the bottle; liked to go to Italy,
as his brothers had done before him; and we read how he
jovially sold 6,700 of his Hanoverians to the seigniory of
Venice. They went bravely off to the Morea, under
command of Ernest's son, Prince Max, and only 1,400 of
them ever came home again. The German princes sold
a good deal of this kind of stock. You may remember
how George III's Government purchased Hessians, and
the use we made of them during the War of Independence.




The ducats Duke Ernest got for his soldiers he spent in
a series of the most brilliant entertainments. Nevertheless,
the jovial prince was economical, and kept a steady eye
upon his own interests. He achieved the electoral dignity
for himself: he married his eldest son George to his beautiful
cousin of Zell; and sending his sons out in command of
armies to fight—now on this side, now on that—he lived on,
taking his pleasure, and scheming his schemes, a merry,
wise prince enough, not, I fear, a moral prince, of which
kind we shall have but very few specimens in the course
of these lectures.




Ernest Augustus had seven children in all, some of
whom were scapegraces, and rebelled against the parental
system of primogeniture and non-division of property which
the Elector ordained. “Gustchen,” the Electress writes about
her second son:—“Poor Gus is thrust out, and his father
will give him no more keep. I laugh in the day, and cry
all night about it; for I am a fool with my children.”
Three of the six died fighting against Turks, Tartars,
Frenchmen. One of them conspired, revolted, fled to
Rome, leaving an agent behind him, whose head was taken
off. The daughter, of whose early education we have
made mention, was married to the Elector of Brandenburg,
and so her religion settled finally on the Protestant side.


[pg 707]


A niece of the Electress Sophia—who had been made to
change her religion, and marry the Duke of Orleans, brother
of the French king; a woman whose honest heart was
always with her friends and dear old Deutschland, though
her fat little body was confined at Paris or Marly, or Versailles—has
left us, in her enormous correspondence (part of which
has been printed in German and French), recollections of
the Electress, and of George her son. Elizabeth Charlotte
was at Osnaburg when George was born (1660). She
narrowly escaped a whipping for being in the way on that
auspicious day. She seems not to have liked little George,
nor George grown up; and represents him as odiously hard,
cold, and silent. Silent he may have been: not a jolly
prince like his father before him, but a prudent, quiet,
selfish potentate, going his own way, managing his own
affairs, and understanding his own interests remarkably well.




In his father's lifetime, and at the head of the Hanover
forces of 8,000 or 10,000 men, George served the Emperor,
on the Danube against Turks, at the siege of Vienna, in
Italy, and on the Rhine. When he succeeded to the
Electorate, he handled its affairs with great prudence and
dexterity. He was very much liked by his people of
Hanover. He did not show his feelings much, but he cried
heartily on leaving them; as they used for joy when he
came back. He showed an uncommon prudence and coolness
of behaviour when he came into his kingdom; exhibiting
no elation; reasonably doubtful whether he should not
be turned out some day; looking upon himself only as
a lodger, and making the most of his brief tenure of St.
James's and Hampton Court; plundering, it is true, somewhat,
and dividing amongst his German followers; but
what could be expected of a sovereign who at home could
sell his subjects at so many ducats per head, and made
no scruple in so disposing of them? I fancy a considerable
shrewdness, prudence, and even moderation in his ways.
The German Protestant was a cheaper, and better, and
kinder king than the Catholic Stuart in whose chair he
sat, and so far loyal to England, that he let England govern
herself.




Having these lectures in view I made it my business to
visit that ugly cradle in which our Georges were nursed.
The old town of Hanover must look still pretty much as
in the time when George Louis left it. The gardens and
[pg 708]
pavilions of Herrenhausen are scarce changed since the day
when the stout old Electress Sophia fell down in her last
walk there, preceding but by a few weeks to the tomb
James II's daughter, whose death made way for the
Brunswick Stuarts in England.




The two first royal Georges, and their father, Ernest
Augustus, had quite royal notions regarding marriage; and
Louis XIV and Charles II scarce distinguished themselves
more at Versailles or St. James's, than these German sultans
in their little city on the banks of the Leine. You may see
at Herrenhausen the very rustic theatre in which the Platens
danced and performed masques, and sang before the Elector
and his sons. There are the very fauns and dryads of
stone still glimmering through the branches, still grinning
and piping their ditties of no tone, as in the days when
painted nymphs hung garlands round them; appeared
under their leafy arcades with gilt crooks, guiding rams
with gilt horns; descended from “machines” in the guise
of Diana or Minerva; and delivered immense allegorical
compliments to the princes returned home from the campaign.




That was a curious state of morals and politics in Europe;
a queer consequence of the triumph of the monarchical
principle. Feudalism was beaten down. The nobility, in
its quarrels with the crown, had pretty well succumbed,
and the monarch was all in all. He became almost divine:
the proudest and most ancient gentry of the land did
menial service for him. Who should carry Louis XIV's
candle when he went to bed? What prince of the blood
should hold the king's shirt when his Most Christian Majesty
changed that garment?—the French memoirs of the seventeenth
century are full of such details and squabbles. The
tradition is not yet extinct in Europe. Any of you who
were present, as myriads were, at that splendid pageant,
the opening of our Crystal Palace in London, must have
seen two noble lords, great officers of the household, with
ancient pedigrees, with embroidered coats, and stars on their
breasts and wands in their hands, walking backwards for
near the space of a mile, while the royal procession made
its progress. Shall we wonder—shall we be angry—shall
we laugh at these old-world ceremonies? View them as
you will, according to your mood; and with scorn or with
respect, or with anger and sorrow, as your temper leads you.
[pg 709]
Up goes Gesler's hat upon the pole. Salute that symbol
of sovereignty with heartfelt awe; or with a sulky shrug
of acquiescence, or with a grinning obeisance; or with
a stout rebellious No—clap your own beaver down on your
pate, and refuse to doff it, to that spangled velvet and
flaunting feather. I make no comment upon the spectators'
behaviour; all I say is, that Gesler's cap is still up in the
market-place of Europe, and not a few folks are still kneeling
to it.




Put clumsy, High Dutch statues in place of the marbles
of Versailles: fancy Herrenhausen waterworks in place of
those of Marly: spread the tables with
Schweinskopf,
Specksuppe,
Leberkuchen, and the like delicacies, in place
of the French cuisine; and fancy Frau von
Kielmansegge dancing with Count Kammerjunker Quirini, or singing
French songs with the most awful German accent: imagine
a coarse Versailles, and we have a Hanover before us.
“I am now got into the region of beauty,” writes Mary
Wortley, from Hanover in 1716; “all the women have
literally rosy cheeks, snowy foreheads and necks, jet eyebrows,
to which may generally be added coal-black hair.
These perfections never leave them to the day of their
death, and have a very fine effect by candlelight; but
I could wish they were handsome with a little variety.
They resemble one another as Mrs. Salmon's Court of Great
Britain, and are in as much danger of melting away by too
nearly approaching the fire.” The sly Mary Wortley saw
this painted seraglio of the first George at Hanover, the
year after his accession to the British throne. There were
great doings and feasts there. Here Lady Mary saw
George II too. “I can tell you, without flattery or partiality,”
she says, “that our young prince has all the accomplishments
that it is possible to have at his age, with an air
of sprightliness and understanding, and a something so very
engaging in his behaviour that needs not the advantage
of his rank to appear charming.” I find elsewhere similar
panegyrics upon Frederick Prince of Wales, George II's
son; and upon George III, of course, and upon George IV
in an eminent degree. It was the rule to be dazzled by
princes, and people's eyes winked quite honestly at that
royal radiance.




The Electoral Court of Hanover was numerous—pretty
well paid, as times went; above all, paid with a regularity
[pg 710]
which few other European Courts could boast of. Perhaps
you will be amused to know how the Electoral Court was
composed. There were the princes of the house in the first
class; in the second, the single field-marshal of the army
(the contingent was 18,000, Pöllnitz says, and the Elector
had other 14,000 troops in his pay). Then follow, in due
order, the authorities civil and military, the working privy
councillors, the generals of cavalry and infantry, in the
third class; the high chamberlain, high marshals of the
Court, high masters of the horse, the major-generals of
cavalry and infantry, in the fourth class; down to the
majors, the Hofjunkers or pages, the secretaries or assessors,
of the tenth class, of whom all were noble.




We find the master of the horse had 1,090 thalers of pay;
the high chamberlain, 2,000—a thaler being about three
shillings of our money. There were two chamberlains, and
one for the princess; five gentlemen of the chamber, and
five gentlemen ushers; eleven pages and personages to
educate these young noblemen—such as a governor, a
preceptor, a Fechtmeister, or fencing-master, and a
dancing ditto, this latter with a handsome salary of 400 thalers.
There were three body and Court physicians, with 800 and
500 thalers; a Court barber, 600 thalers; a Court organist;
two Musikanten; four French fiddlers; twelve trumpeters,
and a bugler; so that there was plenty of music, profane
and pious, in Hanover. There were ten chamber waiters,
and twenty-four lackeys in livery; a
maitre-d'hôtel, and
attendants of the kitchen; a French cook; a body cook;
ten cooks; six cooks' assistants; two Braten masters, or
masters of the roast—(one fancies enormous spits turning
slowly, and the honest masters of the roast beladling the
dripping); a pastry baker; a pie baker; and finally,
three scullions, at the modest remuneration of eleven
thalers. In the sugar-chamber there were four pastry-cooks
(for the ladies, no doubt); seven officers in the wine
and beer cellars; four bread bakers; and five men in the
plate-room. There were 600 horses in the Serene stables—no
less than twenty teams of princely carriage horses,
eight to a team; sixteen coachmen; fourteen postilions;
nineteen ostlers; thirteen helps, besides smiths, carriage-masters,
horse-doctors, and other attendants of the stable.
The female attendants were not so numerous: I grieve
to find but a dozen or fourteen of them about the Electoral
[pg 711]
premises, and only two washerwomen for all the Court.
These functionaries had not so much to do as in the present
age. I own to finding a pleasure in these small-beer
chronicles. I like to people the old world, with its everyday
figures and inhabitants—not so much with heroes
fighting immense battles and inspiring repulsed battalions
to engage; or statesmen locked up in darkling cabinets
and meditating ponderous laws or dire conspiracies—as
with people occupied with their every-day work or pleasure:
my lord and lady hunting in the forest, or dancing in the
Court, or bowing to their serene highnesses as they pass in
to dinner; John Cook and his procession bringing the
meal from the kitchen; the jolly butlers bearing in the
flagons from the cellar; the stout coachman driving the
ponderous gilt wagon, with eight cream-coloured horses in
housings of scarlet velvet and morocco leather; a postilion
on the leaders, and a pair or a half-dozen of running footmen
scudding along by the side of the vehicle, with conical
caps, long silver-headed maces, which they poised as they
ran, and splendid jackets laced all over with silver and gold.
I fancy the citizens' wives and their daughters looking out
from the balconies; and the burghers over their beer and
mumm, rising up, cap in hand, as the cavalcade passes
through the town with torchbearers, trumpeters blowing
their lusty cheeks out, and squadrons of jack-booted life-guardsmen,
girt with shining cuirasses, and bestriding
thundering chargers, escorting his highness's coach from
Hanover to Herrenhausen: or halting, mayhap, at Madame
Platen's country house of Monplaisir, which lies half-way
between the summer palace and the Residenz.




In the good old times of which I am treating, whilst
common men were driven off by herds, and sold to fight
the emperor's enemies on the Danube, or to bayonet King
Louis's troops of common men on the Rhine, noblemen
passed from Court to Court, seeking service with one prince
or the other, and naturally taking command of the ignoble
vulgar of soldiery which battled and died almost without
hope of promotion. Noble adventurers travelled from
Court to Court in search of employment; not merely noble
males, but noble females too; and if these latter were
beauties, and obtained the favourable notice of princes,
they stopped in the Courts, became the favourites of their
serene or royal highnesses; and received great sums of
[pg 712]
money and splendid diamonds; and were promoted to be
duchesses, marchionesses, and the like; and did not fall
much in public esteem for the manner in which they won
their advancement. In this way Mdlle. de Querouailles,
a beautiful French lady, came to London on a special
mission of Louis XIV, and was adopted by our grateful
country and sovereign, and figured as Duchess of Portsmouth.
In this way the beautiful Aurora of Königsmarck
travelling about found favour in the eyes of Augustus of
Saxony, and became the mother of Marshal Saxe, who gave
us a beating at Fontenoy; and in this manner the lovely
sisters Elizabeth and Melusina of Meissenbach (who had
actually been driven out of Paris, whither they had travelled
on a like errand, by the wise jealousy of the female favourite
there in possession) journeyed to Hanover, and became
favourites of the serene house there reigning.




That beautiful Aurora von Königsmarck and her brother
are wonderful as types of bygone manners, and strange
illustrations of the morals of old days. The Königsmarcks
were descended from an ancient noble family of Brandenburgh,
a branch of which passed into Sweden, where it
enriched itself and produced several mighty men of valour.




The founder of the race was Hans Christof, a famous
warrior and plunderer of the Thirty Years' War. One of
Hans's sons, Otto, appeared as ambassador at the Court of
Louis XIV, and had to make a Swedish speech at his
reception before the Most Christian King. Otto was a
famous dandy and warrior, but he forgot the speech, and
what do you think he did? Far from being disconcerted,
he recited a portion of the Swedish Catechism to His Most
Christian Majesty and his Court, not one of whom understood
his lingo with the exception of his own suite, who had
to keep their gravity as best they might.




Otto's nephew, Aurora's elder brother, Carl Johann of
Königsmarck, a favourite of Charles II, a beauty, a dandy,
a warrior, a rascal of more than ordinary mark, escaped
but deserved being hanged in England, for the murder of
Tom Thynne of Longleat. He had a little brother in
London with him at this time,—as great a beauty, as
great a dandy, as great a villain as his elder. This
lad, Philip of Königsmarck, also was implicated in the
affair; and perhaps it is a pity he ever brought his pretty
neck out of it. He went over to Hanover, and was
[pg 713]
soon appointed colonel of a regiment of H. E. Highness's
dragoons. In early life he had been page in the Court of
Celle; and it was said that he and the pretty Princess
Sophia Dorothea, who by this time was married to her
cousin George the Electoral prince, had been in love with
each other as children. Their loves were now to be renewed,
not innocently, and to come to a fearful end.




A biography of the wife of George I, by Dr. Doran, has
lately appeared, and I confess I am astounded at the
verdict which that writer has delivered, and at his acquittal
of this most unfortunate lady. That she had a cold selfish
libertine of a husband no one can doubt; but that the
bad husband had a bad wife is equally clear. She was
married to her cousin for money or convenience, as all
princesses were married. She was most beautiful, lively,
witty, accomplished: his brutality outraged her: his silence
and coldness chilled her: his cruelty insulted her. No
wonder she did not love him. How could love be a part
of the compact in such a marriage as that? With this
unlucky heart to dispose of, the poor creature bestowed it
on Philip of Königsmarck, than whom a greater scamp
does not walk the history of the seventeenth century.
A hundred and eighty years after the fellow was thrust
into his unknown grave, a Swedish professor lights upon
a box of letters in the University Library at Upsala, written
by Philip and Dorothea to each other, and telling their
miserable story.




The bewitching Königsmarck had conquered two female
hearts in Hanover. Besides the Electoral prince's lovely
young wife Sophia Dorothea, Philip had inspired a passion
in a hideous old Court lady, the Countess of Platen. The
princess seems to have pursued him with the fidelity of
many years. Heaps of letters followed him on his campaigns,
and were answered by the daring adventurer. The
princess wanted to fly with him; to quit her odious husband
at any rate. She besought her parents to receive her
back; had a notion of taking refuge in France and going
over to the Catholic religion; had absolutely packed her
jewels for flight, and very likely arranged its details with
her lover, in that last long night's interview, after which
Philip of Königsmarck was seen no more.




Königsmarck, inflamed with drink—there is scarcely any
vice of which, according to his own showing, this gentleman
[pg 714]
was not a practitioner—had boasted at a supper at
Dresden of his intimacy with the two Hanoverian ladies,
not only with the princess, but with another lady powerful
in Hanover. The Countess Platen, the old favourite of the
Elector, hated the young Electoral princess. The young
lady had a lively wit, and constantly made fun of the old
one. The princess's jokes were conveyed to the old Platen
just as our idle words are carried about at this present day:
and so they both hated each other.




The characters in the tragedy, of which the curtain was
now about to fall, are about as dark a set as eye ever rested
on. There is the jolly prince, shrewd, selfish, scheming,
loving his cups and his ease (I think his good humour makes
the tragedy but darker); his princess, who speaks little
but observes all; his old, painted Jezebel of a mistress;
his son, the Electoral prince, shrewd too, quiet, selfish, not
ill-humoured, and generally silent, except when goaded
into fury by the intolerable tongue of his lovely wife; there
is poor Sophia Dorothea, with her coquetry and her wrongs,
and her passionate attachment to her scamp of a lover, and
her wild imprudences, and her mad artifices, and her insane
fidelity, and her furious jealousy regarding her husband
(though she loathed and cheated him), and her prodigious
falsehoods; and the confidante, of course, into whose hands
the letters are slipped; and there is Lothario, finally, than
whom, as I have said, one can't imagine a more handsome,
wicked, worthless reprobate.





Illustration
A Deed Of Darkness



How that perverse fidelity of passion pursues the villain!
How madly true the woman is, and how astoundingly she
lies! She has bewitched two or three persons who have
taken her up, and they won't believe in her wrong. Like
Mary of Scotland, she finds adherents ready to conspire for
her even in history, and people who have to deal with her
are charmed, and fascinated, and bedevilled. How devotedly
Miss Strickland has stood by Mary's innocence!
Are there not scores of ladies in this audience who persist
in it too? Innocent! I remember as a boy how a great
party persisted in declaring Caroline of Brunswick was
a martyred angel. So was Helen of Greece innocent. She
never ran away with Paris, the dangerous young Trojan.
Menelaus, her husband, ill-used her, and there never was
any siege of Troy at all. So was Bluebeard's wife innocent.
She never peeped into the closet where the other wives were
[pg 717]
with their heads off. She never dropped the key, or stained
it with blood; and her brothers were quite right in finishing
Bluebeard, the cowardly brute! Yes, Caroline of Brunswick
was innocent: and Madame Laffarge never poisoned
her husband; and Mary of Scotland never blew up hers;
and poor Sophia Dorothea was never unfaithful; and Eve
never took the apple—it was a cowardly fabrication of the
serpent's.




George Louis has been held up to execration as a murderous
Bluebeard, whereas the Electoral prince had no
share in the transaction in which Philip of Königsmarck
was scuffled out of this mortal scene. The prince was
absent when the catastrophe came. The princess had had
a hundred warnings; mild hints from her husband's
parents; grim remonstrances from himself—but took no
more heed of this advice than such besotted poor wretches
do. On the night of Sunday, the 1st of July, 1694, Königsmarck
paid a long visit to the princess, and left her to get
ready for flight. Her husband was away at Berlin; her
carriages and horses were prepared and ready for the
elopement. Meanwhile, the spies of Countess Platen had
brought the news to their mistress. She went to Ernest
Augustus, and procured from the Elector an order for the
arrest of the Swede. On the way by which he was to come,
four guards were commissioned to take him. He strove to
cut his way through the four men, and wounded more than
one of them. They fell upon him; cut him down; and,
as he was lying wounded on the ground, the countess, his
enemy, whom he had betrayed and insulted, came out and
beheld him prostrate. He cursed her with his dying lips,
and the furious woman stamped upon his mouth with her
heel. He was dispatched presently; his body burnt the
next day; and all traces of the man disappeared. The
guards who killed him were enjoined silence under severe
penalties. The princess was reported to be ill in her apartments,
from which she was taken in October of the same
year, being then eight-and-twenty years old, and consigned
to the castle of Ahlden, where she remained a prisoner for
no less than thirty-two years. A separation had been
pronounced previously between her and her husband. She
was called henceforth the “Princess of Ahlden”, and her
silent husband no more uttered her name.




Four years after the Königsmarck catastrophe, Ernest
[pg 718]
Augustus, the first Elector of Hanover, died, and George
Louis, his son, reigned in his stead. Sixteen years he
reigned in Hanover, after which he became, as we know,
King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, Defender of
the Faith. The wicked old Countess Platen died in the
year 1706. She had lost her sight, but nevertheless the
legend says that she constantly saw Königsmarck's ghost
by her wicked old bed. And so there was an end of her.




In the year 1700, the little Duke of Gloucester, the last
of poor Queen Anne's children, died, and the folks of
Hanover straightway became of prodigious importance in
England. The Electress Sophia was declared the next in
succession to the English throne. George Louis was created
Duke of Cambridge; grand deputations were sent over
from our country to Deutschland; but Queen Anne, whose
weak heart hankered after her relatives at St. Germains,
never could be got to allow her cousin, the Elector Duke of
Cambridge, to come and pay his respects to her Majesty,
and take his seat in her House of Peers. Had the queen
lasted a month longer; had the English Tories been as bold
and resolute as they were clever and crafty; had the prince
whom the nation loved and pitied been equal to his fortune,
George Louis had never talked German in St. James's
Chapel Royal.




When the crown did come to George Louis he was in no
hurry about putting it on. He waited at home for awhile;
took an affecting farewell of his dear Hanover and Herrenhausen;
and set out in the most leisurely manner to ascend
“the throne of his ancestors”, as he called it in his first
speech to Parliament. He brought with him a compact body
of Germans, whose society he loved, and whom he kept
round the royal person. He had his faithful German
chamberlains; his German secretaries; his negroes, captives
of his bow and spear in Turkish wars; his two ugly,
elderly German favourites, Mesdames of Kielmansegge and
Schulenberg, whom he created respectively Countess of
Darlington and Duchess of Kendal. The duchess was tall,
and lean of stature, and hence was irreverently nicknamed
the Maypole. The countess was a large-sized noblewoman,
and this elevated personage was denominated the Elephant.
Both of these ladies loved Hanover and its delights; clung
round the linden-trees of the great Herrenhausen avenue,
and at first would not quit the place. Schulenberg, in fact,
[pg 719]
could not come on account of her debts; but finding the
Maypole would not come, the Elephant packed up her
trunk and slipped out of Hanover unwieldy as she was.
On this the Maypole straightway put herself in motion, and
followed her beloved George Louis. One seems to be
speaking of Captain Macheath, and Polly, and Lucy. The
king we had selected; the courtiers who came in his train;
the English nobles who came to welcome him, and on many
of whom the shrewd old cynic turned his back—I protest
it is a wonderful satirical picture. I am a citizen waiting
at Greenwich pier, say, and crying hurrah for King George;
and yet I can scarcely keep my countenance, and help
laughing at the enormous absurdity of this advent!




Here we are, all on our knees. Here is the Archbishop
of Canterbury prostrating himself to the head of his Church,
with Kielmansegge and Schulenberg with their raddled
cheeks grinning behind the Defender of the Faith. Here is
my Lord Duke of Marlborough kneeling too, the greatest
warrior of all times; he who betrayed King William—betrayed
King James II—betrayed Queen Anne—betrayed
England to the French, the Elector to the Pretender, the
Pretender to the Elector; and here are my Lords Oxford
and Bolingbroke, the latter of whom has just tripped up
the heels of the former; and if a month's more time had
been allowed him, would have had King James at Westminster.
The great Whig gentlemen made their bows and
congees with proper decorum and ceremony; but yonder
keen old schemer knows the value of their loyalty.
“Loyalty,” he must think, “as applied to me—it is absurd!
There are fifty nearer heirs to the throne than I am. I am
but an accident, and you fine Whig gentlemen take me for
your own sake, not for mine. You Tories hate me; you
archbishop, smirking on your knees, and prating about
Heaven, you know I don't care a fig for your Thirty-nine
Articles, and can't understand a word of your stupid
sermons. You, my Lords Bolingbroke and Oxford—you
know you were conspiring against me a month ago; and
you, my Lord Duke of Marlborough—you would sell me or
any man else, if you found your advantage in it. Come,
my good Melusina, come, my honest Sophia, let us go into
my private room, and have some oysters and some Rhine
wine, and some pipes afterwards: let us make the best
of our situation; let us take what we can get, and leave
[pg 720]
these bawling, brawling, lying English to shout, and fight,
and cheat, in their own way!”




If Swift had not been committed to the statesmen of the
losing side, what a fine satirical picture we might have had
of that general sauve qui peut
amongst the Tory party!
How mum the Tories became; how the House of Lords
and House of Commons chopped round; and how decorously
the majorities welcomed King George!




Bolingbroke, making his last speech in the House of
Lords, pointed out the shame of peerage, where several
lords concurred to condemn in one general vote all that
they had approved in former Parliaments by many particular
resolutions. And so their conduct was shameful. St. John
had the best of the argument, but the worst of the vote.
Bad times were come for him. He talked philosophy, and
professed innocence. He courted retirement, and was
ready to meet persecution; but, hearing that honest
Mat Prior, who had been recalled from Paris, was about to
peach regarding the past transactions, the philosopher
bolted, and took that magnificent head of his out of the
ugly reach of the axe. Oxford, the lazy and good-humoured,
had more courage, and awaited the storm at home. He
and Mat Prior both had lodgings in the Tower, and both
brought their heads safe out of that dangerous menagerie.
When Atterbury was carried off to the same den a few years
afterwards, and it was asked, what next should be done
with him? “Done with him? Fling him to the lions,”
Cadogan said, Marlborough's lieutenant. But the British
lion of those days did not care much for drinking the blood
of peaceful peers and poets, or crunching the bones of
bishops. Only four men were executed in London for the
rebellion of 1715; and twenty-two in Lancashire. Above
a thousand taken in arms, submitted to the king's mercy,
and petitioned to be transported to his Majesty's colonies
in America. I have heard that their descendants took the
loyalist side in the disputes which arose sixty years after.
It is pleasant to find that a friend of ours, worthy Dick
Steele, was for letting off the rebels with their lives.




As one thinks of what might have been, how amusing
the speculation is! We know how the doomed Scottish
gentlemen came out at Lord Mar's summons, mounted the
white cockade, that has been a flower of sad poetry ever
since, and rallied round the ill-omened Stuart standard at
[pg 721]
Braemar. Mar, with 8,000 men, and but 1,500 opposed to
him, might have driven the enemy over the Tweed, and
taken possession of the whole of Scotland; but that the
Pretender's duke did not venture to move when the day was
his own. Edinburgh Castle might have been in King
James's hands; but that the men who were to escalade it
stayed to drink his health at the tavern, and arrived two
hours too late at the rendezvous under the castle wall.
There was sympathy enough in the town—the projected
attack seems to have been known there—Lord Mahon
quotes Sinclair's account of a gentleman not concerned,
who told Sinclair, that he was in a house that evening
where eighteen of them were drinking, as the facetious
landlady said, “powdering their hair,” for the attack of the
castle. Suppose they had not stopped to powder their
hair? Edinburgh Castle, and town, and all Scotland were
King James's. The north of England rises, and marches
over Barnet Heath upon London. Wyndham is up in
Somersetshire; Packington in Worcestershire; and Vivian
in Cornwall. The Elector of Hanover, and his hideous
mistresses, pack up the plate, and perhaps the crown jewels
in London, and are off via Harwich and Helvoetsluys, for
dear old Deutschland. The king—God save him!—lands
at Dover, with tumultuous applause; shouting multitudes,
roaring cannon, the Duke of Marlborough weeping tears of
joy, and all the bishops kneeling in the mud. In a few
years, mass is said in St. Paul's; matins and vespers are
sung in York Minster; and Dr. Swift is turned out of his
stall and deanery house at St. Patrick's, to give place to
Father Dominic, from Salamanca. All these changes were
possible then, and once thirty years afterwards—all this we
might have had, but for the pulveris
exigui jactu, that little
toss of powder for the hair which the Scotch conspirators
stopped to take at the tavern.




You understand the distinction I would draw between
history—of which I do not aspire to be an expounder—and
manners and life such as these sketches would describe.
The rebellion breaks out in the north; its story is before
you in a hundred volumes, in none more fairly than in
the excellent narrative of Lord Mahon, The clans are up
in Scotland; Derwentwater, Nithsdale and Forster are in
arms in Northumberland—these are matters of history, for
which you are referred to the due chroniclers. The Guards
[pg 722]
are set to watch the streets, and prevent the people wearing
white roses. I read presently of a couple of soldiers almost
flogged to death for wearing oak boughs in their hats on
the 29th of May—another badge of the beloved Stuarts.
It is with these we have to do, rather than the marches
and battles of the armies to which the poor fellows belonged—with
statesmen, and how they looked, and how they
lived, rather than with measures of state, which belong
to history alone. For example, at the close of the old
queen's reign, it is known the Duke of Marlborough left
the kingdom—after what menaces, after what prayers, lies,
bribes offered, taken, refused, accepted; after what dark
doubling and tacking, let history, if she can or dare, say.
The queen dead; who so eager to return as my lord
duke? Who shouts God save the king! so lustily as the
great conqueror of Blenheim and Malplaquet? (By the
way, he will send over some more money for the Pretender
yet, on the sly.) Who lays his hand on his blue ribbon,
and lifts his eyes more gracefully to heaven than this hero?
He makes a quasi-triumphal entrance into London, by
Temple Bar, in his enormous gilt coach—and the enormous
gilt coach breaks down somewhere by Chancery Lane, and
his highness is obliged to get another. There it is we have
him. We are with the mob in the crowd, not with the great
folks in the procession. We are not the Historic Muse,
but her ladyship's attendant, tale-bearer—valet de chambre—for
whom no man is a hero; and, as yonder one steps
from his carriage to the next handy conveyance, we take
the number of the hack; we look all over at his stars,
ribbons, embroidery; we think within ourselves, O you
unfathomable schemer! O you warrior invincible! O you
beautiful smiling Judas! What master would you not kiss
or betray? What traitor's head, blackening on the spikes
on yonder gate, ever hatched a tithe of the treason which
has worked under your periwig?




We have brought our Georges to London city, and if we
would behold its aspect, may see it in Hogarth's lively
perspective of Cheapside, or read of it in a hundred contemporary
books which paint the manners of that age.
Our dear old Spectator looks smiling upon the streets, with
their innumerable signs, and describes them with his
charming humour. “Our streets are filled with ‘Blue Boars’,
‘Black Swans’, and ‘Red Lions’, not to mention ‘Flying
[pg 723]
Pigs’ and ‘Hogs in Armour’, with other creatures more
extraordinary than any in the deserts of Africa.” A few of
these quaint old figures still remain in London town. You
may still see there, and over its old hostel in Ludgate Hill,
the “Belle Sauvage” to whom the Spectator so pleasantly
alludes in that paper; and who was, probably, no other
than the sweet American Pocahontas, who rescued from
death the daring Captain Smith. There is the “Lion's Head'”
down whose jaws the Spectator's own letters were passed;
and over a great banker's in Fleet Street, the effigy of the
wallet, which the founder of the firm bore when he came
into London a country boy. People this street, so ornamented
with crowds of swinging chairmen, with servants
bawling to clear the way, with Mr. Dean in his cassock,
his lackey marching before him; or Mrs. Dinah in her
sack, tripping to chapel, her footboy carrying her ladyship's
great Prayer-book; with itinerant tradesmen, singing
their hundred cries (I remember forty years ago, as a boy
in London city, a score of cheery, familiar cries that are
silent now). Fancy the beaux thronging to the chocolate-houses,
tapping their snuff-boxes as they issue thence, their
periwigs appearing over the red curtains. Fancy Saccharissa
beckoning and smiling from the upper windows, and
a crowd of soldiers brawling and bustling at the door—gentlemen
of the Life Guards, clad in scarlet, with blue
facings, and laced with gold at the seams; gentlemen of
the Horse Grenadiers, in their caps of sky-blue cloth, with
the garter embroidered on the front in gold and silver;
men of the Halberdiers, in their long red coats, as bluff Harry
left them, with their ruffs and velvet flat caps. Perhaps
the king's Majesty himself is going to St. James's as we
pass. If he is going to Parliament, he is in his coach-and-eight,
surrounded by his guards and the high officers of his
crown. Otherwise his Majesty only uses a chair, with six
footmen walking before, and six yeomen of the guard at
the sides of the sedan. The officers in waiting follow the
king in coaches. It must be rather slow work.




Our Spectator and Tatler are full of
delightful glimpses of the town life of those days. In the company of that
charming guide, we may go to the opera, the comedy, the
puppet show, the auction, even the cockpit: we can take
boat at Temple Stairs, and accompany Sir Roger de Coverley
and Mr. Spectator to Spring Garden—it will be called
[pg 724]
Vauxhall a few years since, when Hogarth will paint for
it. Would you not like to step back into the past, and
be introduced to Mr. Addison?—not the Right Honourable
Joseph Addison, Esq., George I's Secretary of State, but
to the delightful painter of contemporary manners; the
man who, when in good humour himself, was the pleasantest
companion in all England. I should like to go into Lockit's
with him, and drink a bowl along with Sir R. Steele (who
has just been knighted by King George, and who does not
happen to have any money to pay his share of the reckoning).
I should not care to follow Mr. Addison to his secretary's
office in Whitehall. There we get into politics. Our business
is pleasure, and the town, and the coffee-house, and
the theatre, and the Mall. Delightful Spectator! kind
friend of leisure hours! happy companion! true Christian
gentleman! How much greater, better, you are than the
king Mr. Secretary kneels to!




You can have foreign testimony about old-world London,
if you like; and my before-quoted friend, Charles Louis,
Baron de Pöllnitz, will conduct us to it. “A man of
sense,” says he, “or a fine gentleman, is never at a loss
for company in London, and this is the way the latter
passes his time. He rises late, puts on a frock, and, leaving
his sword at home, takes his cane, and goes where he
pleases. The Park is commonly the place where he walks,
because 'tis the Exchange for men of quality. 'Tis the
same thing as the Tuileries at Paris, only the Park has
a certain beauty of simplicity which cannot be described.
The grand walk is called the Mall; is full of people at
every hour of the day, but especially at morning and
evening, when their Majesties often walk with the royal
family, who are attended only by a half-dozen yeomen of
the guard, and permit all persons to walk at the same
time with them. The ladies and gentlemen always appear
in rich dresses, for the English, who, twenty years ago,
did not wear gold lace but in their army, are now embroidered
and bedaubed as much as the French. I speak
of persons of quality; for the citizen still contents himself
with a suit of fine cloth, a good hat and wig, and fine linen.
Everybody is well clothed here, and even the beggars don't
make so ragged an appearance as they do elsewhere.” After
our friend, the man of quality, has had his morning or
undress walk in the Mall, he goes home to dress, and then
[pg 725]
saunters to some coffee-house or chocolate-house frequented
by the persons he would see. “For 'tis a rule with the
English to go once a day at least to houses of this sort,
where they talk of business and news, read the papers,
and often look at one another without opening their lips.
And 'tis very well they are so mute: for were they all as
talkative as people of other nations, the coffee-houses would
be intolerable, and there would be no hearing what one
man said where they are so many. The chocolate-house
in St. James's Street, where I go every morning to pass
away the time, is always so full that a man can scarce
turn about in it.”




Delightful as London city was, King George I liked to
be out of it as much as ever he could; and when there,
passed all his time with his Germans. It was with them
as with Blücher 100 years afterwards, when the bold old
Reiter looked down from St. Paul's, and sighed out,
“Was für Plunder!”
The German women plundered; the German
secretaries plundered; the German cooks and intendants
plundered; even Mustapha and Mahomet, the German
negroes, had a share of the booty. Take what you can
get, was the old monarch's maxim. He was not a lofty
monarch, certainly: he was not a patron of the fine arts:
but he was not a hypocrite, he was not revengeful, he was
not extravagant. Though a despot in Hanover, he was
a moderate ruler in England. His aim was to leave it to
itself as much as possible, and to live out of it as much
as he could. His heart was in Hanover. When taken ill
on his last journey, as he was passing through Holland,
he thrust his livid head out of the coach-window, and
gasped out, “Osnaburg, Osnaburg!” He was more than
fifty years of age when he came amongst us: we took
him because we wanted him, because he served our turn;
we laughed at his uncouth German ways, and sneered at
him. He took our loyalty for what it was worth; laid
hands on what money he could; kept us assuredly from
Popery and wooden shoes. I, for one, would have been
on his side in those days. Cynical, and selfish, as he was,
he was better than a king out of St. Germains with the
French king's orders in his pocket, and a swarm of Jesuits
in his train.




The Fates are supposed to interest themselves about
royal personages; and so this one had omens and prophecies
[pg 726]
specially regarding him. He was said to be much disturbed
at a prophecy that he should die very soon after his wife;
and sure enough, pallid Death, having seized upon the
luckless princess in her castle of Ahlden, presently pounced
upon H.M. King George I, in his travelling chariot, on the
Hanover road. What postilion can outride that pale horseman?
It is said, George promised one of his left-handed
widows to come to her after death, if leave were granted
to him to revisit the glimpses of the moon; and soon
after his demise, a great raven actually flying or hopping
in at the Duchess of Kendal's window at Twickenham, she
chose to imagine the king's spirit inhabited these plumes,
and took special care of her sable visitor. Affecting metempsychosis—funereal
royal bird! How pathetic is the idea
of the duchess weeping over it! When this chaste addition
to our English aristocracy died, all her jewels, her plate,
her plunder went over to her relations in Hanover. I
wonder whether her heirs took the bird, and whether it
is still flapping its wings over Herrenhausen?




The days are over in England of that strange religion
of king-worship, when priests flattered princes in the Temple
of God; when servility was held to be ennobling duty;
when beauty and youth tried eagerly for royal favour;
and woman's shame was held to be no dishonour. Mended
morals and mended manners in Courts and people, are
among the priceless consequences of the freedom which
George I came to rescue and secure. He kept his compact
with his English subjects; and if he escaped no more than
other men and monarchs from the vices of his age, at least
we may thank him for preserving and transmitting the
liberties of ours. In our free air, royal and humble homes
have alike been purified; and Truth, the birthright of high
and low among us, which quite fearlessly judges our greatest
personages, can only speak of them now in words of respect
and regard. There are stains in the portrait of the first
George, and traits in it which none of us need admire;
but, among the nobler features are justice, courage, moderation—and
these we may recognize ere we turn the picture
to the wall.




[pg 727]





 George The Second



On the afternoon of the
14th of June, 1727, two
horsemen might have
been perceived galloping
along the road
from Chelsea to Richmond.
The foremost,
cased in the jackboots
of the period, was
a broad-faced, jolly-looking,
and very corpulent
cavalier; but,
by the manner in which
he urged his horse,
you might see that
he was a bold as well as a skilful rider. Indeed, no
man loved sport better; and in the hunting-fields of Norfolk,
no squire rode more boldly after the fox, or cheered
Ringwood and Sweettips more lustily, than he who now
thundered over the Richmond road.




He speedily reached Richmond Lodge, and asked to see
the owner of the mansion. The mistress of the house and
her ladies, to whom our friend was admitted, said he could
not be introduced to the master, however pressing the
business might be. The master was asleep after his dinner;
he always slept after his dinner: and woe be to the person
who interrupted him! Nevertheless, our stout friend of
the jackboots put the affrighted ladies aside, opened the
forbidden door of the bedroom, wherein upon the bed lay
a little gentleman; and here the eager messenger knelt
down in his jackboots.




He on the bed started up, and with many oaths and
a strong German accent asked who was there, and who
dared to disturb him?




“I am Sir Robert Walpole,” said the messenger. The
[pg 728]
awakened sleeper hated Sir Robert Walpole. “I have the
honour to announce to your Majesty that your royal father,
King George I, died at Osnaburg, on Saturday last, the
10th inst.”




“Dat is one big lie!” roared out his sacred Majesty King
George II: but Sir Robert Walpole stated the fact, and
from that day until three-and-thirty years after, George,
the second of the name, ruled over England.




How the king made away with his father's will under
the astonished nose of the Archbishop of Canterbury; how
he was a choleric little sovereign; how he shook his fist
in the face of his father's courtiers; how he kicked his
coat and wig about in his rages, and called everybody thief,
liar, rascal, with whom he differed: you will read in all
the history books; and how he speedily and shrewdly
reconciled himself with the bold minister, whom he had
hated during his father's life, and by whom he was served
during fifteen years of his own with admirable prudence,
fidelity, and success. But for Sir Robert Walpole, we
should have had the Pretender back again. But for his
obstinate love of peace, we should have had wars, which
the nation was not strong enough nor united enough to
endure. But for his resolute counsels and good-humoured
resistance we might have had German despots attempting
a Hanoverian regimen over us: we should have had revolt,
commotion, want, and tyrannous misrule, in place of a
quarter of a century of peace, freedom, and material prosperity,
such as the country never enjoyed, until that
corrupter of Parliaments, that dissolute tipsy cynic, that
courageous lover of peace and liberty, that great citizen,
patriot, and statesman governed it. In religion he was
little better than a heathen; cracked ribald jokes at bigwigs
and bishops, and laughed at High Church and Low.
In private life the old pagan revelled in the lowest pleasures:
he passed his Sundays tippling at Richmond; and his
holidays bawling after dogs, or boozing at Houghton with
boors over beef and punch. He cared for letters no more
than his master did: he judged human nature so meanly
that one is ashamed to have to own that he was right,
and that men could be corrupted by means so base. But,
with his hireling House of Commons, he defended liberty
for us; with his incredulity he kept Church-craft down. There
were parsons at Oxford as double-dealing and dangerous
[pg 731]
as any priests out of Rome, and he routed them both.
He gave Englishmen no conquests, but he gave them peace,
and ease, and freedom; the three per cents nearly at par;
and wheat at five-and six-and-twenty shillings a quarter.





Illustration
Ave Caesar



It was lucky for us that our first Georges were not more
high-minded men; especially fortunate that they loved
Hanover so much as to leave England to have her own
way. Our chief troubles began when we got a king who
gloried in the name of Briton, and, being born in the
country, proposed to rule it. He was no more fit to govern
England than his grandfather and great-grandfather, who
did not try. It was righting itself during their occupation.
The dangerous, noble old spirit of cavalier loyalty was
dying out; the stately old English High Church was
emptying itself: the questions dropping, which, on one
side and the other;—the side of loyalty, prerogative,
church, and king;—the side of right, truth, civil and religious
freedom,—had set generations of brave men in
arms. By the time when George III came to the throne,
the combat between loyalty and liberty was come to an
end; and Charles Edward, old, tipsy, and childless, was
dying in Italy.




Those who are curious about European Court history of
the last age know the memoirs of the Margravine of Bayreuth,
and what a Court was that of Berlin, where George II's
cousins ruled sovereign. Frederick the Great's father
knocked down his sons, daughters, officers of state; he
kidnapped big men all Europe over to make grenadiers of;
his feasts, his parades, his wine parties, his tobacco parties,
are all described. Jonathan Wild the Great in language,
pleasures, and behaviour, is scarcely more delicate than
this German sovereign. Louis XV, his life, and reign, and
doings, are told in a thousand French memoirs. Our
George II, at least, was not a worse king than his neighbours.
He claimed and took the royal exemption from
doing right which sovereigns assumed. A dull little man
of low tastes he appears to us in England; yet Hervey
tells us that this choleric prince was a great sentimentalist,
and that his letters—of which he wrote prodigious quantities—were
quite dangerous in their powers of fascination. He
kept his sentimentalities for his Germans and his queen.
With us English, he never chose to be familiar. He has
been accused of avarice, yet he did not give much money,
[pg 732]
and did not leave much behind him. He did not love the
fine arts, but he did not pretend to love them. He was
no more a hypocrite about religion than his father. He
judged men by a low standard; yet, with such men as
were near him, was he wrong in judging as he did? He
readily detected lying and flattery, and liars and flatterers
were perforce his companions. Had he been more of
a dupe he might have been more amiable. A dismal
experience made him cynical. No boon was it to him to
be clear-sighted, and see only selfishness and flattery round
about him. What could Walpole tell him about his Lords
and Commons, but that they were all venal? Did not
his clergy, his courtiers, bring him the same story? Dealing
with men and women in his rude, sceptical way, he
comes to doubt about honour, male and female, about
patriotism, about religion. “He is wild, but he fights like
a man,” George I, the taciturn, said of his son and successor.
Courage George II certainly had. The Electoral Prince,
at the head of his father's contingent, had approved himself
a good and brave soldier under Eugene and Marlborough.
At Oudenarde he specially distinguished himself. At
Malplaquet the other claimant to the English throne won
but little honour. There was always a question about
James's courage. Neither then in Flanders, nor afterwards
in his own ancient kingdom of Scotland, did the luckless
Pretender show much resolution. But dapper little George
had a famous tough spirit of his own, and fought like
a Trojan. He called out his brother of Prussia, with
sword and pistol; and I wish, for the interest of romancers
in general, that that famous duel could have taken place.
The two sovereigns hated each other with all their might;
their seconds were appointed; the place of meeting was
settled; and the duel was only prevented by strong representations
made to the two, of the European laughter which
would have been caused by such a transaction.




Whenever we hear of dapper George at war, it is certain
that he demeaned himself like a little man of valour. At
Dettingen his horse ran away with him, and with difficulty
was stopped from carrying him into the enemy's lines.
The king, dismounting from the fiery quadruped, said
bravely: “Now I know I shall not run away;” and
placed himself at the head of the foot, drew his sword,
brandishing it at the whole of the French army, and calling
[pg 733]
out to his own men to come on, in bad English, but with
the most famous pluck and spirit. In '45, when the
Pretender was at Derby, and many people began to look
pale, the king never lost his courage—not he. “Pooh!
don't talk to me that stuff!” he said, like a gallant little
prince as he was, and never for one moment allowed his
equanimity, or his business, or his pleasures, or his travels,
to be disturbed. On public festivals he always appeared
in the hat and coat he wore on the famous day of Oudenarde;
and the people laughed, but kindly, at the odd old garment,
for bravery never goes out of fashion.




In private life the prince showed himself a worthy
descendant of his father. In this respect, so much has
been said about the first George's manners, that we need
not enter into a description of the son's German harem.
In 1705 he married a princess remarkable for beauty, for
cleverness, for learning, for good temper—one of the truest
and fondest wives ever prince was blessed with, and who
loved him and was faithful to him, and he, in his coarse
fashion, loved her to the last. It must be told to the
honour of Caroline of Anspach, that, at the time when
German princes thought no more of changing their religion
than you of altering your cap, she refused to give up Protestantism
for the other creed, although an Archduke,
afterwards to be an Emperor, was offered to her for a bridegroom.
Her Protestant relations in Berlin were angry at
her rebellious spirit; it was they who tried to convert her
(it is droll to think that Frederick the Great, who had no
religion at all, was known for a long time in England as
the Protestant hero), and these good Protestants set upon
Caroline a certain Father Urban, a very skilful Jesuit, and
famous winner of souls. But she routed the Jesuit; and
she refused Charles VI; and she married the little Electoral
Prince of Hanover, whom she tended with love, and with
every manner of sacrifice, with artful kindness, with tender
flattery, with entire self-devotion, thenceforward until her
life's end.




When George I made his first visit to Hanover, his son
was appointed regent during the royal absence. But this
honour was never again conferred on the Prince of Wales;
he and his father fell out presently. On the occasion of
the christening of his second son, a royal row took place,
and the prince, shaking his fist in the Duke of Newcastle's
[pg 734]
face, called him a rogue, and provoked his august father.
He and his wife were turned out of St. James's, and their
princely children taken from them, by order of the royal
head of the family. Father and mother wept piteously at
parting from their little ones. The young ones sent some
cherries, with their love, to papa and mamma; the parents
watered the fruit with tears. They had no tears thirty-five
years afterwards, when Prince Frederick died—their
eldest son, their heir, their enemy.




The king called his daughter-in-law “cette diablesse
madame la princesse”. The frequenters of the latter's Court
were forbidden to appear at the king's: their royal highnesses
going to Bath, we read how the courtiers followed
them thither, and paid that homage in Somersetshire which
was forbidden in London. That phrase of “cette
diablesse madame la princesse” explains one cause of the wrath of
her royal papa. She was a very clever woman: she had
a keen sense of humour: she had a dreadful tongue: she
turned into ridicule the antiquated sultan and his hideous
harem. She wrote savage letters about him home to
members of her family. So, driven out from the royal
presence, the prince and princess set up for themselves in
Leicester Fields, “where,” says Walpole, “the most promising
of the young gentlemen of the next party, and the
prettiest and liveliest of the young ladies, formed the new
Court.” Besides Leicester House, they had their lodge at
Richmond, frequented by some of the pleasantest company
of those days. There were the Herveys, and Chesterfield,
and little Mr. Pope from Twickenham, and with him,
sometimes, the savage Dean of St. Patrick's, and quite
a bevy of young ladies, whose pretty faces smile on us
out of history. There was Lepell, famous in ballad song;
and the saucy, charming Mary Bellenden, who would have
none of the Prince of Wales's fine compliments, who folded
her arms across her breast, and bade H.R.H. keep off;
and knocked his purse of guineas into his face, and told
him she was tired of seeing him count them. He was
not an august monarch, this Augustus. Walpole tells
how, one night at the royal card-table, the playful princesses
pulled a chair away from under Lady Deloraine, who, in
revenge, pulled the king's from under him, so that his
Majesty fell on the carpet. In whatever posture one sees
this royal George, he is ludicrous somehow; even at
[pg 735]
Dettingen, where he fought so bravely, his figure is absurd—calling
out in his broken English, and lunging with his
rapier, like a fencing-master. In contemporary caricatures,
George's son, “the Hero of Culloden,” is also made an
object of considerable fun, as witness the following picture
of him defeated by the French (1757) at Hastenbeck:





Illustration



I refrain to quote from Walpole regarding George—for
those charming volumes are in the hands of all who love
the gossip of the last century. Nothing can be more
cheery than Horace's letters. Fiddles sing all through
them: wax-lights, fine dresses, fine jokes, fine plate, fine
equipages, glitter and sparkle there: never was such a
brilliant, jigging, smirking Vanity Fair as that through
which he leads us. Hervey, the next great authority, is
a darker spirit. About him there is something frightful:
a few years since his heirs opened the lid of the Ickworth
box; it was as if a Pompeii was opened to us—the last
century dug up, with its temples and its games, its chariots,
its public places—lupanaria. Wandering through that city
of the dead, that dreadfully selfish time, through those
godless intrigues and feasts, through those crowds, pushing,
and eager, and struggling—rouged, and lying, and fawning—I
have wanted some one to be friends with. I have said
to friends conversant with that history, Show me some
good person about that Court; find me, among those
[pg 736]
selfish courtiers, those dissolute, gay people, some one
being that I can love and regard. There is that strutting
little sultan, George II; there is that hunchbacked, beetle-browed
Lord Chesterfield; there is John Hervey, with his
deadly smile, and ghastly, painted face—I hate them.
There is Hoadly, cringing from one bishopric to another:
yonder comes little Mr. Pope, from Twickenham, with his
friend, the Irish dean, in his new cassock, bowing too, but
with rage flashing from under his bushy eyebrows, and
scorn and hate quivering in his smile. Can you be fond
of these? Of Pope I might: at least I might love his
genius, his wit, his greatness, his sensibility—with a certain
conviction that at some fancied slight, some sneer which he
imagined, he would turn upon me and stab me. Can you
trust the queen? She is not of our order: their very
position makes kings and queens lonely. One inscrutable
attachment that inscrutable woman has. To that she is
faithful, through all trial, neglect, pain, and time. Save
her husband, she really cares for no created being. She
is good enough to her children, and even fond enough of
them: but she would chop them all up into little pieces
to please him. In her intercourse with all around her,
she was perfectly kind, gracious, and natural; but friends
may die, daughters may depart, she will be as perfectly
kind and gracious to the next set. If the king wants her,
she will smile upon him, be she ever so sad; and walk
with him, be she ever so weary; and laugh at his brutal
jokes, be she in ever so much pain of body or heart. Caroline's
devotion to her husband is a prodigy to read of.
What charm had the little man? What was there in
those wonderful letters of thirty pages long, which he
wrote to her when he was absent, and to his mistresses at
Hanover, when he was in London with his wife? Why
did Caroline, the most lovely and accomplished princess
of Germany, take a little red-faced staring princeling for
a husband, and refuse an emperor? Why, to her last hour,
did she love him so? She killed herself because she
loved him so. She had the gout, and would plunge
her feet in cold water in order to walk with him. With
the film of death over her eyes, writhing in intolerable
pain, she yet had a livid smile and a gentle word for her
master. You have read the wonderful history of that
death-bed? How she bade him marry again, and the
[pg 737]
reply the old king blubbered out, “Non, non: j'aurai
des maitresses.” There never was such a ghastly farce. I watch
the astonishing scene—I stand by that awful bedside,
wondering at the ways in which God has ordained the
lives, loves, rewards, successes, passions, actions, ends of
his creatures—and can't but laugh, in the presence of
death, and with the saddest heart. In that often-quoted
passage from Lord Hervey, in which the queen's death-bed
is described, the grotesque horror of the details surpasses
all satire: the dreadful humour of the scene is more terrible
than Swift's blackest pages, or Fielding's fiercest irony.
The man who wrote the story had something diabolical
about him: the terrible verses which Pope wrote respecting
Hervey, in one of his own moods of almost fiendish malignity,
I fear are true. I am frightened as I look back into the
past, and fancy I behold that ghastly, beautiful face;
as I think of the queen writhing on her death-bed, and crying
out, “Pray!—pray!”—of the royal old sinner by her
side, who kisses her dead lips with frantic grief, and leaves
her to sin more;—of the bevy of courtly clergymen, and
the archbishop, whose prayers she rejects, and who are
obliged for propriety's sake to shuffle off the anxious
inquiries of the public, and vow that her Majesty quitted
this life “in a heavenly frame of mind”. What a life!—to
what ends devoted! What a vanity of vanities! It is
a theme for another pulpit than the lecturer's. For a
pulpit?—I think the part which pulpits play in the deaths
of kings is the most ghastly of all the ceremonial: the
lying eulogies, the blinking of disagreeable truths, the
sickening flatteries, the simulated grief, the falsehood and
sycophancies—all uttered in the name of Heaven in our
State churches: these monstrous threnodies have been
sung from time immemorial over kings and queens, good,
bad, wicked, licentious. The State parson must bring
out his commonplaces; his apparatus of rhetorical black-hangings.
Dead king or live king, the clergyman must
flatter him—announce his piety whilst living, and when
dead, perform the obsequies of “our most religious and
gracious king”.




I read that Lady Yarmouth (my most religious and
gracious king's favourite) sold a bishopric to a clergyman
for 5,000l. (She betted him 5,000l.
that he would not be made a bishop, and he lost, and paid her.) Was he the
[pg 738]
only prelate of his time led up by such hands for consecration?
As I peep into George II's St. James's, I see crowds
of cassocks rustling up the back-stairs of the ladies of the
Court; stealthy clergy slipping purses into their laps;
that godless old king yawning under his canopy in his
Chapel Royal, as the chaplain before him is discoursing.
Discoursing about what?—about righteousness and judgement?
Whilst the chaplain is preaching, the king is
chattering in German almost as loud as the preacher;
so loud that the clergyman—it may be one Dr. Young, he
who wrote Night Thoughts, and discoursed on the splendours
of the stars, the glories of heaven, and utter vanities
of this world—actually burst out crying in his pulpit
because the Defender of the Faith and dispenser of bishoprics
would not listen to him! No wonder that the clergy were
corrupt and indifferent amidst this indifference and corruption.
No wonder that sceptics multiplied and morals
degenerated, so far as they depended on the influence of
such a king. No wonder that Whitfield cried out in the
wilderness, that Wesley quitted the insulted temple to
pray on the hillside. I look with reverence on those men at
that time. Which is the sublimer spectacle—the good
John Wesley, surrounded by his congregation of miners
at the pit's mouth, or the queen's chaplains mumbling
through their morning office in their ante-room, under the
picture of the great Venus, with the door opened into the
adjoining chamber, where the queen is dressing, talking
scandal to Lord Hervey, or uttering sneers at Lady Suffolk,
who is kneeling with the basin at her mistress's side?
I say I am scared as I look round at this society—at this
king, at these courtiers, at these politicians, at these
bishops—at this flaunting vice and levity. Whereabouts
in this Court is the honest man? Where is the pure
person one may like? The air stifles one with its sickly
perfumes. There are some old-world follies and some
absurd ceremonials about our Court of the present day,
which I laugh at, but as an Englishman, contrasting it
with the past, shall I not acknowledge the change of to-day?
As the mistress of St. James's passes me now, I salute the
sovereign, wise, moderate, exemplary of life; the good
mother; the good wife; the accomplished lady; the
enlightened friend of art; the tender sympathizer in her
people's glories and sorrows.


[pg 739]


Of all the Court of George and Caroline, I find no
one but Lady Suffolk with whom it seems pleasant and
kindly to hold converse. Even the misogynist Croker, who
edited her letters, loves her, and has that regard for her
with which her sweet graciousness seems to have inspired
almost all men and some women who came near her.
I have noted many little traits which go to prove the
charms of her character (it is not merely because she is
charming, but because she is characteristic, that I allude
to her). She writes delightfully sober letters. Addressing
Mr. Gay at Tunbridge (he was, you know, a poet, penniless
and in disgrace), she says: “The place you are in, has
strangely filled your head with physicians and cures; but,
take my word for it, many a fine lady has gone there to
drink the waters without being sick; and many a man
has complained of the loss of his heart, who had it in his
own possession. I desire you will keep yours; for I shall
not be very fond of a friend without one, and I have a great
mind you should be in the number of mine.”




When Lord Peterborough was seventy years old, that
indomitable youth addressed some flaming love-, or rather
gallantry-, letters to Mrs. Howard—curious relics they are
of the romantic manner of wooing sometimes in use in
those days. It is not passion; it is not love; it is gallantry:
a mixture of earnest and acting; high-flown compliments,
profound bows, vows, sighs, and ogles, in the manner of
the Clelie romances, and Millamont and Doricourt in the
comedy. There was a vast elaboration of ceremonies and
etiquette, of raptures—a regulated form for kneeling and
wooing which has quite passed out of our downright
manners. Henrietta Howard accepted the noble old earl's
philandering; answered the queer love-letters with due
acknowledgement; made a profound curtsey to Peterborough's
profound bow; and got John Gay to help her
in the composition of her letters in reply to her old knight.
He wrote her charming verses, in which there was truth as
well as grace. “O wonderful creature!” he writes:—







O wonderful creature, a woman of reason!


Never grave out of pride, never gay out of season!


When so easy to guess who this angel should be,


Who would think Mrs. Howard ne'er dreamt it was she?







The great Mr. Pope also celebrated her in lines not less
[pg 740]
pleasant, and painted a portrait of what must certainly
have been a delightful lady:—







I know a thing that's most uncommon—


Envy, be silent and attend!—


I know a reasonable woman,


Handsome, yet witty, and a friend:






Not warp'd by passion, aw'd by rumour,


Not grave through pride, or gay through folly:


An equal mixture of good humour


And exquisite soft melancholy.






Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?


Yes, she has one, I must aver—


When all the world conspires to praise her,


The woman's deaf, and does not hear!







Even the women concurred in praising and loving her.
The Duchess of Queensberry bears testimony to her amiable
qualities, and writes to her: “I tell you so and so, because
you love children, and to have children love you.” The
beautiful, jolly Mary Bellenden, represented by contemporaries
as “the most perfect creature ever known”, writes
very pleasantly to her “dear Howard”, her “dear Swiss”,
from the country, whither Mary had retired after her
marriage, and when she gave up being a maid of honour.
“How do you do, Mrs. Howard?” Mary breaks out.
“How do you do, Mrs. Howard? that is all I have to say.
This afternoon I am taken with a fit of writing; but as to
matter, I have nothing better to entertain you, than news
of my farm. I therefore give you the following list of the
stock of eatables that I am fatting for my private tooth.
It is well known to the whole county of Kent, that I have
four fat calves, two fat hogs, fit for killing, twelve promising
black pigs, two young chickens, three fine geese, with
thirteen eggs under each (several being duck-eggs, else the
others do not come to maturity); all this, with rabbits,
and pigeons, and carp in plenty, beef and mutton at reasonable
rates. Now, Howard, if you have a mind to stick
a knife into anything I have named, say so!”




A jolly set must they have been, those maids of honour.
Pope introduces us to a whole bevy of them, in a pleasant
letter. “I went,” he says, “by water to Hampton Court,
and met the Prince, with all his ladies, on horseback, coming
from hunting. Mrs. Bellenden and Mrs. Lepell took me
into protection, contrary to the laws against harbouring
[pg 741]
Papists, and gave me a dinner, with something I liked
better, an opportunity of conversation with Mrs. Howard.
We all agreed that the life of a maid of honour was of all
things the most miserable, and wished that all women who
envied it had a specimen of it. To eat Westphalia ham of
a morning, ride over hedges and ditches on borrowed hacks,
come home in the heat of the day with a fever, and (what
is worse a hundred times) with a red mark on the forehead
from an uneasy hat—all this may qualify them to make
excellent wives for hunters. As soon as they wipe off the
heat of the day, they must simper an hour and catch cold
in the princess's apartment; from thence to dinner with
what appetite they may; and after that till midnight, work,
walk, or think which way they please. No lone house in
Wales, with a mountain and rookery, is more contemplative
than this Court. Miss Lepell walked with me three or four
hours by moonlight, and we met no creature of any quality
but the king, who gave audience to the vice-chamberlain
all alone under the garden wall.”




I fancy it was a merrier England, that of our ancestors,
than the island which we inhabit. People high and low
amused themselves very much more. I have calculated
the manner in which statesmen and persons of condition
passed their time—and what with drinking, and dining,
and supping, and cards, wonder how they got through their
business at all. They played all sorts of games, which, with
the exception of cricket and tennis, have quite gone out of
our manners now. In the old prints of St. James's Park,
you still see the marks along the walk, to note the balls
when the Court played at Mall. Fancy Birdcage Walk now
so laid out, and Lord John and Lord Palmerston knocking
balls up and down the avenue! Most of those jolly sports
belong to the past, and the good old games of England are
only to be found in old novels, in old ballads, or the columns
of dingy old newspapers, which say how a main of cocks is
to be fought at Winchester between the Winchester men
and the Hampton men; or how the Cornwall men and the
Devon men are going to hold a great wrestling match at
Totnes, and so on.




A hundred and twenty years ago there were not only
country towns in England, but people who inhabited them.
We were very much more gregarious; we were amused by
very simple pleasures. Every town had its fair, every
[pg 742]
village its wake. The old poets have sung a hundred jolly
ditties about great cudgel-playings, famous grinning through
horse-collars, great maypole meetings, and morris-dances.
The girls used to run races clad in very light attire; and
the kind gentry and good parsons thought no shame in
looking on. Dancing bears went about the country with
pipe and tabor. Certain well-known tunes were sung all
over the land for hundreds of years, and high and low
rejoiced in that simple music. Gentlemen who wished to
entertain their female friends constantly sent for a band.
When Beau Fielding, a mighty fine gentleman, was courting
the lady whom he married, he treated her and her companion
at his lodgings to a supper from the tavern, and
after supper they sent out for a fiddler—three of them.
Fancy the three, in a great wainscoted room, in Covent
Garden or Soho, lighted by two or three candles in silver
sconces, some grapes and a bottle of Florence wine on the
table, and the honest fiddler playing old tunes in quaint
old minor keys, as the Beau takes out one lady after the
other, and solemnly dances with her!




The very great folks, young noblemen, with their
governors, and the like, went abroad and made the great
tour; the home satirists jeered at the Frenchified and
Italian ways which they brought back; but the greater
number of people never left the country. The jolly squire
often had never been twenty miles from home. Those who
did go went to the baths, to Harrogate, or Scarborough, or
Bath, or Epsom. Old letters are full of these places of
pleasure. Gay writes to us about the fiddlers at Tunbridge;
of the ladies having merry little private balls amongst
themselves; and the gentlemen entertaining them by turns
with tea and music. One of the young beauties whom he
met did not care for tea: “We have a young lady here,” he
says, “that is very particular in her desires. I have known
some young ladies, who, if ever they prayed, would ask for
some equipage or title, a husband or matadores: but this
lady, who is but seventeen, and has 30,000l. to her fortune,
places all her wishes on a pot of good ale. When her friends,
for the sake of her shape and complexion, would dissuade
her from it, she answers, with the truest sincerity, that by
the loss of shape and complexion she could only lose a husband,
whereas ale is her passion.”




Every country town had its assembly-room—mouldy old
[pg 743]
tenements, which we may still see in deserted inn-yards, in
decayed provincial cities, out of which the great wen of
London has sucked all the life. York, at assize time, and
throughout the winter, harboured a large society of northern
gentry. Shrewsbury was celebrated for its festivities. At
Newmarket, I read of “a vast deal of good company,
besides rogues and blacklegs”; at Norwich, of two assemblies,
with a prodigious crowd in the hall, the rooms, and the
gallery. In Cheshire (it is a maid of honour of Queen Caroline
who writes, and who is longing to be back at Hampton
Court, and the fun there) I peep into a country house, and
see a very merry party: “We meet in the work-room before
nine, eat and break a joke or two till twelve, then we repair
to our own chambers and make ourselves ready, for it cannot
be called dressing. At noon the great bell fetches us into
a parlour, adorned with all sorts of fine arms, poisoned darts,
several pair of old boots and shoes worn by men of might,
with the stirrups of King Charles I, taken from him at
Edgehill,”—and there they have their dinner, after which
comes dancing and supper.




As for Bath, all history went and bathed and drank there.
George II and his queen, Prince Frederick and his Court,
scarce a character one can mention of the early last century,
but was seen in that famous Pump-room where Beau Nash
presided, and his picture hung between the busts of Newton
and Pope:







This picture, placed these busts between,


Gives satire all its strength:


Wisdom and Wit are little seen,


But Folly at full length.







I should like to have seen the Folly. It was a splendid,
embroidered, be-ruffled, snuff-boxed, red-heeled, impertinent
Folly, and knew how to make itself respected. I should
like to have seen that noble old madcap Peterborough in
his boots (he actually had the audacity to walk about Bath
in boots!), with his blue ribbon and stars, and a cabbage
under each arm, and a chicken in his hand, which he had
been cheapening for his dinner. Chesterfield came there
many a time and gambled for hundreds, and grinned
through his gout. Mary Wortley was there, young and
beautiful; and Mary Wortley, old, hideous, and snuffy.
Miss Chudleigh came there, slipping away from one husband,
[pg 744]
and on the look-out for another. Walpole passed many
a day there; sickly, supercilious, absurdly dandified, and
affected; with a brilliant wit, a delightful sensibility; and
for his friends, a most tender, generous, and faithful heart.
And if you and I had been alive then, and strolling down
Milsom Street—hush! we should have taken our hats off,
as an awful, long, lean, gaunt figure, swathed in flannels,
passed by in its chair, and a livid face looked out from the
window—great fierce eyes staring from under a bushy,
powdered wig, a terrible frown, a terrible Roman nose—and
we whisper to one another, “There he is! There's the
great commoner! There is Mr. Pitt!” As we walk away,
the abbey bells are set a-ringing; and we meet our testy
friend Toby Smollett, on the arm of James Quin the actor,
who tells us that the bells ring for Mr. Bullock, an eminent
cowkeeper from Tottenham, who has just arrived to drink
the waters; and Toby shakes his cane at the door of
Colonel Ringworm—the Creole gentleman's lodgings next
his own—where the colonel's two negroes are practising on
the French horn.




When we try to recall social England, we must fancy it
playing at cards for many hours every day. The custom is
wellnigh gone out among us now, but fifty years ago was
general, fifty years before that almost universal, in the
country. “Gaming has become so much the fashion,” writes
Seymour, the author of the Court Gamester, “that he who in
company should be ignorant of the games in vogue, would be
reckoned low-bred, and hardly fit for conversation.” There
were cards everywhere. It was considered ill-bred to read in
company. “Books were not fit articles for drawing-rooms,”
old ladies used to say. People were jealous, as it were, and
angry with them. You will find in Hervey that George II
was always furious at the sight of books; and his queen,
who loved reading, had to practise it in secret in her closet.
But cards were the resource of all the world. Every night,
for hours, kings and queens of England sat down and
handled their majesties of spades and diamonds. In
European Courts, I believe the practice still remains, not
for gambling, but for pastime. Our ancestors generally
adopted it. “Books! prithee, don't talk to me about
books,” said old Sarah Marlborough. “The only books
I know are men and cards.” “Dear old Sir Roger de Coverley
sent all his tenants a string of hogs' puddings and a pack
[pg 745]
of cards at Christmas,” says the Spectator, wishing to depict
a kind landlord. One of the good old lady writers in whose
letters I have been dipping cries out, “Sure, cards have kept
us women from a great deal of scandal!” Wise old Johnson
regretted that he had not learnt to play. “It is very useful
in life,” he says; “it generates kindness, and consolidates
society.” David Hume never went to bed without his whist.
We have Walpole, in one of his letters, in a transport of
gratitude for the cards. “I shall build an order to Pam,”
says he, in his pleasant dandified way, “for the escape of
my charming Duchess of Grafton.” The duchess had been
playing cards at Rome, when she ought to have been at
a cardinal's concert, where the floor fell in, and all the
monsignors were precipitated into the cellar. Even the
Nonconformist clergy looked not unkindly on the practice.
“I do not think,” says one of them, “that honest Martin
Luther committed sin by playing at backgammon for an
hour or two after dinner, in order by unbending his mind to
promote digestion.” As for the High Church parsons, they
all played, bishops and all. On Twelfth Day the Court
used to play in state. “This being Twelfth Day, his Majesty,
the Prince of Wales, and the Knights Companions of the
Garter, Thistle, and Bath, appeared in the collars of their
respective orders. Their Majesties, the Prince of Wales,
and three eldest Princesses, went to the Chapel Royal,
preceded by the heralds. The Duke of Manchester carried
the sword of state. The king and prince made offering at
the altar of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, according to
the annual custom. At night their Majesties played at
hazard with the nobility, for the benefit of the groom-porter;
and 'twas said the king won 600 guineas; the queen, 360;
Princess Amelia, twenty; Princess Caroline, ten; the
Duke of Grafton and the Earl of Portmore, several
thousands.”




Let us glance at the same chronicle, which is of the
year 1731, and see how others of our forefathers were
engaged.




“Cork, 15th January.—This day, one Tim Croneen was,
for the murder and robbery of Mr. St. Leger and his wife,
sentenced to be hanged two minutes, then his head to be
cut off, and his body divided in four quarters, to be placed
in four crossways. He was servant to Mr. St. Leger, and
committed the murder with the privity of the servant-maid,
[pg 746]
who was sentenced to be burned; also of the gardener,
whom he knocked on the head, to deprive him of his share
of the booty.”




“January 3.—A postboy was shot by an Irish gentleman
on the road near Stone, in Staffordshire, who died in two
days, for which the gentleman was imprisoned.”




“A poor man was found hanging in a gentleman's stables
at Bungay, in Norfolk, by a person who cut him down, and
running for assistance, left his penknife behind him. The
poor man recovering, cut his throat with the knife; and
a river being nigh, jumped into it; but company coming,
he was dragged out alive, and was like to remain so.”




“The Honourable Thomas Finch, brother to the Earl of
Nottingham, is appointed ambassador at the Hague, in the
room of the Earl of Chesterfield, who is on his return home.”




“William Cowper, Esq., and the Rev. Mr. John Cowper,
chaplain in ordinary to her Majesty, and rector of Great
Berkhampstead, in the county of Hertford, are appointed
clerks of the commissioners of bankruptcy.”




“Charles Creagh, Esq., and —— Macnamara, Esq., between
whom an old grudge of three years had subsisted, which
had occasioned their being bound over about fifty times
for breaking the peace, meeting in company with Mr. Eyres,
of Galloway, they discharged their pistols, and all three
were killed on the spot—to the great joy of their peaceful
neighbours, say the Irish papers.”




“Wheat is 26s. to 28s., and barley
20s. to 22s. a quarter;
three per cents, 92; best loaf sugar, 9-1/4d.; Bohea,
12s. to 14s.; Pekoe,
18s., and Hyson, 35s. per pound.”




“At Exon was celebrated with great magnificence the
birthday of the son of Sir W. Courtney, Bart., at which
more than 1,000 persons were present. A bullock was
roasted whole; a butt of wine and several tuns of beer
and cider were given to the populace. At the same time
Sir William delivered to his son, then of age, Powdram
Castle, and a great estate.”




“Charlesworth and Cox, two solicitors, convicted of
forgery, stood on the pillory at the Royal Exchange. The
first was severely handled by the populace, but the other
was very much favoured, and protected by six or seven
fellows who got on the pillory to protect him from the
insults of the mob.”




“A boy killed by falling upon iron spikes, from a lamppost,
[pg 747]
which he climbed to see Mother Needham stand in
the pillory.”




“Mary Lynn was burned to ashes at the stake for being
concerned in the murder of her mistress.”




“Alexander Russell, the foot soldier, who was capitally
convicted for a street robbery in January sessions, was
reprieved for transportation; but having an estate fallen
to him, obtained a free pardon.”




“The Lord John Russell married to the Lady Diana
Spencer, at Marlborough House. He has a fortune of
30,000l. down, and is to have
100,000l. at the death of the
Duchess Dowager of Marlborough, his grandmother.”




“March 1 being the anniversary of the queen's birthday,
when her Majesty entered the forty-ninth year of her age,
there was a splendid appearance of nobility at St. James's.
Her Majesty was magnificently dressed, and wore a flowered
muslin head-edging, as did also her Royal Highness. The
Lord Portmore was said to have had the richest dress,
though an Italian Count had twenty-four diamonds instead
of buttons.”




New clothes on the birthday were the fashion for all loyal
people. Swift mentions the custom several times. Walpole
is constantly speaking of it; laughing at the practice, but
having the very finest clothes from Paris, nevertheless.
If the king and queen were unpopular, there were very few
new clothes at the Drawing-room. In a paper in the True
Patriot, No. 3, written to attack the Pretender, the Scotch,
French, and Popery, Fielding supposes the Scotch and the
Pretender in possession of London, and himself about to be
hanged for loyalty,—when, just as the rope is round his
neck, he says: “My little girl entered my bedchamber,
and put an end to my dream by pulling open my eyes, and
telling me that the tailor had just brought home my clothes
for his Majesty's birthday.” In his Temple Beau, the beau
is dunned for a birthday suit of velvet, 40l. Be sure that
Mr. Harry Fielding was dunned too.




The public days, no doubt, were splendid, but the private
Court life must have been awfully wearisome. “I will not
trouble you,” writes Hervey to Lady Sundon, “with any
account of our occupations at Hampton Court. No mill-horse
ever went in a more constant track, or a more unchanging
circle; so that by the assistance of an almanac for the
day of the week, and a watch for the hour of the day, you
[pg 748]
may inform yourself fully, without any other intelligence
but your memory, of every transaction within the verge
of the Court. Walking, chaises, levées, and audiences fill
the morning. At night the king plays at commerce and
backgammon, and the queen at quadrille, where poor Lady
Charlotte runs her usual nightly gauntlet, the queen pulling
her hood, and the Princess Royal rapping her knuckles.
The Duke of Grafton takes his nightly opiate of lottery, and
sleeps as usual between the Princesses Amelia and Caroline.
Lord Grantham strolls from one room to another (as Dryden
says), like some discontented ghost that oft appears, and
is forbid to speak; and stirs himself about as people stir
a fire, not with any design, but in hopes to make it burn
brisker. At last the king gets up; the pool finishes; and
everybody has their dismission. Their Majesties retire to
Lady Charlotte and my Lord Lifford; my Lord Grantham,
to Lady Frances and Mr. Clark: some to supper, some to
bed; and thus the evening and the morning make the day.”




The king's fondness for Hanover occasioned all sorts of
rough jokes among his English subjects, to whom
Sauerkraut
and sausages have ever been ridiculous objects.
When our present Prince Consort came among us, the
people bawled out songs in the streets indicative of the
absurdity of Germany in general. The sausage-shops produced
enormous sausages which we might suppose were the
daily food and delight of German princes. I remember
the caricatures at the marriage of Prince Leopold with the
Princess Charlotte. The bridegroom was drawn in rags.
George III's wife was called by the people a beggarly
German duchess; the British idea being that all princes
were beggarly except British princes. King George paid
us back. He thought there were no manners out of Germany.
Sarah Marlborough once coming to visit the
princess, whilst her Royal Highness was whipping one of
the roaring royal children, “Ah!” says George, who was
standing by, “you have no good manners in England,
because you are not properly brought up when you are
young.” He insisted that no English cooks could roast, no
English coachman could drive: he actually questioned the
superiority of our nobility, our horses, and our roast beef!




Whilst he was away from his beloved Hanover, everything
remained there exactly as in the prince's presence.
There were 800 horses in the stables, there was all the
[pg 749]
apparatus of chamberlains, Court-marshals, and equerries;
and Court assemblies were held every Saturday, where all
the nobility of Hanover assembled at what I can't but
think a fine and touching ceremony. A large armchair
was placed in the assembly-room, and on it the king's
portrait. The nobility advanced, and made a bow to the
armchair, and to the image which Nebuchadnezzar the
king had set up; and spoke under their voices before the
august picture, just as they would have done had the King
Churfürst been present himself.




He was always going back to Hanover. In the year 1729,
he went for two whole years, during which Caroline reigned
for him in England, and he was not in the least missed by
his British subjects. He went again in '35 and '36; and
between the years 1740 and 1755 was no less than eight times
on the Continent, which amusement he was obliged to give
up at the outbreak of the Seven Years' War. Here every
day's amusement was the same. “Our life is as uniform
as that of a monastery,” writes a courtier whom Vehse
quotes. “Every morning at eleven, and every evening at
six, we drive in the heat to Herrenhausen, through an
enormous linden avenue; and twice a day cover our coats
and coaches with dust. In the king's society there never
is the least change. At table, and at cards, he sees always
the same faces, and at the end of the game retires into his
chamber. Twice a week there is a French theatre; the
other days there is play in the gallery. In this way, were
the king always to stop in Hanover, one could make a ten
years' calendar of his proceedings; and settle beforehand
what his time of business, meals, and pleasure would be.”




The old pagan kept his promise to his dying wife. Lady
Yarmouth was now in full favour, and treated with profound
respect by the Hanover society, though it appears rather
neglected in England when she came among us. In 1740,
a couple of the king's daughters went to see him at Hanover;
Anna, the Princess of Orange (about whom, and whose
husband and marriage-day, Walpole and Hervey have left
us the most ludicrous descriptions), and Maria of Hesse-Cassel,
with their respective lords. This made the Hanover
Court very brilliant. In honour of his high guests, the king
gave several fêtes; among others, a magnificent masked
ball, in the green theatre at Herrenhausen—the garden
theatre, with linden and box for screen, and grass for
[pg 750]
a carpet, where the Platens had danced to George and his
father the late sultan. The stage and a great part of the
garden were illuminated with coloured lamps. Almost the
whole Court appeared in white dominos, “like,” says the
describer of the scene, “like spirits in the Elysian fields.
At night, supper was served in the gallery with three great
tables, and the king was very merry. After supper dancing
was resumed, and I did not get home till five o'clock by
full daylight to Hanover. Some days afterwards we had
in the opera-house at Hanover, a great assembly. The
king appeared in a Turkish dress; his turban was ornamented
with a magnificent agraffe of diamonds; the Lady
Yarmouth was dressed as a sultana; nobody was more
beautiful than the Princess of Hesse.” So, while poor
Caroline was resting in her coffin, dapper little George,
with his red face and his white eyebrows and goggle-eyes,
at sixty years of age, is dancing a pretty dance with
Madame Walmoden, and capering about dressed up like
a Turk! For twenty years more, that little old Bajazet went
on in this Turkish fashion, until the fit came which choked
the old man, when he ordered the side of his coffin to be
taken out, as well as that of poor Caroline's who had preceded
him, so that his sinful old bones and ashes might
mingle with those of the faithful creature. O strutting
Turkey-cock of Herrenhausen! O naughty little Mahomet!
in what Turkish paradise are you now, and where be your
painted houris? So Countess Yarmouth appeared as a
sultana, and his Majesty in a Turkish dress wore an agraffe
of diamonds, and was very merry, was he? Friends! he
was your fathers' king as well as mine—let us drop a respectful
tear over his grave.




He said of his wife that he never knew a woman who was
worthy to buckle her shoe: he would sit alone weeping
before her portrait, and when he had dried his eyes, he
would go off to his Walmoden and talk of her. On the
25th day of October, 1760, he being then in the seventy-seventh
year of his age, and the thirty-fourth of his reign,
his page went to take him his royal chocolate, and behold!
the most religious and gracious king was lying dead on the
floor. They went and fetched Walmoden; but Walmoden
could not wake him. The sacred Majesty was but a lifeless
corpse. The king was dead; God save the king! But,
of course, poets and clergymen decorously bewailed the
[pg 751]
late one. Here are some artless verses, in which an English
divine deplored the famous departed hero, and over which
you may cry or you may laugh, exactly as your humour
suits:—







While at his feet expiring Faction lay,


No contest left but who should best obey;


Saw in his offspring all himself renewed;


The same fair path of glory still pursued;


Saw to young George Augusta's care impart


Whate'er could raise and humanize the heart;


Blend all his grandsire's virtues with his own,


And form their mingled radiance for the throne—


No farther blessing could on earth be given—


The next degree of happiness was—heaven!







If he had been good, if he had been just, if he had been
pure in life, and wise in council, could the poet have said
much more? It was a parson who came and wept over
this grave, with Walmoden sitting on it, and claimed heaven
for the poor old man slumbering below. Here was one
who had neither dignity, learning, morals, nor wit—who
tainted a great society by a bad example; who in youth,
manhood, old age, was gross, low, and sensual; and Mr.
Porteus, afterwards my Lord Bishop Porteus, says the
earth was not good enough for him, and that his only place
was heaven! Bravo, Mr. Porteus! The divine who wept
these tears over George II's memory wore George III's
lawn. I don't know whether people still admire his poetry
or his sermons.




[pg 752]





 George The Third



We have to glance over
sixty years in as many
minutes. To read the
mere catalogue of characters
who figured during
that long period,
would occupy our allotted
time, and we should
have all text and no
sermon. England has
to undergo the revolt of
the American colonies;
to submit to defeat and
separation; to shake
under the volcano of
the French Revolution;
to grapple and fight for
the life with her gigantic
enemy Napoleon; to
gasp and rally after that
tremendous struggle. The old society, with its courtly
splendours, has to pass away; generations of statesmen
to rise and disappear; Pitt to follow Chatham to the
tomb; the memory of Rodney and Wolfe to be superseded
by Nelson's and Wellington's glory; the old poets who
unite us to Queen Anne's time to sink into their graves;
Johnson to die, and Scott and Byron to arise; Garrick
to delight the world with his dazzling dramatic genius, and
Kean to leap on the stage and take possession of the astonished
theatre. Steam has to be invented; kings to be
beheaded, banished, deposed, restored. Napoleon to be
but an episode, and George III is to be alive through all
these varied changes, to accompany his people through all
[pg 753]
these revolutions of thought, government, society; to
survive out of the old world into ours.




When I first saw England, she was in mourning for the
young Princess Charlotte, the hope of the empire. I came
from India as a child, and our ship touched at an island
on the way home, where my black servant took me a long
walk over rocks and hills until we reached a garden, where
we saw a man walking. “That is he,” said the black man:
“that is Bonaparte! He eats three sheep every day, and
all the little children he can lay hands on!” There
were people in the British dominions besides that poor
Calcutta serving-man, with an equal horror of the Corsican
ogre.




With the same childish attendant, I remember peeping
through the colonnade at Carlton House, and seeing the
abode of the great Prince Regent. I can see yet the Guards
pacing before the gates of the place. The place? What
place? The palace exists no more than the palace of
Nebuchadnezzar. It is but a name now. Where be the
sentries who used to salute as the Royal chariots drove in
and out? The chariots, with the kings inside, have driven
to the realms of Pluto; the tall Guards have marched into
darkness, and the echoes of their drums are rolling in Hades.
Where the palace once stood, a hundred little children are
paddling up and down the steps to St. James's Park.
A score of grave gentlemen are taking their tea at the
Athenaeum Club; as many grizzly warriors are garrisoning
the United Service Club opposite. Pall Mall is the great
social Exchange of London now—the mart of news, of
politics, of scandal, of rumour—the English forum, so to
speak, where men discuss the last dispatch from the Crimea,
the last speech of Lord Derby, the next move of Lord John.
And, now and then, to a few antiquarians, whose thoughts
are with the past rather than with the present, it is a
memorial of old times and old people, and Pall Mall is our
Palmyra. Look! About this spot, Tom of Ten Thousand
was killed by Königsmarck's gang. In that great red
house Gainsborough lived, and Culloden Cumberland,
George III's uncle. Yonder is Sarah Marlborough's palace,
just as it stood when that termagant occupied it. At 25,
Walter Scott used to live; at the house, now No. 79, and
occupied by the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel
in Foreign Parts, resided Mrs. Eleanor Gwynn, comedian.


[pg 754]


How often has Queen Caroline's chair issued from under
yonder arch! All the men of the Georges have passed up
and down the street. It has seen Walpole's chariot and
Chatham's sedan; and Fox, Gibbon, Sheridan, on their
way to Brookes's; and stately William Pitt stalking on
the arm of Dundas; and Hanger and Tom Sheridan
reeling out of Raggett's; and Byron limping into Wattier's;
and Swift striding out of Bury Street; and Mr. Addison
and Dick Steele, both perhaps a little the better for liquor;
and the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York clattering
over the pavement; and Johnson counting the posts along
the streets, after dawdling before Dodsley's window; and
Horry Walpole hobbling into his carriage, with a gimcrack
just bought out at Christie's; and George Selwyn sauntering
into White's.




In the published letters to George Selwyn we get a mass
of correspondence by no means so brilliant and witty as
Walpole's, or so bitter and bright as Hervey's, but as
interesting, and even more descriptive of the time, because
the letters are the work of many hands. You hear more
voices speaking, as it were, and more natural than Horace's
dandified treble, and Sporus's malignant whisper. As one
reads the Selwyn letters—as one looks at Reynolds's noble
pictures illustrative of those magnificent times and voluptuous
people—one almost hears the voice of the dead past;
the laughter and the chorus; the toast called over the
brimming cups; the shout at the racecourse or the
gaming-table; the merry joke frankly spoken to the
laughing fine lady. How fine those ladies were, those
ladies who heard and spoke such coarse jokes; how grand
those gentlemen!




I fancy that peculiar product of the past, the fine gentleman,
has almost vanished off the face of the earth, and is
disappearing like the beaver or the Red Indian. We can't
have fine gentlemen any more, because we can't have the
society in which they lived. The people will not obey:
the parasites will not be as obsequious as formerly: children
do not go down on their knees to beg their parents' blessing:
chaplains do not say grace and retire before the pudding:
servants do not say “your honour” and “your worship” at
every moment: tradesmen do not stand hat in hand as
the gentleman passes: authors do not wait for hours in
gentlemen's ante-rooms with a fulsome dedication, for which
[pg 755]
they hope to get five guineas from his lordship. In the
days when there were fine gentlemen, Mr. Secretary Pitt's
under-secretaries did not dare to sit down before him; but
Mr. Pitt, in his turn, went down on his gouty knees to
George II; and when George III spoke a few kind words
to him, Lord Chatham burst into tears of reverential joy
and gratitude; so awful was the idea of the monarch, and
so great the distinctions of rank. Fancy Lord John Russell
or Lord Palmerston on their knees whilst the sovereign
was reading a dispatch, or beginning to cry because Prince
Albert said something civil!




At the accession of George III, the patricians were yet
at the height of their good fortune. Society recognized
their superiority, which they themselves pretty calmly took
for granted. They inherited not only titles and estates,
and seats in the House of Peers, but seats in the House
of Commons. There were a multitude of Government
places, and not merely these, but bribes of actual 500l.
notes, which Members of the House took not much shame
in assuming. Fox went into Parliament at 20: Pitt was
just of age: his father not much older. It was the good
time for Patricians. Small blame to them if they took
and enjoyed, and over-enjoyed, the prizes of politics, the
pleasures of social life.




In these letters to Selwyn, we are made acquainted with
a whole society of these defunct fine gentlemen: and can
watch with a curious interest a life, which the novel-writers
of that time, I think, have scarce touched upon. To
Smollett, to Fielding even, a lord was a lord: a gorgeous
being with a blue ribbon, a coroneted chair, and an immense
star on his bosom, to whom commoners paid reverence.
Richardson, a man of humbler birth than either of the
above two, owned that he was ignorant regarding the
manners of the aristocracy, and besought Mrs. Donnellan,
a lady who had lived in the great world, to examine a
volume of Sir Charles Grandison, and point out any errors
which she might see in this particular. Mrs. Donnellan
found so many faults, that Richardson changed colour;
shut up the book; and muttered that it were best to
throw it in the fire. Here, in Selwyn, we have the real
original men and women of fashion of the early time of
George III. We can follow them to the new club at
Almack's: we can travel over Europe with them: we can
[pg 756]
accompany them not only to the public places, but to their
country-houses and private society. Here is a whole company
of them; wits and prodigals; some persevering in
their bad ways; some repentant, but relapsing; beautiful
ladies, parasites, humble chaplains, led captains. Those
fair creatures whom we love in Reynolds's portraits, and
who still look out on us from his canvases with their sweet
calm faces and gracious smiles—those fine gentlemen who
did us the honour to govern us; who inherited their
boroughs; took their ease in their patent places; and
slipped Lord North's bribes so elegantly under their ruffles—we
make acquaintance with a hundred of these fine folks,
hear their talk and laughter, read of their loves, quarrels,
intrigues, debts, duels, divorces; can fancy them alive if
we read the book long enough. We can attend at Duke
Hamilton's wedding, and behold him marry his bride with
the curtain-ring: we can peep into her poor sister's death-bed:
we can see Charles Fox cursing over the cards, or
March bawling out the odds at Newmarket: we can
imagine Burgoyne tripping off from St. James's Street to
conquer the Americans, and slinking back into the club
somewhat crestfallen after his beating: we can see the young
king dressing himself for the Drawing-room and asking ten
thousand questions regarding all the gentlemen: we can
have high life or low, the struggle at the Opera to behold
the Violetta or the Zamperini—the Macaronis and fine
ladies in their chairs trooping to the masquerade or Madame
Cornelys's—the crowd at Drury Lane to look at the body
of Miss Ray, whom Parson Hackman has just pistolled—or
we can peep into Newgate, where poor Mr. Rice the
forger is waiting his fate and his supper. “You need not
be particular about the sauce for his fowl,” says one turnkey
to another: “for you know he is to be hanged in the
morning.” “Yes,” replies the second janitor, “but the
chaplain sups with him, and he is a terrible fellow for
melted butter.”




Selwyn has a chaplain and parasite, one Dr. Warner,
than whom Plautus, or Ben Jonson, or Hogarth, never
painted a better character. In letter after letter he adds
fresh strokes to the portrait of himself, and completes
a portrait not a little curious to look at now that the man
has passed away; all the foul pleasures and gambols in
which he revelled, played out; all the rouged faces into
[pg 757]
which he leered, worms and skulls; all the fine gentlemen
whose shoebuckles he kissed, laid in their coffins. This
worthy clergyman takes care to tell us that he does not
believe in his religion, though, thank Heaven, he is not so
great a rogue as a lawyer. He goes on Mr. Selwyn's
errands, any errands, and is proud, he says, to be that
gentleman's proveditor. He waits upon the Duke of
Queensberry—old Q.—and exchanges pretty stories with
that aristocrat. He comes home “after a hard day's
christening”, as he says, and writes to his patron before
sitting down to whist and partridges for supper. He revels
in the thoughts of ox-cheek and burgundy—he is a boisterous,
uproarious parasite, licks his master's shoes with
explosions of laughter and cunning smack and gusto, and
likes the taste of that blacking as much as the best claret
in old Q.'s cellar. He has Rabelais and Horace at his
greasy fingers' ends. He is inexpressibly mean, curiously
jolly; kindly and good-natured in secret—a tender-hearted
knave, not a venomous lickspittle. Jesse says, that at his
chapel in Long Acre, “he attained a considerable popularity
by the pleasing, manly, and eloquent style of his delivery.”
Was infidelity endemic, and corruption in the air? Around
a young king, himself of the most exemplary life and
undoubted piety, lived a Court society as dissolute as our
country ever knew. George II's bad morals bore their
fruit in George III's early years; as I believe that a knowledge
of that good man's example, his moderation, his
frugal simplicity, and God-fearing life, tended infinitely to
improve the morals of the country and purify the whole
nation.




After Warner, the most interesting of Selwyn's correspondents
is the Earl of Carlisle, grandfather of the amiable
nobleman at present Viceroy in Ireland. The grandfather,
too, was Irish Viceroy, having previously been treasurer
of the king's household; and, in 1778, the principal commissioner
for treating, consulting, and agreeing upon the
means of quieting the divisions subsisting in his Majesty's
colonies, plantations, and possessions in North America.
You may read his lordship's manifestos in the Royal
New York Gazette. He returned to England, having
by no means quieted the colonies; and speedily afterwards
the Royal New York Gazette somehow ceased to be
published.


[pg 758]


This good, clever, kind, highly-bred Lord Carlisle was
one of the English fine gentlemen who were wellnigh ruined
by the awful debauchery and extravagance which prevailed
in the great English society of those days. Its dissoluteness
was awful: it had swarmed over Europe after the
Peace; it had danced, and raced, and gambled in all the
Courts. It had made its bow at Versailles; it had run
its horses on the plain of Sablons, near Paris, and created
the Anglomania there: it had exported vast quantities
of pictures and marbles from Rome and Florence: it had
ruined itself by building great galleries and palaces for the
reception of the statues and pictures: it had brought over
singing-women and dancing-women from all the operas of
Europe, on whom my lords lavished their thousands, whilst
they left their honest wives and honest children languishing
in the lonely, deserted splendours of the castle and park
at home.




Besides the great London society of those days, there
was another unacknowledged world, extravagant beyond
measure, tearing about in the pursuit of pleasure; dancing,
gambling, drinking, singing; meeting the real society in
the public places (at Ranelaghs, Vauxhalls, and Ridottos,
about which our old novelists talk so constantly), and
outvying the real leaders of fashion, in luxury, and splendour,
and beauty. For instance, when the famous Miss
Gunning visited Paris as Lady Coventry, where she expected
that her beauty would meet with the applause
which had followed her and her sister through England,
it appears she was put to flight by an English lady still
more lovely in the eyes of the Parisians. A certain Mrs. Pitt
took a box at the opera opposite the countess; and was
so much handsomer than her ladyship, that the parterre
cried out that this was the real English angel, whereupon
Lady Coventry quitted Paris in a huff. The poor thing
died presently of consumption, accelerated, it was said, by
the red and white paint with which she plastered those
luckless charms of hers. (We must represent to ourselves
all fashionable female Europe, at that time, as plastered
with white, and raddled with red.) She left two daughters
behind her, whom George Selwyn loved (he was curiously
fond of little children), and who are described very drolly
and pathetically in these letters, in their little nursery,
where passionate little Lady Fanny, if she had not good
[pg 759]
cards, flung hers into Lady Mary's face; and where they
sat conspiring how they should receive a new mother-in-law
whom their papa presently brought home. They got
on very well with their mother-in-law, who was very kind
to them; and they grew up, and they were married, and
they were both divorced afterwards—poor little souls!
Poor painted mother, poor society, ghastly in its pleasures,
its loves, its revelries!




As for my lord commissioner, we can afford to speak
about him: because, though he was a wild and weak
commissioner at one time, though he hurt his estate, though
he gambled and lost ten thousand pounds at a sitting—“five
times more,” says the unlucky gentleman, “than I ever
lost before;” though he swore he never would touch a
card again; and yet, strange to say, went back to the
table and lost still more: yet he repented of his errors,
sobered down, and became a worthy peer and a good
country gentleman, and returned to the good wife and the
good children whom he had always loved with the best
part of his heart. He had married at one-and-twenty.
He found himself, in the midst of a dissolute society, at
the head of a great fortune. Forced into luxury, and
obliged to be a great lord and a great idler, he yielded to
some temptations, and paid for them a bitter penalty of
manly remorse; from some others he fled wisely, and
ended by conquering them nobly. But he always had the
good wife and children in his mind, and they saved him.
“I am very glad you did not come to me the morning
I left London,” he writes to G. Selwyn, as he is embarking
for America. “I can only say, I never knew till that
moment of parting, what grief was.” There is no parting
now, where they are. The faithful wife, the kind, generous
gentleman, have left a noble race behind them: an inheritor
of his name and titles, who is beloved as widely
as he is known; a man most kind, accomplished, gentle,
friendly, and pure; and female descendants occupying
high stations and embellishing great names; some renowned
for beauty, and all for spotless lives, and pious matronly
virtues.




Another of Selwyn's correspondents is the Earl of March,
afterwards Duke of Queensberry, whose life lasted into this
century; and who certainly as earl or duke, young man
or greybeard, was not an ornament to any possible society.
[pg 760]
The legends about old Q. are awful. In Selwyn,
in Wraxall,
and contemporary chronicles, the observer of human nature
may follow him, drinking, gambling, intriguing to the end
of his career; when the wrinkled, palsied, toothless old
Don Juan died, as wicked and unrepentant as he had been
at the hottest season of youth and passion. There is a
house in Piccadilly, where they used to show a certain
low window at which old Q. sat to his very last
days, ogling through his senile glasses the women as they
passed by.




There must have been a great deal of good about this
lazy, sleepy George Selwyn, which, no doubt, is set to his
present credit. “Your friendship,” writes Carlisle to him,
“is so different from anything I have ever met with or seen
in the world, that when I recollect the extraordinary proofs
of your kindness, it seems to me like a dream.” “I have
lost my oldest friend, and acquaintance, G. Selwyn,” writes
Walpole to Miss Berry: “I really loved him, not only for
his infinite wit, but for a thousand good qualities.” I am
glad, for my part, that such a lover of cakes and ale should
have had a thousand good qualities—that he should have
been friendly, generous, warm-hearted, trustworthy. “I rise
at six,” writes Carlisle to him, from Spa (a great resort of
fashionable people in our ancestors' days), “play at
cricket till dinner, and dance in the evening, till I can
scarcely crawl to bed at eleven. There is a life for you!
You get up at nine; play with Raton your dog till twelve,
in your dressing-gown; then creep down to White's; are
five hours at table; sleep till supper-time; and then make
two wretches carry you in a sedan-chair, with three pints
of claret in you, three miles for a shilling.” Occasionally,
instead of sleeping at White's, George went down and
snoozed in the House of Commons by the side of Lord
North. He represented Gloucester for many years, and
had a borough of his own, Ludgershall, for which, when
he was too lazy to contest Gloucester, he sat himself.
“I have given directions for the election of Ludgershall to
be of Lord Melbourne and myself,” he writes to the Premier,
whose friend he was, and who was himself as sleepy, as
witty, and as good-natured as George.




If, in looking at the lives of princes, courtiers, men of
rank and fashion, we must perforce depict them as idle,
profligate, and criminal, we must make allowances for the
[pg 761]
rich men's failings, and recollect that we, too, were very
likely indolent and voluptuous, had we no motive for work,
a mortal's natural taste for pleasure, and the daily temptation
of a large income. What could a great peer, with
a great castle and park, and a great fortune, do but be
splendid and idle? In these letters of Lord Carlisle's from
which I have been quoting, there is many a just complaint
made by the kind-hearted young nobleman of the state
which he is obliged to keep; the magnificence in which
he must live; the idleness to which his position as a peer
of England bound him. Better for him had he been a
lawyer at his desk, or a clerk in his office;—a thousand
times better chance for happiness, education, employment,
security from temptation. A few years since the profession
of arms was the only one which our nobles could follow.
The Church, the Bar, medicine, literature, the arts, commerce,
were below them. It is to the middle class we
must look for the safety of England: the working educated
men, away from Lord North's bribery in the senate; the
good clergy not corrupted into parasites by hopes of preferment;
the tradesmen rising into manly opulence; the
painters pursuing their gentle calling; the men of letters
in their quiet studies; these are the men whom we love
and like to read of in the last age. How small the grandees
and the men of pleasure look beside them! how contemptible
the story of the George III Court squabbles are
beside the recorded talk of dear old Johnson! What is
the grandest entertainment at Windsor, compared to a
night at the club over its modest cups, with Percy and
Langton, and Goldsmith, and poor Bozzy at the table?
I declare I think, of all the polite men of that age, Joshua
Reynolds was the finest gentleman. And they were good,
as well as witty and wise, those dear old friends of the
past. Their minds were not debauched by excess, or
effeminate with luxury. They toiled their noble day's
labour: they rested, and took their kindly pleasure: they
cheered their holiday meetings with generous wit and
hearty interchange of thought: they were no prudes, but
no blush need follow their conversation: they were merry,
but no riot came out of their cups. Ah! I would have
liked a night at the “Turk's Head”, even though bad news
had arrived from the colonies, and Doctor Johnson was
growling against the rebels; to have sat with him and
[pg 762]
Goldy; and to have heard Burke, the finest talker in the
world; and to have had Garrick flashing in with a story
from his theatre!—I like, I say, to think of that society;
and not merely how pleasant and how wise, but how good
they were. I think it was on going home one night from
the club that Edmund Burke—his noble soul full of great
thoughts, be sure, for they never left him; his heart full
of gentleness—was accosted by a poor wandering woman,
to whom he spoke words of kindness; and moved by the
tears of this Magdalen, perhaps having caused them by the
good words he spoke to her, he took her home to the house
of his wife and children, and never left her until he had
found the means of restoring her to honesty and labour.
O you fine gentlemen! you Marches, and Selwyns, and
Chesterfields, how small you look by the side of these great
men! Good-natured Carlisle plays at cricket all day, and
dances in the evening “till he can scarcely crawl”, gaily
contrasting his superior virtue with George Selwyn's
“carried to bed by two wretches at midnight with three
pints of claret in him”. Do you remember the verses—the
sacred verses—which Johnson wrote on the death of
his humble friend, Levett?







Well tried through many a varying year,


See Levett to the grave descend;


Officious, innocent, sincere,


Of every friendless name the friend.






In misery's darkest cavern known,


His useful care was ever nigh,


Where hopeless anguish poured the groan,


And lonely want retired to die.






No summons mocked by chill delay,


No petty gain disdained by pride,


The modest wants of every day


The toil of every day supplied.






His virtues walked their narrow round,


Nor made a pause, nor left a void:


And sure the Eternal Master found


His single talent well employed.







Whose name looks the brightest now, that of Queensberry
the wealthy duke, or Selwyn the wit, or Levett the poor
physician?




I hold old Johnson (and shall we not pardon James
[pg 763]
Boswell some errors for embalming him for us?) to be the
great supporter of the British Monarchy and Church during
the last age—better than whole benches of bishops, better
than Pitts, Norths, and the great Burke himself. Johnson
had the ear of the nation: his immense authority reconciled
it to loyalty, and shamed it out of irreligion. When
George III talked with him, and the people heard the
great author's good opinion of the sovereign, whole generations
rallied to the king. Johnson was revered as a sort
of oracle; and the oracle declared for Church and King.
What a humanity the old man had! He was a kindly
partaker of all honest pleasures: a fierce foe to all sin,
but a gentle enemy to all sinners. “What, boys, are you
for a frolic?” he cries, when Topham Beauclerc comes and
wakes him up at midnight: “I'm with you,” And away
he goes, tumbles on his homely old clothes, and trundles
through Covent Garden with the young fellows. When he
used to frequent Garrick's theatre, and had “the liberty
of the scenes”, he says, “all the actresses knew me, and
dropped me a curtsy as they passed to the stage.” That
would make a pretty picture: it is a pretty picture in my
mind, of youth, folly, gaiety, tenderly surveyed by wisdom's
merciful, pure eyes.




George III and his queen lived in a very unpretending
but elegant-looking house, on the site of the hideous pile
under which his granddaughter at present reposes. The
king's mother inhabited Carlton House, which contemporary
prints represent with a perfect paradise of a garden,
with trim lawns, green arcades, and vistas of classic statues.
She admired these in company with my Lord Bute, who
had a fine classic taste, and sometimes counsel took and
sometimes tea in the pleasant green arbours along with
that polite nobleman. Bute was hated with a rage of
which there have been few examples in English history.
He was the butt for everybody's abuse; for Wilkes's
devilish mischief; for Churchill's slashing satire; for the
hooting of the mob that roasted the boot, his emblem, in
a thousand bonfires; that hated him because he was a
favourite and a Scotchman, calling him “Mortimer”,
“Lothario”, I know not what names, and accusing his royal
mistress of all sorts of crimes—the grave, lean, demure,
elderly woman, who, I dare say, was quite as good as her
neighbours. Chatham lent the aid of his great malice to
[pg 764]
influence the popular sentiment against her. He assailed,
in the House of Lords, “the secret influence, more mighty
than the Throne itself, which betrayed and clogged every
administration.” The most furious pamphlets echoed the
cry. “Impeach the king's mother,” was scribbled over
every wall at the Court end of the town, Walpole tells us.
What had she done? What had Frederick, Prince of
Wales, George's father, done, that he was so loathed
by George II and never mentioned by George III?
Let us not seek for stones to batter that forgotten
grave, but acquiesce in the contemporary epitaph over
him:—







Here lies Fred,


Who was alive, and is dead.


Had it been his father,


I had much rather.


Had it been his brother,


Still better than another.


Had it been his sister,


No one would have missed her.


Had it been the whole generation,


Still better for the nation.


But since 'tis only Fred,


Who was alive, and is dead,


There's no more to be said.







The widow with eight children round her, prudently
reconciled herself with the king, and won the old man's
confidence and goodwill. A shrewd, hard, domineering,
narrow-minded woman, she educated her children according
to her lights, and spoke of the eldest as a dull, good
boy: she kept him very close: she held the tightest
rein over him: she had curious prejudices and bigotries.
His uncle, the burly Cumberland, taking down a sabre
once, and drawing it to amuse the child—the boy
started back and turned pale. The prince felt a generous
shock: “What must they have told him about me?” he
asked.




His mother's bigotry and hatred he inherited with the
courageous obstinacy of his own race; but he was a firm
believer where his fathers had been freethinkers, and a
true and fond supporter of the Church, of which he was
the titular defender. Like other dull men, the king was
all his life suspicious of superior people. He did not like
[pg 765]
Fox; he did not like Reynolds; he did not like Nelson,
Chatham, Burke; he was testy at the idea of all innovations,
and suspicious of all innovators. He loved mediocrities;
Benjamin West was his favourite painter; Beattie
was his poet. The king lamented, not without pathos, in
his after-life, that his education had been neglected. He
was a dull lad brought up by narrow-minded people. The
cleverest tutors in the world could have done little probably
to expand that small intellect, though they might have
improved his tastes, and taught his perceptions some
generosity.




But he admired as well as he could. There is little doubt
that a letter, written by the little Princess Charlotte of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz,—a letter containing the most feeble
commonplaces about the horrors of war, and the most
trivial remarks on the blessings of peace, struck the young
monarch greatly, and decided him upon selecting the young
princess as the sharer of his throne, I pass over the
stories of his juvenile loves—of Hannah Lightfoot, the
Quaker, to whom they say he was actually married
(though I don't know who has ever seen the register)—of
lovely black-haired Sarah Lennox, about whose beauty
Walpole has written in raptures, and who used to lie in
wait for the young prince, and make hay at him on the
lawn of Holland House. He sighed and he longed, but
he rode away from her. Her picture still hangs in Holland
House, a magnificent masterpiece of Reynolds, a canvas
worthy of Titian. She looks from the castle window,
holding a bird in her hand, at black-eyed young Charles
Fox, her nephew. The royal bird flew away from lovely
Sarah. She had to figure as bridesmaid at her little Mecklenburg
rival's wedding, and died in our own time a quiet
old lady, who had become the mother of the heroic
Napiers.




They say the little princess who had written the fine
letter about the horrors of war—a beautiful letter without
a single blot, for which she was to be rewarded, like the
heroine of the old spelling-book story—was at play one
day with some of her young companions in the gardens of
Strelitz, and that the young ladies' conversation was,
strange to say, about husbands. “Who will take such
a poor little princess as me?” Charlotte said to her friend,
Ida von Bulow, and at that very moment the postman's
[pg 766]
horn sounded, and Ida said, “Princess! there is the sweetheart.”
As she said, so it actually turned out. The postman
brought letters from the splendid young King of all
England, who said, “Princess! because you have written
such a beautiful letter, which does credit to your head and
heart, come and be Queen of Great Britain, France, and
Ireland, and the true wife of your most obedient servant,
George!” So she jumped for joy; and went upstairs and
packed all her little trunks; and set off straightway for
her kingdom in a beautiful yacht, with a harpsichord on
board for her to play upon, and around her a beautiful
fleet, all covered with flags and streamers, and the distinguished
Madame Auerbach complimented her with an ode,
a translation of which may be read in the Gentleman's
Magazine to the present day:—







Her gallant navy through the main,


Now cleaves its liquid way.


There to their queen a chosen train


Of nymphs due reverence pay.






Europa, when conveyed by Jove


To Crete's distinguished shore,


Greater attention scarce could prove,


Or be respected more.







They met, and they were married, and for years they
led the happiest, simplest lives sure ever led by married
couple. It is said the king winced when he first saw his
homely little bride; but, however that may be, he was
a true and faithful husband to her, as she was a faithful
and loving wife. They had the simplest pleasures—the
very mildest and simplest—little country dances, to which
a dozen couple were invited, and where the honest king
would stand up and dance for three hours at a time to one
tune; after which delicious excitement they would go to
bed without any supper (the Court people grumbling sadly
at that absence of supper), and get up quite early the next
morning, and perhaps the next night have another dance;
or the queen would play on the spinet—she played pretty
well, Haydn said—or the king would read to her a paper
out of the Spectator, or perhaps one of Ogden's sermons.
O Arcadia! what a life it must have been! There used to
be Sunday drawing-rooms at Court; but the young
[pg 767]
king stopped these, as he stopped all that godless gambling
whereof we have made mention. Not that George was
averse to any innocent pleasures, or pleasures which he
thought innocent. He was a patron of the arts, after his
fashion; kind and gracious to the artists whom he favoured,
and respectful to their calling. He wanted once to establish
an Order of Minerva for literary and scientific characters;
the knights were to take rank after the knights of the Bath,
and to sport a straw-coloured ribbon and a star of sixteen
points. But there was such a row amongst the literati as
to the persons who should be appointed, that the plan was
given up, and Minerva and her star never came down
amongst us.




He objected to painting St. Paul's, as Popish practice;
accordingly, the most clumsy heathen sculptures decorate
that edifice at present. It is fortunate that the paintings,
too, were spared, for painting and drawing were wofully
unsound at the close of the last century; and it is far
better for our eyes to contemplate whitewash (when we
turn them away from the clergyman) than to look at
Opie's pitchy canvases, or Fuseli's livid monsters.




And yet there is one day in the year—a day when old
George loved with all his heart to attend it—when I think
St. Paul's presents the noblest sight in the whole world:
when five thousand charity children, with cheeks like nosegays,
and sweet, fresh voices, sing the hymn which makes
every heart thrill with praise and happiness. I have seen
a hundred grand sights in the world—coronations, Parisian
splendours, Crystal Palace openings, Pope's chapels with
their processions of long-tailed cardinals and quavering
choirs of fat soprani—but think in all Christendom there
is no such sight as Charity Children's Day. Non Angli, sed
angeli. As one looks at that beautiful multitude of innocents:
as the first note strikes: indeed one may almost
fancy that cherubs are singing.




Of church music the king was always very fond, showing
skill in it both as a critic and a performer. Many stories,
mirthful and affecting, are told of his behaviour at the
concerts which he ordered. When he was blind and ill he
chose the music for the Ancient Concerts once, and the
music and words which he selected were from Samson
Agonistes, and all had reference to his blindness, his captivity,
and his affliction. He would beat time with his music-roll
[pg 768]
as they sang the anthem in the Chapel Royal. If the page
below was talkative or inattentive, down would come the
music-roll on young scapegrace's powdered head. The
theatre was always his delight. His bishops and clergy
used to attend it, thinking it no shame to appear where
that good man was seen. He is said not to have cared for
Shakespeare or tragedy much; farces and pantomimes were
his joy; and especially when clown swallowed a carrot
or a string of sausages, he would laugh so outrageously
that the lovely princess by his side would have to say,
“My gracious monarch, do compose yourself.” But he
continued to laugh, and at the very smallest farces, as long
as his poor wits were left him.




There is something to me exceedingly touching in that
simple early life of the king's. As long as his mother lived—a
dozen years after his marriage with the little spinet-player—he
was a great, shy, awkward boy, under the
tutelage of that hard parent. She must have been a clever,
domineering, cruel woman. She kept her household lonely
and in gloom, mistrusting almost all people who came
about her children. Seeing the young Duke of Gloucester
silent and unhappy once, she sharply asked him the cause
of his silence. “I am thinking,” said the poor child. “Thinking,
sir! and of what?” “I am thinking if ever I have
a son I will not make him so unhappy as you make me.”
The other sons were all wild, except George. Dutifully
every evening George and Charlotte paid their visit to the
king's mother at Carlton House. She had a throat complaint,
of which she died; but to the last persisted in
driving about the streets to show she was alive. The night
before her death the resolute woman talked with her son
and daughter-in-law as usual, went to bed, and was found
dead there in the morning. “George, be a king!” were the
words which she was for ever croaking in the ears of her
son: and a king the simple, stubborn, affectionate, bigoted
man tried to be.




He did his best; he worked according to his lights; what
virtue he knew, he tried to practise; what knowledge he
could master, he strove to acquire. He was for ever
drawing maps, for example, and learned geography with
no small care and industry. He knew all about the family
histories and genealogies of his gentry, and pretty histories
he must have known. He knew the whole Army
[pg 769]
List; and all the facings, and the exact number of the
buttons, and all the tags and laces, and the cut of all the
cocked hats, pigtails, and gaiters in his army. He knew
the personnel of the Universities; what doctors were
inclined to Socinianism, and who were sound Churchmen;
he knew the etiquettes of his own and his grandfather's
Courts to a nicety, and the smallest particulars regarding
the routine of ministers, secretaries, embassies, audiences;
the humblest page in the ante-room, or the meanest helper
in the stables or kitchen. These parts of the royal business
he was capable of learning, and he learned. But, as one
thinks of an office, almost divine, performed by any mortal
man—of any single being pretending to control the thoughts,
to direct the faith, to order the implicit obedience of brother
millions, to compel them into war at his offence or quarrel;
to command, “In this way you shall trade, in this way you
shall think; these neighbours shall be your allies whom
you shall help, these others your enemies whom you
shall slay at my orders; in this way you shall worship
God;”—who can wonder that, when such a man as George
took such an office on himself, punishment and humiliation
should fall upon people and chief?




Yet there is something grand about his courage. The
battle of the king with his aristocracy remains yet to be
told by the historian who shall view the reign of George
more justly than the trumpery panegyrists who wrote
immediately after his decease. It was he, with the people
to back him, who made the war with America; it was he
and the people who refused justice to the Roman Catholics;
and on both questions he beat the patricians. He bribed:
he bullied: he darkly dissembled on occasion: he exercised
a slippery perseverance, and a vindictive resolution, which
one almost admires as one thinks his character over. His
courage was never to be beat. It trampled North under
foot: it bent the stiff neck of the younger Pitt: even his
illness never conquered that indomitable spirit. As soon
as his brain was clear, it resumed the scheme, only laid
aside when his reason left him: as soon as his hands were
out of the strait-waistcoat, they took up the pen and the
plan which had engaged him up to the moment of his
malady. I believe it is by persons believing themselves
in the right that nine-tenths of the tyranny of this world
has been perpetrated. Arguing on that convenient premiss,
[pg 770]
the Dey of Algiers would cut off twenty heads of a morning;
Father Dominic would burn a score of Jews in the presence
of the most Catholic King, and the Archbishops of Toledo
and Salamanca sing Amen. Protestants were roasted,
Jesuits hung and quartered at Smithfield, and witches
burned at Salem, and all by worthy people, who believed
they had the best authority for their actions.




And so, with respect to old George, even Americans,
whom he hated and who conquered him, may give him
credit for having quite honest reasons for oppressing them.
Appended to Lord Brougham's biographical sketch of Lord
North are some autograph notes of the king, which let us
most curiously into the state of his mind. “The times
certainly require,” says he, “the concurrence of all who
wish to prevent anarchy. I have no wish but the prosperity
of my own dominions, therefore I must look upon all who
would not heartily assist me as bad men, as well as bad
subjects.” That is the way he reasoned. “I wish nothing
but good, therefore every man who does not agree with
me is a traitor and a scoundrel.” Remember that he believed
himself anointed by a Divine commission; remember that
he was a man of slow parts and imperfect education; that
the same awful will of Heaven which placed a crown upon
his head, which made him tender to his family, pure in
his life, courageous and honest, made him dull of comprehension,
obstinate of will, and at many times deprived
him of reason. He was the father of his people; his rebellious
children must be flogged into obedience. He was the
defender of the Protestant faith; he would rather lay that
stout head upon the block than that Catholics should have
a share in the government of England. And you do not
suppose that there are not honest bigots enough in all
countries to back kings in this kind of statesmanship?
Without doubt the American war was popular in England.
In 1775 the address in favour of coercing the colonies was
carried by 304 to 105 in the Commons, by 104 to 29 in
the House of Lords. Popular?—so was the Revocation of
the Edict of Nantes popular in France: so was the massacre
of St. Bartholomew: so was the Inquisition exceedingly
popular in Spain.




Wars and revolutions are, however, the politician's
province. The great events of this long reign, the statesmen
and orators who illustrated it, I do not pretend to
[pg 771]
make the subjects of an hour's light talk.187 Let us return
[pg 772]
to our humbler duty of Court gossip. Yonder sits our little
queen, surrounded by many stout sons and fair daughters
whom she bore to her faithful George. The history of the
daughters, as little Miss Burney has painted them to us,
is delightful. They were handsome—she calls them beautiful;
they were most kind, loving, and ladylike; they
were gracious to every person, high and low, who served
them. They had many little accomplishments of their own.
This one drew: that one played the piano: they all worked
most prodigiously, and fitted up whole suites of rooms—pretty,
smiling Penelopes,—with their busy little needles.
As we picture to ourselves the society of eighty years ago,
we must imagine hundreds of thousands of groups of women
in great high caps, tight bodies, and full skirts, needling
away, whilst one of the number, or perhaps a favoured
gentleman in a pigtail, reads out a novel to the company.
Peep into the cottage at Olney, for example, and see there
Mrs. Unwin and Lady Hesketh, those high-bred ladies,
those sweet, pious women, and William Cowper, that delicate
wit, that trembling pietist, that refined gentleman, absolutely
reading out Jonathan Wild to the ladies! What
a change in our manners, in our amusements, since then!





Illustration
Lord North, Mr. Fox




Illustration
Mr. Pitt, Mr. Burke



King George's household was a model of an English
gentleman's household. It was early; it was kindly; it
was charitable; it was frugal; it was orderly; it must
have been stupid to a degree which I shudder now to
contemplate. No wonder all the princes ran away from
the lap of that dreary domestic virtue. It always rose,
rode, dined at stated intervals. Day after day was the
same. At the same hour at night the king kissed his
daughters' jolly cheeks; the princesses kissed their mother's
hand; and Madame Thielke brought the royal nightcap.
At the same hour the equerries and women in waiting had
their little dinner, and cackled over their tea. The king
had his backgammon or his evening concert; the equerries
yawned themselves to death in the ante-room; or the king
and his family walked on Windsor slopes, the king holding
his darling little princess Amelia by the hand; and the
people crowded round quite good-naturedly; and the Eton
boys thrust their chubby cheeks under the crowd's elbows;
and the concert over, the king never failed to take his
enormous cocked-hat off, and salute his band, and say,
“Thank you, gentlemen.”


[pg 774]



Illustration
A Little Rebel

[pg 775]


A quieter household, a more prosaic life than this of
Kew or Windsor, cannot be imagined. Rain or shine, the
king rode every day for hours; poked his red face into
hundreds of cottages round about, and showed that shovel
hat and Windsor uniform to farmers, to pig-boys, to old
women making apple dumplings; to all sorts of people,
gentle and simple, about whom countless stories are told.
Nothing can be more undignified than these stories. When
Haroun Alraschid visits a subject incog., the latter is sure
to be very much the better for the caliph's magnificence.
Old George showed no such royal splendour. He used
to give a guinea sometimes: sometimes feel in his pockets
and find he had no money: often ask a man a hundred
questions: about the number of his family, about his oats
and beans, about the rent he paid for his house, and ride
on. On one occasion he played the part of King Alfred,
and turned a piece of meat with a string at a cottager's
house. When the old woman came home, she found a paper
with an enclosure of money, and a note written by the royal
pencil: “Five guineas to buy a jack.” It was not splendid,
but it was kind and worthy of Farmer George. One day,
when the king and queen were walking together, they met
a little boy—they were always fond of children, the good
folks—and patted the little white head. “Whose little boy
are you?” asks the Windsor uniform. “I am the king's
beefeater's little boy,” replied the child. On which the
king said, “Then kneel down, and kiss the queen's hand.”
But the innocent offspring of the beefeater declined this
treat. “No,” said he, “I won't kneel, for if I do, I shall
spoil my new breeches.” The thrifty king ought to have
hugged him and knighted him on the spot. George's
admirers wrote pages and pages of such stories about him.
One morning, before anybody else was up, the king walked
about Gloucester town; pushed over Molly the housemaid
who was scrubbing the doorsteps with her pail; ran upstairs
and woke all the equerries in their bedrooms; and then
trotted down to the bridge, where, by this time, a dozen
of louts were assembled. “What! is this Gloucester New
Bridge?” asked our gracious monarch; and the people
answered him, “Yes, your Majesty.” “Why, then, my boys,”
said he, “let us have a huzzay!” After giving them which
intellectual gratification, he went home to breakfast. Our
fathers read these simple tales with fond pleasure; laughed
[pg 776]
at these very small jokes; liked the old man who poked
his nose into every cottage; who lived on plain wholesome
roast and boiled; who despised your French kickshaws;
who was a true hearty old English gentleman. You may
have seen Gilray's famous print of him—in the old wig,
in the stout old hideous Windsor uniform—as the King of
Brobdingnag, peering at a little Gulliver, whom he holds
up in his hand, whilst in the other he has an opera-glass,
through which he surveys the pygmy? Our fathers chose
to set up George as the type of a great king; and the
little Gulliver was the great Napoleon. We prided ourselves
on our prejudices; we blustered and bragged with absurd
vainglory; we dealt to our enemy a monstrous injustice
of contempt and scorn; we fought him with all weapons,
mean as well as heroic. There was no lie we would not
believe; no charge of crime which our furious prejudice
would not credit. I thought at one time of making a collection
of the lies which the French had written against us,
and we had published against them during the war: it
would be a strange memorial of popular falsehood.




Their majesties were very sociable potentates: and the
Court Chronicler tells of numerous visits which they paid
to their subjects, gentle and simple: with whom they
dined; at whose great country-houses they stopped; or
at whose poorer lodgings they affably partook of tea and
bread-and-butter. Some of the great folks spent enormous
sums in entertaining their sovereigns. As marks of special
favour, the king and queen sometimes stood as sponsors
for the children of the nobility. We find Lady Salisbury
was so honoured in the year 1786; and in the year 1802,
Lady Chesterfield. The Court News relates how her ladyship
received their Majesties on a state bed “dressed with
white satin and a profusion of lace: the counterpane of
white satin embroidered with gold, and the bed of crimson
satin lined with white”. The child was first brought by
the nurse to the Marchioness of Bath, who presided as
chief nurse. Then the marchioness handed baby to the
queen. Then the queen handed the little darling to the
Bishop of Norwich, the officiating clergyman; and, the
ceremony over, a cup of caudle was presented by the earl
to his Majesty on one knee, on a large gold waiter, placed
on a crimson velvet cushion. Misfortunes would occur in
these interesting genuflectory ceremonies of royal worship.
[pg 777]
Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe, a very fat, puffy man,
in a most gorgeous Court suit, had to kneel, Cumberland
says, and was so fat and so tight that he could not get up
again. “Kneel, sir, kneel!” cried my lord in waiting to
a country mayor who had to read an address, but who went
on with his compliment standing. “Kneel, sir, kneel!”
cries my lord, in dreadful alarm. “I can't!” says the
mayor, turning round; “don't you see I have got a wooden
leg?” In the capital Burney Diary and Letters, the home
and Court life of good old King George and good old Queen
Charlotte are presented at portentous length. The king
rose every morning at six: and had two hours to himself.
He thought it effeminate to have a carpet in his bedroom.
Shortly before eight, the queen and the royal family were
always ready for him, and they proceeded to the king's
chapel in the castle. There were no fires in the passages:
the chapel was scarcely alight; princesses, governesses,
equerries grumbled and caught cold: but cold or hot, it
was their duty to go: and, wet or dry, light or dark, the
stout old George was always in his place to say Amen to
the chaplain.




The queen's character is represented in Burney at full
length. She was a sensible, most decorous woman;
a very grand lady on state occasions, simple enough in
ordinary life; well read as times went, and giving shrewd
opinions about books; stingy, but not unjust; not
generally unkind to her dependants, but invincible in her
notions of etiquette, and quite angry if her people suffered
ill-health in her service. She gave Miss Burney a shabby
pittance, and led the poor young woman a life which well-nigh
killed her. She never thought but that she was
doing Burney the greatest favour, in taking her from
freedom, fame, and competence, and killing her off with
languor in that dreary Court. It was not dreary to her.
Had she been servant instead of mistress, her spirit would
never have broken down: she never would have put a pin
out of place, or been a moment from her duty. She was
not weak, and she could not pardon those who were. She
was perfectly correct in life, and she hated poor sinners
with a rancour such as virtue sometimes has. She must
have had awful private trials of her own: not merely with
her children, but with her husband, in those long days
about which nobody will ever know anything now; when
[pg 778]
he was not quite insane; when his incessant tongue was
babbling folly, rage, persecution; and she had to smile
and be respectful and attentive under this intolerable
ennui. The queen bore all her duties stoutly, as she
expected others to bear them. At a state christening,
the lady who held the infant was tired and looked unwell,
and the Princess of Wales asked permission for her to sit
down. “Let her stand,” said the queen, flicking the snuff
off her sleeve. She would have stood, the resolute old
woman, if she had had to hold the child till his beard was
grown. “I am seventy years of age,” the queen said, facing
a mob of ruffians who stopped her sedan: “I have been
fifty years Queen of England, and I never was insulted
before.” Fearless, rigid, unforgiving little queen! I don't
wonder that her sons revolted from her.




Of all the figures in that large family group which surrounds
George and his queen, the prettiest, I think, is the
father's darling, the Princess Amelia, pathetic for her
beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and for the extreme
passionate tenderness with which her father loved her.
This was his favourite amongst all the children: of his
sons, he loved the Duke of York best. Burney tells a sad
story of the poor old man at Weymouth, and how eager
he was to have this darling son with him. The king's
house was not big enough to hold the prince; and his
father had a portable house erected close to his own, and
at huge pains, so that his dear Frederick should be near
him. He clung on his arm all the time of his visit: talked
to no one else; had talked of no one else for some time
before. The prince, so long expected, stayed but a single
night. He had business in London the next day, he said.
The dullness of the old king's Court stupefied York and the
other big sons of George III. They scared equerries and
ladies, frightened the modest little circle, with their coarse
spirits and loud talk. Of little comfort, indeed, were the
king's sons to the king.




But the pretty Amelia was his darling; and the little
maiden, prattling and smiling in the fond arms of that
old father, is a sweet image to look on. There is a family
picture in Burney, which a man must be very hard-hearted
not to like. She describes an after-dinner walk of the
royal family at Windsor:—“It was really a mighty pretty
procession,” she says. “The little princess, just turned of
[pg 779]
three years old, in a robe-coat covered with fine muslin,
a dressed close cap, white gloves, and fan, walked on alone
and first, highly delighted with the parade, and turning
from side to side to see everybody as she passed; for all
the terracers stand up against the walls, to make a clear
passage for the royal family the moment they come in
sight. Then followed the king and queen, no less delighted
with the joy of their little darling. The Princess Royal
leaning on Lady Elizabeth Waldegrave, the Princess
Augusta holding by the Duchess of Ancaster, the Princess
Elizabeth led by Lady Charlotte Bertie, followed. Office
here takes place of rank,” says Burney,—to explain how
it was that Lady E. Waldegrave, as lady of the bed-chamber,
walked before a duchess;—“General Budé, and
the Duke of Montague, and Major Price as equerry, brought
up the rear of the procession.” One sees it; the band
playing its old music, the sun shining on the happy, loyal
crowd; and lighting the ancient battlements, the rich
elms, and purple landscape, and bright greensward; the
royal standard drooping from the great tower yonder; as
old George passes, followed by his race, preceded by the
charming infant, who caresses the crowd with her innocent
smiles.




“On sight of Mrs. Delany, the king instantly stopped to
speak to her; the queen, of course, and the little princess,
and all the rest, stood still. They talked a good while
with the sweet old lady, during which time the king once
or twice addressed himself to me. I caught the queen's
eye, and saw in it a little surprise, but by no means any
displeasure, to see me of the party. The little princess
went up to Mrs. Delany, of whom she is very fond, and
behaved like a little angel to her. She then, with a look
of inquiry and recollection, came behind Mrs. Delany to
look at me. ‘I am afraid,’ said I, in a whisper, and
stooping down, ‘your Royal Highness does not remember
me?’ Her answer was an arch little smile, and a nearer
approach, with her lips pouted out to kiss me.”




The princess wrote verses herself, and there are some
pretty plaintive lines attributed to her, which are more
touching than better poetry:—







Unthinking, idle, wild, and young,


I laughed, and danced, and talked, and sung:

[pg 780]

And, proud of health, of freedom vain,


Dreamed not of sorrow, care, or pain:


Concluding, in those hours of glee,


That all the world was made for me.






But when the hour of trial came,


When sickness shook this trembling frame,


When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,


And I could sing and dance no more,


It then occurred, how sad 'twould be


Were this world only made for me.







The poor soul quitted it—and ere yet she was dead the
agonized father was in such a state, that the officers round
about him were obliged to set watchers over him, and
from November, 1810, George III ceased to reign. All the
world knows the story of his malady: all history presents
no sadder figure than that of the old man, blind and
deprived of reason, wandering through the rooms of his
palace, addressing imaginary Parliaments, reviewing fancied
troops, holding ghostly Courts. I have seen his picture
as it was taken at this time, hanging in the apartment of
his daughter, the Landgravine of Hesse-Hombourg—amidst
books and Windsor furniture, and a hundred fond reminiscences
of her English home. The poor old father is
represented in a purple gown, his snowy beard falling over
his breast—the star of his famous Order still idly shining
on it. He was not only sightless: he became utterly deaf.
All light, all reason, all sound of human voices, all the
pleasures of this world of God, were taken from him.
Some slight lucid moments he had; in one of which, the
queen, desiring to see him, entered the room, and found
him singing a hymn, and accompanying himself at the
harpsichord. When he had finished, he knelt down and
prayed aloud for her, and then for his family, and then for
the nation, concluding with a prayer for himself, that it
might please God to avert his heavy calamity from him,
but if not, to give him resignation to submit. He then
burst into tears, and his reason again fled.




What preacher need moralize on this story; what
words save the simplest are requisite to tell it? It is too
terrible for tears. The thought of such a misery smites
me down in submission before the Ruler of kings and men,
the Monarch Supreme over empires and republics, the
inscrutable Dispenser of life, death, happiness, victory.
[pg 781]
“O brothers,” I said to those who heard me first in America—“O
brothers! speaking the same dear mother tongue—O
comrades! enemies no more, let us take a mournful hand
together as we stand by this royal corpse, and call a truce
to battle! Low he lies to whom the proudest used to
kneel once, and who was cast lower than the poorest:
dead, whom millions prayed for in vain. Driven off his
throne; buffeted by rude hands; with his children in
revolt; the darling of his old age killed before him untimely;
our Lear hangs over her breathless lips and cries,
‘Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little!’ ”







Vex not his ghost—oh! let him pass—he hates him


That would upon the rack of this tough world


Stretch him out longer!







Hush, Strife and Quarrel, over the solemn grave! Sound,
trumpets, a mournful march! Fall, dark curtain, upon
his pageant, his pride, his grief, his awful tragedy!




[pg 782]





 George The Fourth



In Twiss's amusing Life
of Eldon, we read how,
on the death of the
Duke of York, the old
chancellor became possessed
of a lock of the
defunct prince's hair;
and so careful was
he respecting the authenticity
of the relic,
that Bessy Eldon his
wife sat in the room
with the young man
from Hamlet's, who
distributed the ringlet
into separate lockets,
which each of the Eldon
family afterwards wore.
You know how, when
George IV came to
Edinburgh, a better
man than he went on board the royal yacht to welcome
the king to his kingdom of Scotland, seized a goblet from
which his majesty had just drunk, vowed it should remain
for ever as an heirloom in his family, clapped the precious
glass in his pocket, and sat down on it and broke it when
he got home. Suppose the good sheriff's prize unbroken
now at Abbotsford, should we not smile with something
like pity as we beheld it? Suppose one of those lockets
of the No-Popery prince's hair offered for sale at Christie's,
quot libras e duce summo invenies? how many pounds
would you find for the illustrious duke? Madame Tussaud
has got King George's coronation robes; is there any
man now alive who would kiss the hem of that trumpery?
He sleeps since thirty years: do not any of you, who
[pg 783]
remember him, wonder that you once respected and huzza'd
and admired him?




To make a portrait of him at first seemed a matter of
small difficulty. There is his coat, his star, his wig, his
countenance simpering under it: with a slate and a piece
of chalk, I could at this very desk perform a recognizable
likeness of him. And yet after reading of him in scores of
volumes, hunting him through old magazines and newspapers,
having him here at a ball, there at a public dinner,
there at races and so forth, you find you have nothing—nothing
but a coat and wig and a mask smiling below it—nothing
but a great simulacrum. His sire and grandsires
were men. One knows what they were like: what they
would do in given circumstances: that on occasion they
fought and demeaned themselves like tough good soldiers.
They had friends whom they liked according to their
natures; enemies whom they hated fiercely; passions, and
actions, and individualities of their own. The sailor king
who came after George was a man: the Duke of York
was a man, big, burly, loud, jolly, cursing, courageous.
But this George, what was he? I look through all his life,
and recognize but a bow and a grin. I try and take him
to pieces, and find silk stockings, padding, stays, a coat
with frogs and a fur collar, a star and blue ribbon, a pocket-handkerchief
prodigiously scented, one of Truefitt's best
nutty brown wigs reeking with oil, a set of teeth and a huge
black stock, under-waistcoats, more under-waistcoats, and
then nothing. I know of no sentiment that he ever distinctly
uttered. Documents are published under his name,
but people wrote them—private letters, but people spelt
them. He put a great “George P.” or “George R.” at the
bottom of the page and fancied he had written the paper:
some bookseller's clerk, some poor author, some man did
the work; saw to the spelling, cleaned up the slovenly
sentences, and gave the lax maudlin slipslop a sort of
consistency. He must have had an individuality: the
dancing-master whom he emulated, nay, surpassed—the
wig-maker who curled his toupee for him—the tailor who
cut his coats, had that. But, about George, one can get
at nothing actual. That outside, I am certain, is pad and
tailor's work; there may be something behind, but what?
We cannot get at the character; no doubt never shall.
Will men of the future have nothing better to do than to
[pg 784]
unswathe and interpret that royal old mummy? I own
I once used to think it would be good sport to pursue him,
fasten on him, and pull him down. But now I am ashamed
to mount and lay good dogs on, to summon a full field,
and then to hunt the poor game.




On the 12th August, 1762, the forty-seventh anniversary
of the accession of the House of Brunswick to the English
throne, all the bells in London pealed in gratulation, and
announced that an heir to George III was born. Five days
afterwards the king was pleased to pass letters patent under
the great seal, creating H.R.H. the Prince of Great Britain,
Electoral Prince of Brunswick-Lüneburg, Duke of Cornwall
and Rothsay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of
the Isles, and Great Steward of Scotland, Prince of Wales
and Earl of Chester.




All the people at his birth thronged to see this lovely
child; and behind a gilt china-screen railing in St. James's
Palace, in a cradle surmounted by the three princely ostrich
feathers, the royal infant was laid to delight the eyes of the
lieges. Among the earliest instances of homage paid to
him, I read that “a curious Indian bow and arrows were
sent to the prince from his father's faithful subjects in
New York”. He was fond of playing with these toys: an
old statesman, orator, and wit of his grandfather's and
great-grandfather's time, never tired of his business, still
eager in his old age to be well at Court, used to play with
the little prince, and pretend to fall down dead when the
prince shot at him with his toy bow and arrows—and get
up and fall down dead over and over again—to the increased
delight of the child. So that he was flattered from his cradle
upwards; and before his little feet could walk, statesmen
and courtiers were busy kissing them.




There is a pretty picture of the royal infant—a beautiful
buxom child—asleep in his mother's lap; who turns round
and holds a finger to her lip, as if she would bid the courtiers
around respect the baby's slumbers. From that day until
his decease, sixty-eight years after, I suppose there were
more pictures taken of that personage than of any other
human being who ever was born and died—in every kind
of uniform and every possible Court dress—in long fair
hair, with powder, with and without a pigtail—in every
conceivable cocked-hat—in dragoon uniform—in Windsor
uniform—in a field-marshal's clothes—in a Scotch kilt and
[pg 785]
tartans, with dirk and claymore (a stupendous figure)—in
a frogged frock-coat with a fur collar and tight breeches
and silk stockings—in wigs of every colour, fair, brown,
and black—in his famous coronation robes finally, with
which performance he was so much in love that he distributed
copies of the picture to all the Courts and British
embassies in Europe, and to numberless clubs, town-halls,
and private friends. I remember as a young man how
almost every dining-room had his portrait.





Illustration



There is plenty of biographical tattle about the prince's
boyhood. It is told with what astonishing rapidity he
[pg 786]
learned all languages, ancient and modern; how he rode
beautifully, sang charmingly, and played elegantly on the
violoncello. That he was beautiful was patent to all eyes.
He had a high spirit: and once, when he had had a difference
with his father, burst into the royal closet and called out,
“Wilkes and liberty for ever!” He was so clever, that he
confounded his very governors in learning; and one of
them, Lord Bruce, having made a false quantity in quoting
Greek, the admirable young prince instantly corrected him.
Lord Bruce could not remain a governor after this humiliation;
resigned his office, and, to soothe his feelings, was
actually promoted to be an earl! It is the most wonderful
reason for promoting a man that ever I heard. Lord Bruce
was made an earl for a blunder in prosody; and Nelson was
made a baron for the victory of the Nile.




Lovers of long sums have added up the millions and
millions which in the course of his brilliant existence this
single prince consumed. Besides his income of 50,000l.,
70,000l., 100,000l.,
120,000l. a year, we read of three applications
to Parliament: debts to the amount of 160,000l.,
of 650,000l.; besides mysterious foreign loans, whereof he
pocketed the proceeds. What did he do for all this money?
Why was he to have it? If he had been a manufacturing
town, or a populous rural district, or an army of five
thousand men, he would not have cost more. He, one
solitary stout man, who did not toil, nor spin, nor fight,—what
had any mortal done that he should be pampered so?




In 1784, when he was twenty-one years of age, Carlton
Palace was given to him, and furnished by the nation with
as much luxury as could be devised. His pockets were
filled with money: he said it was not enough; he flung it
out of window: he spent 10,000l. a year for the coats on
his back. The nation gave him more money, and more,
and more. The sum is past counting. He was a prince,
most lovely to look on, and christened Prince Florizel on
his first appearance in the world. That he was the handsomest
prince in the whole world was agreed by men, and
alas! by many women.




I suppose he must have been very graceful. There are
so many testimonies to the charm of his manner, that we
must allow him great elegance and powers of fascination.
He, and the King of France's brother, the Count d'Artois,
a charming young prince who danced deliciously on the
[pg 787]
tight-rope—a poor old tottering exiled king, who asked
hospitality of King George's successor, and lived awhile in
the palace of Mary Stuart—divided in their youth the title
of first gentleman of Europe. We in England of course
gave the prize to our gentleman. Until George's death the
propriety of that award was scarce questioned or the
doubters voted rebels and traitors. Only the other day
I was reading in the reprint of the delightful Noctes of
Christopher North. The health of THE KING is drunk in
large capitals by the loyal Scotsman. You would fancy him
a hero, a sage, a statesman, a pattern for kings and men.
It was Walter Scott who had that accident with the broken
glass I spoke of anon. He was the king's Scottish champion,
rallied all Scotland to him, made loyalty the fashion, and
laid about him fiercely with his claymore upon all the
prince's enemies. The Brunswicks had no such defenders
as those two Jacobite commoners, old Sam Johnson the
Lichfield chapman's son, and Walter Scott, the Edinburgh
lawyer's.




Nature and circumstance had done their utmost to prepare
the prince for being spoiled: the dreadful dullness of
papa's Court, its stupid amusements, its dreary occupations,
the maddening humdrum, the stifling sobriety of its routine,
would have made a scapegrace of a much less lively prince.
All the big princes bolted from that castle of ennui where
old King George sat, posting up his books and droning over
his Handel; and old Queen Charlotte over her snuff and
her tambour-frame. Most of the sturdy, gallant sons settled
down after sowing their wild oats, and became sober subjects
of their father and brother—not ill liked by the nation,
which pardons youthful irregularities readily enough, for
the sake of pluck, and unaffectedness, and good humour.




The boy is father of the man. Our prince signalized his
entrance into the world by a feat worthy of his future life.
He invented a new shoebuckle. It was an inch long and
five inches broad. “It covered almost the whole instep,
reaching down to the ground on either side of the foot.”
A sweet invention! lovely and useful as the prince on
whose foot it sparkled. At his first appearance at a Court
ball, we read that “his coat was pink silk, with white cuffs;
his waistcoat white silk, embroidered with various-coloured
foil, and adorned with a profusion of French paste. And
his hat was ornamented with two rows of steel beads, five
[pg 788]
thousand in number, with a button and loop of the same
metal, and cocked in a new military style”. What a Florizel!
Do these details seem trivial? They are the grave incidents
of his life. His biographers say that when he commenced
housekeeping in that splendid new palace of his, the
Prince of Wales had some windy projects of encouraging
literature, science, and the arts; of having assemblies of
literary characters; and societies for the encouragement
of geography, astronomy, and botany. Astronomy,
geography, and botany! Fiddlesticks! French ballet-dancers,
French cooks, horse-jockeys, buffoons, procurers,
tailors, boxers, fencing-masters, china, jewel, and gimcrack
merchants—these were his real companions. At first he
made a pretence of having Burke and Pitt and Sheridan
for his friends. But how could such men be serious before
such an empty scapegrace as this lad? Fox might talk
dice with him, and Sheridan wine; but what else had these
men of genius in common with their tawdry young host of
Carlton House? That ribble the leader of such men as
Fox and Burke! That man's opinions about the constitution,
the India Bill, justice to the Catholics—about any
question graver than the button for a waistcoat or the sauce
for a partridge—worth anything! The friendship between
the prince and the Whig chiefs was impossible. They were
hypocrites in pretending to respect him, and if he broke the
hollow compact between them, who shall blame him? His
natural companions were dandies and parasites. He could
talk to a tailor or a cook; but, as the equal of great statesmen,
to set up a creature, lazy, weak, indolent, besotted,
of monstrous vanity, and levity incurable—it is absurd.
They thought to use him, and did for awhile; but they
must have known how timid he was; how entirely heartless
and treacherous, and have expected his desertion. His next
set of friends were mere table companions, of whom he grew
tired too; then we hear of him with a very few select
toadies, mere boys from school or the Guards, whose
sprightliness tickled the fancy of the worn-out voluptuary.
What matters what friends he had? He dropped all his
friends; he never could have real friends. An heir to the
throne has flatterers, adventurers who hang about him,
ambitious men who use him; but friendship is denied him.




And women, I suppose, are as false and selfish in their
dealings with such a character as men. Shall we take the
[pg 789]
Leporello part, flourish a catalogue of the conquests of this
royal Don Juan, and tell the names of the favourites to
whom, one after the other, George Prince flung his pocket-handkerchief?
What purpose would it answer to say how
Perdita was pursued, won, deserted, and by whom succeeded?
What good in knowing that he did actually
marry Mrs. FitzHerbert according to the rites of the Roman
Catholic Church; that her marriage settlements have been
seen in London; that the names of the witnesses to her
marriage are known. This sort of vice that we are now
come to presents no new or fleeting trait of manners.
Debauchees, dissolute, heartless, fickle, cowardly, have
been ever since the world began. This one had more
temptations than most, and so much may be said in extenuation
for him.




It was an unlucky thing for this doomed one, and tending
to lead him yet farther on the road to the deuce, that,
besides being lovely, so that women were fascinated by
him; and heir apparent, so that all the world flattered
him; he should have a beautiful voice, which led him
directly in the way of drink: and thus all the pleasant
devils were coaxing on poor Florizel; desire, and idleness,
and vanity, and drunkenness, all clashing their merry
cymbals and bidding him come on.




We first hear of his warbling sentimental ditties under
the walls of Kew Palace by the moonlight banks of Thames,
with Lord Viscount Leporello keeping watch lest the music
should be disturbed.




Singing after dinner and supper was the universal fashion
of the day. You may fancy all England sounding with
choruses, some ribald, some harmless, but all occasioning
the consumption of a prodigious deal of fermented liquor.







The jolly Muse her wings to try no frolic flights need take,


But round the bowl would dip and fly, like swallows round a lake,







sang Morris in one of his gallant Anacreontics, to which the
prince many a time joined in chorus, and of which the
burden is,—




And that I think's a reason fair to drink and fill again.




This delightful boon companion of the prince's found
“a reason fair” to forgo filling and drinking, saw the error
of his ways, gave up the bowl and chorus, and died retired
[pg 790]
and religious. The prince's table no doubt was a very
tempting one. The wits came and did their utmost to
amuse him. It is wonderful how the spirits rise, the wit
brightens, the wine has an aroma, when a great man is at
the head of the table. Scott, the loyal cavalier, the king's
true liegeman, the very best raconteur of his time,
poured out with an endless generosity his store of old-world learning,
kindness, and humour. Grattan contributed to it his
wondrous eloquence, fancy, feeling. Tom Moore perched
upon it for awhile, and piped his most exquisite little love-tunes
on it, flying away in a twitter of indignation afterwards,
and attacking the prince with bill and claw. In such
society, no wonder the sitting was long, and the butler tired
of drawing corks. Remember what the usages of the time
were, and that William Pitt, coming to the House of
Commons after having drunk a bottle of port wine at his
own house, would go into Bellamy's with Dundas, and help
finish a couple more.




You peruse volumes after volumes about our prince, and
find some half-dozen stock stories—indeed not many more—common
to all the histories. He was good-natured; an
indolent, voluptuous prince, not unkindly. One story, the
most favourable to him of all, perhaps, is that as Prince
Regent he was eager to hear all that could be said in behalf
of prisoners condemned to death, and anxious, if possible,
to remit the capital sentence. He was kind to his servants.
There is a story common to all the biographies, of Molly
the housemaid, who, when his household was to be broken
up, owing to some reforms which he tried absurdly to
practise, was discovered crying as she dusted the chairs
because she was to leave a master who had a kind word
for all his servants. Another tale is that of a groom of the
prince's being discovered in corn and oat peculations, and
dismissed by the personage at the head of the stables; the
prince had word of John's disgrace, remonstrated with him
very kindly, generously reinstated him, and bade him
promise to sin no more—a promise which John kept.
Another story is very fondly told of the prince as a young
man hearing of an officer's family in distress, and how he
straightway borrowed six or eight hundred pounds, put his
long fair hair under his hat, and so disguised carried the
money to the starving family. He sent money, too, to
Sheridan on his death-bed, and would have sent more had
[pg 791]
not death ended the career of that man of genius. Besides
these, there are a few pretty speeches, kind and graceful,
to persons with whom he was brought in contact. But he
turned upon twenty friends. He was fond and familiar
with them one day, and he passed them on the next without
recognition. He used them, liked them, loved them
perhaps in his way, and then separated from them. On
Monday he kissed and fondled poor Perdita, and on Tuesday
he met her and did not know her. On Wednesday he was
very affectionate with that wretched Brummell, and on
Thursday forgot him; cheated him even out of a snuff-box
which he owed the poor dandy; saw him years afterwards
in his downfall and poverty, when the bankrupt Beau
sent him another snuff-box with some of the snuff he used
to love, as a piteous token of remembrance and submission,
and the king took the snuff, and ordered his horses and
drove on, and had not the grace to notice his old companion,
favourite, rival, enemy, superior. In Wraxall there is some
gossip about him. When the charming, beautiful, generous
Duchess of Devonshire died—the lovely lady whom he used
to call his dearest duchess once, and pretend to admire as all
English society admired her—he said, “Then we have lost
the best-bred woman in England.” “Then we have lost the
kindest heart in England,” said noble Charles Fox. On
another occasion, when three noblemen were to receive the
Garter, says Wraxall, “a great personage observed that
never did three men receive the order in so characteristic
a manner. The Duke of A. advanced to the sovereign with
a phlegmatic, cold, awkward air like a clown; Lord B.
came forward fawning and smiling like a courtier; Lord C.
presented himself easy, unembarrassed, like a gentleman!”
These are the stories one has to recall about the prince and
king—kindness to a housemaid, generosity to a groom,
criticism on a bow. There are no better stories about him:
they are mean and trivial, and they characterize him. The
great war of empires and giants goes on. Day by day
victories are won and lost by the brave. Torn, smoky flags
and battered eagles are wrenched from the heroic enemy
and laid at his feet; and he sits there on his throne and
smiles, and gives the guerdon of valour to the conqueror.
He! Elliston the actor, when the Coronation was performed,
in which he took the principal part, used to fancy himself
the king, burst into tears, and hiccup a blessing on the
[pg 792]
people. I believe it is certain about George IV, that he had
heard so much of the war, knighted so many people, and
worn such a prodigious quantity of marshal's uniforms,
cocked-hats, cock's feathers, scarlet and bullion in general,
that he actually fancied he had been present in some campaigns,
and, under the name of General Brock, led a tremendous
charge of the German legion at Waterloo.




He is dead but thirty years, and one asks how a great
society could have tolerated him? Would we bear him
now? In this quarter of a century, what a silent revolution
has been working! how it has separated us from old
times and manners! How it has changed men themselves!
I can see old gentlemen now among us, of perfect good
breeding, of quiet lives, with venerable grey heads, fondling
their grandchildren; and look at them, and wonder at
what they were once. That gentleman of the grand old
school, when he was in the 10th Hussars, and dined at
the prince's table, would fall under it night after night.
Night after night, that gentleman sat at Brookes's or
Raggett's over the dice. If, in the petulance of play or
drink, that gentleman spoke a sharp word to his neighbour,
he and the other would infallibly go out and try to shoot
each other the next morning. That gentleman would drive
his friend Richmond the black boxer down to Moulsey,
and hold his coat, and shout and swear, and hurrah with
delight, whilst the black man was beating Dutch Sam the
Jew. That gentleman would take a manly pleasure in
pulling his own coat off, and thrashing a bargeman in a
street row. That gentleman has been in a watchhouse.
That gentleman, so exquisitely polite with ladies in a
drawing-room, so loftily courteous, if he talked now as he
used among men in his youth, would swear so as to make
your hair stand on end. I met lately a very old German
gentleman, who had served in our army at the beginning
of the century. Since then he has lived on his own estate,
but rarely meeting with an Englishman, whose language—the
language of fifty years ago that is—he possesses perfectly.
When this highly bred old man began to speak
English to me, almost every other word he uttered was
an oath: as they used it (they swore dreadfully in Flanders)
with the Duke of York before Valenciennes, or at Carlton
House over the supper and cards. Read Byron's letters.
So accustomed is the young man to oaths that he employs
[pg 793]
them even in writing to his friends, and swears by the
post. Read his account of the doings of young men at
Cambridge, of the ribald professors, one of whom “could
pour out Greek like a drunken helot”, and whose excesses
surpassed even those of the young men. Read Matthews's
description of the boyish lordling's housekeeping at Newstead,
the skull-cup passed round, the monks' dresses from
the masquerade warehouse, in which the young scapegraces
used to sit until daylight, chanting appropriate songs round
their wine. “We come to breakfast at two or three o'clock,”
Matthews says. “There are gloves and foils for those who
like to amuse themselves, or we fire pistols at a mark in
the hall, or we worry the wolf.” A jolly life truly! The
noble young owner of the mansion writes about such affairs
himself in letters to his friend, Mr. John Jackson, pugilist,
in London.




All the prince's time tells a similar strange story of
manners and pleasure. In Wraxall we find the prime
minister himself, the redoubted William Pitt, engaged in
high jinks with personages of no less importance than
Lord Thurlow the lord chancellor, and Mr. Dundas the
treasurer of the navy. Wraxall relates how these three
statesmen, returning after dinner from Addiscombe, found
a turnpike open and galloped through it without paying
the toll. The turnpike man, fancying they were highwaymen,
fired a blunderbuss after them, but missed them;
and the poet sang,—







How as Pitt wandered darkling o'er the plain,


His reason drown'd in Jenkinson's champagne,


A rustic's hand, but righteous fate withstood,


Had shed a premier's for a robber's blood.







Here we have the treasurer of the navy, the lord high
chancellor, and the prime minister, all engaged in a most
undoubted lark. In Eldon's Memoirs, about the very same
time, I read that the Bar loved wine, as well as the woolsack.
Not John Scott himself; he was a good boy always;
and though he loved port wine, loved his business and his
duty and his fees a great deal better.




He has a Northern Circuit story of those days, about
a party at the house of a certain Lawyer Fawcett, who
gave a dinner every year to the counsel.




“On one occasion,” related Lord Eldon, “I heard Lee
[pg 794]
say, ‘I cannot leave Fawcett's wine. Mind, Davenport,
you will go home immediately after dinner, to read the
brief in that cause that we have to conduct to-morrow.’




“ ‘Not I,’ said Davenport. ‘Leave my dinner and my
wine to read a brief! No, no, Lee; that won't do.’




“ ‘Then,’ said Lee, ‘what is to be done? who else is
employed?’




“Davenport.—‘Oh! young Scott.’




“Lee.—‘Oh! he must go. Mr. Scott, you must go
home immediately, and make yourself acquainted with
that cause, before our consultation this evening.’ ”




“This was very hard upon me; but I did go, and there
was an attorney from Cumberland, and one from Northumberland,
and I do not know how many other persons.
Pretty late, in came Jack Lee, as drunk as he could be.




“ ‘I cannot consult to-night; I must go to bed,’ he
exclaimed, and away he went. Then came Sir Thomas
Davenport.




“ ‘We cannot have a consultation to-night, Mr. Wordsworth’
(Wordsworth, I think, was the name; it was
a Cumberland name), shouted Davenport. ‘Don't you
see how drunk Mr. Scott is? it is impossible to consult.’
Poor me! who had scarce had any dinner, and lost all
my wine—I was so drunk that I could not consult! Well,
a verdict was given against us, and it was all owing to
Lawyer Fawcett's dinner. We moved for a new trial; and
I must say, for the honour of the Bar, that those two
gentlemen, Jack Lee and Sir Thomas Davenport, paid all
the expenses between them of the first trial. It is the
only instance I ever knew, but they did. We moved for
a new trial (on the ground, I suppose, of the counsel not
being in their senses), and it was granted. When it came
on, the following year, the judge rose and said,—




“ ‘Gentlemen, did any of you dine with Lawyer Fawcett
yesterday? for, if you did, I will not hear this cause till
next year.’




“There was great laughter. We gained the cause that
time.”




On another occasion, at Lancaster, where poor Bozzy
must needs be going the Northern Circuit, “we found him,”
says Mr. Scott, “lying upon the pavement inebriated. We
subscribed a guinea at supper for him, and a half-crown
for his clerk”—(no doubt there was a large Bar, and that
[pg 795]
Scott's joke did not cost him much),—“and sent him, when
he waked next morning, a brief, with instructions to move
for what we denominated the writ of
quare adhaesit pavimento?
with observations duly calculated to induce him
to think that it required great learning to explain the
necessity of granting it, to the judge before whom he was
to move.” Boswell sent all round the town to attorneys
for books, that might enable him to distinguish himself—but
in vain. He moved, however, for the writ, making
the best use he could of the observations in the brief.
The judge was perfectly astonished, and the audience
amazed. The judge said, “I never heard of such a writ—what
can it be that adheres pavimento? Are any of you
gentlemen at the Bar able to explain this?”




The Bar laughed. At last one of them said,—




“My lord, Mr. Boswell last night adhaesit pavimento.
There was no moving him for some time. At last he was
carried to bed, and he has been dreaming about himself
and the pavement.”




The canny old gentleman relishes these jokes. When
the Bishop of Lincoln was moving from the deanery of
St. Paul's, he says he asked a learned friend of his, by
name Will Hay, how he should move some especially fine
claret, about which he was anxious.




“Pray, my lord bishop,” says Hay, “how much of the
wine have you?”




The bishop said six dozen.




“If that is all,” Hay answered, “you have but to ask
me six times to dinner, and I will carry it all away myself.”




There were giants in those days; but this joke about
wine is not so fearful as one perpetrated by Orator Thelwall,
in the heat of the French Revolution, ten years later,
over a frothing pot of porter. He blew the head off, and
said, “This is the way I would serve all kings.”




Now we come to yet higher personages, and find their
doings recorded in the blushing pages of timid little Miss
Burney's Memoirs. She represents a prince of the blood
in quite a royal condition. The loudness, the bigness,
boisterousness, creaking boots and rattling oaths, of the
young princes, appeared to have frightened the prim household
of Windsor, and set all the tea-cups twittering on the
tray. On the night of a ball and birthday, when one of
the pretty, kind princesses was to come out, it was agreed
[pg 796]
that her brother, Prince William Henry, should dance the
opening minuet with her, and he came to visit the household
at their dinner.




“At dinner, Mrs. Schwellenberg presided, attired magnificently;
Miss Goldsworthy, Mrs. Stanforth, Messrs. Du
Luc and Stanhope, dined with us; and while we were still
eating fruit, the Duke of Clarence entered.




“He was just risen from the king's table, and waiting
for his equipage to go home and prepare for the ball. To
give you an idea of the energy of his royal highness's
language, I ought to set apart an objection to writing, or
rather intimating, certain forcible words, and beg leave to
show you in genuine colours a royal sailor.




“We all rose, of course, upon his entrance, and the two
gentlemen placed themselves behind their chairs, while the
footmen left the room. But he ordered us all to sit down,
and called the men back to hand about some wine. He
was in exceeding high spirits, and in the utmost good
humour. He placed himself at the head of the table, next
Mrs. Schwellenberg, and looked remarkably well, gay, and
full of sport and mischief; yet clever withal, as well as
comical.




“ ‘Well, this is the first day I have ever dined with the
king at St. James's on his birthday. Pray, have you all
drunk his majesty's health?’




“ ‘No, your royal highness; your royal highness might
make dem do dat,’ said Mrs. Schwellenberg.




“ ‘Oh, by ——, I will! Here, you’ (to the footman).
‘bring champagne; I'll drink the king's health again, if
I die for it. Yes, I have done it pretty well already;
so has the king, I promise you! I believe his majesty was
never taken such good care of before; we have kept his
spirits up, I promise you; we have enabled him to go
through his fatigues; and I should have done more still,
but for the ball and Mary;—I have promised to dance with
Mary. I must keep sober for Mary.’ ”




Indefatigable Miss Burney continues for a dozen pages
reporting H.R.H.'s conversation, and indicating, with a
humour not unworthy of the clever little author of Evelina,
the increasing state of excitement of the young sailor
prince, who drank more and more champagne, stopped old
Mrs. Schwellenberg's remonstrances by giving the old lady
a kiss, and telling her to hold her potato-trap, and who
[pg 797]
did not “keep sober for Mary”. Mary had to find another
partner that night, for the royal William Henry could not
keep his legs.




Will you have a picture of the amusements of another
royal prince? It is the Duke of York, the blundering
general, the beloved commander-in-chief of the army, the
brother with whom George IV had had many a midnight
carouse, and who continued his habits of pleasure almost
till death seized his stout body.




In Pückler Muskau's Letters, that German prince describes
a bout with H.R.H., who in his best time was such
a powerful toper that “six bottles of claret after dinner
scarce made a perceptible change in his countenance”.




“I remember,” says Pückler, “that one evening,—indeed,
it was past midnight,—he took some of his guests, among
whom were the Austrian ambassador, Count Meervelt,
Count Beroldingen, and myself, into his beautiful armoury.
We tried to swing several Turkish sabres, but none of us
had a very firm grasp; whence it happened that the duke
and Meervelt both scratched themselves with a sort of
straight Indian sword so as to draw blood. Meervelt then
wished to try if the sword cut as well as a Damascus,
and attempted to cut through one of the wax candles that
stood on the table. The experiment answered so ill, that
both the candles, candlesticks and all, fell to the ground
and were extinguished. While we were groping in the dark
and trying to find the door, the duke's aide de camp
stammered out in great agitation, ‘By G——, sir, I remember
the sword is poisoned.!’




“You may conceive the agreeable feelings of the wounded
at this intelligence! Happily, on further examination, it
appeared that claret, and not poison, was at the bottom
of the colonel's exclamation.”




And now I have one more story of the bacchanalian
sort, in which Clarence and York, and the very highest
personage of the realm, the great Prince Regent, all play
parts. The feast took place at the Pavilion at Brighton,
and was described to me by a gentleman who was present
at the scene. In Gilray's caricatures, and amongst Fox's
jolly associates, there figures a great nobleman, the Duke
of Norfolk, called Jockey of Norfolk in his time, and
celebrated for his table exploits. He had quarrelled with
the prince, like the rest of the Whigs; but a sort of reconciliation
[pg 798]
had taken place; and now, being a very old man,
the prince invited him to dine and sleep at the Pavilion,
and the old duke drove over from his castle of Arundel
with his famous equipage of grey horses, still remembered
in Sussex.




The Prince of Wales had concocted with his royal brothers
a notable scheme for making the old man drunk. Every
person at table was enjoined to drink wine with the duke—a
challenge which the old toper did not refuse. He soon
began to see that there was a conspiracy against him; he
drank glass for glass; he overthrew many of the brave.
At last the First Gentleman of Europe proposed bumpers
of brandy. One of the royal brothers filled a great glass
for the duke. He stood up and tossed off the drink.
“Now,” says he, “I will have my carriage, and go home.”
The prince urged upon him his previous promise to sleep
under the roof where he had been so generously entertained.
“No,” he said, he had had enough of such hospitality.
A trap had been set for him; he would leave
the place at once and never enter its doors more.




The carriage was called, and came; but, in the half-hour's
interval, the liquor had proved too potent for the
old man; his host's generous purpose was answered, and
the duke's old grey head lay stupefied on the table. Nevertheless,
when his post-chaise was announced, he staggered
to it as well as he could, and stumbling in, bade the postilions
drive to Arundel. They drove him for half an hour
round and round the Pavilion lawn; the poor old man
fancied he was going home. When he awoke that morning
he was in bed at the prince's hideous house at Brighton.
You may see the place now for sixpence: they have
fiddlers there every day; and sometimes buffoons and
mountebanks hire the Riding House and do their tricks
and tumbling there. The trees are still there, and the
gravel walks round which the poor old sinner was trotted.
I can fancy the flushed faces of the royal princes as they
support themselves at the portico pillars, and look on at
old Norfolk's disgrace; but I can't fancy how the man who
perpetrated it continued to be called a gentleman.




From drinking, the pleased Muse now turns to gambling,
of which in his youth our prince was a great practitioner.
He was a famous pigeon for the play-men; they lived
upon him. Egalité Orleans, it was believed, punished him
[pg 799]
severely. A noble lord, whom we shall call the Marquis
of Steyne, is said to have mulcted him in immense sums.
He frequented the clubs, where play was then almost
universal; and, as it was known his debts of honour were
sacred, whilst he was gambling Jews waited outside to
purchase his notes of hand. His transactions on the turf
were unlucky as well as discreditable: though I believe
he, and his jockey, and his horse Escape, were all innocent
in that affair which created so much scandal.




Arthur's, Almack's, Bootle's, and White's were the chief
clubs of the young men of fashion. There was play at all,
and decayed noblemen and broken-down senators fleeced
the unwary there. In Selwyn's Letters we find Carlisle,
Devonshire, Coventry, Queensberry, all undergoing the
probation. Charles Fox, a dreadful gambler, was cheated
in very late times—lost 200,000l. at play. Gibbon tells
of his playing for twenty-two hours at a sitting, and losing
500l. an hour. That indomitable punter said that the
greatest pleasure in life, after winning, was losing. What
hours, what nights, what health did he waste over the
devil's books! I was going to say what peace of mind;
but he took his losses very philosophically. After an
awful night's play, and the enjoyment of the greatest
pleasure but one in life, he was found on a sofa tranquilly
reading an Eclogue of Virgil.




Play survived long after the wild prince and Fox had
given up the dice-box. The dandies continued it. Byron,
Brummell—how many names could I mention of men of
the world who have suffered by it! In 1837 occurred
a famous trial which pretty nigh put an end to gambling
in England. A peer of the realm was found cheating at
whist, and repeatedly seen to practise the trick called
sauter la coupe. His friends at the clubs saw him cheat,
and went on playing with him. One greenhorn, who had
discovered his foul play, asked an old hand what he should
do. “Do!” said the Mammon of Unrighteousness, “back
him, you fool.” The best efforts were made to screen him.
People wrote him anonymous letters and warned him;
but he would cheat, and they were obliged to find him out.
Since that day, when my lord's shame was made public,
the gaming-table has lost all its splendour. Shabby Jews
and blacklegs prowl about racecourses and tavern parlours,
and now and then inveigle silly yokels with greasy packs of
[pg 800]
cards in railroad ears; but Play is a deposed goddess, her
worshippers bankrupt, and her table in rags.




So is another famous British institution gone to decay—the
Ring: the noble practice of British boxing, which in my
youth was still almost flourishing.




The prince, in his early days, was a great patron of this
national sport, as his grand-uncle Culloden Cumberland
had been before him; but, being present at a fight at
Brighton, where one of the combatants was killed, the
prince pensioned the boxer's widow, and declared he never
would attend another battle. “But, nevertheless,”—I read
in the noble language of Pierce Egan (whose smaller work
on Pugilism I have the honour to possess),—“he thought
it a manly and decided English feature, which ought not
to be destroyed. His majesty had a drawing of the sporting
characters in the Fives Court placed in his boudoir, to
remind him of his former attachment and support of true
courage; and when any fight of note occurred after he
was king, accounts of it were read to him by his desire.”
That gives one a fine image of a king taking his recreation;—at
ease in a royal dressing-gown;—too majestic to read
himself, ordering the prime minister to read him accounts
of battles: how Cribb punched Molyneux's eye, or Jack
Randall thrashed the Game Chicken.




Where my prince did actually distinguish himself was
in driving. He drove once in four hours and a half from
Brighton to Carlton House—fifty-six miles. All the young
men of that day were fond of that sport. But the fashion
of rapid driving deserted England; and, I believe, trotted
over to America. Where are the amusements of our
youth? I hear of no gambling now but amongst obscure
ruffians; of no boxing but amongst the lowest rabble.
One solitary four-in-hand still drove round the parks in
London last year; but that charioteer must soon disappear.
He was very old; he was attired after the fashion of the
year 1825. He must drive to the banks of Styx ere long,—where
the ferry-boat waits to carry him over to the defunct
revellers, who boxed and gambled and drank and drove
with King George.




The bravery of the Brunswicks, that all the family must
have it, that George possessed it, are points which all
English writers have agreed to admit; and yet I cannot
see how George IV should have been endowed with this
[pg 801]
quality. Swaddled in feather-beds all his life, lazy, obese,
perpetually eating and drinking, his education was quite
unlike that of his tough old progenitors. His grandsires
had confronted hardship and war, and ridden up and fired
their pistols undaunted into the face of death. His father
had conquered luxury, and overcome indolence. Here
was one who never resisted any temptation; never had
a desire but he coddled and pampered it; if ever he had
any nerve, frittered it away among cooks, and tailors, and
barbers, and furniture-mongers, and opera dancers. What
muscle would not grow flaccid in such a life—a life that
was never strung up to any action—an endless Capua
without any campaign—all fiddling, and flowers, and
feasting, and flattery, and folly? When George III was
pressed by the Catholic question and the India Bill, he
said he would retire to Hanover rather than yield upon
either point; and he would have done what he said. But,
before yielding, he was determined to fight his ministers
and Parliament; and he did, and he beat them. The
time came when George IV was pressed too upon the
Catholic claims: the cautious Peel had slipped over to
that side; the grim old Wellington had joined it; and
Peel tells us, in his Memoirs, what was the conduct of the
king. He at first refused to submit; whereupon Peel and
the duke offered their resignations, which their gracious
master accepted. He did these two gentlemen the honour,
Peel says, to kiss them both when they went away. (Fancy
old Arthur's grim countenance and eagle beak as the
monarch kisses it!) When they were gone he sent after
them, surrendered, and wrote to them a letter begging
them to remain in office, and allowing them to have their
way. Then his Majesty had a meeting with Eldon, which
is related at curious length in the latter's Memoirs. He
told Eldon what was not true about his interview with the
new Catholic converts; utterly misled the old ex-chancellor;
cried, whimpered, fell on his neck, and kissed him too. We
know old Eldon's own tears were pumped very freely.
Did these two fountains gush together? I can't fancy
a behaviour more unmanly, imbecile, pitiable. This a
Defender of the Faith! This a chief in the crisis of a great
nation! This an inheritor of the courage of the Georges!
Many of my hearers no doubt have journeyed to the
pretty old town of Brunswick, in company with that most
[pg 802]
worthy, prudent, and polite gentleman, the Earl of Malmesbury,
and fetched away Princess Caroline for her longing
husband, the Prince of Wales, Old Queen Charlotte would
have had her eldest son marry a niece of her own, that
famous Louisa of Strelitz, afterwards Queen of Prussia,
and who shares with Marie Antoinette in the last age the
sad pre-eminence of beauty and misfortune. But George
III had a niece at Brunswick: she was a richer princess
than her Serene Highness of Strelitz:—in fine, the Princess
Caroline was selected to marry the heir to the English
throne. We follow my Lord Malmesbury in quest of her;
we are introduced to her illustrious father and royal mother;
we witness the balls and fêtes of the old Court; we are
presented to the princess herself, with her fair hair, her
blue eyes, and her impertinent shoulders—a lively, bouncing,
romping princess, who takes the advice of her courtly
English mentor most generously and kindly. We can be
present at her very toilette, if we like, regarding which,
and for very good reasons, the British courtier implores
her to be particular. What a strange Court! What a
queer privacy of morals and manners do we look into!
Shall we regard it as preachers and moralists, and cry,
Woe, against the open vice and selfishness and corruption;
or look at it as we do at the king in the pantomime, with
his pantomime wife, and pantomime courtiers, whose big
heads he knocks together, whom he pokes with his pantomime
sceptre, whom he orders to prison under the guard
of his pantomime beefeaters, as he sits down to dine on
his pantomime pudding? It is grave, it is sad, it is theme
most curious for moral and political speculation; it is
monstrous, grotesque, laughable, with its prodigious littlenesses,
etiquettes, ceremonials, sham moralities; it is as
serious as a sermon, and as absurd and outrageous as
Punch's puppet-show.




Malmesbury tells us of the private life of the duke,
Princess Caroline's father, who was to die, like his warlike
son, in arms against the French; presents us to his courtiers,
his favourite; his duchess, George III's sister, a grim old
princess, who took the British envoy aside, and told him
wicked old stories of wicked old dead people and times;
who came to England afterwards when her nephew was
regent, and lived in a shabby furnished lodging, old, and
dingy, and deserted, and grotesque, but somehow royal.
[pg 803]
And we go with him to the duke to demand the princess's
hand in form, and we hear the Brunswick guns fire their
adieux of salute, as H.R.H. the Princess of Wales departs
in the frost and snow; and we visit the domains of the
Prince Bishop of Osnaburg—the Duke of York of our
early time; and we dodge about from the French revolutionists,
whose ragged legions are pouring over Holland
and Germany, and gaily trampling down the old world to
the tune of Ça ira; and we take shipping at Slade, and
we land at Greenwich, where the princess's ladies and the
prince's ladies are in waiting to receive her royal highness.





Illustration



What a history follows! Arrived in London, the bridegroom
hastened eagerly to receive his bride. When she
[pg 804]
was first presented to him, Lord Malmesbury says she
very properly attempted to kneel. He raised her gracefully
enough, embraced her, and turning round to me,
said,—




“Harris, I am not well; pray get me a glass of brandy.”




I said, “Sir, had you not better have a glass of water?”




Upon which, much out of humour, he said, with an oath,
“No; I will go to the queen.”




What could be expected from a wedding which had such
a beginning—from such a bridegroom and such a bride?
I am not going to carry you through the scandal of that
story, or follow the poor princess through all her vagaries;
her balls and her dances, her travels to Jerusalem and
Naples, her jigs, and her junketings, and her tears. As
I read her trial in history, I vote she is not guilty. I don't
say it is an impartial verdict; but as one reads her story
the heart bleeds for the kindly, generous, outraged creature.
If wrong there be, let it lie at his door who wickedly thrust
her from it. Spite of her follies, the great, hearty people
of England loved, and protected, and pitied her. “God
bless you! we will bring your husband back to you,” said
a mechanic one day, as she told Lady Charlotte Bury with
tears streaming down her cheeks. They could not bring
that husband back; they could not cleanse that selfish
heart. Was hers the only one he had wounded? Steeped
in selfishness, impotent for faithful attachment and manly
enduring love,—had it not survived remorse, was it not
accustomed to desertion?




Malmesbury gives us the beginning of the marriage
story;—how the prince reeled into chapel to be married;
how he hiccupped out his vows of fidelity—you know how
he kept them; how he pursued the woman whom he had
married; to what a state he brought her; with what
blows he struck her; with what malignity he pursued her;
what his treatment of his daughter was; and what his
own life. He the first gentleman of Europe! There is no
stronger satire on the proud English society of that day,
than that they admired George.




No, thank God, we can tell of better gentlemen; and
whilst our eyes turn away, shocked, from this monstrous
image of pride, vanity, weakness, they may see in that
England over which the last George pretended to reign,
some who merit indeed the title of gentlemen, some who
[pg 805]
make our hearts beat when we hear their names, and whose
memory we fondly salute when that of yonder imperial
manikin is tumbled into oblivion. I will take men of my
own profession of letters. I will take Walter Scott, who
loved the king, and who was his sword and buckler, and
championed him like that brave Highlander in his own
story, who fights round his craven chief. What a good
gentleman! What a friendly soul, what a generous hand,
what an amiable life was that of the noble Sir Walter!
I will take another man of letters, whose life I admire
even more,—an English worthy, doing his duty for fifty
noble years of labour, day by day storing up learning, day
by day working for scant wages, most charitable out of
his small means, bravely faithful to the calling which he
had chosen, refusing to turn from his path for popular
praise or princes' favour;—I mean Robert Southey. We
have left his old political landmarks miles and miles behind;
we protest against his dogmatism; nay, we begin to
forget it and his politics: but I hope his life will not be
forgotten, for it is sublime in its simplicity, its energy,
its honour, its affection. In the combat between Time
and Thalaba, I suspect the former destroyer has conquered.
Kehama's curse frightens very few readers now; but
Southey's private letters are worth piles of epics, and are
sure to last among us, as long as kind hearts like to sympathize
with goodness and purity, and love and upright
life. “If your feelings are like mine,” he writes to his wife,
“I will not go to Lisbon without you, or I will stay at
home, and not part from you. For though not unhappy
when away, still without you I am not happy. For your
sake, as well as my own and little Edith's, I will not consent
to any separation; the growth of a year's love between
her and me, if it please God she should live, is a thing too
delightful in itself, and too valuable in its consequences,
to be given up for any light inconvenience on your part
or mine.... On these things we will talk at leisure;
only, dear, dear Edith, we must not part!”




This was a poor literary gentleman. The First Gentleman
in Europe had a wife and daughter too. Did he love
them so? Was he faithful to them? Did he sacrifice
ease for them, or show them the sacred examples of religion
and honour? Heaven gave the Great English Prodigal no
such good fortune. Peel proposed to make a baronet of
[pg 806]
Southey; and to this advancement the king agreed. The
poet nobly rejected the offered promotion.




“I have,” he wrote, “a pension of 200l. a year, conferred
upon me by the good offices of my old friend C. Wynn, and
I have the laureateship. The salary of the latter was
immediately appropriated, as far as it went, to a life insurance
for 3,000l., which, with an earlier insurance, is the sole
provision I have made for my family. All beyond must be
derived from my own industry. Writing for a livelihood, a
livelihood is all that I have gained; for, having also something
better in view, and never, therefore, having courted
popularity, nor written for the mere sake of gain, it has
not been possible for me to lay by anything. Last year,
for the first time in my life, I was provided with a year's
expenditure beforehand. This exposition may show how
unbecoming and unwise it would be to accept the rank
which, so greatly to my honour, you have solicited for me.”




How noble his poverty is, compared to the wealth of his
master! His acceptance even of a pension was made the
object of his opponents' satire: but think of the merit and
modesty of this state pensioner; and that other enormous
drawer of public money, who receives 100,000l. a year,
and comes to Parliament with a request for 650,000l. more!




Another true knight of those days was Cuthbert Collingwood;
and I think, since Heaven made gentlemen, there
is no record of a better one than that. Of brighter deeds,
I grant you, we may read performed by others; but where
of a nobler, kinder, more beautiful life of duty, of a gentler,
truer heart? Beyond dazzle of success and blaze of genius,
I fancy shining a hundred and a hundred times higher, the
sublime purity of Collingwood's gentle glory. His heroism
stirs British hearts when we recall it. His love, and goodness,
and piety make one thrill with happy emotion. As
one reads of him and his great comrade going into the victory
with which their names are immortally connected, how the
old English word comes up, and that old English feeling of
what I should like to call Christian honour! What gentlemen
they were, what great hearts they had! “We can, my
dear Coll,” writes Nelson to him, “have no little jealousies;
we have only one great object in view,—that of meeting
the enemy, and getting a glorious peace for our country.”
At Trafalgar, when the Royal Sovereign was pressing alone
into the midst of the combined fleets, Lord Nelson said to
[pg 807]
Captain Blackwood: “See how that noble fellow Collingwood
takes his ship into action! How I envy him!”
The very same throb and impulse of heroic generosity was
beating in Collingwood's honest bosom. As he led into the
fight, he said: “What would Nelson give to be here!”




After the action of the 1st of June, he writes:—“We
cruised for a few days, like disappointed people looking for
what they could not find, until the morning of little Sarah's
birthday, between eight and nine o'clock, when the French
fleet, of twenty-five sail of the line, was discovered to windward.
We chased them, and they bore down within about
five miles of us. The night was spent in watching and preparation
for the succeeding day; and many a blessing did
I send forth to my Sarah, lest I should never bless her
more. At dawn, we made our approach on the enemy,
then drew up, dressed our ranks, and it was about eight
when the admiral made the signal for each ship to engage
her opponent, and bring her to close action; and then
down we went under a crowd of sail, and in a manner that
would have animated the coldest heart, and struck terror
into the most intrepid enemy. The ship we were to engage
was two ahead of the French admiral, so we had to go
through his fire and that of two ships next to him, and
received all their broadsides two or three times, before we
fired a gun. It was then near ten o'clock. I observed to
the admiral, that about that time our wives were going to
church, but that I thought the peal we should ring about
the Frenchman's ears would outdo their parish bells.”




There are no words to tell what the heart feels in reading
the simple phrases of such a hero. Here is victory and
courage, but love sublimer and superior. Here is a Christian
soldier spending the night before battle in watching and
preparing for the succeeding day, thinking of his dearest
home, and sending many blessings forth to his Sarah, “lest
he should never bless her more.” Who would not say
Amen to his supplication? It was a benediction to his
country—the prayer of that intrepid loving heart.




We have spoken of a good soldier and good men of letters
as specimens of English gentlemen of the age just past:
may we not also—many of my elder hearers, I am sure,
have read, and fondly remember his delightful story—speak
of a good divine, and mention Reginald Heber as one of
the best of English gentlemen? The charming poet, the
[pg 808]
happy possessor of all sorts of gifts and accomplishments,
birth, wit, fame, high character, competence—he was the
beloved parish priest in his own home of Hoderel, “counselling
his people in their troubles, advising them in their
difficulties, comforting them in distress, kneeling often at
their sick-beds at the hazard of his own life; exhorting,
encouraging where there was need; where there was strife
the peacemaker; where there was want the free giver.”




When the Indian bishopric was offered to him he refused
at first; but after communing with himself (and committing
his case to the quarter whither such pious men are wont
to carry their doubts), he withdrew his refusal, and prepared
himself for his mission and to leave his beloved parish.
“Little children, love one another, and forgive one another,”
were the last sacred words he said to his weeping people.
He parted with them, knowing, perhaps, he should see them
no more. Like those other good men of whom we have
just spoken, love and duty were his life's aim. Happy he,
happy they who were so gloriously faithful to both! He
writes to his wife those charming lines on his journey:—







If thou, my love, wert by my side, my babies at my knee,


How gladly would our pinnace glide o'er Gunga's mimic sea!






I miss thee at the dawning grey, when, on our deck reclined,


In careless ease my limbs I lay and woo the cooler wind.






I miss thee when by Gunga's stream my twilight steps I guide;


But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee by my side.






I spread my books, my pencil try, the lingering noon to cheer;


But miss thy kind approving eye, thy meek attentive ear.






But when of morn and eve the star beholds me on my knee,


I feel, though thou art distant far, thy prayers ascend for me.






Then on! then on! where duty leads my course be onward still,—


O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, o'er bleak Almorah's hill.






That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, nor wild Malwah detain,


For sweet the bliss us both awaits by yonder western main.






Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, across the dark blue sea:


But ne'er were hearts so blithe and gay as there shall meet in thee!







Is it not Collingwood and Sarah, and Southey and Edith?
His affection is part of his life. What were life without it?
Without love, I can fancy no gentleman.


[pg 809]


How touching is a remark Heber makes in his Travels
through India, that on inquiring of the natives at a town,
which of the governors of India stood highest in the opinion
of the people, he found that, though Lord Wellesley and
Warren Hastings were honoured as the two greatest men
who had ever ruled this part of the world, the people spoke
with chief affection of Judge Cleaveland, who had died, aged
twenty-nine, in 1784. The people have built a monument
over him, and still hold a religious feast in his memory.
So does his own country still tend with a heart's regard the
memory of the gentle Heber.




And Cleaveland died in 1784, and is still loved by the
heathen, is he? Why, that year 1784 was remarkable in
the life of our friend the First Gentleman of Europe. Do
you not know that he was twenty-one in that year, and
opened Carlton House with a grand ball to the nobility and
gentry, and doubtless wore that lovely pink coat which we
have described. I was eager to read about the ball, and
looked to the old magazines for information. The entertainment
took place on the 10th February. In the European
Magazine of March, 1784, I came straightway upon it:—




“The alterations at Carlton House being finished, we lay
before our readers a description of the state apartments
as they appeared on the 10th instant, when H.R.H. gave
a grand ball to the principal nobility and gentry....
The entrance to the state room fills the mind with an
inexpressible idea of greatness and splendour.




“The state chair is of a gold frame, covered with crimson
damask; on each corner of the feet is a lion's head, expressive
of fortitude and strength; the feet of the chair
have serpents twining round them, to denote wisdom.
Facing the throne, appears the helmet of Minerva; and
over the windows, glory is represented by St. George with
a superb gloria.




“But the saloon may be styled the chef-d'œuvre, and in
every ornament discovers great invention. It is hung with
a figured lemon satin. The window-curtains, sofas, and
chairs are of the same colour. The ceiling is ornamented
with emblematical paintings, representing the Graces and
Muses, together with Jupiter, Mercury, Apollo, and Paris.
Two ormolu chandeliers are placed here. It is impossible
by expression to do justice to the extraordinary workmanship,
as well as design, of the ornaments. They each consist
[pg 810]
of a palm, branching out in five directions for the reception
of lights. A beautiful figure of a rural nymph is
represented entwining the stems of the tree with wreaths
of flowers. In the centre of the room is a rich chandelier.
To see this apartment dans son plus beau jour, it
should be viewed in the glass over the chimney-piece. The range of
apartments from the saloon to the ballroom, when the doors
are open, formed one of the grandest spectacles that ever
was beheld.”




In the Gentleman's Magazine, for the very same month
and year—March, 1784—is an account of another festival,
in which another great gentleman of English extraction is
represented as taking a principal share:—




“According to order, H.E. the Commander-in-Chief was
admitted to a public audience of Congress; and, being
seated, the president, after a pause, informed him that the
United States assembled were ready to receive his communications.
Whereupon he arose, and spoke as follows:—




“ ‘Mr. President,—The great events on which my resignation
depended having at length taken place, I present myself
before Congress to surrender into their hands the trust
committed to me, and to claim the indulgence of retiring
from the service of my country.




“ ‘Happy in the confirmation of our independence and
sovereignty, I resign the appointment I accepted with
diffidence; which, however, was superseded by a confidence
in the rectitude of our cause, the support of the supreme
power of the nation, and the patronage of Heaven. I close
this last act of my official life, by commending the interests
of our dearest country to the protection of Almighty
God, and those who have the superintendence of them to
His holy keeping. Having finished the work assigned me,
I retire from the great theatre of action; and, bidding an
affectionate farewell to this august body, under whose orders
I have so long acted, I here offer my commission and take
my leave of the employments of my public life.’ To which
the President replied:—




“ ‘Sir, having defended the standard of liberty in the
New World, having taught a lesson useful to those who
inflict and those who feel oppression, you retire with the
blessings of your fellow citizens; though the glory of your
virtues will not terminate with your military command,
but will descend to remotest ages.’ ”


[pg 811]


Which was the most splendid spectacle ever witnessed:—the
opening feast of Prince George in London, or the
resignation of Washington? Which is the noble character
for after-ages to admire;—yon fribble dancing in lace and
spangles, or yonder hero who sheathes his sword after a life
of spotless honour, a purity unreproached, a courage indomitable,
and a consummate victory? Which of these is
the true gentleman? What is it to be a gentleman? Is it
to have lofty aims, to lead a pure life, to keep your honour
virgin; to have the esteem of your fellow citizens, and the
love of your fireside; to bear good fortune meekly; to
suffer evil with constancy; and through evil or good to
maintain truth always? Show me the happy man whose
life exhibits these qualities, and him we will salute as gentleman,
whatever his rank may be; show me the prince who
possesses them, and he may be sure of our love and loyalty.
The heart of Britain still beats kindly for George III,—not
because he was wise and just, but because he was pure
in life, honest in intent, and because according to his lights
he worshipped Heaven. I think we acknowledge in the
inheritrix of his sceptre, a wiser rule, and a life as honourable
and pure; and I am sure the future painter of our manners
will pay a willing allegiance to that good life, and be loyal
to the memory of that unsullied virtue.

















 Footnotes


1.
The influence
of Scott on Thackeray is undoubted and freely
confessed. But I cannot fall in with “certain persons of distinction”
in making Esmond very specially indebted to
Woodstock. Woodstock
is a very great book in itself and amazing when one
knows its circumstances: but it is, even for Scott, very specially
and exclusively objective. Esmond
is subjective also in the highest degree.
2.
This form,
which he used elsewhere than in the Biographia
Literaria, is better than esemplastic which he
employed there.
3.
The
justice or accuracy of his individual presentments and
even of his general view of the time is quite another matter. We
may touch on part of it presently. But the real point is that the
whole is of a piece at least in
potentia: that it gives a world that
might have existed.
4.
The lectures on the
Humourists were, of course, delivered before
Esmond was published; but, in another
sense, they are only aftercrops or by-products.
The notes, sometimes very interesting, are James
Hannay's.
5.
As might
perhaps have been expected from its original appearance,
not piecemeal but in the regular three-volume form, Esmond
was not very much altered by its author in later issues. There
was, indeed, a “revised” edition in 1858, in which a considerable
number of minor changes, nearly all for the better, were made.
These have been carefully considered, but in practically every case
there was really nothing to do but to follow them silently. For it
would be absurd, in the present edition, to chronicle solemnly the
rectification of mere misprints like “Hoxton” for
“Hexton”, or the change from “was never”
to “never was”. In some points of orthography
“Chelsea” and “Chelsey”,
for instance, Thackeray
never reached full consistency, and he has sometimes been caught
in the intricacies of the Castlewood relations and nomenclature, &c.
So, too, Walcote, which is near Wells at first, moves to the
neighbourhood of Winchester later; and there are other
characteristic oversights. But, on the whole, there is little need of comment, and
none of variants, save in a very few instances, where the “revised”
edition seems to have been altered for the worse.




On the other hand, in recent editions of Thackeray, published by his representatives,
considerable alterations to The English Humourists,
&c., in text and notes have been introduced, dates being changed
in accordance with later researches, quotations (in which Thackeray
was pretty lax) adjusted to their originals, and so forth. As the
chief authorities consulted in making these alterations were the
late Sir Leslie Stephen, Mr. Austin Dobson, and Mr. Sidney Lee,
there need not be much question as to their accuracy: and it
perhaps shows undue hardihood in the present editor not to adopt
them. But it seems to him that Thackeray's books are not so much
text-books of history, literary and other, where accuracy is the
first point, as literature, where it is not. Such corrections could
be most properly introduced in the notes of a fuller commentated
edition: less so, it may seem, in an almost unannotated text. In
particular, Thackeray's misquotations (they are not seldom
distinct improvements) sometimes directly form the basis of his
own remarks, which become less apposite if the citations are
corrected.




As the text of this volume has few original illustrations some
miscellaneous sketches are added to it.



6.
Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, ann. 1686, Gentleman
Usher of the Back Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of the
Butteries and Groom of the King's Posset (on the decease of George,
second Viscount Castlewood), accompanied his Majesty to St.
Germains, where he died without issue. No Groom of the Posset
was appointed by the Prince of Orange, nor hath there been such an
officer in any succeeding reign.
7.
To have
this rank of marquis restored in the family had always
been my lady viscountess's ambition; and her old maiden aunt,
Barbara Topham, the goldsmith's daughter, dying about this time,
and leaving all her property to Lady Castlewood, I have heard that
her ladyship sent almost the whole of the money to King James, a
proceeding which so irritated my Lord Castlewood that he actually
went to the parish church, and was only appeased by the marquis's
title which his exiled majesty sent to him in return for the
15,000l. his faithful subject lent him.
8.
Ὄ
πόποι, οἷον δή νυ θεοὺς βροτοὶ αἰτιόωνται,
ἐξ ἡμέων γάρ φασι κάκ᾽ ἔμμεναι; οἱ δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ
σφῇσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὑπὲρ μόρον ἄλγε᾽ ἔχουσιν.

9.
My
mistress before I went this campaign sent me John Lockwood
out of Walcote, who hath ever since remained with me.—H.
E.
10.
This passage in the memoirs of Esmond is written on a leaf
inserted into the MS. book, and dated 1744, probably after he had
heard of the duchess's death.
11.
Our
grandfather's hatred of the Duke of Marlborough appears
all through his account of these campaigns. He always persisted
that the duke was the greatest traitor and soldier history ever told
of: and declared that he took bribes on all hands during the war.
My lord marquis (for so we may call him here, though he never went
by any other name than Colonel Esmond) was in the habit of telling
many stories which he did not set down in his memoirs, and which
he had from his friend the Jesuit, who was not always correctly
informed, and who persisted that Marlborough was looking for a
bribe of two millions of crowns before the campaign of Ramillies.




And our grandmother used to tell us children, that on his first
presentation to my lord duke, the duke turned his back upon my
grandfather; and said to the duchess, who told my lady dowager
at Chelsea, who afterwards told Colonel Esmond—“Tom Esmond's
bastard has been to my levee: he has the hang-dog look of his
rogue of a father”—an expression which my grandfather never
forgave. He was as constant in his dislikes as in his attachments;
and exceedingly partial to Webb, whose side he took against the
more celebrated general. We have General Webb's portrait now at
Castlewood, Va.
12.
'Tis not thus woman loves:
Col. E. hath owned to this folly for a score of women
besides.—R.
13.
And,
indeed, so was his to them, a thousand, thousand times more
charming, for where was his equal?—R.
14.
See Appendix, p.
464.
15.
What indeed? Ps. xci. 2. 3, 7.—R.
E.
16.
The
managers were the bishop, who cannot be hurt by having
his name mentioned, a very active and loyal Nonconformist divine,
a lady in the highest favour at Court, with whom Beatrix Esmond
had communication, and two noblemen of the greatest rank, and
a Member of the House of Commons, who was implicated in more
transactions than one in behalf of the Stuart family.
17.
There
can be very little doubt that the doctor, mentioned by
my dear father, was the famous Dr. Arbuthnot.—R. E. W.
18.
My dear father saith quite truly, that his manner towards our
sex was uniformly courteous. From my infancy upwards, he
treated me with an extreme gentleness, as though I was a little lady.
I can scarce remember (though I tried him often) ever hearing a rough
word from him, nor was he less grave and kind in his manner to the
humblest negresses on his estate. He was familiar with no one
except my mother, and it was delightful to witness up to the very
last days the confidence between them. He was obeyed eagerly by
all under him; and my mother and all her household lived in a constant
emulation to please him, and quite a terror lest in any way they
should offend him. He was the humblest man, with all this; the
least exacting, the most easily contented; and Mr. Benson, our
minister at Castlewood, who attended him at the last, ever said—“I
know not what Colonel Esmond's doctrine was, but his life and
death were those of a devout Christian.”—R. E. W.
19.
This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuously
even the best of men will sometimes judge of our sex. Lady Esmond had no
intention of triumphing over her daughter; but from a sense of duty
alone pointed out her deplorable wrong.—R. E.
20.
In
London we addressed the prince as royal highness invariably;
though the women persisted in giving him the title of king.
21.
The
anecdote is frequently told of our performer, Rich.
22.
He
was from a younger branch of the Swifts of Yorkshire.
His grandfather, the Rev. Thomas Swift, Vicar of Goodrich, in
Herefordshire, suffered for his loyalty in Charles I's time. That
gentleman married Elizabeth Dryden, a member of the family of
the poet. Sir Walter Scott gives, with his characteristic minuteness
in such points, the exact relationship between these famous
men. Swift was “the son of Dryden's second cousin”. Swift, too,
was the enemy of Dryden's reputation. Witness the Battle of
the Books:—“The difference was greatest among the horse” says
he of the moderns, “where every private trooper pretended to the
command, from Tasso and Milton to Dryden and Withers.” And
in Poetry, a Rhapsody, he advises the poetaster to—




Read all the Prefaces of Dryden,

For these our critics much confide in,

Though merely writ, at first, for filling,

To raise the volume's price a shilling.




“Cousin Swift, you will never be a poet,” was the phrase of Dryden
to his kinsman, which remained alive in a memory tenacious of
such matters.
23.
“Miss
Hetty” she was called in the family—where her face,
and her dress, and Sir William's treatment of her, all made the
real fact about her birth plain enough. Sir William left her a
thousand pounds.
24.
Sometimes,
during his mental affliction, he continued walking
about the house for many consecutive hours; sometimes he remained
in a kind of torpor. At times, he would seem to struggle to bring
into distinct consciousness, and shape into expression, the intellect
that lay smothering under gloomy obstruction in him. A pier-glass
falling by accident, nearly fell on him. He said, he wished it had!
He once repeated, slowly, several times, “I am what I am.” The
last thing he wrote was an epigram on the building of a magazine
for arms and stores, which was pointed out to him as he went
abroad during his mental disease:—




Behold a proof of Irish sense:

Here Irish wit is seen;

When nothing's left that's worth defence,

They build a magazine!

25.
Besides
these famous books of Scott's and Johnson's, there is
a copious Life by Thomas Sheridan (Dr. Johnson's “Sherry”),
father of Richard Brinsley, and son of that good-natured, clever,
Irish Doctor, Thomas Sheridan, Swift's intimate, who lost his chaplaincy
by so unluckily choosing for a text on the king's birthday,
“Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof!” Not to mention less
important works, there is also the Remarks on the Life and Writings
of Dr. Jonathan Swift, by that polite and dignified writer, the Earl
of Orrery. His lordship is said to have striven for literary renown,
chiefly that he might make up for the slight passed on him by his
father, who left his library away from him. It is to be feared that
the ink he used to wash out that stain only made it look bigger.
He had, however, known Swift, and corresponded with people who
knew him. His work (which appeared in 1751) provoked a good
deal of controversy, calling out, among other brochures, the interesting
Observations on Lord Orrery's Remarks, &c., of Dr.
Delany.
26.
Dr. Wilde's
book was written on the occasion of the remains
of Swift and Stella being brought to the light of day—a thing
which happened in 1835, when certain works going on in St. Patrick's
Cathedral, Dublin, afforded an opportunity of their being examined.
One hears with surprise of these skulls “going the rounds” of houses,
and being made the objects of dilettante
curiosity. The larynx of
Swift was actually carried off! Phrenologists had a low opinion
of his intellect, from the observations they took.




Dr. Wilde traces the symptoms of ill-health in Swift, as detailed
in his writings from time to time. He observes, likewise, that the
skull gave evidence of “diseased action” of the brain during life—such
as would be produced by an increasing tendency to “cerebral
congestion”.
27.
“He
[Dr. Johnson] seemed to me to have an unaccountable
prejudice against Swift; for I once took the liberty to ask him if
Swift had personally offended him, and he told me he had
not.”—Boswell's
Tour to the Hebrides.
28.
Few men,
to be sure, dared this experiment, but yet their
success was encouraging. One gentleman made a point of asking
the Dean, whether his uncle Godwin had not given him his education.
Swift, who hated that subject cordially, and, indeed, cared
little for his kindred, said, sternly, “Yes; he gave me the education
of a dog.” “Then, sir,” cried the other, striking his fist on the
table, “you have not the gratitude of a dog!”




Other occasions there were when a bold face gave the Dean
pause, even after his Irish almost-royal position was established.
But he brought himself into greater danger on a certain occasion,
and the amusing circumstances may be once more repeated here.
He had unsparingly lashed the notable Dublin lawyer, Mr. Serjeant
Bettesworth—




So, at the bar, the booby Bettesworth,

Though half a crown out-pays his sweat's worth,

Who knows in law nor text nor margent,

Calls Singleton his brother-serjeant!




The Serjeant, it is said, swore to have his life. He presented himself
at the deanery. The Dean asked his name. “Sir, I am Serjeant
Bett-es-worth.”




“In what regiment, pray?” asked Swift.




A guard of volunteers formed themselves to defend the Dean
at this time.
29.
“But,
my Hamilton, I will never hide the freedom of my sentiments
from you. I am much inclined to believe that the temper
of my friend Swift might occasion his English friends to wish him
happily and properly promoted at a distance. His spirit, for
I would give it the proper name, was ever untractable. The motions
of his genius were often irregular. He assumed more the air of
a patron than of a friend. He affected rather to dictate than
advise.”—Orrery.
30.
“An
anecdote which, though only told by Mrs. Pilkington,
is well attested, bears, that the last time he was in London
he went to dine with the Earl of Burlington, who was but newly
married. The earl, it is supposed, being willing to have a little
diversion, did not introduce him to his lady nor mention his name.
After dinner said the Dean, ‘Lady Burlington, I hear you can
sing; sing me a song.’ The lady looked on this unceremonious
manner of asking a favour with distaste, and positively refused.
He said, ‘She should sing, or he would make her. Why, madam,
I suppose you take me for one of your poor English hedge-parsons;
sing when I bid you.’ As the earl did nothing but laugh at this
freedom, the lady was so vexed that she burst into tears and retired.
His first compliment to her when he saw her again was, ‘Pray,
madam, are you as proud and ill-natured now as when I saw you
last?’ To which she answered with great good humour, ‘No,
Mr. Dean; I'll sing for you if you please.’ From which time he
conceived a great esteem for her.”—Scott's
Life. “He had
not the least tincture of vanity in his conversation. He was,
perhaps, as he said himself, too proud to be vain. When he was
polite, it was in a manner entirely his own. In his friendships he
was constant and undisguised. He was the same in his
enmities.”—Orrery.

31.
“I
make no figure but at Court, where I affect to turn
from a lord to the meanest of my acquaintances.”—Journal to
Stella.




“I am plagued with bad authors, verse and prose, who send me
their books and poems, the vilest I ever saw; but I have given
their names to my man, never to let them see me.”—Journal to
Stella.




The following curious paragraph illustrates the life of a courtier:—




“Did I ever tell you that the lord treasurer hears ill with the
left ear just as I do?... I dare not tell him that I am so, sir;
for fear he should think that I counterfeited to make my
court!”—Journal
to Stella.


32.
The
war of pamphlets was carried on fiercely on one side and
the other; and the Whig attacks made the ministry Swift served
very sore. Bolingbroke laid hold of several of the Opposition
pamphleteers, and bewails their “factitiousness” in the following
letter:—




“BOLINGBROKE TO THE EARL OF STRAFFORD.




“Whitehall, July 23rd, 1712.




“It is a melancholy consideration that the laws of our country
are too weak to punish effectually those factitious scribblers, who
presume to blacken the brightest characters, and to give even
scurrilous language to those who are in the first degrees of honour.
This, my lord, among others, is a symptom of the decayed condition
of our Government, and serves to show how fatally we mistake
licentiousness for liberty. All I could do was to take up Hart,
the printer, to send him to Newgate, and to bind him over upon
bail to be prosecuted; this I have done; and if I can arrive at
legal proof against the author Ridpath, he shall have the same
treatment.”




Swift was not behind his illustrious friend in this virtuous indignation.
In the history of the four last years of the queen, the Dean
speaks in the most edifying manner of the licentiousness of the
press and the abusive language of the other party:




“It must be acknowledged that the bad practices of printers
have been such as to deserve the severest animadversion from the
public.... The adverse party, full of rage and leisure since their
fall, and unanimous in their cause, employ a set of writers by
subscription, who are well versed in all the topics of defamation,
and have a style and genius levelled to the generality of their
readers.... However, the mischiefs of the press were too exorbitant
to be cured by such a remedy as a tax upon small papers,
and a bill for a much more effectual regulation of it was brought
into the House of Commons, but so late in the session that there
was no time to pass it, for there always appeared an unwillingness
to cramp overmuch the liberty of the press.”




But to a clause in the proposed bill, that the names of authors
should be set to every printed book, pamphlet, or paper, his reverence
objects altogether, for, says he, “beside the objection to this clause
from the practice of pious men, who, in publishing excellent writings
for the service of religion, have chosen, out of an humble Christian
spirit, to conceal their names, it is certain that all persons of true
genius or knowledge have an invincible modesty and suspicion of
themselves upon first sending their thoughts into the world.”




This “invincible modesty” was no doubt the sole reason which
induced the Dean to keep the secret of the Drapier's Letters and
a hundred humble Christian works of which he was the author.
As for the Opposition, the Doctor was for dealing severely with
them: he writes to Stella:—




Journal. Letter XIX




“London, March 25th, 1710-11.




“... We have let Guiscard be buried at last, after showing
him pickled in a trough this fortnight for twopence a piece; and
the fellow that showed would point to his body and say, ‘See,
gentlemen, this is the wound that was given him by his grace the
Duke of Ormond;’ and, ‘This is the wound,’ &c.; and then the
show was over, and another set of rabble came in. 'Tis hard that
our laws would not suffer us to hang his body in chains, because
he was not tried; and in the eye of the law every man is innocent
till then.”




Journal. Letter XXVII




“London, July 25th, 1711.




“I was this afternoon with Mr. Secretary at his office, and helped
to hinder a man of his pardon, who is condemned for a rape. The
under-secretary was willing to save him; but I told the secretary
he could not pardon him without a favourable report from the
judge; besides he was a fiddler, and consequently a rogue, and
deserved hanging for something else, and so he shall swing.”

33.
It was his constant practice to keep his birthday as a day of
mourning.
34.
“These
devils of Grub Street rogues, that write the Flying
Post and Medley in one paper, will not be quiet. They are
always mauling Lord Treasurer, Lord Bolingbroke, and me. We have the
dog under prosecution, but Bolingbroke is not active enough; but
I hope to swinge him. He is a Scotch rogue, one Ridpath. They
get out upon bail, and write on. We take them again, and get
fresh bail; so it goes round.”—Journal to Stella.
35.
Swift
was by no means inclined to forget such considerations;
and his English birth makes its mark, strikingly enough, every
now and then in his writings. Thus in a letter to Pope (Scott's
Swift, vol. xix, p. 97), he says:—




“We have had your volume of letters.... Some of those who
highly value you, and a few who knew you personally, are grieved
to find you make no distinction between the English gentry of this
kingdom, and the savage old Irish (who are only the vulgar, and
some gentlemen who live in the Irish parts of the kingdom); but
the English colonies, who are three parts in four, are much more
civilized than many counties in England, and speak better English,
and are much better bred.”




And again, in the fourth Drapier's Letter, we have the following:—




“A short paper, printed at Bristol, and reprinted here, reports
Mr. Wood to say ‘that he wonders at the impudence and insolence
of the Irish, in refusing his coin.’ When, by the way, it is the
true English people of Ireland who refuse it, although we take it
for granted that the Irish will do so too whenever they are
asked.”—Scott's
Swift, vol. iv, p. 143.




He goes further, in a good-humoured satirical paper, On Barbarous
Denominations in Ireland, where (after abusing, as he was
wont, the Scotch cadence, as well as expression), he advances to
the “Irish brogue”, and speaking of the
“censure” which it brings down, says:—




“And what is yet worse, it is too well known that the bad consequence
of this opinion affects those among us who are not the
least liable to such reproaches farther than the misfortune of being
born in Ireland, although of English parents, and whose education
has been chiefly in that kingdom.”—Ibid. vol. vii, p. 149.




But, indeed, if we are to make anything of Race at all, we must
call that man an Englishman whose father comes from an old
Yorkshire family, and his mother from an old Leicestershire one!
36.
“The
style of his conversation was very much of a piece with
that of his writings, concise and clear and strong. Being one day
at a sheriff's feast, who amongst other toasts called out to him,
‘Mr. Dean. The trade of Ireland!’ he answered quick: ‘Sir,
I drink no memories!’




“Happening to be in company with a petulant young man who
prided himself on saying pert things ... and who cried out,
‘You must know, Mr. Dean, that I set up for a wit?’ ‘Do you
so?’ says the Dean. ‘Take my advice, and sit down again!’




“At another time, being in company, where a lady whisking her
long train [long trains were then in fashion] swept down a fine
fiddle and broke it; Swift cried out—




Mantua vae miserae nimium vicina Cremonae!”




—Dr. Delany,
Observations upon Lord Orrery's “Remarks, &c.
of Swift”. London, 1754.
37.
“Don't you remember how I used to be in pain when Sir William
Temple would look cold and out of humour for three or four days,
and I used to suspect a hundred reasons? I have plucked up my
spirits since then, faith; he spoiled a fine
gentleman.”—Journal
to Stella.
38.
“The Epicureans were more intelligible in their
notion, and fortunate in their expression, when they placed a man's happiness
in the tranquillity of his mind and indolence of body; for
while we are composed of both, I doubt both must have a share
in the good or ill we feel. As men of several languages say the
same things in very different words, so in several ages, countries,
constitutions of laws and religion, the same thing seems to be
meant by very different expressions; what is called by the Stoics
apathy, or dispassion; by the sceptics, indisturbance; by the
Molinists, quietism; by common men, peace of conscience,—seems
all to mean but great tranquillity of mind.... For this reason
Epicurus passed his life wholly in his garden: there he studied,
there he exercised, there he taught his philosophy; and, indeed,
no other sort of abode seems to contribute so much to both the
tranquillity of mind and indolence of body, which he made his
chief ends. The sweetness of the air, the pleasantness of smell,
the verdure of plants, the cleanness and lightness of food, the
exercise of working or walking, but, above all, the exemption from
cares and solicitude, seem equally to favour and improve both contemplation
and health, the enjoyment of sense and imagination,
and thereby the quiet and ease both of the body and mind....
Where Paradise was has been much debated, and little agreed;
but what sort of place is meant by it may perhaps easier be conjectured.
It seems to have been a Persian word, since Xenophon
and other Greek authors mention it as what was much in use and
delight among the kings of those eastern countries. Strabo describing
Jericho: ‘Ibi est palmetum, cui immixtae sunt etiam ahae
stirpes hortenses, locus ferax palmis abundans, spatio stadiorum
centum, totus irriguus: ibi est Regis Balsami
paradisus.’ ”—Essay
on Gardens.




In the same famous essay Temple speaks of a friend, whose
conduct and prudence he characteristically admires.




“I thought it very prudent in a gentleman of my friends
in Staffordshire, who is a great lover of his garden, to pretend no
higher, though his soil be good enough, than to the perfection of
plums; and in these (by bestowing south walls upon them) he has
very well succeeded, which he could never have done in attempts
upon peaches and grapes; and a good plum is certainly better than
an ill peach.”

39.
Swift's Thoughts on Hanging.




(Directions to Servants.)




“To grow old in the office of a footman is the highest of all
indignities; therefore, when you find years coming on without
hopes of place at Court, a command in the army, a succession
to the stewardship, an employment in the revenue (which two last
you cannot obtain without reading and writing), or running away
with your master's niece or daughter, I directly advise you to go
upon the road, which is the only post of honour left you: there
you will meet many of your old comrades, and live a short life
and a merry one, and making a figure at your exit, wherein I will
give you some instructions.




“The last advice I give you relates to your behaviour when you
are going to be hanged; which, either for robbing your master,
for housebreaking, or going upon the highway, or in a drunken
quarrel by killing the first man you meet, may very probably be
your lot, and is owing to one of these three qualities: either a love
of good fellowship, a generosity of mind, or too much vivacity of
spirits. Your good behaviour on this article will concern your
whole community; deny the fact with all solemnity of imprecations:
a hundred of your brethren, if they can be admitted, will
attend about the bar, and be ready upon demand to give you
a character before the Court; let nothing prevail on you to confess,
but the promise of a pardon for discovering your comrades: but
I suppose all this to be in vain; for if you escape now, your fate
will be the same another day. Get a speech to be written by the
best author of Newgate: some of your kind wenches will provide
you with a holland shirt and white cap, crowned with a crimson
or black ribbon: take leave cheerfully of all your friends in Newgate:
mount the cart with courage; fall on your knees; lift up
your eyes; hold a book in your hands, although you cannot read
a word; deny the fact at the gallows; kiss and forgive the hangman;
and so farewell; you shall be buried in pomp at the charge
of the fraternity: the surgeon shall not touch a limb of you; and
your fame shall continue until a successor of equal renown succeeds
in your place....”

40.
“He
continued in Sir William Temple's house till the death of
that great man.”—Anecdotes of
the Family of Swift, by the Dean.




“It has since pleased God to take this great and good person to
himself.”—Preface to Temple's Works.




On all public occasions, Swift speaks of Sir William in the same
tone. But the reader will better understand how acutely he remembered
the indignities he suffered in his household, from the
subjoined extracts from the Journal to Stella:—




“I called at Mr. Secretary the other day, to see what the d——
ailed him on Sunday: I made him a very proper speech; told
him I observed he was much out of temper, that I did not expect
he would tell me the cause, but would be glad to see he was in
better; and one thing I warned him of—never to appear cold to
me, for I would not be treated like a schoolboy; that I had felt
too much of that in my life already”
[meaning Sir William Temple]
&c. &c.—Journal to Stella.




“I am thinking what a veneration we used to have for Sir William
Temple because he might have been Secretary of State at fifty;
and here is a young fellow hardly thirty in that
employment.”—Ibid.




“The Secretary is as easy with me as Mr. Addison was. I have
often thought what a splutter Sir William Temple makes about
being Secretary of State.”—Ibid.




“Lord Treasurer has had an ugly fit of the rheumatism, but is
now quite well. I was playing at one-and-thirty with him and his
family the other night. He gave us all twelvepence a piece to begin
with; it put me in mind of Sir William Temple.”—Ibid.




“I thought I saw Jack Temple [nephew to Sir William] and his
wife pass by me to-day in their coach; but I took no notice of
them. I am glad I have wholly shaken off that family.”—S. to S.
Sept., 1710.

41.
“Swift must
be allowed,” says Dr. Johnson, “for a time, to
have dictated the political opinions of the English nation.”




A conversation on the Dean's pamphlets excited one of the
Doctor's liveliest sallies. “One, in particular, praised his Conduct
of the Allies.—Johnson: ‘Sir, his Conduct of the
Allies is a performance of very little ability.... Why, sir, Tom Davies might
have written the Conduct of the
Allies!’ ”—Boswell's Life of
Johnson.


42.
“Whenever
he fell into the company of any person for the
first time, it was his custom to try their tempers and disposition
by some abrupt question that bore the appearance of rudeness.
If this were well taken, and answered with good humour, he afterwards
made amends by his civilities. But if he saw any marks of
resentment, from alarmed pride, vanity, or conceit, he dropped all
further intercourse with the party. This will be illustrated by an
anecdote of that sort related by Mrs. Pilkington. After supper,
the Dean having decanted a bottle of wine, poured what remained
into a glass, and seeing it was muddy, presented it to Mr. Pilkington
to drink it. ‘For,’ said he, ‘I always keep some poor parson to
drink the foul wine for me.’ Mr. Pilkington, entering into his
humour, thanked him, and told him ‘he did not know the difference,
but was glad to get a glass at any rate.’ ‘Why then,’ said
the Dean, ‘you shan't, for I'll drink it myself. Why, —— take
you, you are wiser than a paltry curate whom I asked to dine with
me a few days ago; for upon my making the same speech to him,
he said, he did not understand such usage, and so walked off without
his dinner. By the same token, I told the gentleman who
recommended him to me, that the fellow was a blockhead, and
I had done with him.’ ”—Sheridan's
Life of Swift.
43.

FROM THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHELL.




“Cashell, May 31st, 1735




“Dear Sir,—




“I have been so unfortunate in all my contests of late, that
I am resolved to have no more, especially where I am likely to be
overmatched; and as I have some reason to hope what is past
will be forgotten, I confess I did endeavour in my last to put the
best colour I could think of upon a very bad cause. My friends
judge right of my idleness; but, in reality, it has hitherto proceeded
from a hurry and confusion, arising from a thousand unlucky
unforeseen accidents rather than mere sloth. I have but one
troublesome affair now upon my hands, which, by the help of the
prime serjeant, I hope soon to get rid of; and then you shall see
me a true Irish bishop. Sir James Ware has made a very useful
collection of the memorable actions of my predecessors. He tells
me, they were born in such a town of England or Ireland; were
consecrated such a year; and, if not translated, were buried in
the Cathedral church, either on the north or south side. Whence
I conclude, that a good bishop has nothing more to do than to
eat, drink, grow fat, rich, and die; which laudable example I propose
for the remainder of my life to follow; for to tell you the truth,
I have for these four or five years past met with so much treachery,
baseness, and ingratitude among mankind, that I can hardly think
it incumbent on any man to endeavour to do good to so perverse
a generation.




“I am truly concerned at the account you give me of your health.
Without doubt a southern ramble will prove the best remedy you
can take to recover your flesh; and I do not know, except in one
stage, where you can choose a road so suited to your circumstances,
as from Dublin hither. You have to Kilkenny a turnpike and
good inns, at every ten or twelve miles' end. From Kilkenny
hither is twenty long miles, bad road, and no inns at all: but
I have an expedient for you. At the foot of a very high hill, just
midway, there lives in a neat thatched cabin, a parson, who is not
poor; his wife is allowed to be the best little woman in the world.
Her chickens are the fattest, and her ale the best in all the country.
Besides, the parson has a little cellar of his own, of which he keeps
the key, where he always has a hogshead of the best wine that can
be got, in bottles well corked, upon their side; and he cleans, and
pulls out the cork better, I think, than Robin. Here I design to
meet you with a coach; if you be tired, you shall stay all night;
if not, after dinner we will set out about four, and be at Cashell
by nine; and by going through fields and by-ways, which the
parson will show us, we shall escape all the rocky and stony roads
that lie between this place and that, which are certainly very bad.
I hope you will be so kind as to let me know a post or two before
you set out, the very day you will be at Kilkenny, that I may
have all things prepared for you. It may be, if you ask him,
Cope will come: he will do nothing for me. Therefore, depending
upon your positive promise, I shall add no more arguments to
persuade you, and am, with the greatest truth, your most faithful
and obedient servant,




“Theo. Cashell.”

44.
“Mr.
Swift lived with him [Sir William Temple] some time,
but resolving to settle himself in some way of living, was inclined
to take orders. However, although his fortune was very small,
he had a scruple of entering into the Church merely for
support.”—Anecdotes
of the Family of Swift, by the Dean.
45.
“Dr. Swift
had a natural severity of face, which even his smiles
could never soften, or his utmost gaiety render placid and serene;
but when that sternness of visage was increased by rage, it is scarce
possible to imagine looks or features that carried in them more
terror and austerity.”—Orrery.
46.

“London, April 10th, 1713.




“Lady Masham's eldest boy is very ill: I doubt he will not
live; and she stays at Kensington to nurse him, which vexes us
all. She is so excessively fond, it makes me mad. She should
never leave the queen, but leave everything, to stick to what is
so much the interest of the public, as well as her
own....”—Journal.
47.
“My
health is somewhat mended, but at best I have an ill
head and an aching heart.”—In May, 1719.
48.
Perhaps the most melancholy satire in the whole of the
dreadful book, is the description of the very old people in the Voyage to
Laputa. At Lugnag, Gulliver hears of some persons who never
die, called the Struldbrugs, and expressing a wish to become
acquainted with men who must have so much learning and experience,
his colloquist describes the Struldbrugs to him.




“He said, They commonly acted like mortals, till about thirty
years old, after which, by degrees, they grew melancholy and
dejected, increasing in both till they came to fourscore. This he
learned from their own confession: for otherwise there not being
above two or three of that species born in an age, they were too
few to form a general observation by. When they came to fourscore
years, which is reckoned the extremity of living in this
country, they had not only all the follies and infirmities of other
old men, but many more, which arose from the prospect of never
dying. They were not only opinionative, peevish, covetous, morose,
vain, talkative, but incapable of friendship, and dead to all natural
affection, which never descended below their grandchildren. Envy
and impotent desires are their prevailing passions. But those
objects against which their envy seems principally directed, are
the vices of the younger sort and the deaths of the old. By reflecting
on the former, they find themselves cut off from all possibility of
pleasure; and whenever they see a funeral, they lament, and
repent that others are gone to a harbour of rest, to which they
themselves never can hope to arrive. They have no remembrance
of anything but what they learned and observed in their youth
and middle age, and even that is very imperfect. And for the
truth or particulars of any fact, it is safer to depend on common
tradition than upon their best recollections. The least miserable
among them appear to be those who turn to dotage, and entirely
lose their memories; these meet with more pity and assistance,
because they want many bad qualities which abound in others.




“If a Struldbrug happened to marry one of his own kind, the
marriage is dissolved of course, by the courtesy of the kingdom,
as soon as the younger of the two comes to be fourscore. For the
law thinks it to be a reasonable indulgence that those who are
condemned, without any fault of their own, to a perpetual continuance
in the world, should not have their misery doubled by
the load of a wife.




“As soon as they have completed the term of eighty years, they
are looked on as dead in law; their heirs immediately succeed to
their estates, only a small pittance is reserved for their support;
and the poor ones are maintained at the public charge. After
that period, they are held incapable of any employment of trust
or profit, they cannot purchase lands or take leases, neither are
they allowed to be witnesses in any cause, either civil or criminal,
not even for the decision of meers and bounds.




“At ninety they lose their teeth and hair; they have at that
age no distinction of taste, but eat and drink whatever they can
get without relish or appetite. The diseases they were subject to
still continue, without increasing or diminishing. In talking, they
forget the common appellation of things, and the names of persons,
even of those who are their nearest friends and relatives. For
the same reason, they can never amuse themselves with reading,
because their memory will not serve to carry them from the beginning
of a sentence to the end; and by this defect they are deprived
of the only entertainment whereof they might otherwise be capable.




“The language of this country being always on the flux, the
Struldbrugs of one age do not understand those of another; neither
are they able, after two hundred years, to hold any conversation
(further than by a few general words) with their neighbours, the
mortals; and thus they lie under the disadvantage of living like
foreigners in their own country.




“This was the account given me of the Struldbrugs, as near as
I can remember. I afterwards saw five or six of different ages,
the youngest not above two hundred years old, who were brought
to me several times by some of my friends; but although they
were told ‘that I was a great traveller, and had seen all the world’,
they had not the least curiosity to ask me a single question; only
desired I would give them slumskudask, or a token of remembrance;
which is a modest way of begging, to avoid the law that strictly
forbids it, because they are provided for by the public, although
indeed with a very scanty allowance.




“They are despised and hated by all sorts of people; when one
of them is born, it is reckoned ominous, and their birth is recorded
very particularly; so that you may know their age by consulting
the register, which, however, has not been kept above a thousand
years past, or at least has been destroyed by time or public disturbances.
But the usual way of computing how old they are, is,
by asking them what kings or great persons they can remember,
and then consulting history; for infallibly the last prince in their
mind did not begin his reign after they were fourscore years old.




“They were the most mortifying sight I ever beheld, and the
women more horrible than the men; besides the usual deformities
in extreme old age, they acquired an additional ghastliness, in
proportion to their number of years, which is not to be described;
and among half a dozen, I soon distinguished which was the eldest,
although there was not above a century or two between
them.”—Gulliver's
Travels.
49.
The name
of Varina has been thrown into the shade by those
of the famous Stella and Vanessa; but she had a story of her
own to tell about the blue eyes of young Jonathan. One may
say that the book of Swift's life opens at places kept by these
blighted flowers! Varina must have a paragraph.




She was a Miss Jane Waryng, sister to a college chum of his.
In 1696, when Swift was nineteen years old, we find him writing
a love-letter to her, beginning, “Impatience is the most inseparable
quality of a lover.” But absence made a great difference in his
feelings; so, four years afterwards, the tone is changed. He writes
again, a very curious letter, offering to marry her, and putting the
offer in such a way that nobody could possibly accept it.




After dwelling on his poverty, &c., he says, conditionally, “I shall
be blessed to have you in my arms, without regarding whether
your person be beautiful, or your fortune large. Cleanliness in the
first, and competency in the second, is all I ask for!”




The editors do not tell us what became of Varina in life. One
would be glad to know that she met with some worthy partner,
and lived long enough to see her little boys laughing over Lilliput,
without any arrière pensée
of a sad character about the great Dean!
50.
A sentimental Champollion might find a good deal of matter
for his art, in expounding the symbols of the “Little Language”.
Usually, Stella is “M.D.,” but sometimes her companion, Mrs. Dingley,
is included in it. Swift is “Presto”; also P.D.F.R. We have
“Goodnight, M.D.; Night, M.D.; Little M.D.; Stellakins; Pretty
Stella; Dear, roguish, impudent, pretty M.D.!” Every now and
then he breaks into rhyme, as—




I wish you both a merry new year,

Roast beef, minced-pies, and good strong beer,
And me a share of your good cheer.

That I was there, as you were here,

And you are a little saucy dear.

51.
The following
passages are from a paper begun by Swift on
the evening of the day of her death, Jan. 28, 1727-8:




“She was sickly from her childhood, until about the age of fifteen;
but then she grew into perfect health, and was looked upon as one
of the most beautiful, graceful, and agreeable young women in
London—only a little too fat. Her hair was blacker than a raven,
and every feature of her face in perfection.




“... Properly speaking”—he goes on with a calmness which,
under the circumstances, is terrible—“she has been dying six
months!...”




“Never was any of her sex born with better gifts of the mind,
or who more improved them by reading and conversation....
All of us who had the happiness of her friendship agreed unanimously,
that in an afternoon's or evening's conversation she never
failed before we parted of delivering the best thing that was said
in the company. Some of us have written down several of her
sayings, or what the French call bons mots,
wherein she excelled beyond belief.”




The specimens on record, however, in the Dean's paper called
Bons Mots de Stella, scarcely bear out this last part of the
panegyric. But the following prove her wit:




“A gentleman, who had been very silly and pert in her company,
at last began to grieve at remembering the loss of a child lately
dead. A bishop sitting by comforted him—that he should be easy,
because ‘the child was gone to heaven’. ‘No, my lord,’ said
she; ‘that is it which most grieves him, because he is sure never
to see his child there.’




“When she was extremely ill, her physician said, ‘Madam, you
are near the bottom of the hill, but we will endeavour to get you
up again.’ She answered, ‘Doctor, I fear I shall be out of breath
before I get up to the top.’




“A very dirty clergyman of her acquaintance, who affected
smartness and repartees, was asked by some of the company how
his nails came to be so dirty. He was at a loss; but she solved
the difficulty, by saying, ‘the doctor's nails grew dirty by scratching
himself.’




“A quaker apothecary sent her a vial, corked; it had a broad
brim, and a label of paper about its neck. ‘What is that?’—said
she—‘my apothecary's son!’ The ridiculous resemblance,
and the suddenness of the question, set us all
a-laughing.”—Swift's
Works, Scott's ed., vol. ix,
295-6.
52.
“I am
so hot and lazy after my morning's walk, that I loitered
at Mrs. Vanhomrigh's, where my best gown and periwig was, and
out of mere listlessness dine there, very often; so
I did to-day.”—Journal
to Stella. Mrs. Vanhomrigh, Vanessa's mother, was the widow of a Dutch
merchant who held lucrative appointments in King William's time.
The family settled in London in 1709, and had a house in Bury
Street, St. James's—a street made notable by such residents us
Swift and Steele; and, in our own time, Moore and Crabbe.
53.
“Vanessa
was excessively vain. The character given of her
by Cadenus is fine painting, but in general fictitious. She was
fond of dress; impatient to be admired; very romantic in her
turn of mind; superior, in her own opinion, to all her sex; full of
pertness, gaiety, and pride; not without some agreeable accomplishments,
but far from being either beautiful or genteel;...
happy in the thoughts of being reported Swift's concubine, but
still aiming and intending to be his
wife.”—Lord Orrery.
54.
“You bid
me be easy, and you would see me as often as you
could. You had better have said, as often as you can get the
better of your inclinations so much; or as often as you remember
there was such a one in the world. If you continue to treat me
as you do, you will not be made uneasy by me long. It is impossible
to describe what I have suffered since I saw you last: I am
sure I could have borne the rack much better than those killing,
killing words of yours. Sometimes I have resolved to die without
seeing you more;, but those resolves, to your misfortune, did not
last long; for there is something in human nature that prompts
one so to find relief in this world I must give way to it, and beg
you would see me, and speak kindly to me; for I am sure you'd
not condemn any one to suffer what I have done, could you but
know it. The reason I write to you is, because I cannot tell it to
you, should I see you; for when I begin to complain, then you
are angry, and there is something in your looks so awful that it
strikes me dumb. Oh! that you may have but so much regard
for me left that this complaint may touch your soul with pity.
I say as little as ever I can; did you but know what I thought,
I am sure it would move you to forgive me; and believe I cannot
help telling you this and live.”—Vanessa.
(M. 1714.)
55.
“If we
consider Swift's behaviour, so far only as it relates to
women, we shall find that he looked upon them rather as busts
than as whole figures.”—Orrery.




“You must have smiled to have found his house a constant
seraglio of very virtuous women, who attended him from morning
to night.”—Orrery.




A correspondent of Sir Walter Scott's furnished him with the
materials on which to found the following interesting passage about
Vanessa—after she had retired to cherish her passion in retreat:—




“Marley Abbey, near Celbridge, where Miss Vanhomrigh resided,
is built much in the form of a real cloister, especially in its external
appearance. An aged man (upwards of ninety, by his own account),
showed the grounds to my correspondent. He was the son of
Mrs. Vanhomrigh's gardener, and used to work with his father in
the garden while a boy. He remembered the unfortunate Vanessa
well; and his account of her corresponded with the usual description
of her person, especially as to her embonpoint. He said she
went seldom abroad, and saw little company; her constant amusement
was reading, or walking in the garden.... She avoided
company, and was always melancholy, save when Dean Swift was
there, and then she seemed happy. The garden was to an uncommon
degree crowded with laurels. The old man said that when
Miss Vanhomrigh expected the Dean she always planted with her
own hand a laurel or two against his arrival. He showed her
favourite seat, still called ‘Vanessa's bower’. Three or four trees
and some laurels indicate the spot.... There were two seats and
a rude table within the bower, the opening of which commanded
a view of the Liffey.... In this sequestered spot, according to
the old gardener's account, the Dean and Vanessa used often to
sit, with books and writing materials on the table before
them.”—Scott's
Swift, vol. i, pp. 246-7.
“... But Miss Vanhomrigh, irritated at the situation in which
she found herself, determined on bringing to a crisis those expectations
of a union with the object of her affections—to the hope of
which she had clung amid every vicissitude of his conduct towards
her. The most probable bar was his undefined connexion with
Mrs. Johnson, which, as it must have been perfectly known to her,
had, doubtless, long elicited her secret jealousy, although only
a single hint to that purpose is to be found in their correspondence,
and that so early as 1713, when she writes to him—then in Ireland—‘If
you are very happy, it is ill-natured of you not to tell me so,
except 'tis what is inconsistent with mine.’ Her silence and patience
under this state of uncertainty for no less than eight years, must
have been partly owing to her awe for Swift, and partly, perhaps,
to the weak state of her rival's health, which, from year to year,
seemed to announce speedy dissolution. At length, however,
Vanessa's impatience prevailed, and she ventured on the decisive
step of writing to Mrs. Johnson herself, requesting to know the
nature of that connexion. Stella, in reply, informed her of her
marriage with the Dean; and full of the highest resentment against
Swift for having given another female such a right in him as Miss
Vanhomrigh's inquiries implied, she sent to him her rival's letter
of interrogatories, and, without seeing him, or awaiting his reply,
retired to the house of Mr. Ford, near Dublin. Every reader knows
the consequence. Swift, in one of those paroxysms of fury to
which he was liable, both from temper and disease, rode instantly
to Marley Abbey. As he entered the apartment, the sternness of
his countenance, which was peculiarly formed to express the fiercer
passions, struck the unfortunate Vanessa with such terror that she
could scarce ask whether he would not sit down. He answered
by flinging a letter on the table, and, instantly leaving the house,
remounted his horse, and returned to Dublin. When Vanessa
opened the packet, she only found her own letter to Stella. It
was her death warrant. She sunk at once under the disappointment
of the delayed, yet cherished, hopes which had so long sickened
her heart, and beneath the unrestrained wrath of him for whose
sake she had indulged them. How long she survived the last
interview is uncertain, but the time does not seem to have exceeded
a few weeks.”—Scott.
56.
“M. Swift est
Rabelais dans son bon sens, et vivant en bonne
compagnie. Il n'a pas, à la verité, la gaîté du premier, mais il
a toute la finesse, la raison, le choix, le bon goût qui manquent
à notre curé de Meudon. Ses vers sont d'un goût singulier, et
presque inimitable; la bonne plaisanterie est son partage en vers et
en prose; mais pour le bien entendre il faut faire un petit voyage
dans son pays.”—Voltaire,
Lettres sur les Anglais, Let. 22.
57.
The following
is a conspectus of them:—




Addison.—Commissioner of Appeals; Under Secretary of
State; Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland; Keeper
of the Records in Ireland; Lord of Trade; and one
of the Principal Secretaries of State, successively.




Steele.—Commissioner of the Stamp Office; Surveyor of the
Royal Stables at Hampton Court; and Governor of
the Royal Company of Comedians; Commissioner of
“Forfeited Estates in Scotland”.




Prior.—Secretary to the Embassy at the Hague; Gentleman of
the Bedchamber to King William; Secretary to the
Embassy in France; Under Secretary of State;
Ambassador to France.




Tickell.—Under Secretary of State; Secretary to the Lords
Justices of Ireland.




Congreve.—Commissioner for licensing Hackney Coaches;
Commissioner for Wine Licences; place in the Pipe-office;
post in the Custom-house; Secretary of Jamaica.




Gay.—Secretary to the Earl of Clarendon (when Ambassador
to Hanover.)




John Dennis.—A place in the Custom-house.
“En Angleterre ... les lettres sont plus en honneur qu'ici.”—




Voltaire, Lettres sur les Anglais, Let.
20.
58.
He was
the son of Colonel William Congreve, and grandson
of Richard Congreve, Esq., of Congreve and Stretton in Staffordshire—a
very ancient family.
59.
“Pipe.—Pipe, in law, is a roll in the Exchequer, called also
the great roll.




“Pipe-Office
is an office in which a person called the Clerk of
the Pipe makes out leases of crown lands, by warrant, from the
Lord-Treasurer, or Commissioners of the Treasury, or Chancellor
of the Exchequer.




“Clerk of the Pipe makes up all accounts of
sheriffs, &c.”—Rees,
Cyclopaed. Art. Pipe.




“Pipe-Office.—Spelman
thinks so called because the papers were
kept in a large pipe or cask.




“These be at last brought into that office of Her Majesty's
Exchequer, which we, by a metaphor, do call the pipe ... because
the whole receipt is finally conveyed into it by means of divers
small pipes or quills.”—Bacon,
The Office of Alienations.




[We are indebted to Richardson's Dictionary for this fragment of
erudition. But a modern man of letters can know little on these
points—by experience.]
60.
“It
has been observed that no change of Ministers affected
him in the least, nor was he ever removed from any post that was
given to him, except to a better. His place in the Custom-house,
and his office of Secretary in Jamaica, are said to have brought
him in upwards of twelve hundred a year.”—Biog.
Brit., Art. Congreve.
61.
Dryden addressed his “twelfth epistle”
to “My dear friend Mr. Congreve,” on his comedy called
The Double Dealer, in which he says—




Great Jonson did by strength of judgement please;

Yet, doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his case.

In differing talents both adorn'd their age:

One for the study, t'other for the stage.

But both to Congreve justly shall submit,

One match'd in judgement, both o'ermatched in wit.

In him all beauties of this age we see, &c. &c.




The Double Dealer, however,
was not so palpable a hit as the Old
Bachelor, but, at first, met with opposition. The critics having
fallen foul of it, our “swell” applied the scourge to that presumptuous
body, in the Epistle Dedicatory to the “Right Honourable Charles
Montague.”




“I was conscious,” said he, “where a true critic might have put
me upon my defence. I was prepared for the attack, ... but
I have not heard anything said sufficient to provoke an answer.”
He goes on—




“But there is one thing at which I am more concerned than all
the false criticisms that are made upon me; and that is, some of
the ladies are offended. I am heartily sorry for it; for I declare,
I would rather disoblige all the critics in the world than one of
the fair sex. They are concerned that I have represented some
women vicious and affected. How can I help it? It is the business
of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind....
I should be very glad of an opportunity to make my compliments
to those ladies who are offended. But they can no more
expect it in a comedy, than to be tickled by a surgeon when he is
letting their blood.”

62.
“Instead of endeavouring to raise a vain monument to myself,
let me leave behind me a memorial of my friendship, with one of
the most valuable men as well as finest writers of my age and
country—one who has tried, and knows by his own experience,
how hard an undertaking it is to do justice to Homer—and one
who, I am sure, seriously rejoices with me at the period of my
labours. To him, therefore, having brought this long work to a
conclusion, I desire to dedicate it, and to have the honour and
satisfaction of placing together in this manner the names of Mr. Congreve
and of—A. Pope.”—Postscript
to Translation of the Iliad of
Homer. Mar. 25, 1720.
63.
“When asked
why he listened to the praises of Dennis, he said,
he had much rather be flattered than abused. Swift had a particular
friendship for our author, and generally took him under his protection
in his high authoritative manner.”—Thos. Davies,
Dramatic Miscellanies.
64.
“Congreve
was very intimate for years with Mrs. Bracegirdle,
and lived in the same street, his house very near hers, until his
acquaintance with the young Duchess of Marlborough. He then
quitted that house. The Duchess showed us a diamond necklace
(which Lady Di. used afterwards to wear) that cost seven thousand
pounds, and was purchased with the money Congreve left her.
How much better would it have been to have given it to poor
Mrs. Bracegirdle.”—Dr. Young
(Spence's Anecdotes).
65.
“A glass
was put in the hand of the statue, which was supposed
to bow to her Grace and to nod in approbation of what she
spoke to it.”—Thos. Davies,
Dramatic Miscellanies.
66.
The
sum Congreve left her was 200l., as is said in the
Dramatic Miscellanies of Tom Davies; where are some particulars
about this charming actress and beautiful woman.




She had a “lively aspect”, says Tom, on the authority of Cibber,
and “such a glow of health and cheerfulness in her countenance,
as inspired everybody with desire”. “Scarce an audience saw her
that were not half of them her lovers.”




Congreve and Rowe courted her in the persons of their lovers.
“In Tamerlane, Rowe courted her Selima, in the person of
Axalla....; Congreve insinuated his addresses in his Valentine to her
Angelica, in his Love for Love; in his Osmyn to her Almena,
in the Mourning Bride; and, lastly, in his Mirabel to her
Millamant, in the Way of the World. Mirabel, the fine gentleman of
the play, is, I believe, not very distant from the real character of
Congreve.”—Dramatic Miscellanies, vol. iii, 1784.




She retired from the stage when Mrs. Oldfield began to be the
public favourite. She died in 1748, in the eighty-fifth year of
her age.
67.
Johnson calls
his legacy the “accumulation of attentive parsimony,
which,” he continues, “though to her (the Duchess) superfluous
and useless, might have given great assistance to the ancient
family from which he descended, at that time, by the imprudence
of his relation, reduced to difficulties and distress.”—Lives
of the Poets.
68.
He replied
to Collier, in the pamphlet called “Amendments
of Mr. Collier's False and Imperfect Citations,” &c. A specimen
or two are subjoined:—




“The greater part of these examples which he has produced,
are only demonstrations of his own impurity: they only savour
of his utterance, and were sweet enough till tainted by his breath.




“Where the expression is unblameable in its own pure and genuine
signification, he enters into it, himself, like the evil spirit; he
possesses the innocent phrase, and makes it bellow forth his own
blasphemies.




“If I do not return him civilities in calling him names, it is because
I am not very well versed in his nomenclatures.... I will only
call him Mr. Collier, and that I will call him as often as I think
he shall deserve it.




“The corruption of a rotten divine is the generation of a sour
critic.”




“Congreve,” says Dr. Johnson, “a very young man, elated with
success, and impatient of censure, assumed an air of confidence
and security.... The dispute was protracted through two years;
but at last Comedy grew more modest, and Collier lived to see
the reward of his labours in the reformation of the
theatre.”—Life
of Congreve.
69.
The scene of
Valentine's pretended madness in Love for Love
is a splendid specimen of Congreve's daring manner:—




Scandal.—And have you given your master a hint of their plot
upon him?




Jeremy.—Yes, Sir; he says he'll favour it, and mistake her
for Angelica.




Scandal.—It may make us sport.




Foresight.—Mercy on us!




Valentine.—Husht—interrupt me not—I'll whisper
predictions to thee, and thou shalt prophesie;—I am truth, and can teach thy
tongue a new trick,—I have told thee what's passed—now I'll tell
what's to come:—Dost thou know what will happen to-morrow?
Answer me not—for I will tell thee. To-morrow knaves will thrive
thro' craft, and fools thro' fortune; and honesty will go as it did,
frost-nipt in a summer suit. Ask me questions concerning tomorrow.




Scandal.—Ask him, Mr. Foresight.




Foresight.—Pray what will be done at Court?




Valentine.—Scandal will tell
you;—I am truth, I never come there.




Foresight.—In the city?




Valentine.—Oh, prayers will be said in empty churches at the
usual hours. Yet you will see such zealous faces behind counters,
as if religion were to be sold in every shop. Oh, things will go
methodically in the city, the clocks will strike twelve at noon, and
the horn'd herd buzz in the Exchange at two. Husbands and wives
will drive distinct trades, and care and pleasure separately occupy
the family. Coffee-houses will be full of smoke and stratagem.
And the cropt prentice that sweeps his master's shop in the morning,
may, ten to one, dirty his sheets before night. But there are two
things, that you will see very strange; which are, wanton wives
with their legs at liberty, and tame cuckolds with chains about their
necks. But hold, I must examine you before I go further; you
look suspiciously. Are you a husband?




Foresight.—I am married.




Valentine.—Poor creature! Is your wife of
Covent Garden Parish?




Foresight.—No; St. Martin's-in-the-Fields.




Valentine.—Alas, poor man! his eyes are sunk, and his hands
shrivelled; his legs dwindled, and his back bow'd. Pray, pray,
for a metamorphosis—change thy shape, and shake off age; get
the Medea's kettle and be boiled anew; come forth with lab'ring
callous hands, and chine of steel, and Atlas' shoulders. Let
Taliacotius trim the calves of twenty chairmen, and make the pedestals
to stand erect upon, and look matrimony in the face. Ha, ha, ha!
That a man should have a stomach to a wedding supper, when
the pidgeons ought rather to be laid to his feet! ha, ha, ha!




Foresight.—His frenzy is very high now,
Mr. Scandal.




Scandal.—I believe it is a spring-tide.




Foresight.—Very likely—truly; you understand these
matters. Mr. Scandal, I shall be very glad to confer with you
about these things he has uttered. His sayings are very mysterious and hieroglyphical.




Valentine.—Oh! why would Angelica be
absent from my eyes so long?




Jeremy.—She's here, Sir.




Mrs. Foresight.—Now, Sister!




Mrs. Frail.—O Lord! what must I say?




Scandal.—Humour him, Madam, by all means.




Valentine.—Where is she? Oh! I see her; she comes, like
Riches, Health, and Liberty at once, to a despairing, starving, and
abandoned wretch. Oh—welcome, welcome!




Mrs. Frail.—How d'ye, Sir? Can I serve you?




Valentine.—Hark'ee—I have a secret to tell you.
Endymion and
the moon shall meet us on Mount Latmos, and we'll be married in
the dead of night. But say not a word. Hymen shall put his
torch into a dark lanthorn, that it may be secret; and Juno shall
give her peacock poppy-water, that he may fold his ogling tail;
and Argus's hundred eyes be shut—ha! Nobody shall know, but
Jeremy.




Mrs. Frail.—No, no; we'll keep it secret; it shall be done
presently.




Valentine.—The sooner the better.
Jeremy, come hither—closer—that
none may overhear us. Jeremy, I can tell you news;
Angelica is turned nun, and I am turning friar, and yet we'll marry
one another in spite of the Pope. Get me a cowl and beads, that
I may play my part; for she'll meet me two hours hence in black
and white, and a long veil to cover the project, and we won't see
one another's faces 'till we have done something to be ashamed
of, and then we'll blush once for all....




Enter Tattle.




Tattle.—Do you know me, Valentine?




Valentine.—You!—who are you? No, I hope not.




Tattle.—I am Jack Tattle, your friend.




Valentine.—My friend! What to do? I am no married man,
and thou canst not lye with my wife; I am very poor, and thou
canst not borrow money of me. Then, what employment have
I for a friend?




Tattle.—Hah! A good open speaker, and not to be trusted with
a secret.




Angelica.—Do you know me, Valentine?




Valentine.—Oh, very well.




Angelica.—Who am I?




Valentine.—You're a woman, one to whom Heaven gave beauty
when it grafted roses on a brier. You are the reflection of Heaven
in a pond; and he that leaps at you is sunk. You are all white—a
sheet of spotless paper—when you first are born; but you are
to be scrawled and blotted by every goose's quill. I know you;
for I loved a woman, and loved her so long that I found out a
strange thing: I found out what a woman was good for.




Tattle.—Ay! pr'ythee, what's that?




Valentine.—Why, to keep a secret.




Tattle.—O Lord!




Valentine.—Oh, exceeding good to keep a secret; for, though
she should tell, yet she is not to be believed.




Tattle.—Hah! Good again, faith.




Valentine.—I would have musick. Sing
me the song that I like.—Congreve,
Love for Love.




There is a Mrs. Nickleby, of the year 1700, in Congreve's comedy
of The Double Dealer, in whose character the author introduces
some wonderful traits of roguish satire. She is practised on by
the gallants of the play, and no more knows how to resist them
than any of the ladies above quoted could resist Congreve.




Lady Plyant.—Oh, reflect upon the honour of your conduct!
Offering to pervert me [the joke is that the gentleman is pressing
the lady for her daughter's hand, not for her own]—perverting
me from the road of virtue, in which I have trod thus long, and
never made one trip—not one faux pas. Oh, consider it; what
would you have to answer for, if you should provoke me to frailty!
Alas! humanity is feeble, Heaven knows! Very feeble, and unable
to support itself.




Mellefont.—Where am I? Is it day? and am I awake?
Madam—




Lady Plyant.—O Lord, ask me the question! I'll swear I'll
deny it—therefore don't ask me; nay, you shan't ask me, I swear I'll
deny it. O Gemini, you have brought all the blood into my face;
I warrant I am as red as a turkey-cock; O fie, cousin Mellefont!




Mellefont.—Nay, madam, hear me; I mean——




Lady Plyant.—Hear you? No, no; I'll deny you first, and hear
you afterwards. For one does not know how one's mind may
change upon hearing—hearing is one of the senses, and all the
senses are fallible. I won't trust my honour, I assure you; my
honour is infallible and uncomatable.




Mellefont.—For heaven's sake, madam——




Lady Plyant.—Oh, name it no more. Bless me, how can you
talk of Heaven, and have so much wickedness in your heart? May
be, you don't think it a sin. They say some of you gentlemen
don't think it a sin; but still, my honour, if it were no sin ——.
But, then, to marry my daughter for the convenience of frequent
opportunities—I'll never consent to that: as sure as can be, I'll
break the match.




Mellefont.—Death and amazement! Madam, upon my
knees——




Lady Plyant.—Nay, nay, rise up; come, you shall see my good
nature. I know love is powerful, and nobody can help his passion.
'Tis not your fault; nor I swear, it is not mine. How can I help
it, if I have charms? And how can you help it, if you are made
a captive? I swear it is pity it should be a fault; but, my honour.
Well, but your honour, too—but the sin! Well, but the necessity.
O Lord, here's somebody coming. I dare not stay. Well, you
must consider of your crime; and strive as much as can be against
it—strive, be sure; but don't be melancholick—don't despair; but
never think that I'll grant you anything. O Lord, no: but be
sure you lay all thoughts aside of the marriage, for though I know
you don't love Cynthia, only as a blind for your passion to me;
yet it will make me jealous. O Lord, what did I say? Jealous!
No, I can't be jealous; for I must not love you; therefore don't
hope; but don't despair neither. They're coming; I must
fly.—The
Double Dealer, act II, scene v, page 156.

70.
“There
seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appearing
to have done everything by chance. The Old Bachelor was written
for amusement in the languor of convalescence. Yet it is apparently
composed with great elaborateness of dialogue, and incessant ambition
of wit.”—Johnson,
Lives of the Poets.
71.
“Among those by
whom it (‘Will's’) was frequented,
Southerne and Congreve were principally distinguished by Dryden's
friendship.... But Congreve seems to have gained yet farther
than Southerne upon Dryden's friendship. He was introduced to
him by his first play, the celebrated Old Bachelor being put into
the poet's hands to be revised. Dryden, after making a few alterations
to fit it for the stage, returned it to the author with the high
and just commendation, that it was the best first play he had ever
seen.”—Scott's Dryden,
vol. i, p. 370.
72.
It
was in Surrey Street, Strand (where he afterwards died),
that Voltaire visited him, in the decline of his life.




The anecdote in the text, relating to his saying that he wished
“to be visited on no other footing than as a gentleman who led
a life of plainness and simplicity”, is common to all writers on the
subject of Congreve, and appears in the English version of Voltaire's
Letters concerning the English Nation, published in London, 1733,
as also in Goldsmith's Memoir of Voltaire. But it is worthy of
remark, that it does not appear in the text of the same Letters in
the edition of Voltaire's Œuvres Complètes
in the Panthéon Littéraire,
Vol. v. of his works. (Paris, 1837.)




“Celui de tous les Anglais qui a porté le plus loin la gloire du
théâtre comique est feu M. Congreve. Il n'a fait que peu de pièces,
mais toutes sont excellentes dans leur genre.... Vous y voyez
partout le langage des honnêtes gens avec des actions de fripon;
ce qui prouve qu'il connaissait bien son monde, et qu'il vivait
dans ce qu'on appelle la bonne compagnie.”—Voltaire,
Lettres
sur les Anglais, Let. 19.
73.
On the death
of Queen Mary, he published a Pastoral—“The
Mourning Muse of Alexis.” Alexis and Menalcas sing alternately
in the orthodox way. The Queen is called Pastora.




“I mourn Pastora dead, let Albion mourn,

And sable clouds her chalky cliffs adorn,”




says Alexis. Among other phenomena, we learn that—




With their sharp nails themselves the Satyrs wound,

And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief the ground,—




(a degree of sensibility not always found in the Satyrs of that
period.... It continues—)




Lord of these woods and wide extended plains,

Stretch'd on the ground and close to earth his face,

Scalding with tears the already faded grass.




To dust must all that Heavenly beauty come?

And must Pastora moulder in the tomb?

Ah Death! more fierce and unrelenting far,

Than wildest wolves and savage tigers are;

With lambs and sheep their hunger is appeased,

But ravenous Death the shepherdess has seized.




This statement that a wolf eats but a sheep, whilst Death eats
a shepherdess; that figure of the “Great Shepherd”, lying speechless
on his stomach, in a state of despair which neither winds nor floods
nor air can exhibit, are to be remembered in poetry surely, and
this style was admired in its time by the admirers of the great
Congreve!




In the “Tears of Amaryllis for Amyntas” (the young Lord Blandford,
the great Duke of Marlborough's only son), Amaryllis represents
Sarah Duchess!




The tigers and wolves, nature and motion, rivers and echoes,
come into work here again. At the sight of her grief—




Tigers and wolves their wonted rage forgo,

And dumb distress and new compassion show,

Nature herself attentive silence kept,

And motion seemed suspended while she wept!




And Pope dedicated the Iliad to the author of these lines—and
Dryden wrote to him in his great hand:




Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought,

But Genius must be born and never can be taught.

This is your portion, this your native store;

Heaven, that but once was prodigal before,

To Shakespeare gave as much, she could not give him more.

Maintain your Post: that's all the fame you need,

For 'tis impossible you should proceed;

Already I am worn with cares and age,

And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage:

Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expence,

I live a Rent-charge upon Providence:

But you whom every Muse and Grace adorn,

Whom I foresee to better fortune born,

Be kind to my remains, and oh defend

Against your Judgement your departed Friend!

Let not the insulting Foe my Fame pursue;

But shade those Lawrels which descend to You:

And take for Tribute what these Lines express;

You merit more, nor could my Love do less.




This is a very different manner of welcome to that of our own
day. In Shadwell, Higgons, Congreve, and the comic authors of
their time, when gentlemen meet they fall into each other's arms,
with “Jack, Jack, I must buss thee”; or, “'Fore George, Harry,
I must kiss thee, lad”. And in a similar manner the poets saluted
their brethren. Literary gentlemen do not kiss now; I wonder if
they love each other better.




Steele calls Congreve “Great Sir” and “Great Author”; says
“Well-dressed barbarians knew his awful name”, and addresses him
as if he were a prince; and speaks of Pastora as one of the most
famous tragic compositions.
74.
“To
Addison himself we are bound by a sentiment as much
like affection as any sentiment can be which is inspired by one
who has been sleeping a hundred and twenty years in Westminster
Abbey.... After full inquiry and impartial reflection we have
long been convinced that he deserved as much love and esteem as
can justly be claimed by any of our infirm and erring
race.”—Macaulay.




“Many who praise virtue do no more than praise it. Yet it is
reasonable to believe that Addison's profession and practice were
at no great variance; since, amidst that storm of faction in which
most of his life was passed, though his station made him conspicuous,
and his activity made him formidable, the character
given him by his friends was never contradicted by his enemies.
Of those with whom interest or opinion united him, he had not
only the esteem but the kindness; and of others, whom the violence
of opposition drove against him, though he might lose the love,
he retained the reverence.”—Johnson.

75.
“Addison was perfect good company with intimates, and had
something more charming in his conversation than I ever knew in
any other man; but with any mixture of strangers, and sometimes
only with one, he seemed to preserve his dignity much, with
a stiff sort of silence.”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).
76.
“Milton's
chief talent, and indeed his distinguishing excellence
lies in the sublimity of his thoughts. There are others of the
modern, who rival him in every other part of poetry; but in the
greatness of his sentiments he triumphs over all the poets, both
modern and ancient, Homer alone excepted. It is impossible for
the imagination of man to disturb itself with greater ideas than
those which he has laid together in his first, second, and sixth
books.”—Spectator, No. 279.




“If I were to name a poet that is a perfect master in all these
arts of working on the imagination, I think Milton may pass for
one.”—Ibid., No. 417.




These famous papers appeared in each Saturday's Spectator, from
January 19 to May 3, 1712. Besides his services to Milton, we
may place those he did to Sacred Music.

77.
“Addison
was very kind to me at first, but my bitter enemy
afterwards.”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).




“ ‘Leave him as soon as you can,’ said Addison to me, speaking
of Pope; ‘he will certainly play you some devilish trick else: he
has an appetite to satire.’ ”—Lady
Wortley Montagu (Spence's
Anecdotes).
78.
Lancelot
Addison, his father, was the son of another Lancelot
Addison, a clergyman in Westmoreland. He became Dean of
Lichfield and Archdeacon of Coventry.
79.
“The
remark of Mandeville, who, when he had passed an
evening in his company, declared that he was ‘a parson in a tye-wig’,
can detract little from his character. He was always reserved
to strangers, and was not incited to uncommon freedom by a
character like that of Mandeville.”—Johnson,
Lives of the Poets.




“Old Jacob Tonson did not like Mr. Addison: he had a quarrel
with him, and, after his quitting the secretaryship, used frequently
to say of him—‘One day or other you'll see that man a bishop—I'm
sure he looks that way; and indeed I ever thought him a
priest in his heart.’ ”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).




“Mr. Addison stayed above a year at Blois. He would rise as
early as between two and three in the height of summer, and lie
abed till between eleven and twelve in the depth of winter. He
was untalkative whilst here, and often thoughtful: sometimes so
lost in thought, that I have come into his room and stayed five
minutes there before he has known anything of it. He had his
masters generally at supper with him; kept very little company
beside; and had no amour that I know of; and I think I should
have known it, if he had had any.”—Abbé
Philippeaux of Blois
(Spence's Anecdotes).

80.
“His
knowledge of the Latin poets, from Lucretius and Catullus
down to Claudian and Prudentius, was singularly exact and
profound.”—Macaulay.
81.
“Our country
owes it to him, that the famous Monsieur Boileau
first conceived an opinion of the English genius for poetry, by
perusing the present he made him of the
Musae Anglicanae.”—Tickell
(Preface to Addison's Works).
82.
“It was my fate to be much with the wits; my father was
acquainted with all of them. Addison was the best company in the
world. I never knew anybody that had so much wit as
Congreve.”—Lady
Wortley Montagu (Spence's Anecdotes).
83.

Mr. Addison To Mr. Wyche.




“Dear Sir,




“My hand at present begins to grow steady enough for a
letter, so the properest use I can put it to is to thank
ye honest
gentleman that set it a shaking. I have had this morning a desperate
design in my head to attack you in verse, which I should
certainly have done could I have found out a rhyme to rummer.
But though you have escaped for ye
present, you are not yet out of danger, if I can a little recover my talent at Crambo. I
am sure, in whatever way I write to you, it will be impossible for me
to express ye deep sense I have of
ye many favours you have lately
shown me. I shall only tell you that Hambourg has been the
pleasantest stage I have met with in my travails. If any of my
friends wonder at me for living so long in that place, I dare say
it will be thought a very good excuse when I tell him Mr. Wyche
was there. As your company made our stay at Hambourg agreeable,
your wine has given us all ye
satisfaction that we have found in our journey through Westphalia. If drinking your
health will do you any good, you may expect to be as long lived as Methusaleh,
or, to use a more familiar instance, as ye
oldest hoc in ye cellar.
I hope ye two pair of legs that was left
a swelling behind us are by this time come to their shapes again. I can't forbear
troubling you with my hearty respects to ye
owners of them, and desiring you to believe me always,




“Dear Sir,




“To Mr. Wyche, His Majesty's Resident at Hambourg,

“May, 1703.”




—From the Life of Addison, by Miss Aikin, vol. i, p.
146.

84.
It is pleasing to remember that the relation between Swift
and Addison was, on the whole, satisfactory, from first to last.
The value of Swift's testimony, when nothing personal inflamed his
vision or warped his judgement, can be doubted by nobody.




“Sept. 10, 1710.—I sat till ten in the evening with Addison and
Steele.




“11.—Mr. Addison and I dined together at his lodgings, and
I sat with him part of this evening.




“18.—To-day I dined with Mr. Stratford at Mr. Addison's retirement
near Chelsea.... I will get what good offices I can from
Mr. Addison.




“27.—To-day all our company dined at Will Frankland's, with
Steele and Addison, too.




“29.—I dined with Mr. Addison,”
&c.—Journal to Stella.




Addison inscribed a presentation copy of his Travels
“To Dr. Jonathan Swift, the most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and
the greatest genius of his age.”—Scott.
From the information of Mr. Theophilus Swift.




“Mr. Addison, who goes over first secretary, is a most excellent
person; and being my most intimate friend, I shall use all my
credit to set him right in his notions of persons and
things.”—Letters.




“I examine my heart, and can find no other reason why I write
to you now, besides that great love and esteem I have always had
for you. I have nothing to ask you either for my friend or for
myself.”—Swift to Addison (1717),
Scott's Swift, vol. xix,
p. 274.




Political differences only dulled for a while their friendly communications.
Time renewed them; and Tickell enjoyed Swift's
friendship as a legacy from the man with whose memory his is so
honourably connected.

85.
“Addison
usually studied all the morning; then met his party
at Button's; dined there, and stayed five or six hours, and sometimes
far into the night. I was of the company for about a year,
but found it too much for me: it hurt my health, and so I quitted
it.”—Pope (Spence's
Anecdotes).
86.
“When
he returned to England (in 1702), with a meanness of
appearance which gave testimony of the difficulties to which he
had been reduced, he found his old patrons out of power, and was,
therefore, for a time, at full leisure for the cultivation of
his mind.”—Johnson,
Lives of the Poets.
87.
“Mr. Addison
wrote very fluently; but he was sometimes very
slow and scrupulous in correcting. He would show his verses to
several friends; and would alter almost everything that any of
them hinted at as wrong. He seemed to be too diffident of himself;
and too much concerned about his character as a poet; or (as he
worded it) too solicitous for that kind of praise, which, God knows,
is but a very little matter after all!”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).
88.
“As to
poetical affairs,” says Pope, in 1713, “I am content at
present to be a bare looker-on.... Cato was not so much the
wonder of Rome in his days, as he is of Britain in ours; and
though all the foolish industry possible has been used to make it
thought a party play, yet what the author once said of another
may the most properly in the world be applied to him on this
occasion:—




“Envy itself is dumb—in wonder lost;

And factions strive who shall applaud him most.




“The numerous and violent claps of the Whig party on the one
side of the theatre were echoed back by the Tories on the other;
while the author sweated behind the scenes with concern to find
their applause proceeding more from the hands than the head....
I believe you have heard that, after all the applauses of the opposite
faction, my Lord Bolingbroke sent for Booth, who played Cato,
into the box, and presented him with fifty guineas in acknowledgement
(as he expressed it) for defending the cause of liberty so well
against a perpetual dictator”—Pope's
“Letter to Sir W. Trumbull”.




Cato ran for thirty-five nights without interruption. Pope wrote
the Prologue, and Garth the Epilogue.




It is worth noticing how many things in Cato keep their ground
as habitual quotations, e.g.:—




“ ... big with the fate

Of Cato and of Rome.”

“'Tis not in mortals to command success,

But we'll do more, Sempronius, we'll deserve it.”

“Blesses his stars, and thinks it luxury.”

“I think the Romans call it Stoicism.”

“My voice is still for war.”

“When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway,

The post of honour is a private station.”




Not to mention:—




“The woman who deliberates is lost,”




And the eternal:—




“Plato, thou reasonest well,”




which avenges, perhaps, on the public their neglect of the play!

89.
“The
lady was persuaded to marry him on terms much like
those on which a Turkish princess is espoused—to whom the Sultan
is reported to pronounce, ‘Daughter, I give thee this man for thy
slave.’ The marriage, if uncontradicted report can be credited,
made no addition to his happiness; it neither found them, nor
made them, equal.... Rowe's ballad of The Despairing Shepherd
is said to have been written, either before or after marriage, upon
this memorable pair.”—Dr. Johnson.




“I received the news of Mr. Addison's being declared Secretary
of State with the less surprise, in that I knew that post was almost
offered to him before. At that time he declined it, and I really
believe that he would have done well to have declined it now.
Such a post as that, and such a wife as the Countess, do not seem
to be, in prudence, eligible for a man that is asthmatic, and we
may see the day when he will be heartily glad to resign them
both.”—Lady Wortley Montagu to
Pope. Works, Lord Wharncliffe's
ed., vol. ii, p. 111.




The issue of this marriage was a daughter, Charlotte Addison,
who inherited, on her mother's death, the estate of Bilton, near
Rugby, which her father had purchased, and died, unmarried, at
an advanced age. She was of weak intellect.




Rowe appears to have been faithful to Addison during his courtship,
for his Collection contains “Stanzas to Lady Warwick, on
Mr. Addison's going to Ireland”, in which her ladyship is called
“Chloe”, and Joseph Addison, “Lycidas”; besides the ballad mentioned
by the doctor, and which is entitled “Colin's Complaint”.
But not even the interest attached to the name of Addison could
induce the reader to peruse this composition, though one stanza
may serve as a specimen:—




What though I have skill to complain—

Though the Muses my temples have crowned;

What though, when they hear my sweet strain,

The Muses sit weeping around.




Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain;

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;

Thy false one inclines to a swain

Whose music is sweeter than thine.

90.
One
of the most humourous of these is the paper on Hoops,
which, the Spectator tells us, particularly
pleased his friend Sir Roger:




“Mr. Spectator—




“You have diverted the town almost a whole month at the
expense of the country; it is now high time that you should give
the country their revenge. Since your withdrawing from this place,
the fair sex are run into great extravagances. Their petticoats,
which began to heave and swell before you left us, are now blown
up into a most enormous concave, and rise every day more and
more; in short, sir, since our women knew themselves to be out
of the eye of the Spectator, they will be kept within no
compass. You praised them a little too soon, for the modesty of their headdresses;
for as the humour of a sick person is often driven out
of one limb into another, their superfluity of ornaments, instead
of being entirely banished, seems only fallen from their heads upon
their lower parts. What they have lost in height they make up
in breadth, and, contrary to all rules of architecture, widen the
foundations at the same time that they shorten the superstructure.




“The women give out, in defence of these wide bottoms, that
they are very airy and very proper for the season; but this I look
upon to be only a pretence and a piece of art, for it is well known
we have not had a more moderate summer these many years, so
that it is certain the heat they complain of cannot be in the weather;
besides, I would fain ask these tender-constitutioned ladies, why
they should require more cooling than their mothers before them?




“I find several speculative persons are of opinion that our sex
has of late years been very saucy, and that the hoop-petticoat is
made use of to keep us at a distance. It is most certain that
a woman's honour cannot be better entrenched than after this
manner, in circle within circle, amidst such a variety of outworks
and lines of circumvallation. A female who is thus invested in
whalebone is sufficiently secured against the approaches of an ill-bred
fellow, who might as well think of Sir George Etheridge's
way of making love in a tub as in the midst of so many hoops.




“Among these various conjectures, there are men of superstitious
tempers who look upon the hoop-petticoat as a kind of prodigy.
Some will have it that it portends the downfall of the French king,
and observe, that the farthingale appeared in England a little
before the ruin of the Spanish monarchy. Others are of opinion
that it foretells battle and bloodshed, and believe it of the same
prognostication as the toil of a blazing star. For my part, I am
apt to think that it is a sign that multitudes are coming into the
world rather than going out of it,” &c.
&c.—Spectator, No. 127.

91.
“Mr.
Addison has not had one epithalamium that I can hear
of, and must even be reduced, like a poorer and a better poet,
Spenser, to make his own.”—Pope's
Letters.
92.
“I
have observed that a reader seldom peruses a book with
pleasure till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair
man, of a mild or a choleric disposition, married or a bachelor;
with other particulars of a like nature, that conduce very much
to the right understanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity,
which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper and my next
as prefatory discourses to my following writings; and shall give
some account in them of the persons that are engaged in this work.
As the chief trouble of compiling, digesting, and correcting will fall
to my share, I must do myself the justice to open the work with
my own history.... There runs a story in the family, that when
my mother was gone with child of me about three months, she
dreamt that she was brought to bed of a judge. Whether this
might proceed from a lawsuit which was then depending in the
family, or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine;
for I am not so vain as to think it presaged any dignity
that I should arrive at in my future life, though that was the interpretation
which the neighbourhood put upon it. The gravity of
my behaviour at my very first appearance in the world, and all
the time that I sucked, seemed to favour my mother's dream;
for, as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle before I was
two months old, and would not make use of my coral till they
had taken away the bells from it.




“As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it remarkable,
I shall pass it over in silence. I find that during my nonage
I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was always the
favourite of my schoolmaster, who used to say that my parts were
solid and would wear well. I had not been long at the university
before I distinguished myself by a most profound silence; for
during the space of eight years, excepting in the public exercises
of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hundred words;
and, indeed, I do not remember that I ever spoke three sentences
together in my whole life....




“I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am frequently
seen in most public places, though there are not more than half
a dozen of my select friends that know me.... There is no place
of general resort wherein I do not often make my appearance;
sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of politicians
at Will's, and listening with great attention to the narratives that
are made in these little circular audiences. Sometimes I smoke
a pipe at Child's, and whilst I seem attentive to nothing but the
Postman, overhear the conversation of every table in the room.
I appear on Tuesday night at St. James's Coffee-house; and sometimes
join the little committee of politics in the inner room, as one
who comes to hear and improve. My face is likewise very well
known at the Grecian, the ‘Cocoa-Tree’, and in the theatres both
of Drury Lane and the Haymarket. I have been taken for a
merchant upon the Exchange for above these two years; and
sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's.
In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I mix with
them, though I never open my lips but in my own club.




“Thus I live in the world rather as a ‘Spectator’ of mankind
than as one of the species; by which means I have made myself
a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artizan, without
ever meddling in any practical part in life. I am very well versed
in the theory of a husband or a father, and can discern the errors
in the economy, business, and diversions of others, better than
those who are engaged in them—as standers-by discover blots
which are apt to escape those who are in the game.... In short,
I have acted, in all the parts of my life, as a looker-on, which is
the character I intend to preserve in this
paper.”—Spectator, No. 1.

93.
“So effectually,
indeed, did he retort on vice the mockery
which had recently been directed against virtue, that, since his
time, the open violation of decency has always been considered, amongst us, the
sure mark of a fool.”—Macaulay.
94.
“The
Court was sat before Sir Roger came; but, notwithstanding
all the justices had taken their places upon the bench,
they made room for the old knight at the head of them; who for
his reputation in the country took occasion to whisper in the judge's
ear that he was glad his lordship had met with so much good weather
in his circuit. I was listening to the proceedings of the Court with
much attention, and infinitely pleased with that great appearance
and solemnity which so properly accompanies such a public administration
of our laws; when, after about an hour's sitting, I observed
to my great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that my friend Sir
Roger was getting up to speak. I was in some pain for him, till
I found he had acquitted himself of two or three sentences, with
a look of much business and great intrepidity.




“Upon his first rising; the Court was hushed, and a general
whisper ran among the country people that Sir Roger was up.
The speech he made was so little to the purpose, that I shall not
trouble my readers with an account of it, and I believe was not
so much designed by the knight himself to inform the Court, as
to give him a figure in my eyes, and to keep up his credit in the
country.”—Spectator, No. 122.
95.
“Garth
sent to Addison (of whom he had a very high opinion)
on his death-bed, to ask him whether the Christian religion was
true.”—Dr. Young
(Spence's Anecdotes).




“I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I
consider as an act, the former as an habit of the mind. Mirth is
short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are
often raised into the greatest transports of mirth who are subject
to the greatest depression of melancholy: on the contrary, cheerfulness,
though it does not give the mind such an exquisite gladness,
prevents it from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like
a flash of lightning that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and
glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight
in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual
serenity.”—Addison,
Spectator, p. 381.
96.
The husband
of the Lady Warwick who married Addison, and
the father of the young earl, who was brought to his stepfather's
bed to see “how a Christian could die”. He was amongst the
wildest of the nobility of that day; and in the curious collection
of Chap-Books at the British Museum, I have seen more than one
anecdote of the freaks of the gay lord. He was popular in London,
as such daring spirits have been in our time. The anecdotists
speak very kindly of his practical jokes. Mohun was scarcely out
of prison for his second homicide, when he went on Lord Macclesfield's
embassy to the Elector of Hanover, when Queen Anne sent
the garter to H. E. Highness. The chronicler of the expedition
speaks of his lordship as an amiable young man, who had been
in bad company, but was quite repentant and reformed. He and
Macartney afterwards murdered the Duke of Hamilton between
them, in which act Lord Mohun died. This amiable baron's name
was Charles, and not Henry, as a recent novelist has christened
him.
97.
“Steele
had the greatest veneration for Addison, and used to
show it, in all companies, in a particular manner. Addison, now
and then, used to play a little upon them; but he always took it
well.”—Pope (Spence's
Anecdotes).




“Sir Richard Steele was the best-natured creature in the world:
even in his worst state of health, he seemed to desire nothing but
to please and be pleased.”—Dr. Young
(Spence's Anecdotes).

98.
The gaiety
of his dramatic tone may be seen in this little scene
between two brilliant sisters, from his comedy, The Funeral, or
Grief à la Mode. Dick wrote this, he said, from “a necessity of
enlivening his character”, which, it seemed, the Christian Hero
had a tendency to make too decorous, grave, and respectable in
the eyes of readers of that pious piece.




[Scene draws, and discovers
Lady Charlotte,
reading at a table,—Lady
Harriet, playing at a glass, to and fro, and viewing
herself.]




L. Ha.—Nay, good sister, you may
as well talk to me [looking
at herself as she speaks] as you sit staring at a book which I know you
can't attend.—Good Dr. Lucas may have writ there what he pleases,
but there's no putting Francis, Lord Hardy, now Earl of Brumpton,
out of your head, or making him absent from your eyes. Do but
look on me, now, and deny it if you can.




L. Ch.—You are the maddest girl
[smiling].




L. Ha.—Look ye, I knew you could not say it and forbear
laughing [looking over Charlotte].—Oh! I see
his name as plain as you do—F—r—a—n
Fran,—c—i—s, cis, Francis, 'tis in every
line of the book.




L. Ch. [rising]—It's in
vain, I see, to mind anything in such
impertinent company—but granting 'twere as you say, as to my
Lord Hardy—'tis more excusable to admire another than oneself.




L. Ha.—No, I think not,—yes,
I grant you, than really to be
vain of one's person, but I don't admire myself—Pish! I don't
believe my eyes to have that softness. [Looking in the glass.]
They an't so piercing: no, 'tis only stuff, the men will be talking.—Some
people are such admirers of teeth—Lord, what signifies teeth!
[Showing her teeth.] A very black-a-moor has as white a set of
teeth as I.—No, sister, I don't admire myself, but I've a spirit of
contradiction in me: I don't know I'm in love with myself, only
to rival the men.




L. Ch.—Aye, but Mr. Campley will gain ground ev'n of that
rival of his, your dear self.




L. Ha.—Oh, what have I done to you, that you should name
that insolent intruder? A confident, opinionative fop. No, indeed,
if I am, as a poetical lover of mine sighed and sung of both sexes,




The public envy and the public care,




I shan't be so easily catched—I thank him—I want but to be
sure, I should heartily torment him by banishing him, and then
consider whether he should depart this life or not.




L. Ch.—Indeed, sister, to be serious with you, this vanity in
your humour does not at all become you.




L. Ha.—Vanity! All the matter is, we gay people are more
sincere than you wise folks; all your life's an art.—Speak you
real.—Look you there.—[Hauling her to
the glass.] Are you not
struck with a secret pleasure when you view that bloom in your
look, that harmony in your shape, that promptitude in your mien?




L. Ch.—Well, simpleton, if I am at first so simple as to be
a little taken with myself, I know it a fault, and take pains to
correct it.




L. Ha.—Pshaw! Pshaw! Talk this musty tale to old Mrs.
Fardingale, 'tis tiresome for me to think at that rate.




L. Ch.—They that think it too soon to understand themselves
will very soon find it too late.—But tell me honestly, don't you
like Campley?




L. Ha.—The fellow is not to be abhorred, if the forward thing
did not think of getting me so easily.—Oh, I hate a heart I can't
break when I please.—What makes the value of dear china, but
that 'tis so brittle?—were it not for that, you might as well have
stone mugs in your closet.'—The Funeral, Oct. 2nd.




“We knew the obligations the stage had to his writings [Steele's];
there being scarcely a comedian of merit in our whole company
whom his Tatlers had not made better by his recommendation of
them.”—Cibber.

99.
“There is not now in his sight that excellent man, whom
Heaven made his friend and superior, to be at a certain place in pain for
what he should say or do. I will go on in his further encouragement.
The best woman that ever man had cannot now lament
and pine at his neglect of himself.”—Steele
[of himself]. The
Theatre, No. 12, Feb., 1719-20.
100.
The
Funeral supplies an admirable stroke of humour,—one
which Sydney Smith has used as an illustration of the faculty in
his Lectures.




The undertaker is talking to his employés about their duty.




Sable.—Ha, you!—A
little more upon the dismal [forming their
countenances]; this fellow has a good mortal look,—place him near
the corpse: that wainscot-face must be o' top of the stairs; that
fellow's almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some
strange misery) at the end of the hall. So—But I'll fix you all
myself. Let's have no laughing now on any provocation. Look
yonder,—that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel,
did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and show
you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give you ten, then
fifteen, and twenty shillings a week to be sorrowful?—and the more
I give you I think the gladder you are!

101.

“From my own Apartment, Nov. 16.




“There are several persons who have many pleasures and entertainments
in their possession, which they do not enjoy; it is,
therefore, a kind and good office to acquaint them with their own
happiness, and turn their attention to such instances of their good
fortune as they are apt to overlook. Persons in the married state
often want such a monitor; and pine away their days by looking
upon the same condition in anguish and murmuring, which carries
with it, in the opinion of others, a complication of all the pleasures
of life, and a retreat from its inquietudes.




“I am led into this thought by a visit I made to an old friend
who was formerly my schoolfellow. He came to town last week,
with his family, for the winter; and yesterday morning sent me
word his wife expected me to dinner. I am, as it were, at home
at that house, and every member of it knows me for their well-wisher.
I cannot, indeed, express the pleasure it is to be met by
the children with so much joy as I am when I go thither. The
boys and girls strive who shall come first, when they think it is
I that am knocking at the door; and that child which loses the
race to me runs back again to tell the father it is Mr. Bickerstaff.
This day I was led in by a pretty girl that we all thought must
have forgot me; for the family has been out of town these two
years. Her knowing me again was a mighty subject with us, and
took up our discourse at the first entrance; after which, they
began to rally me upon a thousand little stories they heard in the
country, about my marriage to one of my neighbours' daughters;
upon which, the gentleman, my friend, said, ‘Nay; if Mr. Bickerstaff
marries a child of any of his old companions, I hope mine
shall have the preference: there is Mrs. Mary is now sixteen, and
would make him as fine a widow as the best of them. But I know
him too well; he is so enamoured with the very memory of those
who flourished in our youth, that he will not so much as look upon
the modern beauties. I remember, old gentleman, how often you
went home in a day to refresh your countenance and dress when
Teraminta reigned in your heart. As we came up in the coach,
I repeated to my wife some of your verses on her.’ With such
reflections on little passages which happened long ago, we passed
our time during a cheerful and elegant meal. After dinner his
lady left the room, as did also the children. As soon as we were
alone, he took me by the hand: ‘Well, my good friend,’ says
he, ‘I am heartily glad to see thee; I was afraid you would never
have seen all the company that dined with you to-day again. Do
not you think the good woman of the house a little altered since
you followed her from the playhouse to find out who she was for
me?’ I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he spoke, which
moved me not a little. But, to turn the discourse, I said, ‘She
is not, indeed, that creature she was when she returned me the
letter I carried from you, and told me, “She hoped, as I was a
gentleman, I would be employed no more to trouble her, who had
never offended me; but would be so much the gentleman's friend
as to dissuade him from a pursuit which he could never succeed
in.” You may remember I thought her in earnest, and you were
forced to employ your cousin Will, who made his sister get acquainted
with her for you. You cannot expect her to be for ever fifteen.’
‘Fifteen!’ replied my good friend. ‘Ah! you little understand—you,
that have lived a bachelor—how great, how exquisite a pleasure
there is in being really beloved! It is impossible that the most
beauteous face in nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas as
when I look upon that excellent woman. That fading in her
countenance is chiefly caused by her watching with me in my
fever. This was followed by a fit of sickness, which had like to
have carried me off last winter. I tell you, sincerely, I have so
many obligations to her that I cannot, with any sort of moderation,
think of her present state of health. But, as to what you say of
fifteen, she gives me every day pleasure beyond what I ever knew
in the possession of her beauty when I was in the vigour of youth.
Every moment of her life brings me fresh instances of her complacency
to my inclinations, and her prudence in regard to my
fortune. Her face is to me much more beautiful than when I first
saw it; there is no decay in any feature which I cannot trace
from the very instant it was occasioned by some anxious concern
for my welfare and interests. Thus, at the same time, methinks,
the love I conceived towards her for what she was, is heightened
by my gratitude for what she is. The love of a wife is as much
above the idle passion commonly called by that name, as the loud
laughter of buffoons is inferior to the elegant mirth of gentlemen.
Oh, she is an inestimable jewel! In her examination of her household
affairs, she shows a certain fearfulness to find a fault, which
makes her servants obey her like children; and the meanest we
have has an ingenuous shame for an offence not always to be seen
in children in other families. I speak freely to you, my old friend;
ever since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy before
turn now to a certain anxiety. As the children play in the next
room, I know the poor things by their steps, and am considering
what they must do should they lose their mother in their tender
years. The pleasure I used to take in telling my boy stories of
battles, and asking my girl questions about the disposal of her
baby, and the gossipping of it, is turned into inward reflection
and melancholy.’




“He would have gone on in this tender way, when the good
lady entered, and, with an inexpressible sweetness in her countenance,
told us ‘she had been searching her closet for something
very good, to treat such an old friend as I was’. Her husband's
eyes sparkled with pleasure at the cheerfulness of her countenance;
and I saw all his fears vanish in an instant. The lady observing
something in our looks which showed we had been more serious
than ordinary, and seeing her husband receive her with great concern
under a forced cheerfulness, immediately guessed at what we
had been talking of; and applying herself to me, said, with a smile,
‘Mr. Bickerstaff, do not believe a word of what he tells you:
I shall still live to have you for my second, as I have often promised
you, unless he takes more care of himself than he has done since
his coming to town. You must know he tells me, that he finds
London is a much more healthy place than the country; for he
sees several of his old acquaintances and schoolfellows are here—young
fellows with fair, full-bottomed periwigs. I could scarce keep
him this morning from going out open-breasted.’ My friend, who
is always extremely delighted with her agreeable humour, made
her sit down with us. She did it with that easiness which is peculiar
to women of sense; and to keep up the good humour she had
brought in with her, turned her raillery upon me. ‘Mr. Bickerstaff,
you remember you followed me one night from the playhouse;
suppose you should carry me thither to-morrow night, and lead
me in the front box.’ This put us into a long field of discourse
about the beauties who were the mothers to the present, and shined
in the boxes twenty years ago. I told her, ‘I was glad she had
transferred so many of her charms, and I did not question but
her eldest daughter was within half a year of being a toast.’




“We were pleasing ourselves with this fantastical preferment of
the young lady, when, on a sudden, we were alarmed with the
noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little godson to give
me a point of war. His mother, between laughing and chiding,
would have put him out of the room; but I would not part with
him so. I found, upon conversation with him, though he was
a little noisy in his mirth, that the child had excellent parts, and
was a great master of all the learning on the other side of eight years
old. I perceived him a very great historian in Aesop's Fables;
but he frankly declared to me his mind, ‘that he did not delight
in that learning, because he did not believe they were true;’ for
which reason I found he had very much turned his studies, for
about a twelvemonth past, into the lives of Don Bellianis of
Greece, Guy of Warwick, the Seven Champions, and other historians
of that age. I could not but observe the satisfaction the father
took in the forwardness of his son, and that these diversions might
turn to some profit. I found the boy had made remarks which
might be of service to him during the course of his whole life. He
would tell you the mismanagement of John Hickerthrift, find fault
with the passionate temper in Bevis of Southampton, and loved
St. George for being the champion of England; and by this means
had his thoughts insensibly moulded into the notions of discretion,
virtue, and honour. I was extolling his accomplishments, when
his mother told me, ‘that the little girl who led me in this morning
was, in her way, a better scholar than he. Betty,’ said she, ‘deals
chiefly in fairies and sprites; and sometimes in a winter night
will terrify the maids with her accounts, until they are afraid to
go up to bed.’




“I sat with them until it was very late, sometimes in merry,
sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular pleasure, which
gives the only true relish to all conversation, a sense that every
one of us liked each other. I went home, considering the different
conditions of a married life and that of a bachelor; and I must
confess it struck me with a secret concern, to reflect, that whenever
I go off I shall leave no traces behind me. In this pensive mood
I return to my family; that is to say, to my maid, my dog, my
cat, who only can be the better or worse for what happens to
me.”—The Tatler.

102.
“As
to the pursuits after affection and esteem, the fair sex
are happy in this particular, that with them the one is much more
nearly related to the other than in men. The love of a woman
is inseparable from some esteem of her; and as she is naturally
the object of affection, the woman who has your esteem has also
some degree of your love. A man that dotes on a woman for her
beauty, will whisper his friend, ‘that creature has a great deal of
wit when you are well acquainted with her.’ And if you examine
the bottom of your esteem for a woman, you will find you have
a greater opinion of her beauty than anybody else. As to us men,
I design to pass most of my time with the facetious Harry Bickerstaff;
but William Bickerstaff, the most prudent man of our family,
shall be my executor.”—Tatler, No.
206.
103.
The Correspondence
of Steele passed after his death into the
possession of his daughter Elizabeth, by his second wife, Miss
Scurlock, of Carmarthenshire. She married the Hon. John, afterwards
third Lord Trevor. At her death, part of the letters passed
to Mr. Thomas, a grandson of a natural daughter of Steele's; and
part to Lady Trevor's next of kin, Mr. Scurlock. They were published
by the learned Nichols—from whose later edition of them,
in 1809, our specimens are quoted.




Here we have him, in his courtship—which was not a very long
one.




TO MRS. SCURLOCK




“Aug. 30, 1707.




“Madam,—




“I beg pardon that my paper is not finer, but I am forced
to write from a coffee-house, where I am attending about business.
There is a dirty crowd of busy faces all around me, talking of
money; while all my ambition, all my wealth, is love! Love
which animates my heart, sweetens my humour, enlarges my soul;
and affects every action of my life. It is to my lovely charmer
I owe, that many noble ideas are continually affixed to my words
and actions; it is the natural effect of that generous passion to
create in the admirer some similitude of the object admired. Thus,
my dear, am I every day to improve from so sweet a companion.
Look up, my fair one, to that Heaven which made thee such;
and join with me to implore its influence on our tender innocent
hours, and beseech the Author of love to bless the rites He has
ordained—and mingle with our happiness a just sense of our transient
condition, and a resignation to His will, which only can
regulate our minds to a steady endeavour to please Him and each
other.




“I am for ever your faithful servant,




“Rich. Steele.”




Some few hours afterwards, apparently, Mistress Scurlock received
the next one—obviously written later in the day!




“Saturday night (Aug. 30, 1707).




“Dear, Lovely Mrs. Scurlock,—




“I have been in very good company, where your health, under
the character of the woman I loved best, has been often drunk; so
that I may say that I am dead drunk for your sake, which is more
than I die for you.




“Rich. Steele.”




TO MRS. SCURLOCK.




“Sept. 1, 1707.




“Madam,—




“It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, and yet
attend business. As for me, all who speak to me find me out, and
I must lock myself up, or other people will do it for me.




“A gentleman asked me this morning, ‘What news from Lisbon?’
and I answered, ‘She is exquisitely handsome.’ Another desired
to know ‘when I had last been at Hampton Court?’ I replied,
‘It will be on Tuesday come se'nnight.’ Pr'ythee allow me at
least to kiss your hand before that day, that my mind may be in
some composure. O Love!




“A thousand torments dwell about thee,

Yet who could live, to live without thee?




“Methinks I could write a volume to you; but all the language
on earth would fail in saying how much, and with what disinterested
passion,




“I am ever yours,

“Rich. Steele.”




Two days after this, he is found expounding his circumstances
and prospects to the young lady's mamma. He dates from “Lord
Sunderland's office, Whitehall”; and states his clear income at
1,025l. per annum. “I promise myself,” says he, “the pleasure of
an industrious and virtuous life, in studying to do things agreeable
to you.”




They were married according to the most probable conjectures
about the 7th inst. There are traces of a tiff about the middle
of the next month; she being prudish and fidgety, as he was
impassioned and reckless. General progress, however, may be seen
from the following notes. The “house in Bury Street, St. James's”,
was now taken.




TO MRS. STEELE.




“Oct. 16, 1707.




“Dearest Being on Earth,—




“Pardon me if you do not see me till eleven o'clock, having
met a schoolfellow from India, by whom I am to be informed on
things this night which expressly concern your obedient husband,




“Rich. Steele.”




TO MRS. STEELE.




“Eight o'clock, Fountain Tavern,




“Oct. 22, 1707.




“My Dear,—




“I beg of you not to be uneasy; for I have done a great deal
of business to-day very successfully, and wait an hour or two about
my Gazette.”




“Dec. 22, 1707.




“My dear, dear Wife,—




“I write to let you know I do not come home to dinner, being
obliged to attend some business abroad, of which I shall give you
an account (when I see you in the evening), as becomes your dutiful
and obedient husband.”




“Devil Tavern, Temple Bar.




“Jan. 3, 1707-8.




“Dear Prue,—




“I have partly succeeded in my business to-day, and inclose
two guineas as earnest of more. Dear Prue, I cannot come home
to dinner. I languish for your welfare, and will never be a moment
careless more.




“Your faithful husband,” &c.




“Jan. 14, 1707-8.




“Dear Wife,—




“Mr. Edgecombe, Ned Ask, and Mr. Lumley, have desired me
to sit an hour with them at the George, in Pall Mall, for which
I desire your patience till twelve o'clock, and that you will go to
bed,” &c.




“Gray's Inn, Feb. 3, 1708.




“Dear Prue,—




“If the man who has my shoemaker's bill calls, let him be
answered that I shall call on him as I come home. I stay here in
order to get Jonson to discount a bill for me, and shall dine with
him for that end. He is expected at home every minute.




“Your most humble, obedient servant,” &c.




“Tennis Court Coffee-house,

“May 5, 1708.




“Dear Wife,—




“I hope I have done this day what will be pleasing to you;
in the meantime shall lie this night at a baker's, one Leg, over
against the ‘Devil’ Tavern, at Charing Cross. I shall be able to
confront the fools who wish me uneasy, and shall have the satisfaction
to see thee cheerful and at ease.




“If the printer's boy be at home, send him hither; and let
Mrs. Todd send by the boy my night-gown, slippers, and clean
linen. You shall hear from me early in the morning,” &c.




Dozens of similar letters follow, with occasional guineas, little
parcels of tea, or walnuts, &c. In 1709 the
Tatler made its appearance.
The following curious note dates April 7, 1710:—




“I inclose to you [‘Dear Prue’] a receipt for the saucepan and
spoon, and a note of 23l. of Lewis's,
which will make up the 50l.
I promised for your ensuing occasion.




“I know no happiness in this life in any degree comparable to
the pleasure I have in your person and society. I only beg of
you to add to your other charms a fearfulness to see a man that
loves you in pain and uneasiness, to make me as happy as it is
possible to be in this life. Rising a little in a morning, and being
disposed to a cheerfulness ... would not be amiss.”




In another, he is found excusing his coming home, being “invited
to supper to Mr. Boyle's”. “Dear Prue,” he says on this occasion,
“do not send after me, for I shall be ridiculous.”

104.
Of this famous Bishop, Steele wrote,—




Virtue with so much ease on Bangor sits,

All faults he pardons, though he none commits.

105.
Here
we have some of his later letters:—




TO LADY STEELE.

“Hampton Court, March 16, 1716-17.




“Dear Prue,




“If you have written anything to me which I should have
received last night, I beg your pardon that I cannot answer till
the next post.... Your son at the present writing is mighty
well employed in tumbling on the floor of the room and sweeping
the sand with a feather. He grows a most delightful child, and
very full of play and spirit. He is also a very great scholar: he
can read his primer; and I have brought down my Virgil. He
makes most shrewd remarks about the pictures. We are very
intimate friends and playfellows. He begins to be very ragged;
and I hope I shall be pardoned if I equip him with new clothes
and frocks, or what Mrs. Evans and I shall think for his service.”




TO LADY STEELE.

[Undated.]




“You tell me you want a little flattery from me. I assure you
I know no one who deserves so much commendation as yourself,
and to whom saying the best things would be so little like flattery.
The thing speaks for itself, considering you as a very handsome
woman that loves retirement—one who does not want wit, and
yet is extremely sincere; and so I could go through all the vices
which attend the good qualities of other people, of which you are
exempt. But, indeed, though you have every perfection, you have
an extravagant fault, which almost frustrates the good in you to
me; and that is, that you do not love to dress, to appear, to shine
out, even at my request, and to make me proud of you, or rather
to indulge the pride I have that you are mine....




“Your most affectionate, obsequious husband,

“Rich. Steele.




“A quarter of Molly's schooling is paid. The children are perfectly
well.”




TO LADY STEELE.

“March 26, 1717.




“My Dearest Prue,




“I have received yours, wherein you give me the sensible
affliction of telling me enow of the continual pain in your head....
When I lay in your place, and on your pillow, I assure you I fell
into tears last night, to think that my charming little insolent
might be then awake and in pain; and took it to be a sin to go
to sleep.




“For this tender passion towards you, I must be contented that
your Prueship will condescend to call yourself my well-wisher.”




At the time when the above later letters were written, Lady
Steele was in Wales, looking after her estate there. Steele, about
this time, was much occupied with a project for conveying fish
alive, by which, as he constantly assures his wife, he firmly believed
he should make his fortune. It did not succeed, however.




Lady Steele died in December of the succeeding year. She lies
buried in Westminster Abbey.

106.
Lord
Chesterfield sends these verses to Voltaire in a characteristic
letter.
107.
Steele
replied to Dennis in an Answer to a Whimsical Pamphlet,
called “The Character of Sir John Edgar”. What Steele had to say
against the cross-grained old Critic discovers a great deal of humour:




“Thou never didst let the sun into thy garret, for fear he should
bring a bailiff along with him....




“Your years are about sixty-five, an ugly, vinegar face, that if
you had any command you would be obeyed out of fear, from
your ill-nature pictured there; not from any other motive. Your
height is about some five feet five inches. You see I can give
your exact measure as well as if I had taken your dimension with
a good cudgel, which I promise you to do as soon as ever I have
the good fortune to meet you....




“Your doughty paunch stands before you like a firkin of butter,
and your duck-legs seem to be cast for carrying burdens.




“Thy works are libels upon others, and satires upon thyself;
and while they bark at men of sense, call him knave and fool that
wrote them. Thou hast a great antipathy to thy own species;
and hatest the sight of a fool but in thy glass.”




Steele had been kind to Dennis, and once got arrested on account
of a pecuniary service which he did him. When John heard of the
fact—“'Sdeath!” cries John; “why did not he keep out of the
way as I did?”




The Answer concludes by mentioning that Cibber had offered
Ten Pounds for the discovery of the authorship of Dennis's pamphlet;
on which, says Steele,—




“I am only sorry he has offered so much, because the twentieth
part would have over-valued his whole carcass. But I know the
fellow that he keeps to give answers to his creditors will betray
him; for he gave me his word to bring officers on the top of the
house that should make a hole through the ceiling of his garret,
and so bring him to the punishment he deserves. Some people
think this expedient out of the way, and that he would make his
escape upon hearing the least noise. I say so too; but it takes
him up half an hour every night to fortify himself with his old
hair trunk, two or three joint-stools, and some other lumber, which
he ties together with cords so fast that it takes him up the same
time in the morning to release himself.”
108.
Gay
calls him—“Dear Prior ... beloved by every muse”.—Mr.
Pope's Welcome from Greece.




Swift and Prior were very intimate, and he is frequently mentioned
in the Journal to Stella. “Mr. Prior,” says Swift, “walks
to make himself fat, and I to keep myself down.... We often
walk round the park together.”




In Swift's works there is a curious tract called Remarks on the
Characters of the Court of Queen Anne [Scott's edition, vol. xii].
The Remarks are not by the Dean: but at the end of each is
an addition in italics from his hand, and these are always characteristic.
Thus, to the Duke of Marlborough, he adds, “Detestably
Covetous,” &c. Prior is thus noticed—




“Matthew Prior, Esq., Commissioner of Trade.




“On the Queen's accession to the throne, he was continued in
his office; is very well at Court with the ministry, and is an entire
creature of my Lord Jersey's, whom he supports by his advice;
is one of the best poets in England, but very facetious in conversation.
A thin, hollow-looked man, turned of 40 years old. This
is near the truth.”




Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,

His virtues and vices were as other men's are,

High hopes he conceived and he smothered great fears,

In a life party-coloured—half pleasure, half care.




Not to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,

He strove to make interest and freedom agree,

In public employments industrious and grave,

And alone with his friends, Lord, how merry was he!




Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;

And whirled in the round as the wheel turned about,

He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.




Prior's Poems. [“For my own
monument.”]

109.
“They
joined to produce a parody, entitled The Town and
Country Mouse, part of which Mr. Bayes is supposed to gratify
his old friends Smart and Johnson, by repeating to them. The
piece is therefore founded upon the twice-told jest of
the Rehearsal....
There is nothing new or original in the idea....
In this piece, Prior, though the younger man, seems to have had
by far the largest share.”—Scott's
Dryden, vol. i, p. 330.
110.
“He
was to have been in the same commission with the Duke
of Shrewsbury, but that that nobleman,” says Johnson, “refused
to be associated with one so meanly born. Prior therefore continued
to act without a title till the duke's return next year to
England, and then he assumed the style and dignity of ambassador.”




He had been thinking of slights of this sort when he wrote his
Epitaph:—




Nobles and heralds by your leave,

Here lies what once was Matthew Prior,

The son of Adam and of Eve;

Can Bourbon or Nassau claim higher?




But, in this case, the old prejudice got the better of the old joke.

111.
His
epigrams have the genuine sparkle:




The Remedy worse than the Disease.




I sent for Radcliff; was so ill,

That other doctors gave me over:

He felt my pulse, prescribed a pill,

And I was likely to recover.




But when the wit began to wheeze,

And wine had warmed the politician,

Cured yesterday of my disease,

I died last night of my physician.




——




Yes, every poet is a fool;

By demonstration Ned can show it;

Happy could Ned's inverted rule

Prove every fool to be a poet.




——




On his death-bed poor Lubin lies,

His spouse is in despair;

With frequent sobs and mutual sighs,

They both express their care.




A different cause, says Parson Sly,

The same effect may give;

Poor Lubin fears that he shall die,

His wife that he may live.

112.
PRIOR TO SIR THOMAS HANMER.




“Aug. 4, 1709.




“Dear Sir,




“Friendship may live, I grant you, without being fed and
cherished by correspondence; but with that additional benefit
I am of opinion it will look more cheerful and thrive better: for
in this case, as in love, though a man is sure of his own constancy,
yet his happiness depends a good deal upon the sentiments of
another, and while you and Chloe are alive, 'tis not enough that
I love you both, except I am sure you both love me again; and
as one of her scrawls fortifies my mind more against affliction than
all Epictetus, with Simplicius's comments into the bargain, so
your single letter gave me more real pleasure than all the works
of Plato.... I must return my answer to your very kind question
concerning my health. The Bath waters have done a good deal
towards the recovery of it, and the great specific, Cape Caballum,
will, I think, confirm it. Upon this head I must tell you that my
mare Betty grows blind, and may one day, by breaking my neck,
perfect my cure: if at Rixham fair any pretty nagg that is between
thirteen and fourteen hands presented himself, and you would be
pleased to purchase him for me, one of your servants might ride
him to Euston, and I might receive him there. This, sir, is just
as such a thing happens. If you hear, too, of a Welch widow,
with a good jointure, that has her goings and is not very skittish,
pray, be pleased to cast your eye on her for me, too. You see,
sir, the great trust I repose in your skill and honour, when I dare
put two such commissions in your hand....”—The
Hanmer Correspondence, p. 120.




FROM MR. PRIOR.




“Paris, 1st-12th May, 1714.




“My dear Lord and Friend,




“Matthew never had so great occasion to write a word to
Henry as now: it is noised here that I am soon to return. The
question that I wish I could answer to the many that ask, and to
our friend Colbert de Torcy (to whom I made your compliments
in the manner you commanded) is, What is done for me: and to
what I am recalled? It may look like a bagatelle, what is to
become of a philosopher like me? but it is not such: what is to
become of a person who had the honour to be chosen, and sent
hither as intrusted, in the midst of a war, with what the Queen
designed should make the peace; returning with the Lord Bolingbroke,
one of the greatest men in England, and one of the finest
heads in Europe (as they say here, if true or not,
n'importe); having
been left by him in the greatest character (that of Her Majesty's
Plenipotentiary), exercising that power conjointly with the Duke
of Shrewsbury, and solely after his departure; having here received
more distinguished honour than any minister, except an Ambassador,
ever did, and some which were never given to any, but
who had that character; having had all the success that could
be expected, having (God be thanked!) spared no pains, at a time
when at home the peace is voted safe and honourable—at a time
when the Earl of Oxford is Lord Treasurer and Lord Bolingbroke
First Secretary of State? This unfortunate person, I say, neglected,
forgot, unnamed to anything that may speak the Queen satisfied
with his services, or his friends concerned as to his fortune.




“Mr. de Torcy put me quite out of countenance, the other day,
by a pity that wounded me deeper than ever did the cruelty of
the late Lord Godolphin. He said he would write to Robin and
Harry about me. God forbid, my lord, that I should need any
foreign intercession, or owe the least to any Frenchman living,
besides the decency of behaviour and the returns of common
civility: some say I am to go to Baden, others that I am to be
added to the Commissioners for settling the commerce. In all
cases I am ready, but in the meantime,
dic aliquid de tribus capellis.
Neither of these two are, I presume, honours or rewards, neither
of them (let me say to my dear Lord Bolingbroke, and let him
not be angry with me), are what Drift may aspire to, and what
Mr. Whitworth, who was his fellow clerk, has or may possess.
I am far from desiring to lessen the great merit of the gentleman
I named, for I heartily esteem and love him; but in this trade
of ours, my lord, in which you are the general, as in that of the
soldiery, there is a certain right acquired by time and long service.
You would do anything for your Queen's service, but you would
not be contented to descend, and be degraded to a charge, no way
proportioned to that of Secretary of State, any more than Mr. Ross,
though he would charge a party with a halbard in his hand, would
be content all his life after to be Serjeant. Was my Lord Dartmouth,
from Secretary, returned again to be Commissioner of Trade,
or from Secretary of War, would Frank Gwyn think himself kindly
used to be returned again to be Commissioner? In short, my
lord, you have put me above myself, and if I am to return to myself,
I shall return to something very discontented and uneasy. I am
sure, my lord, you will make the best use you can of this hint for
my good. If I am to have anything, it will certainly be for her
Majesty's service, and the credit of my friends in the Ministry,
that it be done before I am recalled from home, lest the world
may think either that I have merited to be disgraced, or that ye
dare not stand by me. If nothing is to be done,
fiat voluntas Dei.
I have writ to Lord Treasurer upon this subject, and having implored
your kind intercession, I promise you it is the last remonstrance
of this kind that I will ever make. Adieu, my lord; all
honour, health, and pleasure to you.




“Yours ever,




“Matt.”




“PS.—Lady Jersey is just gone from me. We drank your
healths together in usquebaugh after our tea: we are the greatest
friends alive. Once more adieu. There is no such thing as the
Book of Travels you mentioned; if there be, let friend Tilson
send us more particular account of them, for neither I nor Jacob
Tonson can find them. Pray send Barton back to me, I hope with
some comfortable tidings.”—Bolingbroke's Letters.

113.
“I
asked whether Prior's poems were to be printed entire;
Johnson said they were. I mentioned Lord Hales's censure of
Prior in his preface to a collection of sacred poems, by various
hands, published by him at Edinburgh a great many years ago,
where he mentions ‘these impure tales, which will be the eternal
opprobium of their ingenious author’. Johnson: ‘Sir, Lord
Hales has forgot. There is nothing in Prior that will excite to
lewdness. If Lord Hales thinks there is, he must be more combustible
than other people.’ I instanced the tale of Paulo
Purganti and his Wife. Johnson: ‘Sir, there is nothing
there but that his wife wanted to be kissed, when poor Paulo was out
of pocket. No, sir, Prior is a lady's book. No lady is ashamed
to have it standing in her library.’ ”—Boswell's
Life of Johnson.
114.
Gay
was of an old Devonshire family, but his pecuniary prospects
not being great, was placed in his youth in the house of
a silk-mercer in London. He was born in 1688—Pope's year, and
in 1712 the Duchess of Monmouth made him her secretary. Next
year he published his Rural Sports, which he dedicated to Pope,
and so made an acquaintance, which became a memorable friendship.




“Gay,” says Pope, “was quite a natural man,—wholly without
art or design, and spoke just what he thought and as he thought
it. He dangled for twenty years about a Court, and at last was
offered to be made usher to the young princess. Secretary Craggs
made Gay a present of stock in the South-Sea year; and he was
once worth 20,000l., but lost it all
again. He got about 500l. by
the first Beggar's Opera, and
1,100l. or 1,200l. by the second. He
was negligent and a bad manager. Latterly, the Duke of Queensberry
took his money into his keeping, and let him only have what
was necessary out of it, and, as he lived with them, he could not
have occasion for much. He died worth upwards of
3,000l.”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).

115.
“Mr.
Gay is, in all regards, as honest and sincere a man as
ever I knew.”—Swift,
to Lady Betty Germaine, Jan. 1733.
116.

Of manners gentle, of affections mild;

In wit a man; simplicity, a child;

With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,

Form'd to delight at once and lash the age;

Above temptation in a low estate,

And uncorrupted e'en among the great:

A safe companion, and an easy friend,

Unblamed through life, lamented in the end.

These are thy honours; not that here thy bust

Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy dust;

But that the worthy and the good shall say,

Striking their pensive bosoms, “Here lies Gay.”




Pope's Epitaph on Gay.




A hare who, in a civil way,

Complied with everything, like Gay.




Fables, “The Hare and Many Friends.”

117.
“I
can give you no account of Gay,” says Pope, curiously,
“since he was raffled for, and won back by his
Duchess.”—Works,
Roscoe's ed., vol. ix, p. 392.




Here is the letter Pope wrote to him when the death of Queen
Anne brought back Lord Clarendon from Hanover, and lost him
the secretaryship of that nobleman, of which he had had but a
short tenure.




Gay's Court prospects were never happy from this time.—His
dedication of the Shepherd's Week to Bolingbroke, Swift used
to call the “original sin”, which had hurt him with the house of
Hanover.




“Sept. 23, 1714.




“Dear Mr. Gay,




“Welcome to your native soil! welcome to your friends!
thrice welcome to me! whether returned in glory, blest with
Court interest, the love and familiarity of the great, and filled
with agreeable hopes; or melancholy with dejection, contemplative
of the changes of fortune, and doubtful for the future; whether
returned a triumphant Whig or a depending Tory, equally all hail!
equally beloved and welcome to me! If happy, I am to partake
of your elevation; if unhappy, you have still a warm corner in
my heart, and a retreat at Benfield in the worst of times at your
service. If you are a Tory, or thought so by any man, I know
it can proceed from nothing but your gratitude to a few people
who endeavoured to serve you, and whose politics were never your
concern. If you are a Whig, as I rather hope, and as I think your
principles and mine (as brother poets) had ever a bias to the side
of liberty, I know you will be an honest man and an inoffensive
one. Upon the whole, I know you are incapable of being so much
of either party as to be good for nothing. Therefore, once more,
whatever you are or in whatever state you are, all hail!




“One or two of your own friends complained they had nothing
from you since the Queen's death; I told them no man living
loved Mr. Gay better than I, yet I had not once written to him
in all his voyage. This I thought a convincing proof, but truly
one may be a friend to another without telling him so every month.
But they had reasons, too, themselves to allege in your excuse,
as men who really value one another will never want such as make
their friends and themselves easy. The late universal concern in
public affairs threw us all into a hurry of spirits: even I, who
am more a philosopher than to expect anything from any reign,
was borne away with the current, and full of the expectation of
the successor. During your journeys, I knew not whither to aim
a letter after you; that was a sort of shooting flying: add to this
the demand Homer had upon me, to write fifty verses a day, besides
learned notes, all of which are at a conclusion for this year. Rejoice
with me, O my friend! that my labour is over; come and make
merry with me in much feasting. We will feed among the lilies
(by the lilies I mean the ladies). Are not the Rosalindas of Britain
as charming as the Blousalindas of the Hague? or have the two
great Pastoral poets of our own nation renounced love at the same
time? for Philips, unnatural Philips, hath deserted it, yea, and
in a rustic manner kicked his Rosalind. Dr. Parnell and I have
been inseparable ever since you went. We are now at the Bath,
where (if you are not, as I heartily hope, better engaged) your
company would be the greatest pleasure to us in the world. Talk
not of expenses: Homer shall support his children. I beg a line
from you, directed to the Post-house in Bath. Poor Parnell is in
an ill state of health.




“Pardon me if I add a word of advice in the poetical way. Write
something on the King, or Prince, or Princess. On whatsoever
foot you may be with the court, this can do no harm. I shall
never know where to end, and am confounded in the many things
I have to say to you, though they all amount but to this, that
I am, entirely, as ever,




“Your,” &c.




Gay took the advice “in the poetical way”, and published An
Epistle to a Lady, occasioned by the arrival of her Royal Highness
the Princess of Wales. But, though this brought him access to
Court, and the attendance of the Prince and Princess at his farce
of the What d'ye, call it? it did not bring him a place. On the
accession of George II, he was offered the situation of Gentleman
Usher to the Princess Louisa (her Highness being then two years old);
but “by this offer”, says Johnson, “he thought himself insulted.”

118.
Gay was a great eater.—As the French philosopher used to
prove his existence by cogito, ergo sum,
the greatest proof of Gay's existence is,
edit, ergo est—Congreve,
in a Letter to Pope (Spence's
Anecdotes).
119.
Swift
indorsed the letter—“On my dear friend Mr. Gay's death;
received Dec. 15, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding
some misfortune.”




“It was by Swift's interest that Gay was made known to Lord
Bolingbroke, and obtained his patronage.”—Scott's
Swift, vol. i,
p. 156.




Pope wrote on the occasion of Gay's death, to Swift, thus:—




“[Dec. 5, 1732.]




“One of the dearest and longest ties I have ever had is
broken all on a sudden by the unfortunate death of poor Mr. Gay.
An inflammatory fever carried him out of this life in three days.... He
asked of you a few hours before when in acute torment
by the inflammation in his bowels and breast.... His sisters, we
suppose, will be his heirs, who are two widows.... Good God!
how often are we to die before we go quite off this stage? In
every friend we lose a part of ourselves, and the best part. God
keep those we have left! few are worth praying for, and one's
self the least of all.”

120.
“Gay,
like Goldsmith, had a musical talent. ‘He could play
on the flute,’ says Malone, ‘and was, therefore, enabled to adapt
so happily some of the airs in the Beggar's
Opera.’ ”—Notes to
Spence.
121.

'Twas when the seas were roaring

With hollow blasts of wind,

A damsel lay deploring

All on a rock reclined.

Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look;

Her head was crown'd with willows

That trembled o'er the brook.




Twelve months are gone and over,

And nine long tedious days;

Why didst thou, venturous lover—

Why didst thou trust the seas?

Cease, cease, thou cruel Ocean,

And let my lover rest;

Ah! what's thy troubled motion

To that within my breast?




The merchant robb'd of pleasure,

Sees tempests in despair;

But what's the loss of treasure

To losing of my dear?

Should you some coast be laid on,

Where gold and diamonds grow,

You'd find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.




How can they say that Nature

Has nothing made in vain;

Why, then, beneath the water

Should hideous rocks remain?

No eyes the rocks discover

That lurk beneath the deep,

To wreck the wandering lover,

And leave the maid to weep?




All melancholy lying,

Thus wail'd she for her dear;

Repay'd each blast with sighing,

Each billow with a tear;

When o'er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spy'd;

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and died.




A Ballad, from the
“What d'ye call it?”




“What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or, rather, Swift's,
Arbuthnot's, Pope's, and Gay's, in the What d'ye call it?
‘'Twas when the seas were roaring’? I have been well informed, that
they all contributed.”—Cowper to Unwin, 1783.
122.
“Dr. Swift had been observing once to Mr. Gay, what an odd
pretty sort of thing a Newgate Pastoral might make. Gay was
inclined to try at such a thing for some time, but afterwards thought
it would be better to write a comedy on the same plan. This was
what gave rise to the Beggar's Opera. He began on it, and when
he first mentioned it to Swift, the Doctor did not much like the
project. As he carried it on, he showed what he wrote to both
of us; and we now and then gave a correction, or a word or two
of advice; but it was wholly of his own writing. When it was
done, neither of us thought it would succeed. We showed it to
Congreve, who, after reading it over, said, ‘It would either take
greatly, or be damned confoundedly.’ We were all at the first
night of it, in great uncertainty of the event, till we were very
much encouraged by overhearing the Duke of Argyle, who sat in
the next box to us, say, ‘It will do—it must do!—I see it in the
eyes of them!’ This was a good while before the first Act was
over, and so gave us ease soon; for the Duke [besides his own
good taste] has a more particular research than any one now living
in discovering the taste of the public. He was quite right in this
as usual; the good nature of the audience appeared stronger and
stronger every act, and ended in a clamour of
applause.”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).
123.
“Waller,
Spenser, and Dryden were Mr. Pope's great favourites,
in the order they are named, in his first reading, till he was about
twelve years old.”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).




“Mr. Pope's father (who was an honest merchant, and dealt in
Hollands, wholesale) was no poet, but he used to set him to make
English verses when very young. He was pretty difficult in being
pleased; and used often to send him back to new turn them.
‘These are not good rhimes;’ for that was my husband's word
for verses.”—Pope's Mother
(Spence).




“I wrote things, I'm ashamed to say how soon. Part of an Epic
Poem when about twelve. The scene of it lay at Rhodes, and
some of the neighbouring islands; and the poem opened under
water with a description of the Court of
Neptune.”—Pope (ibid.).




“His perpetual application (after he set to study of himself)
reduced him in four years' time to so bad a state of health, that,
after trying physicians for a good while in vain, he resolved to
give way to his distemper; and sat down calmly in a full expectation
of death in a short time. Under this thought, he wrote letters
to take a last farewell of some of his more particular friends, and,
among the rest, one to the Abbé Southcote. The Abbé was extremely
concerned, both for his very ill state of health and the
resolution he said he had taken. He thought there might yet be
hope, and went immediately to Dr. Radcliffe, with whom he was
well acquainted, told him Mr. Pope's case, got full directions from
him, and carried them down to Pope in Windsor Forest. The
chief thing the Doctor ordered him was to apply less, and to ride
every day. The following his advice soon restored him to his
health.”—Pope (ibid.).

124.
MR.
POPE TO THE REV. MR. BROOME, PULHAM,
NORFOLK.




“Aug. 29, 1730.




“Dear Sir,—




“I intended to write to you on this melancholy subject, the
death of Mr. Fenton, before yours came, but stayed to have informed
myself and you of the circumstances of it. All I hear is,
that he felt a gradual decay, though so early in life, and was declining
for five or six months. It was not, as I apprehended, the gout
in his stomach, but, I believe, rather a complication first of gross
humours, as he was naturally corpulent, not discharging themselves,
as he used no sort of exercise. No man better bore the approaches
of his dissolution (as I am told), or with less ostentation yielded
up his being. The great modesty which you know was natural to
him, and the great contempt he had for all sorts of vanity and
parade, never appeared more than in his last moments: he had
a conscious satisfaction (no doubt) in acting right, in feeling himself
honest, true, and unpretending to more than his own. So he
died as he lived, with that secret, yet sufficient contentment.




“As to any papers left behind him, I dare say they can be but
few; for this reason, he never wrote out of vanity, or thought
much of the applause of men. I know an instance when he did
his utmost to conceal his own merit that way; and if we join to
this his natural love of ease, I fancy we must expect little of this
sort: at least, I have heard of none, except some few further
remarks on Waller (which his cautious integrity made him leave
an order to be given to Mr. Tonson), and perhaps, though it is
many years since I saw it, a translation of the first book of
Oppian.
He had begun a tragedy of Dion, but made small progress in it.




“As to his other affairs, he died poor but honest, leaving no
debts or legacies, except of a few pounds to Mr. Trumbull and my
lady, in token of respect, gratefulness, and mutual esteem.




“I shall, with pleasure, take upon me to draw this amiable,
quiet, deserving, unpretending, Christian, unphilosophical character
in his epitaph. There truth may be spoken in a few words; as
for flourish, and oratory, and poetry, I leave them to younger
and more lively writers, such as love writing for writing sake, and
would rather show their own fine parts than report the valuable
ones of any other man. So the elegy I renounce.




“I condole with you from my heart on the loss of so worthy
a man, and a friend to us both....




“Adieu; let us love his memory, and profit by his example.
Am very sincerely, dear sir,




“Your affectionate and real servant.”




TO THE EARL OF BURLINGTON.




“August, 1714.




“My Lord,




“If your mare could speak she would give you an account
of what extraordinary company she had on the road, which, since
she cannot do, I will.”




“It was the enterprising Mr. Lintot, the redoubtable rival of
Mr. Tonson, who, mounted on a stonehorse, overtook me in Windsor
Forest. He said he heard I designed for Oxford, the seat of the
Muses, and would, as my bookseller, by all means accompany me
thither.




“I asked him where he got his horse? He answered he got it of
his publisher; ‘for that rogue, my printer,’ said he, ‘disappointed
me. I hoped to put him in good humour by a treat at the tavern
of a brown fricassée of rabbits, which cost ten shillings, with two
quarts of wine, besides my conversation. I thought myself cocksure
of his horse, which he readily promised me, but said that
Mr. Tonson had just such another design of going to Cambridge,
expecting there the copy of a new kind of Horace from Dr. ——;
and if Mr. Tonson went, he was pre-engaged to attend him, being
to have the printing of the said copy. So, in short, I borrowed
this stonehorse of my publisher, which he had of Mr. Oldmixon
for a debt. He lent me, too, the pretty boy you see after me.
He was a smutty dog yesterday, and cost me more than two hours
to wash the ink off his face; but the devil is a fair-conditioned
devil, and very forward in his catechism. If you have any more
bags he shall carry them.’




“I thought Mr. Lintot's civility not to be neglected, so gave the
boy a small bag containing three shirts and an Elzevir Virgil, and,
mounting in an instant, proceeded on the road, with my man before,
my courteous stationer beside, and the aforesaid devil behind.




“Mr. Lintot began in this manner: ‘Now, damn them! What
if they should put it into the newspaper how you and I went
together to Oxford? What would I care? If I should go down
into Sussex they would say I was gone to the Speaker; but what
of that? If my son were but big enough to go on with the business,
by G-d, I would keep as good company as old Jacob.’




“Hereupon, I inquired of his son. ‘The lad,’ says he, ‘has fine
parts, but is somewhat sickly, much as you are. I spare for nothing
in his education at Westminster. Pray, don't you think Westminster
to be the best school in England? Most of the late Ministry
came out of it; so did many of this Ministry. I hope the boy
will make his fortune.’




“ ‘Don't you design to let him pass a year at Oxford?’ ‘To
what purpose?’ said he. ‘The Universities do but make pedants,
and I intend to breed him a man of business.’




“As Mr. Lintot was talking I observed he sat uneasy on his
saddle, for which I expressed some solicitude. ‘Nothing,’ says he.
‘I can bear it well enough; but, since we have the day before us,
methinks it would be very pleasant for you to rest awhile under
the woods.’ When we were alighted, ‘See, here, what a mighty
pretty Horace I have in my pocket! What, if you amused yourself
in turning an ode till we mount again? Lord! if you pleased.
What a clever miscellany might you make at leisure hours!’
‘Perhaps I may,’ said I, ‘if we ride on; the motion is an aid to
my fancy; a round trot very much awakens my spirits; then jog
on apace, and I'll think as hard as I can.’




“Silence ensued for a full hour; after which Mr. Lintot lugged
the reins, stopped short, and broke out, ‘Well, sir, how far have
you gone?’ I answered, seven miles. ‘Z—ds, sir,’ said Lintot,
‘I thought you had done seven stanzas. Oldisworth, in a ramble
round Wimbledon Hill, would translate a whole ode in half this
time. I'll say that for Oldisworth [though I lost by his Timothy's]
he translates an ode of Horace the quickest of any man in England.
I remember Dr. King would write verses in a tavern, three hours
after he could not speak: and there is Sir Richard, in that rumbling
old chariot of his, between Fleet Ditch and St. Giles's pound shall
make you half a Job.’




“ ‘Pray, Mr. Lintot,’ said I, ‘now you talk of translators, what
is your method of managing them?’ ‘Sir,’ replied he, ‘these
are the saddest pack of rogues in the world: in a hungry fit, they'll
swear they understand all the languages in the universe. I have
known one of them take down a Greek book upon my counter,
and cry, “Ah, this is Hebrew,” and must read it from the latter
end. By G-d, I can never be sure in these fellows, for I neither
understand Greek, Latin, French, nor Italian myself. But this is
my way; I agree with them for ten shillings per sheet, with a
proviso that I will have their doings corrected with whom I please;
so by one or the other they are led at last to the true sense of an
author; my judgement giving the negative to all my translators.’
‘Then how are you sure these correctors may not impose upon
you?’ ‘Why, I get any civil gentleman (especially any Scotchman)
that comes into my shop, to read the original to me in English;
by this I know whether my first translator be deficient, and whether
my corrector merits his money or not.




“ ‘I'll tell you what happened to me last month. I bargained
with S—— for a new version of
Lucretius, to publish against Tonson's,
agreeing to pay the author so many shillings at his producing
so many lines. He made a great progress in a very short time,
and I gave it to the corrector to compare with the Latin; but
he went directly to Creech's translation, and found it the same,
word for word, all but the first page. Now, what d'ye think I did?
I arrested the translator for a cheat; nay, and I stopped the
corrector's pay, too, upon the proof that he had made use of Creech
instead of the original.’




“ ‘Pray tell me next how you deal with the critics?’ ‘Sir,’
said he, ‘nothing more easy. I can silence the most formidable
of them; the rich ones for a sheet a-piece of the blotted manuscript,
which cost me nothing; they'll go about with it to their
acquaintance, and pretend they had it from the author, who submitted
it to their correction: this has given some of them such an
air, that in time they come to be consulted with and dedicated to
as the tip-top critics of the town.—As for the poor critics, I'll
give you one instance of my management, by which you may guess
the rest: a lean man, that looked like a very good scholar, came
to me, t'other day; he turned over your Homer, shook his head,
shrugged up his shoulders, and pish'd at every line of it. “One
would wonder,” says he, “at the strange presumption of some men;
Homer is no such easy task as every stripling, every versifier—”
He was going on, when my wife called to dinner; “Sir,” said I,
“will you please to eat a piece of beef with me?” “Mr. Lintot,”
said he, “I am very sorry you should be at the expense of this
great book, I am really concerned on your account.” “Sir, I am
much obliged to you: if you can dine upon a piece of beef together
with a slice of pudding—?” “Mr. Lintot, I do not say but Mr. Pope,
if he would condescend to advise with men of learning—” “Sir,
the pudding is upon the table, if you please to go in.” My critic
complies; he comes to a taste of your poetry, and tells me in the
same breath, that the book is commendable, and the pudding
excellent.’




“ ‘Now, sir,’ continued Mr. Lintot, ‘in return for the frankness
I have shown, pray tell me, is it the opinion of your friends at
Court that my Lord Lansdowne will be brought to the bar or not?’
I told him I heard he would not, and I hoped it, my lord being
one I had particular obligations to.—‘That may be,’ replied
Mr. Lintot; ‘but by G— if he is not, I shall lose the printing
of a very good trial.’




“These, my lord, are a few traits with which you discern the
genius of Mr. Lintot, which I have chosen for the subject of a
letter. I dropped him as soon as I got to Oxford, and paid a visit
to my Lord Carleton, at Middleton....




“I am,” &c.




DR. SWIFT TO MR. POPE.




“Sept. 29, 1725.




“I am now returning to the noble scene of Dublin—into the
grand monde—for
fear of burying my parts; to signalize myself
among curates and vicars, and correct all corruptions crept in
relating to the weight of bread-and-butter through those dominions
where I govern. I have employed my time (besides ditching) in
finishing, correcting, amending, and transcribing my Travels
[Gulliver's],
in four parts complete, newly augmented, and intended
for the press when the world shall deserve them, or rather, when
a printer shall be found brave enough to venture his ears. I like
the scheme of our meeting after distresses and dissensions; but
the chief end I propose to myself in all my labours is to vex the
world rather than divert it; and if I could compass that design
without hurting my own person and fortune, I would be the most
indefatigable writer you have ever seen, without reading. I am
exceedingly pleased that you have done with translations; Lord
Treasurer Oxford often lamented that a rascally world should lay
you under a necessity of misemploying your genius for so long
a time; but since you will now be so much better employed, when
you think of the world, give it one lash the more at my request.
I have ever hated all societies, professions, and communities; and
all my love is towards individuals—for instance, I hate the tribe
of lawyers, but I love Councillor Such-a-one and Judge Such-a-one:
it is so with physicians (I will not speak of my own trade), soldiers,
English, Scotch, French, and the rest. But principally I hate and
detest that animal called man—although I heartily love John,
Peter, Thomas, and so on.




“... I have got materials towards a treatise proving the falsity
of that definition animal rationale, and to show it should be only
rationis capax....
The matter is so clear that it will admit of
no dispute—nay, I will hold a hundred pounds that you and I agree
in the point....




“Dr. Lewis sent me an account of Dr. Arbuthnot's illness, which
is a very sensible affliction to me, who, by living so long out of
the world, have lost that hardness of heart contracted by years
and general conversation. I am daily losing friends, and neither
seeking nor getting others. Oh, if the world had but a dozen of
Arbuthnots in it, I would burn my Travels!”




MR. POPE TO DR. SWIFT.




“October 15, 1725.




“I am wonderfully pleased with the suddenness of your kind
answer. It makes me hope you are coming towards us, and that
you incline more and more to your old friends.... Here is one
[Lord Bolingbroke] who was once a powerful planet, but has now
(after long experience of all that comes of shining) learned to be
content with returning to his first point without the thought or
ambition of shining at all. Here is another [Edward, Earl of
Oxford], who thinks one of the greatest glories of his father was
to have distinguished and loved you, and who loves you hereditarily.
Here is Arbuthnot, recovered from the jaws of death,
and more pleased with the hope of seeing you again than of reviewing
a world, every part of which he has long despised but what
is made up of a few men like yourself....




“Our friend Gay is used as the friends of Tories are by Whigs—and
generally by Tories too. Because he had humour, he was
supposed to have dealt with Dr. Swift, in like manner as when
any one had learning formerly, he was thought to have dealt with
the devil....




“Lord Bolingbroke had not the least harm by his fall; I wish
he had received no more by his other fall. But Lord Bolingbroke
is the most improved mind since you saw him, that ever was improved
without shifting into a new body, or being paullo minus
ab angelis. I have often imagined to myself, that if ever all of us
meet again, after so many varieties and changes, after so much of
the old world and of the old man in each of us has been altered,
that scarce a single thought of the one, any more than a single
action of the other, remains just the same; I have fancied, I say,
that we should meet like the righteous in the millennium, quite
at peace, divested of all our former passions, smiling at our past
follies, and content to enjoy the kingdom of the just in tranquillity.




——




“I designed to have left the following page for Dr. Arbuthnot to
fill, but he is so touched with the period in yours to me, concerning
him, that he intends to answer it by a whole letter.”

125.
Of
the Earl of Peterborough, Walpole says:—“He was one of
those men of careless wit, and negligent grace, who scatter a
thousand bons mots
and idle verses, which we painful compilers
gather and hoard, till the authors stare to find themselves authors.
Such was this lord, of an advantageous figure, and enterprising
spirit; as gallant as Amadis and as brave; but a little more expeditious
in his journeys; for he is said to have seen more kings and
more postilions than any man in Europe.... He was a man,
as his friend said, who would neither live nor die like any other
mortal.”




FROM THE EARL OF PETERBOROUGH TO POPE.




“You must receive my letter with a just impartiality, and give
grains of allowance for a gloomy or rainy day; I sink grievously
with the weather-glass, and am quite spiritless when oppressed
with the thoughts of a birthday or a return.




“Dutiful affection was bringing me to town, but undutiful laziness,
and being much out of order keep me in the country: however,
if alive, I must make my appearance at the birthday....




“You seem to think it vexatious that I shall allow you but one
woman at a time either to praise or love. If I dispute with you
on this point, I doubt, every jury will give a verdict against me.
So, sir, with a Mahometan indulgence, I allow you pluralities, the
favourite privileges of our Church.




“I find you don't mend upon correction; again I tell you you
must not think of women in a reasonable way; you know we
always make goddesses of those we adore upon earth; and do not
all the good men tell us we must lay aside reason in what relates
to the Deity?




“... I should have been glad of anything of Swift's. Pray
when you write to him next, tell him I expect him with impatience,
in a place as odd and as out of the way as himself.




“Yours.”




Peterborough married Mrs. Anastasia Robinson, the celebrated
singer.
126.
“Button
had been a servant in the Countess of Warwick's
family, who, under the patronage of Addison, kept a coffee-house
on the south side of Russell Street, about two doors from Covent
Garden. Here it was that the wits of that time used to assemble.
It is said that when Addison had suffered any vexation from the
Countess, he withdrew the company from Button's house.




“From the coffee-house he went again to a tavern, where he
often sat late and drank too much wine.”—Dr. Johnson.




Will's coffee-house was on the west side of Bow Street, and
“corner of Russell Street”. See Handbook of London.

127.
“My
acquaintance with Mr. Addison commenced in 1712: I
liked him then as well as I liked any man, and was very fond of
his conversation. It was very soon after that Mr. Addison advised
me ‘not to be content with the applause of half the nation’. He
used to talk much and often to me, of moderation in parties: and
used to blame his dear friend Steele for being too much of a party
man. He encouraged me in my design of translating the Iliad,
which was begun that year, and finished in
1718.”—Pope (Spence's
Anecdotes).
128.
“Addison,
who was no stranger to the world, probably saw
the selfishness of Pope's friendship; and, resolving that he should
have the consequences of his officiousness to himself, informed
Dennis by Steele that he was sorry for the
insult.”—Johnson (Life
of Addison).
129.
“While
I was heated with what I had heard, I wrote a letter
to Mr. Addison, to let him know ‘that I was not unacquainted with
this behaviour of his; that if I was to speak of him severely in
return for it, it should not be in such a dirty way; that I should
rather tell him himself fairly of his faults, and allow his good
qualities; and that it should be something in the following manner.’
I then subjoined the first sketch of what has since been called my
satire on Addison. He used me very civilly ever after; and never
did me any injustice, that I know of, from that time to his death,
which was about three years after.”—Pope
(Spence's Anecdotes).
130.
“That
Tickell should have been guilty of a villany seems to
us highly improbable; that Addison should have been guilty of
a villany seems to us highly improbable; but that these two men
should have conspired together to commit a villany, seems, to
us, improbable in a tenfold degree.”—Macaulay.
131.
LORD
BOLINGBROKE TO THE THREE YAHOOS OF TWICKENHAM.




“July 23, 1726.




“Jonathan, Alexander, John, most excellent Triumvirs Of
Parnassus,—




“Though you are probably very indifferent where I am, or
what I am doing, yet I resolve to believe the contrary. I persuade
myself that you have sent at least fifteen times within this fortnight
to Dawley farm, and that you are extremely mortified at
my long silence. To relieve you, therefore, from this great anxiety
of mind, I can do no less than write a few lines to you; and I please
myself beforehand with the vast pleasure which this epistle must
needs give you. That I may add to this pleasure, and give further
proofs of my beneficent temper, I will likewise inform you, that
I shall be in your neighbourhood again, by the end of next week:
by which time I hope that Jonathan's imagination of business will
be succeeded by some imagination more becoming a professor of
that divine science, la bagatelle.
Adieu. Jonathan, Alexander, John, mirth be with you!”

132.
Prior must be
excepted from this observation. “He was lank
and lean.”
133.
Swift exerted
himself very much in promoting the Iliad subscription;
and also introduced Pope to Harley and Bolingbroke.—Pope
realized by the Iliad upwards of
5,000l., which he laid out
partly in annuities, and partly in the purchase of his famous villa.
Johnson remarks that “it would be hard to find a man so well
entitled to notice by his wit, that ever delighted so much in talking
of his money”.
134.
Garth,
whom Dryden calls “generous as his Muse”, was a
Yorkshireman. He graduated at Cambridge, and was made M.D.
in 1691. He soon distinguished himself in his profession, by his
poem of the Dispensary, and in society, and pronounced Dryden's
funeral oration. He was a strict Whig, a notable member of the
Kit-Kat and a friendly, convivial, able man. He was knighted by
George I, with the Duke of Marlborough's sword. He died in
1718.
135.
“Arbuthnot
was the son of an episcopal clergyman in Scotland,
and belonged to an ancient and distinguished Scotch family. He
was educated at Aberdeen; and, coming up to London—according
to a Scotch practice often enough alluded to—to make his fortune—first
made himself known by ‘an examination of Dr. Woodward's
account of the Deluge’. He became physician, successively to
Prince George of Denmark and to Queen Anne. He is usually
allowed to have been the most learned, as well as one of the most
witty and humorous members of the Scriblerus Club. The opinion
entertained of him by the humourists of the day is abundantly
evidenced in their correspondence. When he found himself in his
last illness, he wrote thus, from his retreat at Hampstead, to Swift:




“Hampstead, Oct. 4, 1734.




“My Dear and Worthy Friend,—




“You have no reason to put me among the rest of your forgetful
friends, for I wrote two long letters to you, to which I never
received one word of answer. The first was about your health;
the last I sent a great while ago, by one De la Mar. I can assure
you with great truth that none of your friends or acquaintance
has a more warm heart towards you than myself. I am going out
of this troublesome world, and you, among the rest of my friends,
shall have my last prayers and good wishes.




“... I came out to this place so reduced by a dropsy and an
asthma, that I could neither sleep, breathe, eat, nor move. I most
earnestly desired and begged of God that he would take me. Contrary
to my expectation, upon venturing to ride (which I had
forborne for some years), I recovered my strength to a pretty
considerable degree, slept, and had my stomach again.... What
I did, I can assure you was not for life, but ease; for I am at
present in the case of a man that was almost in harbour, and then
blown back to sea—who has a reasonable hope of going to a good
place, and an absolute certainty of leaving a very bad one. Not
that I have any particular disgust at the world; for I have as
great comfort in my own family and from the kindness of my
friends as any man; but the world, in the main, displeases me,
and I have too true a presentiment of calamities that are to befall
my country. However, if I should have the happiness to see you
before I die, you will find that I enjoy the comforts of life with
my usual cheerfulness. I cannot imagine why you are frightened
from a journey to England: the reasons you assign are not sufficient—the
journey I am sure would do you good. In general,
I recommend riding, of which I have always had a good opinion,
and can now confirm it from my own experience.




“My family give you their love and service. The great loss
I sustained in one of them gave me my first shock, and the trouble
I have with the rest to bring them to a right temper to bear the
loss of a father who loves them, and whom they love, is really
a most sensible affliction to me. I am afraid, my dear friend, we
shall never see one another more in this world. I shall, to the last
moment, preserve my love and esteem for you, being well assured
you will never leave the paths of virtue and honour; for all that
is in this world is not worth the least deviation from the way. It
will be great pleasure to me to hear from you sometimes; for none
are with more sincerity than I am, my dear friend, your most
faithful friend and humble servant.”




“Arbuthnot,” Johnson says, “was a man of great comprehension,
skilful in his profession, versed in the sciences, acquainted with
ancient literature, and able to animate his mass of knowledge by
a bright and active imagination; a scholar with great brilliance
of wit; a wit who in the crowd of life, retained and discovered
a noble ardour of religious zeal.”




Dugald Stewart has testified to Arbuthnot's ability in a department
of which he was particularly qualified to judge: “Let me
add, that, in the list of philosophical reformers, the authors of
Martinus Scriblerus ought not to be overlooked. Their happy
ridicule of the scholastic logic and metaphysics is universally known;
but few are aware of the acuteness and sagacity displayed in their
allusions to some of the most vulnerable passages in Locke's Essay.
In this part of the work it is commonly understood that Arbuthnot
had the principal share.”—See Preliminary Dissertation to
Encyclopaedia
Britannica, note to p. 242, and also note B. B. B., p. 285.

136.

TO MR. RICHARDSON.




“Twickenham, June 10, 1733.




“As I know you and I mutually desire to see one another, I hope
that this day our wishes would have met, and brought you hither.
And this for the very reason, which possibly might hinder you
coming, that my poor mother is dead. I thank God, her death
was as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan,
or even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression
of tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that it is even amiable to
behold it. It would afford the finest image of a saint expired
that ever painter drew; and it would be the greatest obligation
which even that obliging art could ever bestow on a friend, if you
could come and sketch it for me. I am sure, if there be no very
precedent obstacle, you will leave any common business to do this;
and I hope to see you this evening, or to-morrow morning as early,
before this winter flower is faded. I will defer her interment till
to-morrow night. I know you love me, or I could not have written
this—I could not (at this time) have written at all. Adieu! May
you die as happy!




“Yours,” &c.

137.
“Mr.
Pope was with Sir Godfrey Kneller one day, when his
nephew, a Guinea trader, came in. ‘Nephew,’ said Sir Godfrey,
‘you have the honour of seeing the two greatest men in the
world.’—‘I don't know how great you may be,’ said the Guinea
man, ‘but I don't like your looks: I have often bought a man,
much better than both of you together, all muscles and bones, for
ten guineas.’ ”—Dr. Warburton
(Spence's Anecdotes).
138.
Swift's mention of him as one




—— whose filial piety excels,

Whatever Grecian story tells,




is well known. And a sneer of Walpole's may be put to a better
use than he ever intended it for, à propos of this subject.—He
charitably sneers, in one of his letters, at Spence's “fondling an
old mother—in imitation of Pope!”

139.
Joseph Spence
was the son of a clergyman, near Winchester.
He was a short time at Eton, and afterwards became a Fellow of
New College, Oxford, a clergyman, and professor of poetry. He
was a friend of Thomson's, whose reputation he aided. He published
an Essay on the Odyssey in 1726, which introduced him to
Pope. Everybody liked him. His Anecdotes were placed, while
still in MS., at the service of Johnson and also of Malone. They
were published by Mr. Singer in 1820.
140.
He speaks of Arbuthnot's having helped him through “that
long disease, my life”. But not only was he so feeble as is implied
in his use of the “buckram”, but “it now appears”, says Mr. Peter
Cunningham, “from his unpublished letters, that, like Lord Hervey,
he had recourse to ass's-milk for the preservation of his health.”
It is to his lordship's use of that simple beverage that he alludes
when he says—




Let Sporus tremble!—A. What, that thing of silk,

Sporus, that mere white-curd of ass's-milk?

141.
“He
(Johnson) repeated to us, in his forcible melodious manner,
the concluding lines of the
Dunciad.”—Boswell.
142.
“Mr. Langton
informed me that he once related to Johnson
(on the authority of Spence), that Pope himself admired these
lines so much that when he repeated them his voice faltered.
‘And well it might, sir,’ said Johnson, ‘for they are noble lines.’ ”




J. Boswell, junior.

143.
Coleridge speaks
of the “beautiful female faces” in Hogarth's
pictures, “in whom,” he says, “the satirist never extinguished that
love of beauty which belonged to him as a
poet.”—The Friend.
144.
“I was
pleased with the reply of a gentleman, who, being
asked which book he esteemed most in his library, answered,
‘Shakespeare’: being asked which he esteemed next best, replied
‘Hogarth’. His graphic representations are indeed books: they
have the teeming, fruitful, suggestive meaning of words. Other
pictures we look at—his prints we read....




“The quantity of thought which Hogarth crowds into every
picture would almost unvulgarize every subject which he might
choose....




“I say not that all the ridiculous subjects of Hogarth have
necessarily something in them to make us like them; some are
indifferent to us, some in their nature repulsive, and only made
interesting by the wonderful skill and truth to nature in the painter;
but I contend that there is in most of them that sprinkling of the
better nature, which, like holy water, chases away and disperses
the contagion of the bad. They have this in them, besides, that
they bring us acquainted with the every-day human face,—they
give us skill to detect those gradations of sense and virtue (which
escape the careless or fastidious observer) in the circumstances of
the world about us; and prevent that disgust at common life,
that taedium quotidianarum formarum,
which an unrestricted passion
for ideal forms and beauties is in danger of producing. In this,
as in many other things, they are analogous to the best novels of
Smollett and Fielding.”—Charles Lamb.




“It has been observed that Hogarth's pictures are exceedingly
unlike any other representations of the same kind of subjects—that
they form a class, and have a character, peculiar to themselves.
It may be worth while to consider in what this general
distinction consists.




“In the first place, they are, in the strictest sense, historical
pictures; and if what Fielding says be true, that his novel of
Tom Jones ought to be regarded as an epic prose-poem, because
it contained a regular development of fable, manners, character,
and passion, the compositions of Hogarth, will, in like manner,
be found to have a higher claim to the title of epic pictures than
many which have of late arrogated that denomination to themselves.
When we say that Hogarth treated his subjects historically,
we mean that his works represent the manners and humours of
mankind in action, and their characters by varied expression.
Everything in his pictures has life and motion in it. Not only
does the business of the scene never stand still, but every feature
and muscle is put into full play; the exact feeling of the moment
is brought out, and carried to its utmost height, and then instantly
seized and stamped on the canvas for ever. The expression is
always taken en passant,
in a state of progress or change, and, as
it were, at the salient point.... His figures are not like the background
on which they are painted: even the pictures on the wall
have a peculiar look of their own. Again, with the rapidity, variety,
and scope of history, Hogarth's heads have all the reality and
correctness of portraits. He gives the extremes of character and
expression, but he gives them with perfect truth and accuracy.
This is, in fact, what distinguishes his compositions from all others
of the same kind, that they are equally remote from caricature,
and from mere still life.... His faces go to the very verge of
caricature, and yet never (we believe in any single instance) go
beyond it.”—Hazlitt.

145.
He
made this excursion in 1732, his companions being John
Thornhill (son of Sir James), Scott the landscape-painter, Tothall,
and Forrest.
146.
“Dr. Johnson
made four lines once, on the death of poor
Hogarth, which were equally true and pleasing: I know not why
Garrick's were preferred to them:—




The hand of him here torpid lies,

That drew th' essential forms of grace;

Here, closed in death, th' attentive eyes,

That saw the manners in the face.




“Mr. Hogarth, among the variety of kindnesses shown to me
when I was too young to have a proper sense of them, was used to
be very earnest that I should obtain the acquaintance, and if possible
the friendship, of Dr. Johnson; whose conversation was, to
the talk of other men, like Titian's painting compared to Hudson's,
he said: ‘but don't you tell people now that I say so’ (continued
he) ‘for the connoisseurs and I are at war, you know; and because
I hate them, they think I hate Titian—and
let them!’ ... Of Dr. Johnson, when my father and he were talking about him one
day, ‘That man’ (says Hogarth) ‘is not contented with believing
the Bible; but he fairly resolves, I think, to believe nothing but
the Bible. Johnson’ (added he), ‘though so wise a fellow, is more
like King David than King Solomon, for he says in his haste, All
men are liars.’ ”—Mrs. Piozzi.




Hogarth died on the 26th of October, 1764. The day before his
death, he was removed from his villa at Chiswick to Leicester
Fields, “in a very weak condition, yet remarkably cheerful.” He
had just received an agreeable letter from Franklin. He lies buried
at Chiswick.

147.
TO
SIR WATKIN PHILLIPS, BART., OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXON.




“Dear Phillips,—In
my last, I mentioned my having spent an
evening with a society of authors, who seemed to be jealous and
afraid of one another. My uncle was not at all surprised to hear
me say I was disappointed in their conversation. ‘A man may
be very entertaining and instructive upon paper,’ said he, ‘and
exceedingly dull in common discourse. I have observed, that those
who shine most in private company are but secondary stars in the
constellation of genius. A small stock of ideas is more easily
managed, and sooner displayed, than a great quantity crowded
together. There is very seldom anything extraordinary in the
appearance and address of a good writer; whereas a dull author
generally distinguishes himself by some oddity or extravagance.
For this reason I fancy that an assembly of grubs must be very
diverting.’




“My curiosity being excited by this hint, I consulted my friend
Dick Ivy, who undertook to gratify it the very next day, which
was Sunday last. He carried me to dine with S——, whom you
and I have long known by his writings. He lives in the skirts of
the town; and every Sunday his house is open to all unfortunate
brothers of the quill, whom he treats with beef, pudding, and
potatoes, port, punch, and Calvert's entire butt beer. He has fixed
upon the first day of the week for the exercise of his hospitality,
because some of his guests could not enjoy it on any other, for
reasons that I need not explain. I was civilly received in a plain,
yet decent habitation, which opened backwards into a very pleasant
garden, kept in excellent order; and, indeed, I saw none of the
outward signs of authorship either in the house or the landlord,
who is one of those few writers of the age that stand upon their
own foundation, without patronage, and above dependence. If
there was nothing characteristic in the entertainer, the company
made ample amends for his want of singularity.




“At two in the afternoon, I found myself one of ten messmates
seated at table; and I question if the whole kingdom could produce
such another assemblage of originals. Among their peculiarities,
I do not mention those of dress, which may be purely accidental.
What struck me were oddities originally produced by affectation,
and afterwards confirmed by habit. One of them wore spectacles
at dinner, and another his hat flapped; though (as Ivy told me)
the first was noted for having a seaman's eye, when a bailiff was
in the wind; and the other was never known to labour under any
weakness or defect of vision, except about five years ago, when
he was complimented with a couple of black eyes by a player,
with whom he had quarrelled in his drink. A third wore a laced
stocking, and made use of crutches, because, once in his life, he
had been laid up with a broken leg, though no man could leap
over a stick with more agility. A fourth had contracted such an
antipathy to the country, that he insisted upon sitting with his
back towards the window that looked into the garden; and when
a dish of cauliflower was set upon the table, he snuffed up volatile
salts to keep him from fainting; yet this delicate person was the
son of a cottager, born under a hedge, and had many years run
wild among asses on a common. A fifth affected distraction: when
spoke to, he always answered from the purpose. Sometimes he
suddenly started up, and rapped out a dreadful oath; sometimes
he burst out a-laughing; then he folded his arms, and sighed;
and then he hissed like fifty serpents.




“At first, I really thought he was mad; and, as he sat near me,
began to be under some apprehensions for my own safety; when
our landlord, perceiving me alarmed, assured me aloud that I had
nothing to fear. ‘The gentleman,’ said he, ‘is trying to act
a part for which he is by no means qualified: if he had all the
inclination in the world, it is not in his power to be mad; his
spirits are too flat to be kindled into phrenzy.’ ‘'Tis no bad
p-p-puff, how-owever,’ observed a person in a tarnished laced coat:
‘aff-ffected m-madness w-will p-pass for w-wit w-with nine-nineteen
out of t-twenty.’ ‘And affected stuttering for humour,’
replied our landlord; ‘though, God knows! there is no affinity
betwixt them.’ It seems this wag, after having made some abortive
attempts in plain speaking, had recourse to this defect, by means
of which he frequently extorted the laugh of the company, without
the least expense of genius; and that imperfection, which he had
at first counterfeited, was now become so habitual, that he could
not lay it aside.




“A certain winking genius, who wore yellow gloves at dinner,
had, on his first introduction, taken such offence at S——, because
he looked and talked, and ate and drank, like any other man,
that he spoke contemptuously of his understanding ever after, and
never would repeat his visit, until he had exhibited the following
proof of his caprice. Wat Wyvil, the poet, having made some
unsuccessful advances towards an intimacy with S——, at last gave
him to understand, by a third person, that he had written a poem
in his praise, and a satire against his person: that if he would
admit him to his house, the first should be immediately sent to
press; but that if he persisted in declining his friendship, he would
publish the satire without delay. S—— replied, that he looked
upon Wyvil's panegyric as, in effect, a species of infamy, and would
resent it accordingly with a good cudgel; but if he published the
satire, he might deserve his compassion, and had nothing to fear
from his revenge. Wyvil having considered the alternative, resolved
to mortify S—— by printing the panegyric, for which he received
a sound drubbing. Then he swore the peace against the aggressor,
who, in order to avoid a prosecution at law, admitted him to his
good graces. It was the singularity in S——'s conduct on this
occasion, that reconciled him to the yellow-gloved philosopher, who
owned he had some genius; and from that period cultivated his
acquaintance.




“Curious to know upon what subjects the several talents of my
fellow guests were employed, I applied to my communicative friend
Dick Ivy, who gave me to understand that most of them were, or
had been, understrappers, or journeymen, to more creditable authors,
for whom they translated, collated, and compiled, in the business
of bookmaking; and that all of them had, at different times,
laboured in the service of our landlord, though they had now set
up for themselves in various departments of literature. Not only
their talents, but also their nations and dialects, were so various,
that our conversation resembled the confusion of tongues at Babel.
We had the Irish brogue, the Scotch accent, and foreign idiom,
twanged off by the most discordant vociferation; for as they all
spoke together, no man had any chance to be heard, unless he
could bawl louder than his fellows. It must be owned, however,
there was nothing pedantic in their discourse; they carefully
avoided all learned disquisitions, and endeavoured to be facetious;
nor did their endeavours always miscarry; some droll repartee
passed, and much laughter was excited; and if any individual
lost his temper so far as to transgress the bounds of decorum, he
was effectually checked by the master of the feast, who exerted
a sort of paternal authority over this irritable tribe.




“The most learned philosopher of the whole collection, who had
been expelled the university for atheism, has made great progress
in a refutation of Lord Bolingbroke's metaphysical works, which
is said to be equally ingenious and orthodox: but in the meantime,
he has been presented to the grand jury as a public nuisance for
having blasphemed in an alehouse on the Lord's Day. The Scotchman
gives lectures on the pronunciation of the English language,
which he is now publishing by subscription.




“The Irishman is a political writer, and goes by the name of
My Lord Potatoe. He wrote a pamphlet in vindication of a minister,
hoping his zeal would be rewarded with some place or pension;
but finding himself neglected in that quarter, he whispered about
that the pamphlet was written by the minister himself, and he
published an answer to his own production. In this he addressed
the author under the title of ‘your lordship’, with such solemnity,
that the public swallowed the deceit, and bought up the whole
impression. The wise politicians of the metropolis declared they
were both masterly performances, and chuckled over the flimsy
reveries of an ignorant garreteer, as the profound speculations of
a veteran statesman, acquainted with all the secrets of the cabinet.
The imposture was detected in the sequel, and our Hibernian
pamphleteer retains no part of his assumed importance but the
bare title of ‘my lord’, and the upper part of the table at the
potatoe-ordinary in Shoe Lane.




“Opposite to me sat a Piedmontese, who had obliged the public
with a humorous satire, entitled The Balance of the English Poets;
a performance which evinced the great modesty and taste of the
author, and, in particular, his intimacy with the elegances of the
English language. The sage, who laboured under the ἀγροφοβία,
or ‘horror of green fields’, had just finished a treatise on practical
agriculture, though, in fact, he had never seen corn growing in his
life, and was so ignorant of grain, that our entertainer, in the face
of the whole company, made him own that a plate of hominy was
the best rice-pudding he had ever eat.




“The stutterer had almost finished his travels through Europe
and part of Asia, without ever budging beyond the liberties of
the King's Bench, except in term-time, with a tipstaff for his companion:
and as for little Tim Cropdale, the most facetious member
of the whole society, he had happily wound up the catastrophe of
a virgin tragedy, from the exhibition of which no promised himself
a large fund of profit and reputation. Tim had made shift to live
many years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a volume;
but that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors,
who publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much
ease, and spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart,
and all in the serene tranquillity of high life, that the reader is
not only enchanted by their genius, but reformed by their morality.




“After dinner, we adjourned into the garden, where I observed
Mr. S—— give a short separate audience to every individual in
a small remote filbert-walk, from whence most of them dropped
off one after another, without further ceremony.”




Smollett's house was in Lawrence Lane, Chelsea, and is now
destroyed. See Handbook of London, p. 115.




“The person of Smollett was eminently handsome, his features
prepossessing, and, by the joint testimony of all his surviving
friends, his conversation, in the highest degree, instructive and
amusing. Of his disposition, those who have read his works (and
who has not?) may form a very accurate estimate; for in each
of them he has presented, and sometimes, under various points of
view, the leading features of his own character without disguising
the most unfavourable of them.... When unseduced by his
satirical propensities, he was kind, generous, and humane to others;
bold, upright, and independent in his own character; stooped to
no patron, sued for no favour, but honestly and honourably maintained
himself on his literary labours.... He was a doating father,
and an affectionate husband; and the warm zeal with which his
memory was cherished by his surviving friends, showed clearly the
reliance which they placed upon his
regard.”—Sir Walter Scott.

148.
Smollett
of Bonhill, in Dumbartonshire. Arms, az. “a bend, or,
between a lion rampant, ppr., holding in his paw a banner, arg.
and a bugle-horn, also ppr. Crest,
an oak-tree, ppr. Motto, Viresco.”




Smollett's father, Archibald, was the fourth son of Sir James
Smollett of Bonhill, a Scotch judge and Member of Parliament,
and one of the commissioners for framing the Union with England.
Archibald married, without the old gentleman's consent, and died
early, leaving his children dependent on their grandfather. Tobias,
the second son, was born in 1721, in the old house of Dalquharn
in the valley of Leven; and all his life loved and admired that
valley and Loch Lomond beyond all the valleys and lakes in Europe.
He learned the “rudiments” at Dumbarton Grammar-school, and
studied at Glasgow.




But when he was only eighteen, his grandfather died, and left
him without provision (figuring as the old judge in Roderick Random
in consequence, according to Sir Walter). Tobias, armed with
the Regicide, a tragedy—a provision precisely similar to
that with which Dr. Johnson had started, just before—came up to London.
The Regicide came to no good, though at first patronized by Lord
Lyttelton (“one of those little fellows who are sometimes called great
men,” Smollett says); and Smollett embarked as “surgeon's mate”
on board a line-of-battle ship, and served in the Carthagena
expedition, in 1741. He left the service in the West Indies, and,
after residing some time in Jamaica, returned to England in 1746.




He was now unsuccessful as a physician, to begin with; published the satires,
Advice and Reproof—without any luck;
and (1747) married the “beautiful and accomplished Miss Lascelles”.




In 1748 he brought out his Roderick Random, which at once
made a “hit”. The subsequent events of his life may be presented,
chronologically, in a bird's-eye view:—




1750. Made a tour to Paris, where he chiefly wrote Peregrine
Pickle.




1751. Published Peregrine Pickle.




1753. Published Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom.




1755. Published version of Don Quixote.




1756. Began the Critical Review.




1758. Published his History of England.




1763-1766. Travelling in France and Italy; published his Travels.




1769. Published Adventures of an Atom.




1770. Set out for Italy; died at Leghorn 21st of Oct., 1771, in
the fifty-first year of his age.

149.
A
good specimen of the old “slashing” style of writing is presented
by the paragraph on Admiral Knowles, which subjected
Smollett to prosecution and imprisonment. The admiral's defence
on the occasion of the failure of the Rochfort expedition came to
be examined before the tribunal of the Critical Review.




“He is,” said our author, “an admiral without conduct, an engineer
without knowledge, an officer without resolution, and a man without
veracity!”




Three months imprisonment in the King's Bench avenged this
stinging paragraph.




But the Critical was to Smollett a perpetual fountain of “hot
water”. Among less important controversies may be mentioned
that with Grainger, the translator of Tibullus. Grainger replied
in a pamphlet; and in the next number of the Review we find him
threatened with “castigation”, as an “owl that has broken from his
mew”!




In Dr. Moore's biography of him is a pleasant anecdote. After
publishing the Don Quixote, he returned to Scotland to pay a visit
to his mother:—




“On Smollett's arrival, he was introduced to his mother with
the connivance of Mrs. Telfer (her daughter), as a gentleman from
the West Indies, who was intimately acquainted with her son.
The better to support his assumed character, he endeavoured to
preserve a serious countenance, approaching to a frown; but while
his mother's eyes were riveted on his countenance, he could not
refrain from smiling: she immediately sprung from her chair, and
throwing her arms round his neck, exclaimed, ‘Ah, my son! my
son! I have found you at last!’




“She afterwards told him, that if he had kept his austere looks
and continued to gloom, he might have escaped detection some time
longer, but ‘your old roguish smile’, added she, ‘betrayed you at
once.’ ”




“Shortly after the publication of The Adventures of an Atom,
disease again attacked Smollett with redoubled violence. Attempts
being vainly made to obtain for him the office of Consul in some
part of the Mediterranean, he was compelled to seek a warmer
climate, without better means of provision than his own precarious
finances could afford. The kindness of his distinguished friend and
countryman, Dr. Armstrong (then abroad), procured for Dr. and
Mrs. Smollett a house at Monte Nero, a village situated on the
side of a mountain overlooking the sea, in the neighbourhood of
Leghorn, a romantic and salutary abode, where he prepared for
the press, the last, and like music ‘sweetest in the close’, the
most pleasing of his compositions, The Expedition of Humphry
Clinker. This delightful work was published in
1771.”—Sir Walter
Scott.
150.
The dispute with the captain arose from the wish of that
functionary to intrude on his right to his cabin, for which he had
paid thirty pounds. After recounting the circumstances of the
apology, he characteristically adds:—




“And here, that I may not be thought the sly trumpeter of my
own praises, I do utterly disclaim all praise on the occasion. Neither
did the greatness of my mind dictate, nor the force of my Christianity
exact this forgiveness. To speak truth, I forgave him from a
motive which would make men much more forgiving, if they were
much wiser than they are; because it was convenient for me so
to do.”

151.
Lady
Mary was his second cousin—their respective grandfathers
being sons of George Fielding, Earl of Desmond, son of
William, Earl of Denbigh.




In a letter dated just a week before his death, she says:—




“H. Fielding has given a true picture of himself and his first
wife in the characters of Mr. and Mrs. Booth, some compliments
to his own figure excepted; and I am persuaded, several of the
incidents he mentions are real matters of fact. I wonder he does
not perceive Tom Jones and Mr. Booth are sorry scoundrels....
Fielding has really a fund of true humour, and was to be pitied
at his first entrance into the world, having no choice, as he said
himself, but to be a hackney writer or a hackney coachman. His
genius deserved a better fate; but I cannot help blaming that
continued indiscretion, to give it the softest name, that has run
through his life, and I am afraid still remains.... Since I was
born no original has appeared excepting Congreve, and Fielding,
who would, I believe, have approached nearer to his excellences,
if not forced by his necessities to publish without correction, and
throw many productions into the world he would have thrown
into the fire, if meat could have been got without money, or money
without scribbling.... I am sorry not to see any more of Peregrine
Pickle's performances; I wish you would tell me his
name,”—Letters
and Works (Lord Wharncliffe's ed.), vol. iii, pp. 93, 94.
152.
He
sailed for Lisbon, from Gravesend, on Sunday morning,
June 30th, 1754; and began the Journal of a Voyage during the
passage. He died at Lisbon, in the beginning of October of the
same year. He lies buried there, in the English Protestant church-yard,
near the Estrella Church, with this inscription over him:—




“HENRICUS FIELDING,

LUGET BRITANNIA GREMIO NON DATUM

FOVERE NATUM.”

153.
Fielding
himself is said by Dr. Warton to have preferred Joseph
Andrews to his other writings.
154.
“Richardson,”
says worthy Mrs. Barbauld, in her Memoir of
him, prefixed to his Correspondence, “was exceedingly hurt at this
(Joseph Andrews), the more so as they had been on good terms,
and he was very intimate with Fielding's two sisters. He never
appears cordially to have forgiven it (perhaps it was not in human
nature he should), and he always speaks in his letters with a great
deal of asperity of Tom Jones, more indeed than was quite
graceful in a rival author. No doubt he himself thought his indignation
was solely excited by the loose morality of the work and of
its author, but he could tolerate Cibber.”
155.
It
must always be borne in mind, that besides that the Doctor
couldn't be expected to like Fielding's wild life (to say nothing of
the fact, that they were of opposite sides in politics), Richardson
was one of his earliest and kindest friends. Yet Johnson too (as
Boswell tells us) read Amelia through without
“stopping”.
156.
“Manners
change from generation to generation, and with
manners morals appear to change—actually change with some, but
appear to change with all but the abandoned. A young man of the
present day who should act as Tom Jones is supposed to act at
Upton, with Lady Bellaston, &c., would not be a Tom Jones;
and a Tom Jones of the present day, without perhaps being in
the ground a better man, would have perished rather than submit
to be kept by a harridan of fortune. Therefore, this novel is, and
indeed, pretends to be, no example of conduct. But, notwithstanding
all this, I do loathe the cant which can recommend Pamela
and Clarissa Harlowe as strictly moral, although they poison the
imagination of the young with continued doses of tinct. lyttae,
while Tom Jones is prohibited as loose. I do not speak of young
women; but a young man whose heart or feelings can be injured, or even
his passions excited by this novel, is already thoroughly corrupt.
There is a cheerful, sunshiny, breezy spirit, that prevails everywhere,
strongly contrasted with the close, hot, day dreamy continuity
of Richardson.”—Coleridge,
Literary Remains, vol. ii, p. 374.
157.
“Nor was she (Lady Mary Wortley Montagu) a
stranger to that beloved first wife, whose picture he drew in his
Amelia, when,
as she said, even the glowing language he knew how to employ,
did not do more than justice to the amiable qualities of the original,
or to her beauty, although this had suffered a little from the accident
related in the novel—a frightful overturn, which destroyed the
gristle of her nose. He loved her passionately, and she returned
his affection....




“His biographers seem to have been shy of disclosing that after
the death of this charming woman, he married her maid. And
yet the act was not so discreditable to his character as it may
sound. The maid had few personal charms, but was an excellent
creature, devotedly attached to her mistress, and almost brokenhearted
for her loss. In the first agonies of his own grief, which
approached to frenzy, he found no relief but from weeping along
with her; nor solace when a degree calmer, but in talking to her
of the angel they mutually regretted. This made her his habitual
confidential associate, and in process of time he began to think he
could not give his children a tenderer mother, or secure for himself
a more faithful housekeeper and nurse. At least, this was what
he told his friends; and it is certain that her conduct as his wife
confirmed it, and fully justified his good
opinion.”—Letters and Works
of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. Edited by Lord Wharncliffe.
Introductory Anecdotes, vol. i, pp. 80, 81.




Fielding's first wife was Miss Craddock, a young lady from Salisbury,
with a fortune of 1,500l., whom he married in 1736. About
the same time he succeeded, himself, to an estate of 200l. per
annum, and on the joint amount he lived for some time as a splendid
country gentleman in Dorsetshire. Three years brought him to the
end of his fortune; when he returned to London, and became
a student of law.

158.
In the
Gentleman's Magazine, for 1786, an anecdote is related
of Harry Fielding, “in whom,” says the correspondent, “good nature
and philanthropy in their extreme degree were known to be the
prominent features.” It seems that “some parochial taxes” for his
house in Beaufort Buildings had long been demanded by the collector.
“At last, Harry went off to Johnson, and obtained by a
process of literary mortgage the needful sum. He was returning
with it, when he met an old college chum whom he had not seen
for many years. He asked the chum to dinner with him at a neighbouring
tavern; and learning that he was in difficulties, emptied
the contents of his pocket into his. On returning home he was
informed that the collector had been twice for the money. ‘Friendship
has called for the money and had it,’ said Fielding; ‘let the
collector call again.’ ”




It is elsewhere told of him, that being in company with the Earl
of Denbigh, his kinsman, and the conversation turning upon their
relationship, the Earl asked him how it was that he spelled his
name “Fielding”, and not “Feilding”, like the head of the house?
“I cannot tell, my lord,” said he, “except it be that my branch
of the family were the first that knew how to spell.”

159.
In
1749, he was made Justice of the Peace for Westminster
and Middlesex, an office then paid by fees, and very laborious,
without being particularly reputable. It may be seen from his
own words, in the Introduction to the Voyage, what kind of work
devolved upon him, and in what a state he was, during these last
years; and still more clearly, how he comported himself through all.




“Whilst I was preparing for my journey, and when I was almost
fatigued to death with several long examinations, relating to five
different murders, all committed within the space of a week, by
different gangs of street-robbers, I received a message from his
grace the Duke of Newcastle, by Mr. Carrington, the King's messenger,
to attend his grace the next morning in Lincoln's Inn
Fields, upon some business of importance: but I excused myself
from complying with the message, as, besides being lame, I was
very ill with the great fatigues I had lately undergone, added to
my distemper.




“His grace, however, sent Mr. Carrington the very next morning,
with another summons; with which, though in the utmost distress,
I immediately complied; but the duke happening, unfortunately
for me, to be then particularly engaged, after I had waited some
time, sent a gentleman to discourse with me on the best plan which
could be invented for these murders and robberies, which were
every day committed in the streets; upon which I promised to
transmit my opinion in writing to his grace, who, as the gentleman
informed me, intended to lay it before the Privy Council.




“Though this visit cost me a severe cold, I, notwithstanding,
set myself down to work, and in about four days sent the duke as
regular a plan as I could form, with all the reasons and arguments
I could bring to support it, drawn out on several sheets of paper;
and soon received a message from the Duke, by Mr. Carrington,
acquainting me that my plan was highly approved of, and that all
the terms of it would be complied with.




“The principal and most material of these terms was the immediately
depositing 600l. in my hands; at which small charge I
undertook to demolish the then reigning gangs, and to put the
civil policy into such order, that no such gangs should ever be
able for the future, to form themselves into bodies, or at least to
remain any time formidable to the public.




“I had delayed my Bath journey for some time, contrary to the
repeated advice of my physical acquaintances, and the ardent
desire of my warmest friends, though my distemper was now turned
to a deep jaundice; in which case the Bath waters are generally
reputed to be almost infallible. But I had the most eager desire
to demolish this gang of villains and cut-throats....




“After some weeks the money was paid at the Treasury, and
within a few days, after 200l. of it had come into my hands, the
whole gang of cut-throats was entirely dispersed....”




Further on, he says—




“I will confess that my private affairs at the beginning of the
winter had but a gloomy aspect; for I had not plundered the
public or the poor of those sums which men, who are always ready
to plunder both as much as they can, have been pleased to suspect
me of taking; on the contrary, by composing, instead of inflaming,
the quarrels of porters and beggars (which I blush when I say
hath not been universally practised), and by refusing to take a
shilling from a man who most undoubtedly would not have had
another left, I had reduced an income of about 500l., a year of
the dirtiest money upon earth, to little more than
300l., a considerable
portion of which remained with my clerk.”

160.
He came
of a Suffolk family—one of whom settled in Nottinghamshire.
The famous “starling” was actually the family crest.
161.
“It was
in this parish” (of Animo, in Wicklow), “during our
stay, that I had that wonderful escape in falling through a mill-race,
whilst the mill was going, and of being taken up unhurt; the
story is incredible, but known for truth in all that part of Ireland,
where hundreds of the common people flocked to see
me.”—Sterne.
162.
“My wife returns to Toulouse,
and proposes to pass the summer at Bagnères—I, on the contrary, go and visit my
wife, the church, in Yorkshire. We all live the longer, at least the happier, for
having things our own way; this is my conjugal maxim. I own
'tis not the best of maxims, but I maintain 'tis not the
worst.”—Sterne's
Letters, 20th January, 1764.
163.
In
a collection of Seven Letters by Sterne and His Friends,
(printed for private circulation), in 1844, is a letter of M. Tollot,
who was in France with Sterne and his family in 1764. Here is
a paragraph:—




“Nous arrivâmes le lendemain à Montpellier, où nous trouvâmes
notre ami Mr. Sterne, sa femme, sa fille, Mr. Huet, et quelques
autres Anglaises; j'eus, je vous l'avoue, beaucoup de plaisir en
revoyant le bon et agréable Tristram.... Il avait été assez longtemps
à Toulouse, où il se serait amusé sans sa femme, qui le poursuivit
partout, et qui voulait être de tout. Ces dispositions dans
cette bonne dame, lui ont fait passer d'assez mauvais momens; il
supporte tous ces désagrémens avec une patience d'ánge.”




About four months after this very characteristic letter, Sterne
wrote to the same gentleman to whom Tollot had written; and
from his letter we may extract a companion paragraph:—




“... All which being premised, I have been for eight weeks
smitten with the tenderest passion that ever tender wight underwent.
I wish, dear cousin, thou couldst conceive (perhaps thou
canst without my wishing it) how deliciously I canter'd away with
it the first month, two up, two down, always upon my hanches,
along the streets from my hotel to hers, at first once—then twice,
then three times a day, till at length I was within an ace of setting
up my hobby-horse in her stable for good and all. I might as
well, considering how the enemies of the Lord have blasphemed
thereupon. The last three weeks we were every hour upon the
doleful ditty of parting—and thou mayest conceive, dear cousin,
how it altered my gait and air—for I went and came like any
louden'd carl, and did nothing but jouer des
sentimens with her from sun-rising even to the setting of the same; and now
she is gone to the south of France; and to finish the
comédie, I fell ill and broke a vessel in my lungs,
and half bled to death. Voilà mon
histoire!”




Whether husband or wife had most of the patience d'ánge
may be uncertain; but there can be no doubt which needed it most!



164.
“Tristram Shandy is still a
greater object of admiration, the man as well as the book; one is invited to dinner, when he
dines, a fortnight before. As to the volumes yet published, there
is much good fun in them, and humour sometimes hit and sometimes
missed. Have you read his Sermons, with his own comick figure,
from a painting by Reynolds, at the head of them? They are in
the style I think most proper for the pulpit, and show a strong
imagination and a sensible heart; but you see him often tottering
on the verge of laughter, and ready to throw his periwig in the
face of the audience.”—Gray's
Letters, June 22nd, 1760.




“It having been observed that there was little hospitality in
London—Johnson: ‘Nay, sir, any man who has a name, or who
has the power of pleasing, will be very generally invited in London.
The man, Sterne, I have been told, has had engagements for three
months.’ Goldsmith: ‘And a very dull fellow.’ Johnson:
‘Why, no, sir.’ ”—Boswell's
Life of Johnson.




“Her [Miss Monckton's] vivacity enchanted the sage, and they
used to talk together with all imaginable ease. A singular instance
happened one evening, when she insisted that some of Sterne's
writings were very pathetic. Johnson bluntly denied it. ‘I am
sure,’ said she, ‘they have affected me.’ ‘Why,’ said Johnson,
smiling, and rolling himself about—‘that is, because, dearest,
you're a dunce.’ When she some time afterwards mentioned this
to him, he said with equal truth and politeness, ‘Madam, if I had
thought so, I certainly should not have said
it.’ ”—Boswell's Life
of Johnson.

165.
A passage
or two from Sterne's Sermons may not be without
interest here. Is not the following, levelled against the cruelties
of the Church of Rome, stamped with the autograph of the author
of the Sentimental Journey?—




“To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the
prisons of the Inquisition—behold religion with mercy and justice
chained down under her feet,—there, sitting ghastly upon a black
tribunal, propped up with racks, and instruments of torment.—Hark!—what
a piteous groan!—See the melancholy wretch who
uttered it, just brought forth to undergo the anguish of a mock-trial,
and endure the utmost pain that a studied system of religious
cruelty has been able to invent. Behold this helpless victim
delivered up to his tormentors. His body so wasted with sorrow
and long confinement, you'll see every nerve and muscle as it suffers.
Observe the last movement of that horrid engine.—What convulsions
it has thrown him into! Consider the nature of the
posture in which he now lies stretched.—What exquisite torture he endures
by it.—'Tis all nature can bear.—Good God! see how
it keeps his weary soul hanging upon his trembling lips, willing to
take its leave, but not suffered to depart. Behold the unhappy
wretch led back to his cell,—dragg'd out of it again to meet the
flames—and the insults in his last agonies, which this principle—this
principle, that there can be religion without morality—has
prepared for him.”—Sermon 27th.




The next extract is preached on a text to be found in Judges
xix, ver. 1, 2, 3, concerning a “certain Levite”:—




“Such a one the Levite wanted to share his solitude and fill up
that uncomfortable blank in the heart in such a situation; for,
notwithstanding all we meet with in books, in many of which, no
doubt, there are a good many handsome things said upon the secrets of retirement,
&c.... yet still, ‘it is not good for man to be alone’:
nor can all which the cold-hearted pedant stuns our ears with upon
the subject, ever give one answer of satisfaction to the mind; in
the midst of the loudest vauntings of philosophy, nature will have
her yearnings for society and friendship;—a good heart wants
some object to be kind to—and the best parts of our blood, and
the purest of our spirits, suffer most under the destitution.




“Let the torpid monk seek Heaven comfortless and alone. God
speed him! For my own part, I fear I should never so find the
way; let me be wise and religious, but let me be
Man; wherever Thy
Providence places me, or whatever be the road I take to Thee,
give me some companion in my journey, be it only to remark to,
‘How our shadows lengthen as our sun goes down’;—to whom
I may say, ‘How fresh is the face of Nature! how sweet the flowers
of the field! how delicious are these fruits!’ ”—Sermon
18th.




The first of these passages gives us another drawing of the famous
“Captive”. The second shows that the same reflection was suggested
to the Rev. Laurence, by a text in Judges, as by the
fille-de-chambre.




Sterne's Sermons were published as those of “Mr. Yorick”.

166.
“I am
glad that you are in love—'twill cure you at least of the
spleen, which has a bad effect on both man and woman—I myself
must even have some Dulcinea in my head; it harmonizes the
soul; and in these cases I first endeavour to make the lady believe
so, or rather, I begin first to make myself believe that I am in love—but
I carry on my affairs quite in the French way,
sentimentally—l'amour
(say they) n'est rien sans sentiment. Now,
notwithstanding they make such a pother about the word, they have no precise
idea annexed to it. And so much for that same subject called
love.”—Sterne's Letters,
May 23rd, 1765.




“PS.—My Sentimental Journey will please Mrs.
J—— and my Lydia [his daughter, afterwards Mrs. Medalle]—I can answer
for those two. It is a subject which works well, and suits the
frame of mind I have been in for some time past. I told you my
design in it was to teach us to love the world and our fellow creatures
better than we do—so it runs most upon those gentler passions
and affections which aid so much to it.”—Letters [1767].

167.
TO
MRS. H——.




“Coxwould, Nov. 15th, 1767.




“Now be a good, dear woman, my H——, and execute those
commissions well, and when I see you I will give you a kiss—there's
for you! But I have something else for you which I am fabricating
at a great rate, and that is my Sentimental Journey, which shall
make you cry as much as it has affected me, or I will give up the
business of sentimental writing ...




“I am yours, &c. &c.,




“T. Shandy.”




TO THE EARL OF ——.




“Coxwould, Nov. 28th, 1767.




“MY LORD—'Tis with the greatest pleasure I take my pen to
thank your lordship for your letter of inquiry about Yorick—he
was worn out, both his spirits and body, with the Sentimental
Journey; 'tis true, then, an author must feel himself, or his
reader will not—but I have torn my whole frame into pieces by my
feelings—I believe the brain stands as much in need of recruiting
as the body; therefore I shall set out for town the twentieth of
next month, after having recruited myself a week at York. I might
indeed solace myself with my wife (who is come from France), but,
in fact, I have long been a sentimental being, whatever your lordship
may think to the contrary.”

168.
“It
is known that Sterne died in hired lodgings, and I have
been told that his attendants robbed him even of his gold sleeve-buttons
while he was expiring.”—Dr. Ferriar.




“He died at No. 41 (now a cheesemonger's) on the west side of
Old Bond Street.—Handbook of London.”

169.
“In
February, 1768, Laurence Sterne, his frame exhausted by
long debilitating illness, expired at his lodgings in Bond Street,
London. There was something in the manner of his death singularly
resembling the particulars detailed by Mrs. Quickly, as
attending that of Falstaff, the compeer of Yorick for infinite jest,
however unlike in other particulars. As he lay on his bed totally
exhausted, he complained that his feet were cold, and requested
the female attendant to chafe them. She did so, and it seemed
to relieve him. He complained that the cold came up higher;
and whilst the assistant was in the act of chafing his ankles and
legs, he expired without a groan. It was also remarkable that
his death took place much in the manner which he himself had
wished; and that the last offices were rendered him, not in his
own house, or by the hand of kindred affection, but in an inn, and
by strangers.




“We are well acquainted with Sterne's features and personal
appearance, to which he himself frequently alludes. He was tall
and thin, with a hectic and consumptive
appearance.”—Sir Walter
Scott.
170.
“With
regard to Sterne, and the charge of licentiousness which
presses so seriously upon his character as a writer, I would remark
that there is a sort of knowingness, the wit of which depends, firstly,
on the modesty it gives pain to; or, secondly, on the innocence
and innocent ignorance over which it triumphs; or thirdly, on
a certain oscillation in the individual's own mind between the
remaining good and the encroaching evil of his nature—a sort of
dallying with the devil—a fluxionary art of combining courage
and cowardice, as when a man snuffs a candle with his fingers for
the first time, or better still, perhaps, like that trembling daring
with which a child touches a hot tea-urn, because it has been
forbidden; so that the mind has its own white and black angel;
the same or similar amusement as may be supposed to take place
between an old debauchee and a prude—the feeling resentment,
on the one hand, from a prudential anxiety to preserve appearances
and have a character; and, on the other, an inward sympathy
with the enemy. We have only to suppose society innocent, and
then nine-tenths of this sort of wit would be like a stone that falls
in snow, making no sound, because exciting no resistance; the
remainder rests on its being an offence against the good manners
of human nature itself.




“This source, unworthy as it is, may doubtless be combined with
wit, drollery, fancy, and even humour; and we have only to regret
the misalliance; but that the latter are quite distinct from the
former, may be made evident by abstracting in our imagination
the morality of the characters of Mr. Shandy, my Uncle Toby,
and Trim, which are all antagonists to this spurious sort of wit,
from the rest of Tristram Shandy, and by supposing, instead of
them, the presence of two or three callous debauchees. The result
will be pure disgust. Sterne cannot be too severely censured
for thus using the best dispositions of our nature as the panders
and condiments for the basest.”—Coleridge,
Literary Remains,
vol. i, pp. 141, 142.

171.
“He was
a friend to virtue, and in his most playful pages never
forgets what is due to it. A gentleness, delicacy, and purity of
feeling distinguishes whatever he wrote, and bears a correspondence
to the generosity of a disposition which knew no bounds but his
last guinea....




“The admirable ease and grace of the narrative, as well as the
pleasing truth with which the principal characters are designed,
make the Vicar of Wakefield one of the most delicious morsels
of fictitious composition on which the human mind was ever
employed.




“... We read the Vicar of Wakefield in youth and in age—we
return to it again and again, and bless the memory of an author
who contrives so well to reconcile us to human
nature.”—Sir Walter
Scott.
172.
“Now
Herder came,” says Goethe in his Autobiography, relating
his first acquaintance with Goldsmith's masterpiece, “and together
with his great knowledge brought many other aids, and the later
publications besides. Among these he announced to us the Vicar
of Wakefield as an excellent work, with the German translation
of which he would make us acquainted by reading it aloud to us
himself....




“A Protestant country clergyman is perhaps the most beautiful
subject for a modern idyl; he appears like Melchizedeck, as priest
and king in one person. To the most innocent situation which
can be imagined on earth, to that of a husbandman, he is, for the
most part, united by similarity of occupation as well as by equality
in family relationships; he is a father, a master of a family, an
agriculturist, and thus perfectly a member of the community.
On this pure, beautiful, earthly foundation rests his higher calling;
to him is it given to guide men through life, to take care of their
spiritual education, to bless them at all the leading epochs of their
existence, to instruct, to strengthen, to console them, and if consolation
is not sufficient for the present, to call up and guarantee
the hope of a happier future. Imagine such a man with pure
human sentiments, strong enough not to deviate from them under
any circumstances, and by this already elevated above the multitude
of whom one cannot expect purity and firmness; give him the
learning necessary for his office, as well as a cheerful, equable activity,
which is even passionate, as it neglects no moment to do good—and
you will have him well endowed. But at the same time add the
necessary limitation, so that he must not only pause in a small
circle, but may also, perchance, pass over to a smaller; grant him
good nature, placability, resolution, and everything else praiseworthy
that springs from a decided character, and over all this
a cheerful spirit of compliance, and a smiling toleration of his own
failings and those of others,—then you will have put together pretty
well the image of our excellent Wakefield.




“The delineation of this character on his course of life through
joys and sorrows, the ever-increasing interest of the story, by the
combination of the entirely natural with the strange and the singular,
make this novel one of the best which has ever been written;
besides this, it has the great advantage that it is quite moral, nay,
in a pure sense, Christian—represents the reward of a goodwill
and perseverance in the right, strengthens an unconditional confidence
in God, and attests the final triumph of good over evil;
and all this without a trace of cant or pedantry. The author was
preserved from both of these by an elocution of mind that shows
itself throughout in the form of irony, by which this little work
must appear to us as wise as it is amiable. The author, Dr. Goldsmith,
has, without question, a great insight into the moral world,
into its strength and its infirmities; but at the same time he can
thankfully acknowledge that he is an Englishman, and reckon
highly the advantages which his country and his nation afford him.
The family, with the delineation of which he occupies himself,
stands upon one of the last steps of citizen comfort, and yet comes
in contact with the highest; its narrow circle, which becomes
still more contracted, touches upon the great world through the
natural and civil course of things; this little skiff floats on the
agitated waves of English life, and in weal or woe it has to expect
injury or help from the vast fleet which sails around it.




“I may suppose that my readers know this work, and have it
in memory; whoever hears it named for the first time here, as
well as he who is induced to read it again, will thank
me.”—Goethe,
Truth and Poetry; from my own Life (English translation, vol. i,
pp. 378-9).




“He seems from infancy to have been compounded of two natures,
one bright, the other blundering; or to have had fairy gifts laid
in his cradle by the ‘good people’ who haunted his birthplace,
the old goblin mansion, on the banks of the Inny.




“He carries with him the wayward elfin spirit, if we may so
term it, throughout his career. His fairy gifts are of no avail at
school, academy, or college: they unfit him for close study and
practical science, and render him heedless of everything that does
not address itself to his poetical imagination, and genial and festive
feelings; they dispose him to break away from restraint, to stroll
about hedges, green lanes, and haunted streams, to revel with jovial
companions, or to rove the country like a gipsy in quest of odd
adventures....




“Though his circumstances often compelled him to associate
with the poor, they never could betray him into companionship
with the depraved. His relish for humour, and for the study of
character, as we have before observed, brought him often into
convivial company of a vulgar kind; but he discriminated between
their vulgarity and their amusing qualities, or rather wrought
from the whole store familiar features of life which form the staple
of his most popular writings.”—Washington Irving.

173.
“The
family of Goldsmith, Goldsmyth, or, as it was occasionally
written, Gouldsmith, is of considerable standing in Ireland, and
seems always to have held a respectable station in society. Its
origin is English, supposed to be derived from that which was
long settled at Crayford in Kent.”—Prior's
Life of Goldsmith.




Oliver's father, great-grandfather, and great-great-grandfather
were clergymen; and two of them married clergymen's daughters.

174.
At church with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorn'd the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,

And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal each honest rustic ran;

E'en children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts his awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.




The Deserted Village.

175.
“In
May this year (1768), he lost his brother, the Rev. Henry
Goldsmith, for whom he had been unable to obtain preferment in
the Church....




“....To the curacy of Kilkenny West, the moderate stipend
of which, forty pounds a year, is sufficiently celebrated by his
brother's lines. It has been stated that Mr. Goldsmith added a
school, which, after having been held at more than one place
in the vicinity, was finally fixed at Lissoy. Here his talents and
industry gave it celebrity, and under his care the sons of many
of the neighbouring gentry received their education. A fever
breaking out among the boys about 1765, they dispersed for a time,
but reassembling at Athlone, he continued his scholastic labours
there until the time of his death, which happened, like that of his
brother, about the forty-fifth year of his age. He was a man of
an excellent heart and an amiable
disposition.”—Prior's
Goldsmith.




Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,

My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee:

Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain,

And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.




The Traveller.

176.
“When
Goldsmith died, half the unpaid bill he owed to Mr.
William Filby (amounting in all to 79l.) was for clothes supplied
to this nephew Hodson.”—Forster's
Goldsmith, p. 520.




As this nephew Hodson ended his days (see the same page) “a
prosperous Irish gentleman”, it is not unreasonable to wish that
he had cleared off Mr. Filby's bill.

177.
“Poor
fellow! He hardly knew an ass from a mule, nor a turkey
from a goose, but when he saw it on the
table.”—Cumberland's
Memoirs.
178.
“These
youthful follies, like the fermentation of liquors, often
disturb the mind only in order to its future refinement: a life spent
in phlegmatic apathy resembles those liquors which never ferment
and are consequently always muddy.”—Goldsmith,
Memoir of Voltaire.




“He (Johnson) said Goldsmith was a plant that flowered late.
There appeared nothing remarkable about him when he was
young.”—Boswell.

179.
“An
‘inspired idiot’, Goldsmith, hangs strangely about him
[Johnson] ... Yet, on the whole, there is no evil in the ‘gooseberry-fool’,
but rather much good; of a finer, if of a weaker sort than
Johnson's; and all the more genuine that he himself could never
become conscious of it, though unhappily never cease attempting to
become so: the author of the genuine Vicar of Wakefield, nill
he will he, must needs fly towards such a mass of genuine
manhood.”—Carlyle's
Essays (2nd ed.), vol. iv, p. 91.
180.
“At
present, the few poets of England no longer depend on the
great for subsistence; they have now no other patrons but the
public, and the public, collectively considered, is a good and a
generous master. It is indeed too frequently mistaken as to the
merits of every candidate for favour; but to make amends, it is
never mistaken long. A performance indeed may be forced for
a time into reputation, but, destitute of real merit, it soon sinks;
time, the touchstone of what is truly valuable, will soon discover
the fraud, and an author should never arrogate to himself any share
of success till his works have been read at least ten years with
satisfaction.




“A man of letters at present, whose works are valuable, is perfectly
sensible of their value. Every polite member of the community,
by buying what he writes, contributes to reward him. The
ridicule, therefore, of living in a garret might have been wit in the
last age, but continues such no longer, because no longer true.
A writer of real merit now may easily be rich, if his heart be set
only on fortune: and for those who have no merit, it is but fit
that such should remain in merited
obscurity.”—Goldsmith,
Citizen of the World, Let. 84.

181.
Goldsmith attacked Sterne, obviously enough, censuring his
indecency, and slighting his wit, and ridiculing his manner, in the
53rd letter in the Citizen of the World.




“As in common conversation,” says he, “the best way to make
the audience laugh is by first laughing yourself; so in writing,
the properest manner is to show an attempt at humour, which will
pass upon most for humour in reality. To effect this, readers
must be treated with the most perfect familiarity; in one page
the author is to make them a low bow, and in the next to pull them
by the nose; he must talk in riddles, and then send them to bed
in order to dream for the solution,” &c.




Sterne's humorous mot
on the subject of the gravest part of the
charges, then, as now, made against him, may perhaps be quoted
here, from the excellent, the respectable Sir Walter Scott.
“Soon after Tristram had appeared, Sterne asked a Yorkshire
lady of fortune and condition, whether she had read his book, ‘I
have not, Mr. Sterne,’ was the answer; ‘and to be plain with you,
I am informed it is not proper for female perusal.’ ‘My dear good
lady,’ replied the author, ‘do not be gulled by such stories; the
book is like your young heir there’ (pointing to a child of three
years old, who was rolling on the carpet in his white tunics): ‘he
shows at times a good deal that is usually concealed, but it is all
in perfect innocence.’ ”

182.
“Goldsmith
told us that he was now busy in writing a Natural
History; and that he might have full leisure for it, he had taken
lodgings at a farmer's house, near to the six-mile stone in the
Edgeware Road, and had carried down his books in two returned
post-chaises. He said he believed the farmer's family thought
him an odd character, similar to that in which the Spectator
appeared to his landlady and her children; he was The Gentleman.
Mr. Mickle, the translator of the Lusiad, and I, went to visit
him at this place a few days afterwards. He was not at home; but having
a curiosity to see his apartment, we went in, and found curious
scraps of descriptions of animals scrawled upon the wall with
a blacklead pencil.”—Boswell.

183.
“When
Goldsmith was dying, Dr. Turton said to him, ‘Your
pulse is in greater disorder than it should be, from the degree of
fever which you have; is your mind at ease?’ Goldsmith answered
it was not.”—Dr. Johnson
(in Boswell).




“Chambers, you find, is gone far, and poor Goldsmith is gone
much farther. He died of a fever, exasperated, as I believe,
by the fear of distress. He had raised money and squandered
it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let
not his failings be remembered; he was a very great
man.”—Dr.
Johnson to Boswell, July 5th, 1774.

184.
“When
Burke was told [of Goldsmith's death] he burst into tears.
Reynolds was in his painting-room when the messenger went to
him; but at once he laid his pencil aside, which in times of great
family distress he had not been known to do, left his painting-room,
and did not re-enter it that day....




“The staircase of Brick Court is said to have been filled with
mourners, the reverse of domestic; women without a home, without
domesticity of any kind, with no friend but him they had come to
weep for; outcasts of that great, solitary, wicked city, to whom
he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable. And he had
domestic mourners, too. His coffin was reopened at the request
of Miss Horneck and her sister (such was the regard he was known
to have for them!) that a lock might be cut from his hair. It was
in Mrs. Gwyn's possession when she died, after nearly seventy
years.”—Forster's
Goldsmith.

185.
“Goldsmith's
incessant desire of being conspicuous in company
was the occasion of his sometimes appearing to such disadvantage,
as one should hardly have supposed possible in a man of his genius.
When his literary reputation had risen deservedly high, and his
society was much courted, he became very jealous of the extraordinary
attention which was everywhere paid to Johnson. One
evening, in a circle of wits, he found fault with me for talking of
Johnson as entitled to the honour of unquestionable superiority.
‘Sir,’ said he, ‘you are for making a monarchy of what should
be a republic.’




“He was still more mortified, when, talking in a company with
fluent vivacity, and, as he flattered himself, to the admiration of
all present, a German who sat next him, and perceived Johnson
rolling himself as if about to speak, suddenly stopped him, saying,
‘Stay, stay—Toctor Shonson is going to zay zomething.’ This
was no doubt very provoking, especially to one so irritable as Goldsmith,
who frequently mentioned it with strong expressions of
indignation.




“It may also be observed that Goldsmith was sometimes content
to be treated with an easy familiarity, but upon occasions would
be consequential and important. An instance of this occurred
in a small particular. Johnson had a way of contracting the names
of his friends, as Beauclerk, Beau; Boswell, Bozzy.... I remember
one day, when Tom Davies was telling that Dr. Johnson said—‘We
are all in labour for a name to Goldy's play,’ Goldsmith seemed
displeased that such a liberty should be taken with his name, and
said, ‘I have often desired him not to call me Goldy.’ ”




This is one of several of Boswell's depreciatory mentions of
Goldsmith—which may well irritate biographers and admirers—and
also those who take that more kindly and more profound view
of Boswell's own character, which was opened up by Mr. Carlyle's
famous article on his book. No wonder that Mr. Irving calls
Boswell an “incarnation of toadyism”. And the worst of it is, that
Johnson himself has suffered from this habit of the Laird of Auchenleck's.
People are apt to forget under what Boswellian stimulus
the great Doctor uttered many hasty things:—things no more
indicative of the nature of the depths of his character than the
phosphoric gleaming of the sea, when struck at night, is indicative
of radical corruption of nature! In truth, it is clear enough on
the whole that both Johnson and Goldsmith appreciated each other,
and that they mutually knew it. They were, as it were, tripped
up and flung against each other, occasionally, by the blundering
and silly gambolling of people in company.




Something must be allowed for Boswell's “rivalry for Johnson's
good graces” with Oliver (as Sir Walter Scott has remarked), for
Oliver was intimate with the Doctor before his biographer was,—and
as we all remember, marched off with him to “take tea with
Mrs. Williams” before Boswell had advanced to that honourable
degree of intimacy. But, in truth, Boswell—though he perhaps
showed more talent in his delineation of the Doctor than is generally
ascribed to him—had not faculty to take a fair view of two great
men at a time. Besides, as Mr. Forster justly remarks, “he was
impatient of Goldsmith from the first hour of their
acquaintance.”—Life
and Adventures, p. 292.

186.
The above portraits are from
contemporary prints of this princess,
before her marriage, and in her old age.
187.
Here [below in the text]
are the figures, as drawn by young Gilray, of Lord North,
Mr. Fox, Mr. Pitt, and Mr. Burke.